Steven Havill: Convenient Disposal

“He eats his lunch, and then he slips down here,” Myra whispered. “Always by himself. At first, I thought that he was going to the restroom, but he’ll stay down here until about six minutes of,” and she glanced at her watch. “At eleven fifty-five, we line up to go back to the classroom.” She turned to grin at Estelle. “We’re kinda regimented around here with the little ones.”

“This room isn’t locked?”

“No, not usually. Mr. Donner-he’s our music teacher-Mr. Donner floats around all the schools, and he’s here just three times a week-for all six grades.” Myra looked heavenward. “Sometimes one of the regular classroom teachers will bring a class here for something special, and it’s easier to leave it unlocked than always having to worry about borrowing a key. When I found out that this is where Francisco was going during lunch, I checked a couple of times to make sure the door was open.”

“He just comes here all by himself?”

“Yes. Now, we don’t allow the little ones to roam by themselves more than just a little bit, and as long as I’m sure this is where he is, I’m fine with it. So is Mr. Newberry.” She leaned closer until her ear almost touched the glass, and looked at Estelle while she listened. “Can you hear him?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds like he’s trying to work out chords.”

“He comes here every day?”

Myra nodded. “By himself. Never with anyone else…and Francisco has a whole classroom full of friends, Mrs. Guzman. He isn’t a loner, by any means. But this is a private thing with him, and that’s what intrigues me so.”

Estelle watched her son as his tiny fingers spidered across the keyboard, seeking whatever sound he heard in his head.

“Do you have a piano at home?” Myra whispered. Estelle shook her head. “Well, I wondered,” Myra added. “One day last week, I asked Francisco if he did, and he didn’t answer. Sometimes he’s stubborn that way, as I’m sure you know. When he doesn’t want to talk about something, he just pretends that he doesn’t hear. Maybe he was afraid that I would find out about this,” and she nodded toward the music room. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t let him come down here.”

“Stealthy little guy,” Estelle said. “If this was his little brother, I’d be less surprised. Carlos sings to himself all the time. Francisco doesn’t.”

“Maybe not aloud,” Myra said. “But I think it’s in his head.” She held up her hands, poised over an imaginary keyboard. “Anyway, I wanted you to see this. I think it’ll be interesting to see where it goes. He hasn’t missed a day here in three weeks. Not one. That in itself is remarkable for a first grader.” She leaned toward Estelle and her whisper dropped a notch. “And not to talk to someone about it is absolutely amazing. Given the chance, first graders are pack critters most of the time. Yakkety, yakkety, yak.”

Estelle watched Myra Delgado thoughtfully, but her attention was focused on the faint notes from inside the insulated room-some solo, some forming hesitant, simple chords. “We think we know them,” she said finally.

Myra reached toward the doorknob. “Did you want to speak with him while you’re here?”

“No. Don’t interrupt him. He only has six minutes left.” Estelle smiled and reached out to touch Ms. Delgado on the arm. “Thanks.”

They walked back toward the cafeteria in silence, and as they reached the double doors, Estelle looked up at the large clock. Francisco had four minutes remaining in his private world. “The music that’s playing now,” she said, nodding up toward the public address speaker below the clock. “Is it piped into the classrooms?”

“Just the hallways,” Myra said, shaking her head. “Sometimes, if we don’t have music of our own that we want to use, we’ll ask Mr. Newberry to throw the switch for our classroom. But usually not.”

“Interesting,” Estelle said. “Thanks again.”

“We’ll see you Thursday night?”

“Absolutely. Francis has been talking about his tower all week.”

“He and Rocky Montano are building that thing.” She frowned severely. “We are all very impressed with ourselves about that project.”

Estelle laughed. “I’m prepared. We’re looking forward to Thursday. Thanks again, Myra.”

“I hope Dr. Francis can come, too.”

“So do we. He’s going to try his best.”

The clock clicked to 11:57 as Estelle left the school, and she felt a twinge of conscience that she hadn’t stayed and greeted her son. He was doing nothing wrong, only slipping away for a few minutes each day for a rendezvous with the piano. The moments were obviously private and intensely personal for the little boy, and for the first time in six years, Estelle realized that there were dimensions to her son to which she no longer had free and unlimited access-and that brought an ache of regret.

“That’s a parent’s face,” a voice said, and Estelle looked up quickly. The Posadas County manager had pulled in his small pickup diagonally behind Estelle’s unmarked sedan. He leaned against her unit’s front fender as Estelle approached. “Missed you this morning,” Kevin Zeigler said. “The village has you working for them already this morning?”

“No…but they had a little ruckus at the middle school involving a couple of girls.” She grinned. “I drew matron duty, I guess. Just one of those things when everyone gets busy.”

“I know how it goes,” Zeigler said, and Estelle didn’t doubt him. The young county executive had survived two years of county politics, trying to mold the various county operations into a reflection of what the five commissioners wanted…and what they wanted seemed to change with the phases of the moon. “Are you going to be able to stop by the meeting after the lunch break? I think the commissioners could use your perspective.” He grinned. “I think Swartz and Tinneman both got a little impatient this morning.”

“The sheriff was going to go today,” Estelle said.

“Well, he did go. And I think the commission is going to vote in favor of the contract. But…”

“Chief Mitchell was there, too?”

“Yes. And you know, the commissioners were a little surprised. Barney Tinneman is the main voice against consolidation, and I get the impression that he still counts on Chief Mitchell as an ally.” Zeigler crossed his arms over his chest. “But Chief Mitchell told the meeting this morning that the village contracting police services from the county is the only thing that makes sense.”

“He’s said that all along,” Estelle agreed. “Barney needs to listen once in a while. Everybody thinks that, in most ways, it makes sense, except maybe him. The population is just too small to bother with separate departments.”

“That’s the catch,” Zeigler said. “In most ways. Neither Mitchell nor Torrez can convince Tinneman that coverage in the village won’t suffer.” Zeigler grinned. “And I can see the sheriff’s fuse getting shorter and shorter. He doesn’t do politics well.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“I think we mangled the carcass enough this morning. They need a fresh perspective.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a few things I have to take care of over lunch, and the commission reconvenes at one-thirty. If you can be there, it would help.”

“They’re voting on it today?”

“That’s the plan. But Tinneman has Swartz wavering, and that’s two out of five. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they forced it to the table.”

“Even after the village council voted unanimously to contract services from the county?”

“It’s a turf thing,” Zeigler said. “Remember, Tinneman was mayor of Posadas at one time. He thinks that the village should have its own police department, no matter what. He thinks that once they give that up, the next thing to go is the fire department, then Lord knows what all else…He even said this morning that if we’re not careful, we’ll lose our post office.” He shrugged at the absurdity of it. “Go figure. It’s hard to tell just what his agenda is, except he likes to hear himself talk. He even thinks I’m giving the county dump away by looking at a private contractor.”