Just Another Kid (16 page)

I looked into the bag at the extra candy bar. Reaching in, I took it out and handed it to Ladbrooke. “Merry Christmas, Lad.”

She was smiling, her features open and relaxed. She reached forward and accepted the chocolate bar from me. “Thanks. Thank you, Teacher.”

A
fter school that evening, I loaded my car and made the three-hour journey to my family home in a neighboring state. It had been years since I’d been home for Christmas, and this return was a warm, nostalgic experience. The entire season was bitterly cold, so I dug out my old ice skates from the attic and spent large chunks of each day skating on the lagoon near my home, as I had done so often when I was a child. I drove out into the mountains and took long walks through the snowcovered countryside. I enjoyed the company of people I’d been friends with since second and third grade. At home, we ate the same meal, had the same arguments, and were left with the same bloated, sated feeling as every other year; and as always, we all sat around afterward, swearing never to buy/eat/trouble ourselves so much again, knowing full well that in another twelve months, we’d be joyfully ready to do it all over. Thoroughly loving every moment of it, I stayed the entire two weeks of vacation and didn’t return to my apartment until late the day before school reconvened.

And then I was back. Seven-thirty Monday morning I was fiddling with the fat, old-fashioned key in the keyhole of the classroom door. It clicked finally; the lock moved back and I pushed open the door and turned on the lights. The room smelled stale and closed up. The Christmas decorations seemed suddenly very out of place.

I set about opening the windows and watering the plants. I waited with the decorations until after 8:00 so that Lad could help me, but eight came and went and Lad didn’t show up. This surprised me, as she had never been a minute late since she’d started, so I kept checking the clock and listening for the door. But she never came. By the time 8:45 rolled around, the children began to arrive. But no Ladbrooke.

Leslie arrived. She’d been traveling by taxi since her mother had started with me, so that wasn’t much help, but at least I knew the Considynes were not out of town. I pondered going down to the office at recess to ring Ladbrooke but decided against it. My only conclusion was that Lad was ill, so I felt she wouldn’t need me disturbing her.

What surprised me even more than Lad’s absence was how much I missed her. I’d been looking forward to seeing her again after the holidays. So often when I was at home I became aware of storing away thoughts I was intending to share with her when we were back together. Now, suddenly, she wasn’t here. The room seemed very empty without her.

We had the usual traumas involved in getting back to routine after a major disruption. Everyone was unsettled that day. Leslie was vacant. Dirkie hooted. Mariana was full of horror stories about sleeping in the back seat of her mother’s boyfriend’s car during below zero weather, while the adults barhopped. Shamie and Geraldine argued nonstop about the merits and lack thereof of an American Christmas. Shamie loved it here. Geraldine hated it. The only one not to trouble me was Shemona, who was home with the chicken pox.

When Ladbrooke didn’t show up the second day, I grew concerned. After school that day, I rang the Considyne residence. No answer. I rang again that evening after I got home from the spa. Still no answer. I dropped the receiver down noisily, annoyed with their peculiar phone-answering habits.

Wednesday came and still no Ladbrooke. Concern turned to worry at this point. I even went so far as to ask Leslie, a futile exercise, if ever there was one. So, once the school day was finished and all the children had gone home, I packed my things up early and drove to the Considynes’ house. Somebody would have to be there to meet Leslie, and even if it was only Consuela, I reckoned she’d be able to tell me what had happened to Lad.

Consuela was the one who answered the door when I rang the bell. I’d never met her before. She was small, birdlike Mexican woman with a no-nonsense expression.

“I’m Torey Hayden, Leslie’s teacher at school. I’ve come to see Ladbrooke. Is she here?”

“No ma’am. I’m sorry.” And she began to shut the door.

“Wait a minute,” I said, and put my hand on the door. “What about Mr. Considyne? Is he here?”

A long pause followed and it was obvious that one of Conseula’s primary tasks was vetting people. “He’s working in his studio, ma’am.”

