Driver's Ed (10 page)

Morgan, who considered Not Listening to Sermons one of his more polished skills, listened. Hoping for
clues. Wanting Mrs. Willit to give him—what? An excuse? A way out?

“There's an interesting passage in the New Testament,” said Mrs. Willit. She was given to fatuous remarks. Morgan would never know why Mr. Willit stayed with her. In this era of divorce it often seemed the wrong marriages lasted.

“Jesus hasn't begun his ministry yet. He's still living at home. Hasn't done a thing. Hasn't told a parable, hasn't got a single follower, hasn't pulled off any miracles. He gets baptized in the River Jordan and from the heavens comes the voice of God.”

Morgan detested this kind of story. Nobody heard the voice of God, except schizophrenics in padded rooms.

“And God says,
‘This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.' 
”

Come on, thought Morgan. How pleased can you be with a thirty-year-old son who hasn't held a job yet?

“God is pleased even before His Son has done anything. His Son has no accomplishments, and still, God is pleased.”

Morgan was sitting between his parents. His beautiful mother, wearing her long black cashmere coat, was on his right. His brilliant father, in charcoal gray, perfect tie, perfect crease, was on his left. They were one up on God. Their son and daughter had already been impressive. By age thirty Morgan and Starr would have done a lot more than a little carpentry in some backwater village. Jesus could get away with that, but not Starr and Morgan.

His father spindled the Sunday bulletin and then flattened it out and made a paper airplane. Mom laid a stern hand on the airplane, even though Dad was the
least likely person in the church actually to fly it. They gave each other secret grins. People-in-love-in-spite-of-everything grins.

“Unconditional love. That's what parents give their children,” said Mrs. Willit.

But surely every parent had some conditions. Like: I will love you as long as you're not a murderer.

Whoever took that sign should be shot
.

Oh, Dad! thought Morgan, and he actually splinted himself against the pain in his soul, bending at the waist.

R
emy and Morgan had been in Sunday school together for years. Their Sunday school was deeply into arts and crafts, so they'd turned out cotton-ball Christmas sheep, folded-box Noah's arks, and vividly colored Joseph's coats. Together they had memorized commandments, received attendance ribbons, and sung in Junior Choir.

In eighth grade, just when boys ought to start thinking how much they liked this girl they knew so well, the Campbells had faded, to be seen only on holidays.

This was sensible, because church was best on holidays. At Christmas you were starry eyed and believed in babies without birth defects, presents with perfect ribbons, and snow without pollution. Remy approved of the Campbells coming only on holidays.

But here they were on a dull ordinary November Sunday, not even Thanksgiving.

Morgan told, she thought. He told, and they're here to ask God's help. Tell Mrs. Willit, because she's the minister. Then she'll tell Mr. Willit, who thinks I'm nice, and in a minute the world will know.

Suddenly Concert Choir seemed like the most important forty-five minutes of any day, with Mr. Willit laughing and teasing and leading and loving. He would never look her way again; he would write her off, one of the dirtbags. Because nobody played favorites as much as Mr. Willit, not even the basketball coach.
I don't want him to know
, she prayed.

Dad was laughing in Mr. Campbell's direction. “Guess he's running,” said Remy's father under his breath.

“Those are definitely campaign-speech clothes,” agreed Remy's mother.

Morgan didn't tell, thought Remy. It's just a campaign thing.

Relief went through her like thick medicine.

C
offee hour actually lasted twenty minutes. Kids loved it. There was always an immense sheet cake with thick Crisco and confectioners' sugar icing, plus hundreds of doughnut holes and cups of apple juice.

Morgan loved icing. It was kind of nice to be back at coffee hour, where he hadn't wasted time in years. He cut himself a corner, swept off the icing with two fingers, and tossed the cake part away. He started to eat the icing and smashed car filled his mouth instead, destroyed flesh, broken bones, spilled brains.

With difficulty he reached a pile of napkins. He could not separate them.

