For the moment I kept my temper. I said, “I'll tell you why he hates me. He figured out I'm gay, and he's excessively homophobic.”
“He's had sex with girls. He's not gay. Why should he hate you for that?”
I gazed at her evenly. “Maybe you're not prejudiced,” I said, “but it is unfortunately far too close to normal in this society, for teenage boys especially, to be homophobic to the point of violence. I can't believe you don't know that. What I find truly incredible is that you and almost everybody else around here has bought his current performance.”
“You aren't a psychologist, so I don't expect you to understand, and I'm not sure having a gay person for a teacher is good for him.”
I laughed at her. “Ask his other teachers before this year, most of whom are straight, how they got along with him. It's the same story as mine, usually worse. I have no idea why Dan thinks I'm gay. I'm not sure I care. Kids can hear rumors, and I don't make a secret of it among the faculty.”
“You've been unfair to him, and I believe him. This latest outburst that you claim happened is coming out of your hatred for him.”
Why I didn't lose my temper, I'm not sure. I said “You know what happened to the student teacher, and you still believe Bluefield?”
She said, “Dan explained all that to me. He said that she was after him to have sex. When he turned her down, Clarissa went crazy. My understanding is that she isn't going to press charges, which would seem to bear out my contention. Dan says Clarissa was afraid he might turn her in and ruin her career.”
“You really bought all that?” I asked.
“Yes. And you'd better understand that I hold you responsible if he returns to his previous behaviors. We've had him in a fantastic drug rehab program. He's been clean for six months, on his way to overcoming child abuse and a negative home environment. It's your fault if all that hard work comes to nothing.”
I stood up, shook my head at her, and left. I felt even
more sorry for her. I've seen people get twisted and screwed up about a kid, but I've never understood it.
I trudged out to the practice field. Kurt Campbell blew a whistle at a mingling group of kids. He called them over and spoke to the huddled mass for a moment. They returned to their corner of the field and lined up opposite each other. In various other corners teenagers clad in red-and-white football uniforms participated in various drills, observed by adults carrying clipboards and whistles. On the baseball field in the distance, the cheerleaders bounced and twirled.
Kurt saw me and motioned me over. Besides his duties as teacher and union president, he's one of the assistant football coaches.
I thanked him for being there in the meeting with Mr. Bluefield.
“How was your day?” he asked. “I assume there's no word on the killer.”
“No. I need to talk to you, or to whoever knows if anybody went into the school during practice yesterday.”
“Probably not a lot of people,” he said. “I should have thought of it when I talked to you this morning. The best person to talk to is probably Herman Matusi, a senior. He's the team manager. Runs chores for the coaches. Watches the equipment. He's the brightest kid out here. Too bad he weighs a hundred and ten pounds. I don't remember any of the coaches going in. If anybody would notice, he would.”
I talked to Herman. He reported that none of the team had gone in.
“Don't they have to go to the john?” I asked.
He pointed to the concessions stand under the bleachers. “We just use that. It's got a water fountain too.”
Out to the cheerleaders I roamed. The weather held beautiful. I hoped it would be this good in a week and a half for Scott and me. For now it was perfect for long walks in the woods, making love, and enjoying the peace and quiet.
I got the attention of the cheerleading sponsor. She gave
me a sour look, issued a few commands to one of the senior girls.
“We're busy,” she snapped when she got near me.
I remembered her as Denise Flowers, a teacher of classical languages who had been in the district two years. She looked tan and athletic in sweat shirt and tight spandex shorts. She had long red hair and a figure I think nongay men would find very sexy.
“I wanted to askâ” I began.
She cut me off. “The police asked questions. We quit practice at five yesterday. The girls showered and then I waited for the last one to leave on the bus, the way a faculty advisor is supposed to. None of them left my sight. I was there all the time.” She turned her back on me and marched back to the kids.
I decided to give up and go home. I live in a farmhouse in one of the last cornfields in southwestern Cook County. I own the house and two acres around it. I enjoy the quiet and solitude. Last year they put in a subdivision a half-mile from my place. I'm going to have to move soon.
I found Scott sprawled on the couch in the living room. He always spends the first days after the season at my place, to avoid the jangling phones and hectic pace of the city. He wore faded blue jeans, white athletic socks, and no shirt. I noted his end-of-year baseball tan. The deep bronze on his arms stopping abruptly at the elbow where his baseball uniform started, then starting again at his neckline. He'd fallen asleep with a book open on his chest. It was Allan Bérubé's
Coming Out Under Fire
. On the day after he pitched, Scott usually tried to take an extra nap sometime during the afternoon.
Quietly as I moved, he woke when I crossed the room.
As he sat up, the book fell to the floor. He retrieved it and said, “How's my favorite murder suspect?”
“I've got a couple of people I'd like to line up and blast with a machine gun.”
“That bad at school?” he asked.
“Not as bad as I thought.” Sitting next to him on the couch, I told him about my day.
When I finished he said, “I'm worried about the threat from the Bluefield kid. The father is nuts. The son is unstable. I don't like that part about him saying he knew where you lived.”
“We've got the alarm system you installed,” I said. Scott can do anything mechanical. When he's done fixing things, they actually work.
“He could do something crazy,” Scott said. “An alarm system is only so good. I think we should stay at my place for a while.”
“Probably not a bad idea.” I leaned my head back on the couch. “I'm really depressed about all this. Not about being a murder suspect, because I know I didn't do it, but about the reaction of the faculty. I mean, my friends were great, but some of the others were just like Meg said, rats deserting a sinking ship.”
