Driver's Ed (20 page)

That was pretty clear.

T
he first thing Remy thought when she was able to think was
Mr. Thompson is so young
. He looks as if he could be in high school with us.

And the little boy!

How much bigger and sturdier the Thompson child was than Remy's brother. A year made an enormous difference. Henry was a big baby; Bobby Thompson was a little kid.

Bobby was happy to see visitors. “Hi,” said Bobby cheerfully. Unlike Henry, whose smile was still partly gums, Bobby had teeth. He waved, although Remy, Morgan, and Mr. Campbell were only a few feet away. “Merry Christmas,” added Bobby. In the voice of one giving away a splendid secret, he whispered, “We have stockings.”

The Thompsons' tree was short and stocky, ornaments on the bottom branches, eye level for a toddler. There was a fireplace, and two stockings hung from the mantel.

Not three.

*  *  *

M
r. Thompson was the kind of thin that comes from hyperactivity. Fourth-grade-boy thin. Even his hair was thin. Even his speech. “I've thought of every possible punishment for you two,” he said. His thready voice broke and then knit itself back. “I've thought of killing you. I went through a stage of wanting to buy a gun.”

I don't want to be here, thought Remy. I don't want to carry any more demons.

“I've thought of prison,” said Mr. Thompson. “Prison and walls and cells and bars. You surrounded for twenty years by terrible people who would hurt you.”

Mr. Thompson didn't want to look at them any more than they wanted to look at him. The living room received careful scrutiny.

The Thompsons had been too new to housekeeping to have nice furniture. Mismatched cast-offs cluttered the room. Only the windows were newly dressed. Perky starched ivory curtains with cobalt blue bows and a single coordinated lampshade. Cobalt blue and ivory. The color scheme Denise Thompson had been aiming for. But she'd run out of time.

Mr. Thompson's laugh looped around like a strand of yanked-out cassette tape. “I've had crazy ideas too. Like tattooing her name on your arm, so you'd always have to carry Denise with you.”

Remy tightened herself against this. It was only a sign. She was not going to carry as much guilt as they wanted her to. He's not tattooing Denise Thompson's name on my arm, thought Remy, and not on my mind or my heart either.

She stole a glance at Morgan, and saw that he, at least, was going to ruin his entire life over a sign. He
looked as if Mr. Thompson had already begun stabbing him with needles.

If Morgan still likes me, she thought, which—how could he? But if he still does, I can't let him know what kind of person I really am. Because Morgan is a truly better person. I think he's a Mr. Willit. And I'm a Nickie Budie. Myself first.

A
ll his life Morgan had been taught to say he was sorry.

Sorry for breaking the dish. Sorry for yelling at his sister. Sorry for not mowing the lawn. Sorry for flunking a quiz.

Morgan said, although it was useless, and maybe even insulting, “I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson. I'm sorry she's dead and I'm sorry I can't undo it.”

Mr. Thompson grew more taut, and closer to snapping. “I've talked to lawyers. When I realized the police could only charge you with stealing a sign, nothing but a little fine, I thought of bringing a civil suit instead of criminal. I'd lose, but I could muddy your name. At least make it hard for you to go to college in this state. But the lawyers said …”

Morgan Campbell was chilled. He did not look left or right; he certainly did not look at his father.

What lawyer had Mr. Thompson spoken to?

The same lawyer Morgan had brought along?

A lawyer with lots and lots of money? A lawyer with lots and lots of experience at changing people's minds?

His father had been here twice, setting this meeting up. The Campbells had money. Clearly the Thompsons did not. Would Dad offer money? Would Mr. Thompson take it? Would a man who had offered a reward on
television turn around and accept a reward himself for backing off?

“Tell me what happened,” said Mr. Thompson.

Remy appeared to have gone into a coma. Morgan had to do it all. “People were talking about signs,” he said carefully. He could not get other kids into trouble with him. That was chicken. It was okay to play chicken, but never okay to be chicken. “Like, a kid who rides his bike wanted
BIKE PATH
and one of the city kids wanted a country sign,
THICKLY SETTLED
. It sounded like fun, it didn't sound like a bad thing, and so one night … Remy and I went out.”

