Authors: Antoinette Stockenberg
"
Mom. Stop.
"
The expression on the girl
'
s face was wise and tender and weary all at once. She knew, and her mother knew, that the one madman who mattered most had rolled his car in a fiery, fatal end to a spectacular police chase on Route
95
.
He was out of t
he picture, out of their lives.
But that didn
'
t mean there weren
'
t other madmen out there.
"
Hey,
"
Becky said, more cheerfully.
"
I almost forgot. This is for Russ.
"
She reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a Pearl Jam baseball cap.
"
It
'
s wool. Ninety-
nine cents. Can you believe it?
"
She tossed the cap down to her mother with a last, quick smile and beat a retreat to her bedroom at the end of the wallpapered hall.
Helen sat the cap on the newel post and sighed. Becky was rolling through the tough teen years so painlessly that she
'
d almost managed to convince her mother that fathers weren
'
t all that critical. It was Russ who was the reality check: The boy was angry, moody; sloughing off responsibility right and left.
"
Pretty typical,
"
Helen
'
s friends all said.
But no one else could pin down, to the day, exactly when her son had begun the transformation from nice kid to beast in the jungle. Helen could. On the evening of his father
'
s funeral, Russell Evett had withdrawn into his room, and when he came out three days later he wasn
'
t Russell Evett anymore. It was as plain as that.
Helen was roused from yet another replay of that time by the piercing ring of the hall phone. The voice that answered hers was fearful and tentative and had the effect of jangling her nerves still more.
"
Mrs. Eve
tt
? You don
'
t know me—I
'
m sorry to call you at home—but I have an important request, more like a favor—no, wait, let me start over. I got your name from a friend who has a little girl
in your preschool, Candy Greene. T
hat
'
s the mother
'
s name, not the little girl
'
s
. The
girl is called Astra? You remember? A little blond girl, very fluent?
"
"
She
'
s not in my Tuesday-Thursday class, but may I ask who this is?
"
said Helen, impatient with the meandering voice at the other end of the line. What if Russ were trying to call?
The woman sucked in her breath in a broken gasp.
"
Oh! I
'
m sorry
...
it
'
s this vicious headache.
"
She took a deep breath, obviously trying to organize herself.
"
My name
...
is Linda Byrne,
"
she said with new deliberation.
"
I
'
ve heard such good things about your school, and I want my daughter to go there. She
'
s
so
bright. She gets along well with children and she
'
s pretty good about sharing and taking directions. She doesn
'
t bite.
"
Hurried and edgy despite herself, she added,
"
Is there anything else you need to know?
"
"
Well, yes,
"
said Helen, surprised by the woman
'
s naiveté.
"
We like to sit down with the parents and the child—
"
"
Oh, but my husband couldn
'
t possibly be available for that!
"
the woman said at once.
"
He
'
s so busy!
"
"
One parent would be fine. I
'
ll tell you what, Mrs. Byrne. Why don
'
t you come visit the school tomorrow at about five o
'
clock with your little girl, and we—
"
"
But I can
'
t. Don
'
t you see? That
'
s why I
'
m calling. From my bed. That
'
s the favor I
'
m asking. Couldn
'
t you possibly come here instead?
"
Her voice betrayed rising panic. Helen, wishing to reassure her but mostly in a hurry to get off the phone, said,
"
There
'
s no urgency, Mrs. Byrne. If you
'
re not feeling well, we can certainly meet on another day. Registration has only just opened for the next term. You have plenty of time—
"
"
I don
'
t! Candy said you fill up overnight!
"
Helen laughed reassuringly and said,
"
Mrs. Greene was exaggerating. Really. Why don
'
t we agree on a day next week—
"
"
Please ...
next week won
'
t be any better,
"
the woman said, suddenly weary.
"
I
'
ve been so ... I have to nail this down ...
this one thing, at least. I can
'
t go on like this
... drifting
...
please, won
'
t you come? We live on Chestnut Street, not all that far from your school. It wouldn
'
t take long
...
really
...
I don
'
t see why you can
'
t
...
.
"
she argued, practically in tears.