“Trust Meg,” Scott said. They knew and liked each other. “You can't really blame the people. They don't want trouble.”
“I do blame them,” I said petulantly. “They should want to help.”
“Am I listening to the man I've heard decree numerous times that people need reality fixes?”
“I'm just frustrated,” I said.
“Let's go talk to some of these other people tonight,” he said. “You can't stop asking questions. Somebody did it. You're right, someone could be trying to frame you.”
“It's kind of hard to believe. I don't have any major enemies on the faculty. In the English department we get along pretty well. I don't know that many people outside the department well enough for them to build that kind of hate.”
“What about Bluefield?”
“I don't think the kid has the smarts or the courage to commit murder. Besides, Jones was his big buddy. Why try to hurt him?”
“He had the courage to attack you,” Scott said.
I didn't have a good answer for that. We agreed to go out after we ate, to try and talk to the rest of the people who'd been in the school.
I tried cooking some dinner. Neither of us is very good at it, but what's to making pasta? Boil a little water, open a jar of sauce, heat a little garlic bread, toss a salad. The pasta boiled over on the stove and the burner chose to short out from the excess water. When I shoved the garlic bread in the oven, I let go of the door too soon; it crashed down and one of the hinges snapped. Hearing the noise, Scott entered the kitchen.
“This is not my day,” I said.
“Hasn't been your week, so far,” he muttered. He took the bread out of my hand, placed it on the counter, and steered me to a kitchen chair. While he put the kitchen back in order, I gazed at the
Lord of the Rings
poster-calendar he'd given me for my birthday this year. Finally Scott handed me the lettuce and the knife. “See if you can cut this without slicing off a finger,” he said.
I wanted to be more amused for him, but I was too depressed. He managed to forget the sauce on top of the stove while he was fixing the oven door. It burned and crusted on the bottom of the pan.
When he finally plopped spaghetti on my plate he said, “Another gourmet meal at the Mason household.”
While we ate, we discussed the recently completed baseball season. He might go to some of the playoff games in California after we got back from our weekend away.
We decided to begin our round of evening conversations with the student teacher. I hadn't seen her in school. I found her name on the faculty and staff list right after the part-time custodians. I drove Scott's Porsche to her place in River's Edge.
We found her house on 149th Street, just west of a recently built bowling alley. A handsome man in his mid-twenties answered our knock. He wore white sweat pants and a sleeveless T-shirt with ILLINOIS STATE UNIVERSITY printed
on the front. I told him we wanted to talk to Clarissa. He stared hard at Scott. “Aren't you ⦠?” he began.
Scott nodded. The dreaded recognition issue. Going out in public is a chancy business. He's been on enough posters, been interviewed by enough television reporters, been on enough sports shows to be more recognizable than most politicians. Last time we tried shopping in a suburban mall, he was mobbed. We wound up running for the parking lot, trailing fans behind us. Other times, we've strolled through huge crowds totally unnoticed. The younger the fan, the more tolerant Scott is. He's one of the few major-league players who doesn't charge for his signature.
“No shit, Scott Carpenter,” said the guy.
“Who is it, Ralph?” Clarissa appeared behind him. She saw me. “I don't want to see him,” she said.
He looked back at her in some confusion. “This is Scott Carpenter,” Ralph said.
“Who?” She'd only seen me. Now she took in Scott. No glimmer of recognition appeared on her face.
“Scott Carpenter, the baseball player. I always wanted to meet him.” He turned to us, opened the door, and invited us in.
“I don't want ⦔ she began.
Before she could complete her protest, we were inside the door. She stomped off farther into the house. Ralph shook Scott's hand. I introduced myself.
Ralph led us into the living room. The house was upper-class track, but the sparse furnishings reflected the newness of their marriage. A picture window looked out on a backyard with trees still small enough to need stakes to keep them from bending over in the wind. We sat on a brown sofa that would need a huge dumpster in another year or so.
Ralph gushed at Scott for a few minutes. Scott's used to it, and performed the rituals graciously. Ralph was about five feet seven, with a wrestler's compact body, as if the
gym outfit he wore reflected actual workouts rather than simple style preference.
Eventually we got around to the purpose of our visit.
Ralph's face quickly changed from delight at meeting Scott Carpenter to grim seriousness. He lowered his voice. “Clarissa's been pretty upset. She didn't go to school or to her classes. I tried to talk to her. I don't think she's mad at you. I think you just remind her of what happened. She could barely talk to the police when they interviewed her.”
I said, “I don't want to make anything worse for her. If it will just upset her, we can go. Mostly I wanted to see if she was all right. And if possible, to check on what happened with the kid who attacked her. I was curious to know if she'd seen the school principal before he was murdered.”
“I don't think she knows anything about that,” Ralph said. “But don't leave. Look, I'll go talk to her.”
He left the room. Moments later we heard voices from somewhere deeper in the house.
“I can't. I won't,” were the only words we heard clearly.
Minutes dragged on beyond fifteen. When it got to thirty minutes, I wanted to leave, but felt awkward searching through their house for them.
Five minutes later they both entered the room. We rose as they walked in. She strode toward us purposefully. She said, “I am not going to discuss what happened. He tried to rape me. I don't know if I'm going to press charges. I don't know if I want the humiliation. I've said this much to please Ralph. Now go.”