J. Wachowski - In Plain View

Flashbacks of Schmed’s killer handshake and the good doctor’s voice and Sheriff Curzon’s death-ray eyes all spliced into one lousy day, and the paranoia started kicking in. Was everyone in this suburban backwood salivating at the thought of my crash and burn?

Barbara was doing some life-or-death typing as I passed her desk. I noticed the extra-large jug of ibuprofen sitting beside her elbow.

“You mind?” I asked, reaching for the bottle.

“Help yourself.” She opened another drawer and passed me a packet of soup crackers. “I like four on a saltine this time of day.”

“Tasty. Thanks.”

She raised her hand to wave away my gratitude.

So. Not everyone was rooting against me.

All right then. Back to work.

The minute College and I finished logging photos, my cell phone rang. Jenny’s teacher, a Mrs. Horner, was calling to ask if I would stop by her classroom. “I’ll be here at school until six tonight. I’m very concerned, Ms. O’Hara. Please make sure to stop in and see me this evening.”

Of course, I told her.

Ainsley must have seen me blanch because he chucked me on the arm and said, “It can’t be that bad. It’s Friday, remember?”

“And what exactly does that fact mean to you, College?”

“Beer.” He shrugged. “All night videos. All day nap.”

The blue glow of the monitors in the darkened room made it harder to read facial expressions. I leaned back in my chair to make sure he didn’t miss mine. “We have ninety seconds of usable material, to fill six minutes of national air time, on a story I don’t even know is gonna work. ”

“No problem. It’s not due ’til Wednesday-that gives us both Monday and Tuesday to work on it.”

“And Saturday. And Sunday.”

“Oh.”

“That’s right, College. Beer and video all night if you want, but I want you in the truck, in my driveway by-” he looked so horrified, I decided not to ruin both our days completely, “-noon tomorrow. We’ll start by picking up Melton’s research on our mysterious Amish fireman.”

5:46:60 p.m.

School was the one place I didn’t have to worry about Jenny. Or so I thought.

“The art teacher didn’t take attendance. Jenny wasn’t missed for almost an hour. I think she was sitting in the girls’ bathroom the whole time. Jenny refused to talk to me about it.”

“I don’t get it.” My sigh was embarrassingly loud. “She ditched art? ”

Jenny’s school was a bright white labyrinth of wide halls and darkened classrooms. I’d found her teacher, Mrs. Horner, before collecting the kid from the after-school gig. Had to leave my driving gloves on to shake the woman’s hand; my palms went slick the minute I walked through the front door. Catholic school didn’t leave a parade of fond memories through my elementary education.

“I don’t really understand either, Ms. O’Hara. She told the art teacher she didn’t want to make pictures. This kind of defiant, secretive behavior isn’t like Jenny. She’s always been a pleasure to have in class.” Mrs. Horner was a third-grade teacher straight from central casting: the careful coif, the Talbot’s wardrobe, and the friendly, direct manner-sort of a cross between Martha Stewart and a Zen Buddhist-a rigorously satisfied, female perfectionist. She offered me another pained smile. “Is everything at home…all right?”

“Her mom died a few weeks ago. I don’t see how anything could be right.” I rubbed my forehead where the pounding was the worst, mostly talking to myself.

“Ah. Yes, of course.” Mrs. Horner discreetly studied her hands. “Is she getting any kind of counseling?”

“Counseling?”

“With a therapist. Grief counseling can be so helpful.”

“Uh, no. Not right now.”

The woman nodded, her expression so concerned and earnest, I felt like sticking out my tongue at her.

“I appreciate the head’s up. I’ll talk to Jenny.” I pumped reasonable-ness into my voice, until it was thick as sugar syrup. “Believe me, Mrs. Horner, Jenny is priority-one right now. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”

Maybe if I kept saying it, somebody would start believing me.

She nodded again and finally agreed to lead me through the school to find Jenny.

The after-school program was held in the gymnasium. It didn’t look that bad. The kids had games and craft supplies. There was a low din of hustle-bustle to the place. Nobody was making them sit in perfect rows with their hands folded and their heads on their desks or anything.

We found Jenny sitting by herself at one of those plastic mini-picnic tables, watching the other kids play. I still couldn’t understand the problem. The kid ditched art?

“Hey, Jen. Time to go.”

She dug her backpack from the bottom of a sloppy pile against the wall and trailed me out of the place without making eye contact once.

“Heard you had a bad day.”

I got the slantwise nod. We walked to the parking lot and I tried draping my arm over her shoulder. She was so small. I expected the gesture to pull her closer, but it felt like I had too much arm to make it work.

“Thought you liked art.”

Jenny sighed. “We were making flowers.”

“Huh,” I said, as if I knew what the hell she was talking about.

“Caryn said she had to have the pink paper because that would match her mother’s wallpaper. She just like, took mine.”

“Yeah?”

“Caryn was like ‘’cause you don’t need it.’”

Little bitch. “Huh,” I grunted again.

“I didn’t care,” Jenny tossed at me, her voice clear and fragile as glass. “I didn’t feel like making flowers anyway.”

We’d walked all the way across the parking lot before the girl managed to spill those five sentences. I handed her a helmet and balanced the bike between my legs, while Jenny scrambled onto the buddy seat.

“Watch your legs.”

“I know.”

The pipes were still hot. I’d burned myself plenty of times riding behind my dad, but my warnings were redundant to Jenny’s cautious soul.

The neighborhood got pretty lively this hour of the day. Kids screaming all over the place with the joy of Friday’s freedom, driveways suddenly sporting Dad’s shiny four-door beside Mom’s dinged-up van, and drifting on the breeze, the hungry smell of barbecue grills firing up the last of summer’s feast.

I took the long way home, feeling Jenny’s hands wrapped around my middle, her helmet pressed hard between my shoulder blades. It’s too noisy to talk while riding. The kid’s head barely clears my elbows.

“Hang on,” I shouted, as we leaned into the last turn. “Hang on tight.”

What else was there to say?

6:19:42 p.m.

Jenny followed her aunt into the house and went to hang up her jacket. She noticed what was wrong right away. It made her feel creepy. “Aunt Maddy?”

Her aunt popped her head around the kitchen door. She’d gone straight in there to pull something from the freezer for dinner.

“The door’s open.”

“Yeah? I unlocked it.”

“No. Mommy’s door.” Jenny tried to say it loudly but her throat was too tight. “Mom’s door is open.”

“Lasagne or chicken?” Holding two boxes of Lean Cuisine, her aunt walked into the hall. She saw Jenny staring.

The door at the end of the hall, the one that led to her mother’s bedroom, was standing wide open.

“That’s weird,” Aunt Maddy said. “Did you go in there?”

Jenny shook her head no. “Did you?”

“No,” Aunt Maddy said.

They both stared at the open door. Her aunt frowned.

“It must have blown open or something. I left a window cracked in my room today. That’s probably it. Pull it shut for me when you go down there, would you?” Her aunt went back to the kitchen.