Janice Johnson - Mummy Said Goodbye

His face became wary.

“Tell me, Ryan, do you know anything about Brett’s parents for a fact?” She waited, then continued, “Or have you been listening to gossip that is no more informed than you were a few minutes ago?”

“Everybody says…”

“Has Brett’s father been arrested? Tried?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

“Don’t you think the police would have arrested Mr. Lofgren if they had any evidence whatsoever to suggest that he killed his wife?”

“But…”

She overrode him. “In this country, we believe people are innocent until proven guilty. Mr. Lofgren is nowhere near being proven guilty. Perhaps more to the point, in this school, and especially in my classroom, nobody deliberately attempts to hurt another person’s feelings. Am I making myself clear?”

Looking both mulish and sheepish—speaking of animals, she thought with a certain wryness—Ryan nodded again.

“Then this incident is forgotten. You may go back to your desk.”

Of course, she was lying. The incident was not forgotten by either boy, or even by her.

Wednesday, she had her students begin journals, which they would leave in their desks every night.

“I’ll read them from time to time.” She wandered among desks, touching a shoulder here, smiling there. “Not to correct them. I want you to write freely about your experiences, your thoughts, your feelings. I’m checking only to be sure that you are in fact using your time to write. Still, be aware that I may read any particular passage, so in a sense you are writing for my eyes.”

She gave them twenty minutes to open their spiral notebooks and—for the most part—stare into space. Each day it would come easier, until the majority of students actually enjoyed this time, took up where they left off, explored contradictory emotions, forgot that they were writing for anyone but themselves.

On Thursday she interrupted a shouting match between Brett and a pair of boys from April Nyholt’s class. They said, “I’m sorry, Ms. McKinnon,” and retired from the battlefield looking smug. Brett smoldered.

Robin wished he could see that his attitude was most of the problem. Other kids in this school had had notorious parents. Students had buzzed a couple of years ago when a sixth-grader’s mother left her father for another woman. But the girl had had the sense to say, “She’s my mom and I love her, but…it is so-o freaky!” Everybody had sympathized and quickly forgotten. Brett didn’t let anybody forget.

Robin didn’t look at her students’ journals until Friday. She asked that they be left out on the desks. When the room was empty, she walked from desk to desk, flipping open the journals.

Some had only a few lines.

I’m going to my dad’s tonight. I hate going! It is so boring!

Robin smiled at the multiple underlines beneath “so,” even though she felt sad at how many children were shuttled between divorced parents’ houses with no regard for where they preferred to be.

One boy wrote in some detail about a Seahawks game to which his uncle had taken him. The excitement shone through, and that provoked another smile. Several kids couldn’t spell, and she made a mental note of their names. Ryan wrote about “that Lofgren kid” trying to beat the crap out of him. “All I said was…” Robin sighed. Her little lecture had apparently not had much impact.

Perhaps deliberately, her route brought her to Brett’s desk last. She opened his journal, started reading and made a small sound of shock.

Oh, dear, was no longer an adequate response.

CRAIG DID NOT expect to hear from his son’s teacher on a Friday evening. In fact, he didn’t expect to hear from her at all. Last year’s teacher had never once called him in for a conference, even though Brett’s grades sank throughout the year and the principal did summon Craig several times. When Craig showed up for the traditional November parent conferences, Ms. Hayes had appeared uncomfortable and kept their talk as short as she could manage without outright rudeness.

Last week, when he’d asked how the first day of school went, Abby’s face had brightened. “I really like Mrs. Jensen. She’s letting Summer and me sit together.”

Brett shrugged.

Craig had tried a couple of times in the intervening week and a half to talk to his son, but Brett always mumbled, “It’s okay.”

Don’t borrow trouble, Craig warned himself. He didn’t want to assume Brett would do poorly this year. Time was supposed to heal, wasn’t it?

Craig had been gone the past couple of days. He’d flown the polar route to Frankfurt and back. As usual, his father stayed with the kids.

Dad had already fed them when Craig got home at seven-thirty that evening. Waving off Craig’s thanks, he said, “See you Tuesday,” and left.

As he did every single time, Craig wondered what he’d do without his father, who’d retired nearby a few years back. Who else would stay in this house? Something told him that motherly types would not line up outside his door if he ran an ad in the weekly paper asking for live-in help for half the week.

Weary, Craig said hi to Abby, engrossed in a favorite TV show, and to Brett who was hunched over the computer playing Snood. In one way, he was stung by their lack of interest in his arrival home. In another, he was pleased. Abby had clung to him after her mother disappeared. Every time Craig had to leave, she’d sobbed and begged him not to go. Brett had hidden his feelings better, but Craig could feel his anxiety, too. He’d considered quitting his job, maybe seeing if he could fly for a local carrier like Horizon, so that he could be home every night. But just recently, he’d seen an improvement. The kids were beginning to have faith that their Dad would always come home.

On his way to the kitchen, he gave something approaching a laugh. Faith? Hell, maybe they just liked Grandad better. Craig knew damn well that his father wasn’t as demanding as he was. Abby and Brett had manipulating Grandad down to a fine art.

Without interest, Craig gazed into the refrigerator. His father had left a covered plate. Craig lifted the tin foil, saw leftover spaghetti, and stuck it in the microwave to warm even though he wasn’t very hungry. He had to eat.

The microwave was still humming when the phone rang. Craig started. The telephone in this house didn’t ring often.

He lifted the receiver and said cautiously, “Hello?”

A woman’s voice, sounding tentative, said, “May I speak to Mr. Lofgren?”

“This is Craig Lofgren.”

The microwave beeped. He ignored it.

“Oh. This is Robin McKinnon. Brett’s teacher.”

His heart sank. So much for his foolish hope that Brett’s notoriety would wear off and that he might start joining the pack again, so to speak. It seemed Abby was, even if none of her friends were ever able to come home with her to play.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to set up a conference with you, Mr. Lofgren. To discuss Brett.”

“What’s he done?”

There was a moment of silence. “It’s not so much what he’s done as how…unhappy he seems. He’s very isolated, you know.” In this pause, Craig sensed she was searching for words. “He’s angry.”

Angry. That meant Brett was still starting fights. Rubbing the back of his neck, Craig said, “Is Monday too soon? I’m an airline pilot and I fly out again Tuesday.”

“Can you come right after school on Monday? At two-thirty?”

He agreed. “Should I be speaking to Brett about something specific in the meantime?”

“No-o.” She seemed to draw the word out. “I’d rather talk to you first.”

“Is he doing his work?”

“In a perfunctory way.”