Kate Hewitt - When He Fell

“Talk about leading questions,” Lewis mutters.

“No,” Josh says softly.

“No, you weren’t fighting?” Mrs. James clarifies. She sounds like a lawyer.

“No,” Josh says again, and this time his voice is clear. He looks up at Mrs. James and meets her narrowed gaze unblinkingly. “We weren’t fighting.” And then he sets his jaw and I know we’d have an easier time pulling teeth rather than words from his mouth.

“Joshua, this is quite serious, you know,” Mrs. James says. “Some children in your class have said they saw you talking heatedly with Ben. They say they saw you push him.”

“And you trust their word over Josh’s?” Lewis demands.

Mrs. James swings towards Lewis to look at him severely. “When it is several children, yes, I do, Mr. Taylor-Davies. Yes, I do.”

“We weren’t fighting,” Josh says again. He sounds obstinate.

“Please,” I interject. “No matter how it came about, this was clearly an accident. Children push each other all the time. It’s just that a brain injury doesn’t normally result.”

Now I’m on the receiving end of one of Mrs. James’s chilly stares. “We take bullying very seriously here at Burgdorf, Mrs. Taylor-Davies.”

Bullying? The idea that Josh could be bullying Ben is ludicrous, laughable. Surely this woman realizes that.

“My son is not a bully,” Lewis says.

“We have policies in place to deal with physical aggression,” Mrs. James continues. “An act of this nature results in one week’s suspension. Any further infractions will require the Board to reconsider Joshua’s place at Burgdorf.”

It’s as if she’s lobbed a grenade right onto our laps. Lewis and I gape. Mrs. James sits with her hands primly folded in front of her and waits.

“Are you saying,” Lewis finally asks in a low voice, “that my son might be expelled? For possibly pushing one kid one time?”

“No, I am saying he will be suspended for one week, starting immediately,” Mrs. James answers. “If there is a repeat infraction, then we will be forced to consider expulsion.”

Her face is a bland mask as she holds our incredulous gazes. What has happened, I wonder in disbelief, to Burgdorf’s nurturing the whole child, ‘place of positivity’ atmosphere? It’s all a crock of shit, apparently, just as Lewis has said.

“This place is full of kids with syndromes and learning difficulties and all the rest of it,” Lewis says. His voice is still low, but furious. “There are kids pushing other kids all the time. I’ve been on playground duty, and I’ve seen it.”

Lewis has been on playground duty? This detail snags on my brain, because he never told me that. Why would he do playground duty? We paid the two thousand dollar exemption from the mandatory parent volunteering; both of us were realistic enough to acknowledge that we wouldn’t be able to manage it.

“Even so, Mr. Taylor-Davies,” Mrs. James says, which is no response at all.

Lewis stares at her for a long moment and then he rises from his chair in one abrupt movement. “Fine. We’re leaving.”

We are? I rise too, because what else can I do? “I have some serious questions about your handling of this situation,” I tell Mrs. James. I don’t want to say more in front of Josh.

“You will find,” Mrs. James answers, “we are acting in accordance with our published policy, the policy you signed upon Joshua’s admission to this school.” A policy they hardly ever enforce. So why now? Why Josh? I don’t trust myself to say anything civil so I just nod tightly.

“Come on, Josh,” Lewis says, and with one hand on our son’s shoulder, he steers us out of the headmistress’s office. School is letting out as we head down the halls to the double doors. A teacher is on duty; I don’t recognize her, and it isn’t until Lewis strides up and gets in her face that I realize this must be Mrs. Rollins.

“Do you know Josh has been suspended?” he asks quietly, but with menace.

Mrs. Rollins blinks several times. “No, I…I wasn’t aware,” she stammers. She can’t meet any of our eyes.

“Do you think that’s fair?” Lewis demands. “Considering?”

“It’s not my place to decide on disciplinary measures, Mr. Taylor-Davies,” Mrs. Rollins says. She’s still not looking at us.

“You were there on the playground?” Lewis presses. By now children are staring; a knot of mothers has gathered by the door, their highlighted heads bent together as they whisper and dart looks toward us. They remind me of a flock of blonde crows. “You saw it happen?”

Finally Mrs. Rollins looks at Lewis. “No, I didn’t. There were two parents on playground duty yesterday.”

“Which parents?”

She hesitates, and I sense she’s nervous, even afraid. “I’m not sure…” she hedges.

“Bullshit,” Lewis snaps, and the crows outside whisper furiously. It sounds like hissing.

“You’d have to ask Tanya,” she says, and she shoots Josh a look that seems full of apology. “She has the schedule.”

Without another word Lewis marches out the doors and past the whispering mothers, his hand still on Josh’s shoulder. I follow alone. My face burns with both anger and shame.

On the corner of Fifty-Fourth and Sixth Avenue Lewis hails a cab. Thankfully one screeches to a halt in front of us within seconds; I can feel the stares of all the Burgdorf mothers boring holes into my back from halfway down the block. We all climb into the cab in silence.

Josh sits between us, his arms and legs folded up as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. I wrestle the seatbelt over his inert form as Lewis stares out the window, his jaw clenched, and the taxi inches through the midtown traffic.

I put my arm around Josh, but he remains rigid and unyielding. “We’re going to have an amazing week, doing all sorts of cool stuff,” I say firmly, and no one answers.

When we get back to our apartment, Josh disappears into his bedroom. I want to go after him, but I decide he could use a little time alone. I’ll try talking to him later. Lewis shrugs off his jacket and strides to the living room window overlooking the park, bracing one hand against its frame.

“This whole thing is bullshit,” he says. “That school is crazy.”

“They seem to have taken against Josh,” I admit quietly. The last thing I want is for our son to hear us talking like this.

“They don’t even know for sure that he pushed Ben, and if he did push him, it was obviously an accident. He and Ben were just messing around. You know how Ben is.”

Not really, actually. Ben is boisterous; I know that. When he came over one Saturday when I happened to be home—often I’m at work on a Saturday—he was zinging around our apartment like a pinball in a machine. Lewis finally took the boys out to the park. I offered to come, but they didn’t take me up on it and I was relieved. I didn’t think I could handle Ben’s energy, which was a whole other ball game from Josh’s quiet intensity.

“Why would Josh push Ben?” I ask. “He’s not a pusher.”

Lewis shrugs. “They’re nine-year-old boys. Even Josh roughhouses a little bit. When we’re all out together.”

“But then why wouldn’t Josh tell us about Ben’s fall?”

“Because he was upset, and he doesn’t talk about his feelings,” Lewis snaps. “What do you think, Jo?” He sounds accusing and I recoil at his tone. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” He blows out a breath, raking his hand through his hair. “This is so unfair.”

“I know it is. But I do think it’s a bit odd,” I answer. “And I want to get to the bottom of this, for Josh’s sake as much as anything else. Something doesn’t feel right.”