If Linda Byrne was trying to make a good impression, she wasn
'
t succeeding. She had a top-drawer address, but she sounded like the kind of spoiled, idle woman who
routinely
takes to her bed when things don
'
t go her way.
On the other hand, something in her tone sent a shiver of sympathy through Helen. Whatever the reason for her headache, it was obvious that Linda Byrne was in real agony. No one could fake that kind of pain in her voice, not even a prima donna.
"
All right. I can make time tomorrow evening. Shall I come by before dinner? Say, five o
'
clock?
"
"
Oh, yes, thank you,
"
Mrs. Byrne said, her voice becoming suddenly faint.
"
Peaches will be so pleased.
"
She gave the number of her house and hung up, leaving Helen somewhat bemused over the whole thing.
Peaches.
In Helen
'
s mind the name conjured up everything from a bunny rabbit to a
st
ri
ptease
. She
'
d never taught a toddler by that name, not once in the fifteen years she
'
d been in day care. From the cozy groups of six she
'
d cared for in her home to the larger classes who
'
d passed through the preschool she later founded, Helen had never come across a single, solitary Peaches.
In any case, Helen
'
s plan was to present herself to little Peaches and—with any luck—to talk Linda Byrne into visiting the preschool before she signed up her child.
Helen was immensely proud of The Open Door, proud of the way she
'
d risked a modest inheritance on an old building in need of rehab and, with tax credits and a lot of sweat equity—hers and Hank
'
s—turned it into a stimulating center for creative kids. She didn
'
t need to chase down
Linda Byrne
'
s business; the class would be full by May first, tops.
She didn
'
t
need
Linda Byrne
'
s business. But oddly enough, she seemed to want it.
****
Helen was debating whether to throw one last log on the fire or call in the militia when she heard the front door being slammed.
"
Russell
Evett
, get in here!
"
she yelled.
"
Now.
"
After what Helen knew was a deliberate delay, she heard Russ shuffle into the sitting room. She herself was smacking the last of the fire into helpless embers with the poker, trying to get her relief and anger under control. When she was done, she turned to confront her son.
The boy-man who faced her looked like any other fourteen-year-old: baggy clothes, scary haircut, a zit or two on his chin to be followed someday soon by stubble. He was tall, as tall as she was, and growing weed-fast. He
'
d got an ear double-pierced recently without her permission. She knew he always took out the earrings or safety pins or whatever they were before he walked through the door, and tonight was no exception.
She searched for signs of remorse or hints of fear in his face; it had been so long since she
'
d seen either. He
'
d inherited Hank
'
s green eyes and her black hair, a pleasing combination. But somehow, neither Hank
'
s self-discipline nor her hypersensitivity had got passed on.
I
f Russ had either, he wouldn
'
t be standing on the carpet in front of her right now.
"
The mall
'
s been closed for an hour and a half,
"
she said quietly.
"
Where have you been?
"
Russell shrugged and looked away.
"
Hangin
'
.
"
"
Well, I don
'
t want you ‘hangin
'
,
'
young man. When we agree on a plan, I expect you to follow your end of it.
"
He shrugged.
"
Mrs. Fitch couldn
'
t come.
"
"
Your sister was there.
"
"
That wasn
'
t the plan either, Ma.
"
"
Well, she was the obvious alternative.
"
"
Becky said it was okay,
"
he threw out sullenly.
"
Becky is not your mother. You know the rule: no cars. You had plenty of time to reconsider.
"
"
How was I even supposed to find her?
"
"
Filene
'
s Basement is some big secret? Listen to me: I don
'
t want you driving around with kids older than you. Not without my permission, and don
'
t hold your breath for
that.
Do you understand?
"
His answer was a defiant look of boredom.
"
That
'
s it!
"
Helen snapped.
"
You
'
re grounded for the weekend.
"
The boredom turned to instant indignation.
"
Grounded! Why?
I
didn
'
t blow a gasket!
"
Helen wasn
'
t sure whose gasket he was talking about, and in any case she didn
'
t want the bickering to drag on any further, so she said,
"
Good night, Russell,
"
in the calmest possible voice and left him to stew in his own teenage hormones.