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Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
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blessings.”
The entrees came and we ate without talking, comfortable with the silence, as if we were old friends, using the silence to decompress. After a few minutes she said, “What do you think of the sniper—being a girl and all.”
“It took me by surprise. By the way, one of your teachers—Mrs. Ferguson—told me she knew her. Had taught her in sixth grade.”
“Taught her at Hale?”
I nodded.
“Good old Esme. She didn’t say a thing to me—par for the course. But if anyone would remember, it would be her. She’s been around for years and she’s a local. All the rest of us are recent transfers. Or carpetbaggers, as we’ve been called. What else did she have to say about her?”
“Just that she was odd. Her family was odd.”
“Odd in what way?”
“She didn’t get more specific. Didn’t want to talk about it.”
“The Ferg tends to get overwhelmed—a little Vic-torian,” she said. “To her,
odd
could mean anything . . . using the wrong fork at dinner. But I’ll have a talk with her, see what I can learn.”
“What about transcripts?” I said. “Can you look them up?”
“There may be some old records, but I’m not sure. Before we started busing the East Side kids in, the place was cleaned up. Most of the files were moved downtown. I’ll check tomorrow.”
“How long have you been working at Hale?”
“Since last year—they brought me in with the buses. First assignment out of postdoctoral probation. I think they sensed I was trouble, wanted to get rid of me quickly and thought a few months at Hale would do it.”
I said, “It is a hell of a way to start.”
She grinned. “Fooled ’em and stuck it out. Too young and too dumb to know better.”
“Same thing happened to me when I started out,” I said. “I was offered a very tough job right out of fellowship—working with kids with cancer. By the time I was twenty-seven I was directing a program for two thousand patients, overseeing a staff of a dozen. Trial by ordeal, but looking back, I’m glad I did it.”
“Cancer. How depressing.”
“It was, at times. But also uplifting. Lots of the kids went into remission. Some were cured—more and more each year. We ended up doing a lot of rehab—helping families cope, pain reduction, sibling counseling—clinical research that could be applied almost immediately. That was satisfying: seeing your theories come to life. Being useful in the
short
term. I really felt I was doing some good, making an impact.”
“Twenty-seven. God. How old were you when you got your Ph.D.?”
“Twenty-four.”
She gave a low whistle. “Whiz kid, huh?”
“Nah, just obsessive. I started college at sixteen, kept pushing.”
“Sounds like false modesty to me,” she said: “Actually, I was sixteen when I started, too. But in my case it really was no big deal. Small school back in Texas—anyone with fluent English and half a brain skipped.”
“Where in Texas?”
“San Antonio.”
I said, “Nice town. I was there about ten years ago, consulting to the med school. Took a river ride, ate grits for the first time, picked up a pair of boots.”
“Remember the Alamo,” she said, gripping her coffee cup hard.
More chill. Time to veer onto a different road.
I said, “So here we are, couple of precocious kids. Enjoying the fruits of success.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, still tense. “Ain’t that a hoot.”
“What made you decide to stop teaching and go back for your doctorate?”
“I could give you all these highfalutin explanations, but truth be told, I wasn’t a very good teacher—not enough patience. I found it hard to deal with the ones who weren’t bright. I mean, I could sympathize with them in the abstract. But I’d grind my teeth waiting for them to come up with the right answer.” Shrug. “Not too compassionate, huh?”
“Compassionate enough to shift gears.”
“What choice did I have?” she said. “It was either that or become a witch and go home
The entrees came and we ate without talking, comfortable with the silence, as if we were old friends, using the silence to decompress. After a few minutes she said, “What do you think of the sniper—being a girl and all.”
“It took me by surprise. By the way, one of your teachers—Mrs. Ferguson—told me she knew her. Had taught her in sixth grade.”
“Taught her at Hale?”
I nodded.
“Good old Esme. She didn’t say a thing to me—par for the course. But if anyone would remember, it would be her. She’s been around for years and she’s a local. All the rest of us are recent transfers. Or carpetbaggers, as we’ve been called. What else did she have to say about her?”
“Just that she was odd. Her family was odd.”
“Odd in what way?”
“She didn’t get more specific. Didn’t want to talk about it.”
“The Ferg tends to get overwhelmed—a little Vic-torian,” she said. “To her,
odd
could mean anything . . . using the wrong fork at dinner. But I’ll have a talk with her, see what I can learn.”
“What about transcripts?” I said. “Can you look them up?”
“There may be some old records, but I’m not sure. Before we started busing the East Side kids in, the place was cleaned up. Most of the files were moved downtown. I’ll check tomorrow.”
“How long have you been working at Hale?”
“Since last year—they brought me in with the buses. First assignment out of postdoctoral probation. I think they sensed I was trouble, wanted to get rid of me quickly and thought a few months at Hale would do it.”
I said, “It is a hell of a way to start.”
She grinned. “Fooled ’em and stuck it out. Too young and too dumb to know better.”
“Same thing happened to me when I started out,” I said. “I was offered a very tough job right out of fellowship—working with kids with cancer. By the time I was twenty-seven I was directing a program for two thousand patients, overseeing a staff of a dozen. Trial by ordeal, but looking back, I’m glad I did it.”
“Cancer. How depressing.”
“It was, at times. But also uplifting. Lots of the kids went into remission. Some were cured—more and more each year. We ended up doing a lot of rehab—helping families cope, pain reduction, sibling counseling—clinical research that could be applied almost immediately. That was satisfying: seeing your theories come to life. Being useful in the
short
term. I really felt I was doing some good, making an impact.”
“Twenty-seven. God. How old were you when you got your Ph.D.?”
“Twenty-four.”
She gave a low whistle. “Whiz kid, huh?”
“Nah, just obsessive. I started college at sixteen, kept pushing.”
“Sounds like false modesty to me,” she said: “Actually, I was sixteen when I started, too. But in my case it really was no big deal. Small school back in Texas—anyone with fluent English and half a brain skipped.”
“Where in Texas?”
“San Antonio.”
I said, “Nice town. I was there about ten years ago, consulting to the med school. Took a river ride, ate grits for the first time, picked up a pair of boots.”
“Remember the Alamo,” she said, gripping her coffee cup hard.
More chill. Time to veer onto a different road.
I said, “So here we are, couple of precocious kids. Enjoying the fruits of success.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, still tense. “Ain’t that a hoot.”
“What made you decide to stop teaching and go back for your doctorate?”
“I could give you all these highfalutin explanations, but truth be told, I wasn’t a very good teacher—not enough patience. I found it hard to deal with the ones who weren’t bright. I mean, I could sympathize with them in the abstract. But I’d grind my teeth waiting for them to come up with the right answer.” Shrug. “Not too compassionate, huh?”
“Compassionate enough to shift gears.”
“What choice did I have?” she said. “It was either that or become a witch and go home
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