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Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
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“She came bursting into my office on the verge of tears, claiming you’d
humiliated
her.” She gave her arm a dramatic wave. “What really happened?”
I told her.
She said, “You really need this, don’t you? Try to help us out and get embroiled in all this political garbage.”
“I can take it in small doses,” I said. “The question is, how do you stand it?”
She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder. Anyway, don’t worry about her. I told her not to come back until I see the proper forms—gave her a stack to fill out. If there’s a call from the Board, I’ll deal with it the way they deal with nuisances—ignoring them, putting them on hold, memo blizzard. By the time they take a meeting and decide what to do, you’ll probably be finished and out of here and the kids will be all right. How’re they doing?”
“The ones that showed up are doing fine,” I said.
Her face fell. “Yes, fifty-eight percent absent and my ears are still burning. I’d like to think I was persuasive, but let’s face it, how can I in good conscience tell them everything will be okay?” She shook her head. I thought I saw her lip tremble but she covered it with a grimace.
“Wouldn’t it be something if they finally won because of something like this?” she said. “Some stupid crazy? Anyway, don’t let me keep you.”
“On your way out or in?”
“Out. I’m right over there.” She pointed across the street to a white Ford Escort.
I walked her to it. She unlocked the car and put her briefcase inside.
I said, “I’d think the principal would get a private parking slot.”
“The principal usually does. But the entire grounds are still closed off, orders of the police. No parking, no foot traffic. We’ve had to keep the kids inside for lunch and recess—not that they’re exactly begging to go back out.”
“It’s important they do go back out,” I said, “to desensitize their fears of the yard. How long did the police say they needed it closed?”
“They didn’t. No one’s been here at all today, collecting evidence or anything, so I can’t see the point— I mean, what could there be left to find out? Guess I’d better check it out. Meanwhile, you have a nice evening.”
I opened the car door.
“A gentleman,” she said, getting in. “How nice.”
I searched her face for sarcasm, saw only weariness. The black dress had ridden up. Very long, white legs . . .
“Take care,” I said, closing the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Listen,” she said, “I’m heading out for some dinner—nothing fancy, but I wouldn’t mind some company.”
She blushed, looked away, jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The Escort’s engine came to life with a poorly tuned sputter, belched, and finally caught. When it had settled to an idle, I said, “I wouldn’t mind some company either.”
She blushed deeper. “Uh, just one thing—you’re not married or anything, are you?”
“No,” I said. “Neither married nor anything.”
“That probably sounds weird to you, my asking.”
Before I could answer, she said, “It’s just that I like to keep things straight, give a wide berth to trouble.”
“Okay,” I said.
Her laugh was brittle. “Not that it’s worked too well so far.”
6
I followed her to a place of her choosing, on Broadway in Santa Monica. All-you-can-eat salad bar with enough produce to stock a county fair exhibit, seafood on a grill, lots of woodsmoke, lazy fly fans, Alphonse Mucha reproductions on paneled walls, sawdust on the floor. Nothing really good or really bad, budget prices.
We constructed our salads and took them to a back booth. Linda ate with enthusiasm, went back for a refill. When she finished the second bowl, she sat back, wiped her mouth, and looked sheepish.
“Good metabolism,” she said.
“Do you exercise a lot?”
“Not a fig—Lord knows my hips could use it.”
I thought her hips looked fine, but kept it to myself. “Count your
humiliated
her.” She gave her arm a dramatic wave. “What really happened?”
I told her.
She said, “You really need this, don’t you? Try to help us out and get embroiled in all this political garbage.”
“I can take it in small doses,” I said. “The question is, how do you stand it?”
She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder. Anyway, don’t worry about her. I told her not to come back until I see the proper forms—gave her a stack to fill out. If there’s a call from the Board, I’ll deal with it the way they deal with nuisances—ignoring them, putting them on hold, memo blizzard. By the time they take a meeting and decide what to do, you’ll probably be finished and out of here and the kids will be all right. How’re they doing?”
“The ones that showed up are doing fine,” I said.
Her face fell. “Yes, fifty-eight percent absent and my ears are still burning. I’d like to think I was persuasive, but let’s face it, how can I in good conscience tell them everything will be okay?” She shook her head. I thought I saw her lip tremble but she covered it with a grimace.
“Wouldn’t it be something if they finally won because of something like this?” she said. “Some stupid crazy? Anyway, don’t let me keep you.”
“On your way out or in?”
“Out. I’m right over there.” She pointed across the street to a white Ford Escort.
I walked her to it. She unlocked the car and put her briefcase inside.
I said, “I’d think the principal would get a private parking slot.”
“The principal usually does. But the entire grounds are still closed off, orders of the police. No parking, no foot traffic. We’ve had to keep the kids inside for lunch and recess—not that they’re exactly begging to go back out.”
“It’s important they do go back out,” I said, “to desensitize their fears of the yard. How long did the police say they needed it closed?”
“They didn’t. No one’s been here at all today, collecting evidence or anything, so I can’t see the point— I mean, what could there be left to find out? Guess I’d better check it out. Meanwhile, you have a nice evening.”
I opened the car door.
“A gentleman,” she said, getting in. “How nice.”
I searched her face for sarcasm, saw only weariness. The black dress had ridden up. Very long, white legs . . .
“Take care,” I said, closing the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Listen,” she said, “I’m heading out for some dinner—nothing fancy, but I wouldn’t mind some company.”
She blushed, looked away, jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The Escort’s engine came to life with a poorly tuned sputter, belched, and finally caught. When it had settled to an idle, I said, “I wouldn’t mind some company either.”
She blushed deeper. “Uh, just one thing—you’re not married or anything, are you?”
“No,” I said. “Neither married nor anything.”
“That probably sounds weird to you, my asking.”
Before I could answer, she said, “It’s just that I like to keep things straight, give a wide berth to trouble.”
“Okay,” I said.
Her laugh was brittle. “Not that it’s worked too well so far.”
6
I followed her to a place of her choosing, on Broadway in Santa Monica. All-you-can-eat salad bar with enough produce to stock a county fair exhibit, seafood on a grill, lots of woodsmoke, lazy fly fans, Alphonse Mucha reproductions on paneled walls, sawdust on the floor. Nothing really good or really bad, budget prices.
We constructed our salads and took them to a back booth. Linda ate with enthusiasm, went back for a refill. When she finished the second bowl, she sat back, wiped her mouth, and looked sheepish.
“Good metabolism,” she said.
“Do you exercise a lot?”
“Not a fig—Lord knows my hips could use it.”
I thought her hips looked fine, but kept it to myself. “Count your
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