Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

On a higher shelf was yet another tutoring award, issued by a fraternity at Yale. Two more plasticized plaques, granted by the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of Connecticut at Storrs, attested to Chip’s excellence in graduate teaching. Papa Chuck hadn’t lied.

Several more recent testimonials from West Valley Junior College: the Department of Sociology’s Undergraduate Teaching Citation, a gavel on a plaque from the WVJC Student Council thanking PROF. C. L. JONES FOR SERVING AS FACULTY ADVISOR, a group photo of Chip and fifty or so smiling, shiny-cheeked sorority girls on an athletic field, both he and the girls in red T-shirts emblazoned with Greek letters. The picture was autographed: “Best, Wendy.” “Thanks, Prof. Jones — Debra.” “Love, Kristie.” Chip was squatting on a baseline, arms around two of the girls, beaming, looking like a team mascot.

Cindy’s got the tough job. I can escape .

I wondered what Cindy did for attention, realized she’d stopped talking, and turned to see her looking at me.

“He’s a great teacher,” she said. “Would you like to see the den?”

More soft furniture, crammed shelves, Chip’s triumphs preserved in brass and wood and plastic, plus a wide-screen TV, stereo components, an alphabetized rack of classical and jazz compact discs.

That same clubby feel. The sole strip of wall not covered with shelves was papered in another plaid — blue and red — and hung with Chip’s two diplomas. Below the foolscaps, placed so low I had to kneel to get a good look, were a couple of watercolors.

Snow and bare trees and rough-wood barns. The frame of the first was labeled NEW ENGLAND WINTER. The one just above the floor molding was SYRUP TAPPING TIME. No signature. Tourist-trap quality, done by someone who admired the Wyeth family but lacked the talent.

Cindy said, “Mrs. Jones — Chip’s mom — painted those.”

“Did she live back east?”

She nodded. “Years ago, back when he was a boy. Uh-oh, I think I hear Cassie.”

She held up an index finger, as if testing the wind.

A whimper, distant and mechanical, came from one of the bookcases. I turned toward it, located the sound at a small brown box resting on a high shelf. Portable intercom.

“I put it on when she sleeps,” she said.

The box cried again.

We left the room and walked down a blue-carpeted hall, passing a front bedroom that had been converted into an office for Chip. The door was open. A wooden sign nailed to it said SKOLLAR AT WIRK. Yet another book-filled leathery space.

Next came a deep-blue master bedroom and a closed door that I assumed led to the connecting bathroom Cindy had told me about. Cassie’s room was at the end of the hall, a generous corner space done up in rainbow paper and white cotton curtains with pink trim. Cassie was sitting up in a canopied crib, wearing a pink nightshirt, hands fisted, crying halfheartedly. The room smelled baby-sweet.

Cindy picked her up and held her close. Cassie’s head was propped on her shoulder. Cassie looked at me, closed her eyes, flopped her face down.

Cindy cooed something. Cassie’s face relaxed and her mouth opened. Her breathing became rhythmic. Cindy rocked her.

I looked around the room. Two doors on the southern wall. Two windows. Bunny and duck decals appliquéd to furniture. A wicker-back rocker next to the crib. Boxed games, toys, and enough books for a year’s worth of bedtime reading.

In the center three tiny chairs surrounded a circular play table. On the table were a stack of paper, a new box of crayons, three sharpened pencils, a gum eraser, and a piece of shirt cardboard hand-lettered WELCOME DR. DELAWARE. LuvBunnies — more than a dozen of them — sat on the floor, propped against the wall, spaced as precisely as cadets at inspection.

Cindy settled in the rocker with Cassie in her arms. Cassie molded to her like butter on bread. Not a trace of tension in the little body.

Cindy closed her eyes and rocked, stroking Cassie’s back, smoothing sleep-moistened strands of hair. Cassie took a deep breath, let it out, nestled her head under Cindy’s chin, and made high-pitched contented sounds.

I lowered myself to the floor and sat cross-legged — shrink’s analytical lotus — watching, thinking, suspecting, imagining worst-cases and beyond.

After a few minutes my joints began to ache and I got up and stretched. Cindy’s eyes followed me. We traded smiles. She pressed her cheek to Cassie’s head and shrugged.

I whispered, “Take your time,” and began walking around the room. Running my hands along the dustless surfaces of furniture, inspecting the contents of the toy case while trying not to look too inquisitive.

Good stuff. The right stuff. Each game and plaything safe, and age-appropriate, and educational.

Something white caught the corner of my eye. The buckteeth of one of the LuvBunnies. In the dim light of the nursery the critter’s grin and those of its mates seemed malevolent — mocking.

I remembered those grins from Cassie’s hospital room and a crazy thought hit me.

Toxic toys. Accidental poisoning.

I’d read about a case in a child health journal — stuffed animals from Korea that turned out to be filled with waste fibers from a chemical plant.

Delaware solves the mystery and everyone goes home happy.

Picking up the nearest bunny — a yellow one — I squeezed its belly, felt the give-and-rebound of firm foam. Raising the toy to my nose, I smelled nothing. The label said MADE IN TAIWAN OF LUV-PURE AND FIREPROOF MATERIALS. Below that was an approval seal from one of the family magazines.

Something along the seam — two snaps. A trapdoor flap that could be undone. I pulled it open. The sound made Cindy turn. Her eyebrows were up.

I poked around, found nothing, fastened the snap, and put the toy back.

“Allergies, right?” she said, talking just above a whisper. “To the stuffing — I thought of that too. But Dr. Eves had her tested and she’s not allergic to anything. For a while, though, I washed the bunnies every day. Washed all her cloth toys and her bedding with Ivory Liquid. It’s the gentlest.”

I nodded.

“We pulled up the carpeting, too, to see if there was mold in the padding or something in the glue. Chip had heard of people getting sick in office buildings — ‘sick buildings,’ they call them. We had a company come out and clean the air-conditioning ducts, and Chip had the paint checked, to see if there was lead or chemicals.”

Her voice had risen and taken on an edge again. Cassie squirmed. Cindy rocked her quiet.

“I’m always looking,” she whispered. “All the time — ever since... the beginning.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. Removed the hand and slapped it down to her knee, pinkening the white skin.

Cassie’s eyes shot open.

Cindy rocked harder, faster. Fighting for composure.

“First one, now the other,” she whispered — loud, almost hissing. “Maybe I’m just not supposed to be a mother!”

I went over and placed my hand on her shoulder. She slid out from under it, shot up out of the rocker, and thrust Cassie at me. Tears streamed from her eyes, and her hands shook.

“Here! Here! I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not meant to be a mother!”

Cassie began whimpering, then gulping air.

Cindy thrust her at me again and, when I took her, ran across the room. My hands were around Cassie’s waist. She was arching her back. Wailing, fighting me.

I tried to comfort her. She wouldn’t let me.

Cindy threw open a door, exposing blue tile. Running into the bathroom, she slammed the door. I heard the sound of retching, followed by a toilet flush.

Cassie squirmed and kicked and screamed louder. I got a firm grasp around her middle and patted her back. “It’s okay, honey. Mommy’s coming right back. It’s okay.”