Last night and again this afternoon his father had said, “Morgan, if you've ever listened to me, listen to me now. Tell. The. Truth.”

But the truth was, they'd had too much fun to think. Could anybody want to hear that his wife's death was part of a fun time?

“We were having a wonderful time,” he said, obeying his lawyer father, and telling the absolute truth. “The first sign we took was
THICKLY SETTLED
. There was something scary and exciting and even sexy about taking it. Running the risk of getting caught. And the second sign was just a road sign, my name, it was Morgan Road. Remy and I … um … weren't dating, but we were … thinking about it, I guess.”

I'm trying to get his sympathy, thought Morgan. Re-create the night so he'll say, Oh well, young love—foolish pranks—not to worry.

“And the road sign was”—he had trouble with this word, but plunged on—“romantic.” His throat was dry enough, he was afraid of coughing, and that would be cheating.

“We were flirting,” said Remy. He was desperately thankful that she stepped in. “We were in the front seat and giggling and we had our first kiss and even though the word
stealing
went through my mind once, it didn't go through twice, because … it was a really neat night.”

Remy's doing it too. Building a case that we're really great kids. The stop sign was just a minor slip, let's shrug, okay, because we have our lives ahead of us, and it's too bad that Denise doesn't, but these things happen. No fair pulling any of this burning for burning, stripe for stripe, life for life stuff.

Yet he almost wanted to burn.

“I wanted the Morgan Road sign,” said Remy, “because I had a crush on Morgan. Then I thought maybe we'd get ice cream. But somehow we ended up at the corner of Cherry and Warren, and somehow—we took the stop sign.” Remy's voice broke and her tears began. Definitely cheating. Begging with weakness. “We didn't mean to hurt anybody. We didn't think taking the sign was … well … we didn't think.”

There. That was it, really. They, honor students, chorus members, churchgoers, didn't think. What made you stop and think, then, if that didn't?

Mr. Thompson's voice was cold as death. “The only reason you kids are here is to put it behind you.”

The raging frustration from his television ads came back. He was on his feet, he was glaring into their faces, clenching his fists.

“Do you think I haven't tried to get that night back too?” he shouted. “Do you think I haven't shouted into the void,
Denise! Look twice! Put on the brakes! Go the other way home!
” Mr. Thompson's face was so close to
Morgan's that Morgan breathed in the air Mr. Thompson exhaled.

“You're going to get away with it! Because anything I could do to you I'd go to prison for. And Bobby needs me. So I can't shoot you. I can't stage car accidents for you.” He brought his fist down on the arm of his chair, but it was upholstered, and there was no noise, no impact, no result. “Why didn't you tell when you saw the newscast?”

Remy wiped her weeping eyes with both hands. “I was afraid. I'm still afraid. I know that your wife was the most afraid of all, because she's the one who died, and it must have been so scary and painful for her, and I'm sorry.”

B
aby Henry picked up any emotion in any person at any time, and generally made the Marlands miserable reflecting them back. Bobby, on the other hand, seemed completely insensitive to what was going on. He started a tape in his Fisher-Price cassette player. A husky, recognizable voice sang, “Silly, willy, nilly, old, stuffed with fluff …” while Bobby danced and sang along as tonelessly and happily as Winnie the Pooh himself. “… Silly, willy, nilly old bear.”

Little kids always took to Remy. In spite of the emotion in the room, and three strangers, Bobby got comfortable, and climbed in Remy's lap, wanting to see the funny little silver charms that swung from her necklace.

Remy hugged him, because she could never help hugging little kids. Even when Henry was his most infuriating and wet and sticky, she adored him. And Bobby was so cute.

With clumsy fingers—but so much more adept than
Henry's—Bobby separated the charms and stared wonderingly at each. “A chair!” he said excitedly.

“Three chairs,” said Remy, touching each tiny silver seat. “And in between the chairs are music notes. Eighth notes. It's a musical chairs necklace.”

Mr. Thompson began to cry. “Denise loved stuff like that.” His tears were for a woman he had loved. Remy's tears were for herself. “Bobby's forgetting her. It's so quick. He's perfectly happy with his baby-sitter and his grandmother. In a few months he won't have a single memory of her, and when he's a teenager she'll be nothing but a photograph on the wall.”