“Do you suppose I could have a quick word with him?” I asked, and when it looked unlikely she was going to try to find out, I added, “Just a very quick word?”

Slowly, she nodded. “Wait here.” And she disappeared, shutting the door in my face.

A few minutes later, she reopened the door. “Yes,” she said. “His studio’s the small building at the back of the house. When you get there, just knock on the door.”

Following her directions, I was greeted by a blast of icy air as I cleared the corner of the house. Beyond were three double garages and a large tennis court. Dusk was already closing in, and lights were on in the studio. I knocked loudly on the door.

There was no immediate answer. I had memories of Carolyn’s story of how Rita Ashworth had banged fruitlessly on Tom Considyne’s studio window to get his attention when Leslie had gone into a diabetic coma. That had seemed a bit far-fetched at the time, more like just one of Carolyn’s stories. Now, standing in the freezing twilight, I found it alarmingly real. I knocked again, even louder.

“Just a minute,” he called. So I waited.

The door to the studio opened, spilling bright light out onto me, standing on the step.

“Hi. I’ve come to inquire about Ladbrooke.”

He was wiping his hands on a paint-stained rag. “She’s not here.”

“Yes, I know. Consuela told me. Where is she? She hasn’t been at work these last three days, and I was beginning to get concerned.”

He continued to wipe his hands on the rag, running it over each finger individually. “I don’t know where she is,” he replied, his voice casual.

The warm air of the studio felt marvelous as it rolled over me there in the icy evening gloom. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Like I said, I don’t know where she is.” He finally took his attention from cleaning his hands and looked down at me. “Go ask one of her lovers, if you want to find her.”

That left me pretty speechless.

“Look, she’s not here, okay? She’s not been here for days. I haven’t the faintest idea where she’s at and, frankly, I don’t care. If you want to find her, you’re going to have to look somewhere else.”

What did I say to that? Now what?

My bewilderment appeared to touch Mr. Considyne. He smiled suddenly in a very disarming way and stepped back, extending his arm into the studio. “Come on in. I’m being a terrible host. You must be freezing out there.”

I entered the studio, and he shut the door behind me.

“You want a cup of coffee?” he asked. “Or a drink?” He shrugged slightly. “That’s one of the advantages of having Ladbrooke gone. I can have a guilt-free drink.” He pushed back the cover of an old rolltop desk to reveal a vast assortment of bottles and drink-making equipment. He took out glasses.

“No. No thank you,” I said. “I’d be satisfied with coffee.”

“Oh, come on. Just a wee drink. So I don’t have to drink alone. The coffee’s been in the pot quite a while anyway.”

“No thanks.”

Across the room was the huge canvas he was working on. Beyond it was a wall of small-paned windows. I could just make out through the descending January darkness a lawn receding down to a lake.

“Do you like it?” Considyne asked. He came over to stand next to me.

I regarded the painting. It was enormous in size. Even with his height, he would have needed a stepladder to reach the top part of it. It was done all in grays and muted gray-greens, a slightly abstract picture of distant trees against water. A pale, misty-looking sun, or maybe it was the moon, shone faintly yellow in the gray-green sky.

I nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“That’s a trick question, isn’t it? You can’t very well answer no.”

I grinned. “Probably not. But I do like it. I’ve seen your work before.”

“Well, then that puts you ahead of most of the cretins in this neck of the woods.” He went up to the painting and touched a small part of it with one finger. “You know what they always say about prophets in their own land. I came back here because I love the place. Because I always thought I owed it something. Because, basically, they’ve got no one from here who’s ever done more than shit in a bucket. But I might as well never have bothered. I was much better off in New York.”

Then he turned around and looked at me. He smiled. “But I’ve got a soft spot for lost causes. And underdogs. And failures. As you probably know.”

We both fell silent. I sipped my coffee. He went back to the desk and renewed his drink.

“So,” he said, “You want to know about Ladbrooke.”

“I was concerned because she didn’t show up at school. I was afraid she might be ill, because this didn’t seem like her.”

