Mummy Said Goodbye. Janice Johnson Kay
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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.”
Damn it, Brett was a smart kid. He’d been a topnotch student until… Craig grunted. Until his world fell apart.
“Did you say something?” the teacher asked.
“No. I’ll see you Monday.”
He replaced the receiver, then stood frowning into space for a long minute before remembering the spaghetti. He ate without tasting it, dumping half into the garbage. What was Brett doing? Beating the crap out of every kid who said, “Hey, did your dad bury your mom in the backyard?”
Yeah. Probably. Craig could even understand the temptation. There were days he was angry, too. When he sure as hell wanted to punch somebody. He was angry that he couldn’t grocery shop locally without mothers shooing their kids out of his path or all conversation dying around him. He was angry at “friends” who hadn’t known him at all. And sometimes, on really bad days, he hated the cops, and especially Sergeant Michael Caldwell, the investigating officer who had made up his mind from the get-go that Craig had killed his wife and had hounded Craig for the next year.
A week ago, he’d felt sick to realize that he was happy to see in the newspaper that Michael Caldwell had died in a car accident. An easygoing man, Craig had never truly hated before.
And he was lucky enough to be able to escape the miasma of suspicion and judgment when he went to work. Co-pilots and crew came from all over the country. Some didn’t even know about Julie. Others had never met her and had forgotten the notoriety. In the air, he was just Captain Lofgren.
Besides, he had a lifetime of lessons in self-restraint to draw on. Brett was at a tough age anyway. What scared Craig was the long-term effect of all this anger on Brett. Hormones were putting him through the wringer already. He was supposed to be slamming doors and sulking. He wasn’t supposed to have discovered that theoretically decent people seemed to need to have a leper in their midst whom they could despise and fear. He wasn’t supposed to have discovered already what it was like to be that leper.
Craig tucked Abby in and heard about her week. Summer’s mother, thank God, had allowed her daughter’s friendship with Abby to continue. Summer didn’t come over here, but Craig could live with that. Abby had asked a few times, Summer—or her mother—had made excuses, and Abby had quit asking. But they had her over often and kids her age had been oblivious to the police investigation. Some of them had probably heard now—mothers must give some explanation why little Bridget or Annie couldn’t play at Abby’s house—but even in fourth grade they were too young to care, apparently, about grown-up stuff they didn’t really understand.
“Can I go tomorrow?” she asked, as he pulled the covers up and smoothed them.
He realized he’d missed something. “Go where?”
She rolled her eyes in a good imitation of her brother. “To Mt. Rainier.”
“Just for the day?”
“We’re taking a picnic and stuff. Summer’s brother is bringing his yucky friend, so she needs me.”
“Of course you can go. Maybe I’ll take Brett fishing.”
Her nose scrunched. “If you catch something, I don’t have to eat it, do I?”
Craig laughed. “No, you don’t. Your loss.”
“Uh-huh.”
Still laughing, he kissed her good-night and turned out the light.
He didn’t suggest bedtime for Brett for another couple of hours. Then he wandered in to say good-night and stopped in his tracks.
“Hey! Your bedroom’s clean.”
“Grandad made me.”
Hmm. Maybe his father wasn’t quite the pushover Craig had feared.
“Good. Did he also make you wash a few loads, or is it all piled up in the laundry room waiting for me?”
“Uh… I started a load. Tuesday night.” Then Brett grinned, for a second looking like the cheerful kid he’d once been. “Just kidding. I washed three loads. And folded them.”
Which meant Craig’s dress shirts were probably wadded in a stack on his bureau rather than hanging in the closet, but Craig wasn’t about to quibble.
“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.
“Did you know that Grandad doesn’t throw his socks away when they get holes in them? He says he doesn’t mind a little ventilation.”
“He grew up without much money. Even though he’s got enough now, he thinks before he buys anything.”
Brett puzzled over that. “Oh. But…socks?”
“Maybe we should buy him some for his birthday.”
The boy’s expression made plain what he thought of socks as a birthday present.
Casually, Craig said, “Your teacher called tonight.”
A flare of something very like fear was dampened in a heartbeat. Brett’s face went blank. “Ms. McKinnon?”
“Uh-huh.”
His son tried to hold out, but couldn’t. “What did she want?”
“A conference.” Craig waited for a deliberate moment. “Do you know what it’s about?”
Brett shrugged. Craig’s least favorite response.
“We’ll see,” he said.
Brett turned his face away on the pillow.
“Do you want to go fishing tomorrow?” Craig asked.
He looked back at his father. “Really?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Does Abby have to come?”
“Nope. She’s going somewhere with Summer.”
“Cool! Yeah!”
THEY HAD A GOOD DAY, taking their poles to a small lake where they rented a rowboat and trolled. With Labor Day weekend past, the lake was uncrowded, a few powerboats crisscrossing, one water skier making half a dozen laps before taking a spectacular fall.
The sun was warm, the blue surface of the lake dazzling, the occasional excitement of hauling in a trout of legal length all they needed to save them from boredom. Trees grew down to the shores of the lake, interrupted by summer cabins and docks.
Craig made no effort to direct the desultory conversation, just let it drift along with the boat.
Only once did the subject of Brett’s mom come up.
After one of the many long, contented pauses, the eleven-year-old said, “That policeman is dead, right?”
Craig nodded. “His funeral was last week.”
“What will they do now?”
“I don’t know.” Craig flexed his pole and cranked the reel a few times. “It may not make any difference that he’s gone.”