Steven Havill: Convenient Disposal

“Sure, I can do that,” Estelle said. “Does anyone have any more questions for me?” She handed one of her cards to Deena. “Use that if you want to talk with me, Deena,” she said. “Anytime.” She was surprised when that earned a small nod from the girl.

Estelle started the county car and drove around the perimeter of the macadam acre that served as both the bus staging area and playground for the elementary and middle schools.

Seventh graders on lunch break were already spreading out onto the pavement. Two duty teachers stood by one of the perimeter benches well out of range of the infamous “wall ball” court, where participants became targets for hurled tennis balls. A gaggle of four girls had joined the teachers, all apparently talking at once. One of the girls broke away from the teachers when she saw Estelle park in front of the elementary school fifty yards away. She sprinted toward the undersheriff as if greeting a long-lost pal.

With just enough time to shut off the car, get out, and brace herself, Estelle reached out a hand and caught Melody Mears as the youngster spun into orbit around her.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” the sprite said. She shared the sandy hair and freckles of her father, Posadas Sheriff’s Sergeant Tom Mears, and none of his quiet reserve.

“Checking up on you,” Estelle said.

“Oh, sure,” Melody said, beaming. She did a fair imitation of the broken-elbow, splayed-finger gang-member’s point, indicating the two teachers. “Me and them guys are just over there scoring some really bad shit from the teachers.”

Estelle cuffed Melody on the back of her head. “I don’t need to hear that, hija . ”

Melody grinned an apology and dug her head into the crook of Estelle’s arm like a puppy. “Really, how come you’re here?”

Estelle looked down at Melody’s smiling face and then, as the youngster danced a few steps away, glanced at the inseam of her jeans. “I like to touch bases with Ms. Dooley once in a while.”

The girl wrinkled her nose in disbelief as she searched for just the right words. “She is so cool,” she said, and then with the immediate change of subject at which middle schoolers were so adept, she added, “What’s Francisco doing?”

“This morning he’s building a skyscraper,” Estelle said. “At least that’s what he’s been chattering about for a week now. I thought I’d go in and see.”

Melody danced a circle. “He’s so cute.”

“Don’t tell him that.” Estelle nodded at the two teachers. They were watching from a distance, well out of earshot. After the next faculty meeting, they would never look at a set of inseams the same way again. One of the teachers, a youngish woman at least six months pregnant, raised a hand in either greeting or summons-it wasn’t clear which. Her authority obviously carried clout, though. Melody Mears’ orbit immediately widened, and she waved in farewell.

“I gotta go,” she hollered, and then flung over her shoulder, “Tell Francisco I said hi.”

Her mind now on her son, Estelle locked the car and walked toward the building. She found herself trying to guess what six-year-old Francisco could have accomplished that would warrant a conference when the parent-teacher’s night was just two days away. Her one fear-that the little boy would be bored by the routine of school-had so far been an idle concern.

She pulled open the heavy door, greeted instantly by quiet classical music piped over the intercom. The smell of fresh-baked rolls and roast chicken floated down the long hall from the cafeteria, overpowering even the Clorox-flavored mop water that a janitor was using in front of one of the restrooms. A small sign on an easel pointed off to the right, directing visitors toward administration.

Larry Newberry was leaning on the counter, talking to one of the secretaries. He glanced up when he heard the front door, saw Estelle, and beckoned to her as he stepped away from the counter.

Tall and dark with a brooding face, Newberry could frown and smile at the same time, a peculiar expression that looked as if the elementary principal might break into tears at any moment.

“You came to join us for lunch?” he said, as Estelle entered the office.

“I wish I could,” she replied. “It smells wonderful.”

The principal held out an ushering hand toward the cafeteria, but Estelle shook her head. “I really can’t, thanks. Myra Delgado asked if I’d stop by for a minute. I was just over at the middle school.”

“Ah,” Newberry said, as if that covered it all. “Wouldn’t it be nice if these kiddos never had to grow up.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Estelle replied.

Newberry chuckled, still frowning. “Myra and I were talking about Francisco just this morning.” He looked sideways at Estelle as he stepped out of the office and into the foyer. “That’s quite a boy you have there.”

“Thank you…I think.”

“Oh, yes,” Newberry said. His eyebrows relaxed. “Let me find out where Myra is just at the moment,” he said, and turned back toward his secretary, who had anticipated his question.

“Ms. Delgado is right there,” she said, pointing across the hall toward the faculty room where the first-grade teacher held open the door while she talked with someone inside.

“Ah,” Newberry said again. “There she is. And if you change your mind about lunch…”

“Thanks, Mr. Newberry,” Estelle said. Myra Delgado turned as Estelle crossed the foyer toward her. She beamed and closed the faculty-room door, then approached Estelle with both hands held out. Not yet thirty years old, the stocky first-grade teacher’s round, pretty face was framed by short, spiky hair that looked as if she stuck her fingers into an electrical outlet each morning.

“There you are,” she said. “What perfect timing.” With Estelle’s right hand in both of hers, she paused and glanced in the direction of the middle school. “How’s your day going?”

“Well, okay,” Estelle replied cautiously. “So far.”

“I don’t mean to be pushy, but we have about twelve minutes.” She linked her arm through Estelle’s, ushering her down the hall in the direction of the potent cafeteria aromas. “My aide is with the kiddos during lunch. Usually we both are, but when I glanced out the window and caught sight of you going into the middle school, I thought I’d take a chance and see if you could come over. I’m so glad you did.”

They passed the double doors leading into the small cafeteria, and Estelle saw the sea of small heads and hands, industriously shoveling in the chicken, potatoes, milk, and rolls. Teachers hovered and mingled, like fretful drill sergeants.

“This all started about three weeks ago,” Myra said, and Estelle glanced sharply at her, intrigued by what “this all” represented. “My first thought was, Whoa, what’s he doing ? ” She pointed down a side hallway to the right. “Down here a couple of doors.” At the same time she slowed her pace, and Estelle noticed that she made an effort to keep her shoe heels from clacking on the polished hall tiles.

The first-grade teacher sidled up to a doorway and put her finger over her lips. Through the single windowpane of A-12, Estelle saw a set of curved chorus risers. A battered upright piano was turned perpendicular to the risers so that the teacher could sit at the keyboard and direct the students at the same time. The room lights were off, but daylight flooded through the high windows above a row of battered lockers.

Estelle saw Francisco’s slight figure standing in front of the piano’s keyboard. The white keys were level with the tip of his nose. With his hands clawed over the keys, it looked as if he were trying to chin himself.