Rafe and Nance were shaking hands all over the place, laughing, nodding, agreeing, admitting. “Yes, he's going to run,” said Morgan's mother. “Isn't it exciting? The actual announcement won't come until spring. I know we can count on you to work with us.” She made
the campaign sound like a year-long party. People adored Nance, even when she whipped out her ever-present notebook to take names.

Morgan managed to get the icing off his fingers. He was an exhibit of sickness: his complexion had changed, his breathing was different, his eyelid was trembling.

One of the feminists of the church descended on Nance to demand why Nance wasn't running instead of her husband.

Morgan meant to listen for the answer, because he had often wondered himself, but Mac came up, smirking as if he and Morgan shared a secret.

There was only one secret.

He knows
, thought Morgan. Remy told him. Or Mac found her Morgan Road sign. And made her tell.
This worthless little cowpat knows what we did
.

What would happen? What would his father do to him? What would the law do to him? What about college?

Remy, pink-cheeked and golden-haired, was wearing a dress, which was unusual for her even on Sunday. It was a lovely loose dress, in soft colors with soft folds. If they went on a date, he would want her to wear that, not utility wear, like jeans.

He was swamped by romantic thoughts, images that had never before entered his mind: getting her flowers, buying her presents. “Hi, Remy,” he said awkwardly. “How are you?”

Her paper cake-plate fluttered in her hand. He wanted to help her eat the cake, hold the plate for her, smooth life for her.

Oh, yeah, like I could smooth anybody's life, he thought. Look how well I did smoothing Denise Thompson's life.

“Guess what?” said worthless little Mac, grinning evilly at Morgan.

Morgan tried to stay steady. It came to him that he, Morgan, was the worthless one now. Nobody but Mac knew yet.
Oh, God
. I have to tell my parents before Mac does. We have to get out of here, so I can—

“You'll be glad to know my mother has prequalified you for marriage,” said Mac.

“Huh?”

“Remy has a crush on you,” said Mac. “So does my Mom.” Mac whapped his sister's wrist so her cake flew off the plate and icing spattered all over the floor.

“Lick it up,” Morgan told him.

Mac immediately fell to his knees and began licking the sugary linoleum.

Remy said, “I of course will adopt rather than have children of my own. No need to touch the Marland family genes.”

She doesn't know, he thought. If she knew, she couldn't joke. So what do I do? Tell her myself? Hope it all goes away?

He wondered if that was actually a possibility. That it could all go away.

“What are you two so intent on?” demanded Starr, wedging in.

Like he was going to tell Starr anything. “The pageant,” said Morgan. He hurried to dig up Mrs. Willit.

What's the matter with me? he thought. Death doesn't all go away. I might not get caught with the stop sign, but Denise Thompson will always be caught dead.

People said Nickie Budie was pond scum. Nobody had ever said it of Morgan Campbell. But it was true now. Morgan had just turned into the definition of
scum: one who forgot the dead woman and thought only of getting away with it.

In what sounded like a perfectly normal voice, he informed Mrs. Willit that he wanted to run the pageant this year.

Mrs. Willit was overly thrilled. “Ooooh, it's so difficult to find people to do that,” she cried. “The pageant is such a nuisance really. I'd skip it, but people don't think it's Christmas without a pageant. Nance, you have such fine children. I mean, really. What a splendid dear dear boy.” Mrs. Willit hugged him. Morgan remained calm, only because he could see his father being hugged by someone equally unfortunate, and handling it fine.

“I get to be a king,” said Starr, shoving up against her brother.

Everybody laughed. People patted Starr's hair, as if she were a sweet little thing, instead of the meanest kid in junior high.

I'm a splendid dear dear boy, Morgan told himself. Even if it came from Mrs. Willit, it's true. I'm a nice person.
I have not killed anybody
. It was just a sign.

Monday came, as Mondays do. Relentlessly.

It was a beautiful morning, surprisingly warm for so late in the fall. A morning on which nobody could be dead. But Denise Thompson was.

Remy had looked in the newspaper, unusual for her, and read the obituary. The funeral had been Sunday afternoon. Denise Thompson was underground.

“Come on,” said Mom. “I can
not
be late for work. Move it.”