Tom Considyne guffawed. “Seem like her?”

“She’s been very dependable. She’s never missed a day. She’s never even been late.”

“Now
that’s
not like her.
This
is, Torey.”

I said nothing.

“You don’t believe me, do you? You know how long she’s been gone? Ten days? Eleven days? I’ve lost count.”

“Aren’t you worried?” I asked. I was flabbergasted. This was the kind of story I’d expect from Mariana, not Tom Considyne.

“No, she’ll come back. Like the proverbial bad penny, Ladbrooke always turns up.”

A silence followed, and for a long moment, he studied me. “I think she’s done a sell job on you. She’s been a good girl in there with you, hasn’t she? She’s made you believe her.”

I said nothing.

He continued to study my face. “You’ve got to look at it from my point of view, Torey. You ever lived with an alcoholic? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be around someone who has to get up to puke halfway through your Christmas dinner? Who can’t remember if she sent out the Christmas cards or not? My kids were here for Christmas this year, and Ladbrooke spoiled it for everyone. She ruined it for my kids. Jesus, they won’t even visit me half the time because of Ladbrooke.”

I nodded.

“I remember coming to that conference of yours back, when was it? September? October? Whenever,” he said softly. “I remember running on and on about Leslie, saying how hard it was never having anyone to talk to about her. But I must confess, it’s not Leslie. It’s Ladbrooke. I could manage with Leslie. But who the hell is going to straighten out the mess with Ladbrooke? Who on earth is there to talk to about her?”

He paused. “I keep thinking that I ought to be able to talk
with
Ladbrooke. But I might as well try talking with Leslie. Ladbrooke doesn’t talk. Have you noticed that? She does
not
talk. You need to be telepathic to have a decent conversation with Ladbrooke, and I’m afraid I’m not.”

“Have you considered marriage counseling?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes. “You’ve got all the answers, don’t you? It was AA last time, as I recall. Haven’t you cottoned on by now? If Ladbrooke’s not going to talk to me, she’s sure the hell not going to talk to strangers, is she? Besides, we hardly need marriage counseling. We haven’t got a marriage.”

I stared into my empty coffee cup.

“It’s all such a hell of a mess,” he said wearily. “I never saw it coming. God knows why I didn’t, but I never did. She never could communicate anywhere but in bed. Spread her legs, that’s the only kind of response she’s ever known how to give.”

I hadn’t meant to get into all of this. Glancing around the room, I looked for some way to politely extricate myself.

“She’s a hopeless mother. Hasn’t the slightest clue as to what to do with Leslie. Never has had. Not one whiff of maternal instinct. She was back working at Princeton when Leslie was three weeks old. We got into screaming fights over it. I told her she ought to be home with her baby, that she was doing Leslie irreparable harm, but she wouldn’t listen. Christ, if it hadn’t been for me, sitting there with my Dr. Spock, Leslie never would have known she had parents. Ladbrooke could have listened. Jesus, I’ve been through it all before. I have two kids of my own. But no, not Ladbrooke. She wasn’t going to get into all that touchy-feely business with babies. A bit too human, that. She needed the cold comfort of all her little numbers. And I got Leslie. I keep telling her, if she’d listened to me, if she’d just tried to be a decent mother, Leslie would never have had all these problems.”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid I can’t agree with you. I think most of Leslie’s problems are quite separate. From a professional point of view, I have to say Leslie might well have developed her problems, whatever kind of mothering she had.”

“Yes, but Leslie wouldn’t have been the way she is. She might have had some tiny little problems, but not all of them. Right?”

“I think she still would probably have had some great big problems.”

“But not all of them. Right?”

“I don’t know. That’s all speculation.”

“But you’re a professional. You’ve got to admit that a lot of Leslie’s problems are purely emotional. Right?”

“What I’m saying is that there is no point in continuing to blame Ladbrooke for what happened years ago and is over and done with. She can hardly breast feed Leslie now.”

“But a lot of Leslie’s problems
are
emotional, don’t you agree?”