Mr. Thompson's tears stopped but didn't dry; they lay on his cheeks like tiny creek beds.

Remy took the necklace off to let Bobby play with it. He set it on the coffee table to see if the charm chairs would stand, and they did. He crowed happily.

“I want you to pay,” said Mr. Thompson drearily. “But what's going to happen is, you will forget. You have to forget, in order to survive. Bobby will forget. My sister thinks I'll remarry. And Denise will evaporate.”

Bobby climbed onto his lap so daddy would admire the neat necklace. Mr. Thompson brushed his son's hand away. “This is a two-holiday murder,” he said. “A Thanksgiving and a Christmas death. Every Thanksgiving dinner and every Christmas morning as long you live, I want you to remember Denise. Who doesn't have holidays now. I want your Christmases ruined.”

Mr. Thompson peeled the necklace out of Bobby's fingers, and Bobby wailed and fought for it.

“He can keep it,” said Remy quickly.

Mr. Thompson looked at her incredulously. “I think we have enough souvenirs of what you did to us.”

*  *  *

O
utside the rain was still falling.

The same monotonous heavy rate as before.

Puddles filled low spots in the yard.

Mr. Campbell got in the driver's seat and turned on the engine and the wipers. The wipers clicked arhythmically, the left one earlier than the right.

In the comfortable warm backseat of the BMW, Morgan took Remy's hand. “Dad?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Can you still run for office?”

“Yes,” said his father. Without excitement. Without enthusiasm. His fuel, like Mr. Thompson's, was used up. Nobody got into office without tremendous energy. If Morgan had consumed his father's energy, the campaign was doomed.

“This isn't a skeleton in your closet?” Morgan asked.

“No, it isn't, Morgan,” said his father quietly. “It's a skeleton in
your
closet.”

Remy rested her fingertips on the chair seats of her necklace, as Bobby had. I'll always wear it. It'll be Denise Thompson for me. She'll be my musical chairs. Maybe she'll make me a better person. Or at least a thinking person.

What a simpleminded idea. Jewelry improves the soul. Right.

Remy yearned to be in her own bedroom, door tightly closed. Flat on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, letting the nightmare drip out of her, like a reverse intravenous.

Her mother obstructed the path to the stairs. Her mother seemed immense, impassable, like a falling-rock zone in the mountains. My mother doesn't like me, thought Remy. It was worse than knowing that Denise Thompson was dead.

Remy clung to the necklace. What if life itself was musical chairs? Nothing but chance?

Mom demanded that Remy repeat every word of the visit to Mr. Thompson.

Mac listened silently. Dad stayed in the TV room with the baby. Remy had hardly seen her father since
the night she'd told her parents. Mom was taking her solace in screaming at Remy. Dad was burying himself in television.

“Do you need me to help with dinner,” said Remy carefully, “or may I go to my room?”

“And what do you plan to do in your room? Decide which wall to decorate with stop signs?”

Remy no longer had any temper. There was no anger in her, no rebellion, no lashing back. She wondered if this would last the rest of her life, or if she would recur, like a cosmic event, and explode. “I need to empty my mind.”

“Empty your mind?” repeated Remy's mother. “Excuse me, Remy.” Her mother said that a lot now.

Oh, Mom, please excuse me, thought Remy.

She wanted to shake her mother, demand love, demand to be excused.

But then where would the punishment be?

“T
he drivers today,” said Mr. Fielding, “will be Remy and Morgan.”

His voice was hard. He had named one too few student drivers.

“Woooo-ee!” said Lark. “And what did you two get up to in the backseat?”

The class laughed and made backseat sex jokes.

Mr. Fielding gestured for Remy and Morgan to go first, making it the only time that his students had walked ahead of him to the car.

Our execution, thought Remy. He's going to take us to the stop sign and get rid of us.

The strange lack of anger that had possessed her for so many days was still there. She cooperated fully. It was as if she yearned for punishment. Did little mice
and rabbits yearn for the owl to swoop down? Surely all creatures fought to live, not to surrender.