Remy strapped the baby into his car seat. He was still eating his toast, which occupied him too much to fight the seat belt. Henry's kiss smeared her cheek with butter and jam and for some reason she didn't want to wipe it off; she wanted to take it to school with her, a shiny little mark of love.

Mom backed fast out of the drive. Remy couldn't begin to back up that smoothly. She glanced for traffic, training herself, and saw that every single mailbox on their road had been smashed.

“The third time in two weeks!” yelled Mac. When Mom stopped at the bottom of the drive, he opened his door, as if to vault out and find a clue at the base of
the splintered post. “I'm gonna sue 'em! Why, those little—”

Mom cut off Mac's favorite noun. “Don't say it. Just get back in the car, Mac. Once Remy gets her license, you'll have another forty-five minutes every morning, but not today.”

I don't want a license now. I don't want to drive. Once it was funny, going over a cement divider. No big deal, we said. Nobody died.
But somebody died
.

Mac went on and on about the mailboxes. “I have to dig out the stupid hole! Buy another post! Sink it in cement!” He'd have played mailbox baseball, too, if he'd had friends with cars. But since it was his job to replace the box, the hobby was less attractive.

How could she fake it through Driver's Ed? Morgan had trembled in church, as if she were a threat. She had babbled her way through coffee hour. Could she babble her way through school? Should she pretend to be sick and stay home?

But skipping school would be an admission.

I have to act normal. I can't let them pick up on anything. It has to stay a secret. I cannot let anybody think I'm the kind of person who does things like that
.

“Forty-three,” said Mom grimly.

“Forty-three what?” said Mac.

“Mailboxes. I could sit up with a shotgun and nail those worthless little delinquents.”

Even Mac took a second look at their mother. Mom actually sounded as if she would empty a shotgun into teenagers playing mailbox baseball. Remy had the nightmarish sense of somebody pouring water down her throat without letting her swallow; filling her up; drowning her. If Mom hated somebody who hit pieces
of metal that much, how much would she hate somebody who …

Remy grabbed her own hair. Literally holding herself together.

Forget Mr. Willit. It's Mom who can't know! Mom would kill me. Or herself.

The baby blew bubbles. This was his great artistic achievement—covering his tiny chin with saliva, giggling softly while the bubbles slid down and kept his chest wet all day. He admired the way his sister held her hand on her head, and he worked at putting his hand on his head. He accomplished it and beamed at Remy.

“Listen to the rumors in school, Mac,” said Mom. “Find out who it is. I'm going to get hold of their parents. I just know they come from the kind of family where the mother and father don't even care what their children are doing.”

“Wait a minute,” protested Mac. “What rumors am I going to hear? Eighth graders don't drive. Remy's grade plays mailbox baseball. Remy'll hear the rumors.”

“Your sister does not hang out with the sort of creep who would do that,” said their mother, as if she had the slightest idea who was around Remy all day.

Mac opened his mouth to point this out, but they had arrived at the day care, and it was his job to take the baby in. Mac undid the seat belt and harness, kissing the only person to whom he showed affection. “Come along, Matthew, my man,” he said. He lifted his little brother very carefully because diapers often slipped and Mac didn't want to go to school with wet hands.

Henry wrapped loving arms around Mac's neck, reached under his brother's unzipped jacket, and tried
to take the Bic pens out of Mac's shirt pocket. Once this kid got his fingers wrapped around an object, you had to saw it free. Mac twisted hard to keep the pens safe.

“Bye, Sweet Prince,” said Remy.

“Bye-bye, darling,” said Mom to her baby. She kissed his little cheek when Mac held him down to her face, and murmured softly.

“What kind of person will he grow up to be with you two calling him Jesus or Sweet Prince?” shouted Mac. “Try to imagine junior high, will you?”

Remy would never willingly imagine junior high.

There was only one good thing about junior high: eventually it was replaced by senior high.

She prayed to the God of High Schools that he would turn her invisible for the day. Let nobody look at her, let no teacher call upon her.

Sometimes when she asked for things like this, she could feel warmth, as if her current god was listening, at least. Today there was nothing.