Once More With Feeling (24 page)

"Are you sure this is the place, ma'am?"
Billy himself was driving Gypsy home after her first day at work,
and she had demanded a detour to the Bronx. They were alone. Perry
had taken a cab back to her own apartment.

Sometime during the afternoon the limo had
been replaced by a dark blue straight-from-Detroit sedan. Tito
gave, and Tito snatched away. Now that Gypsy was back at work, Tito
clearly didn't want her to have an overblown estimate of her own
worth. And besides, for security purposes the sedan was far less
conspicuous.

"This is the place." Gypsy stared at the
building where Grant taught English. Norman Carroll High School had
been built near the turn of the century by immigrants and second
generation Americans who had dreamed of the things their children
would accomplish after graduation. Stone turrets framed the doorway
and wide windows looked over the busy street. Once there had been
trees and a signboard proudly announcing the accomplishments of
each senior class. Now there was only concrete and an eight foot
chain-link fence. For the past decade senior accomplishments had
vied with spray-painted graffiti, and last year, the graffiti had
won. The sign was no more.

Elisabeth had been dismayed that Grant would
choose an environment like this to display his teaching talents.
She was a liberal in the best sense of the word, but she was also a
parent. There had been shootings in these halls, and one teacher
who had tried to interfere in a fight between two rival gangs was
buried not far away. She had wanted her son to stay safe. Owen had
accused her of wanting him to stay a little boy forever. It had
been one of the rare times that Owen had ever criticized her
parenting.

Grant lived on the next block in a building
forty years older than the school and forty years more dilapidated.
Many of his students lived nearby, and Grant wanted to be
accessible to them after school hours. His door was always open, so
open, in fact, that he'd been robbed twice, once while he was in
his bedroom changing clothes.

It wasn't unusual to visit Grant and find a
teenage boy sleeping on his couch. He farmed out the girls who came
looking for a place to stay, but it was Grant who went back home
with all of them when the worst had blown over, to help them work
things out with their parents or foster parents or grandparents. It
had dismayed Elisabeth to discover how many of Grant's students
lived one step from the streets, and how many of them saw Grant and
the other teachers at the school as the only caring adults in their
short, sad lives.

School, which had just started again after
the summer break, had been out for an hour, but Gypsy knew that
Grant would still be in the building. He worked with the literary
magazine staff and coached the wrestling team. Often he wasn't
finished until the janitor threatened to lock him in the building
or the security guards threatened to escort him personally to the
front door.

"You're sure you want to go in?" Billy
asked.

"I'm sure."

"You know I'll have to come with you."

"Just don't hover."

"Please don't try to escape again.
Okay?"

"Nobody knows about that but you and me and
the guy on duty at the hospital." She dimpled. "And that's the way
we'll keep it if you promise not to get too conscientious."

"Try to see this my way, ma'am. I'm being
paid to keep you safe."

"Try to see this my way. There's no good
evidence anyone's trying to get me. And I have to have some space
to do my job." She opened her door and stepped on to the sidewalk.
"Follow if you have to, but just stay at a distance. Okay?"

He shook his head, but he got out and leaned
against his door until she was halfway up the wide stone steps.

She knew exactly where to go and what to do,
but since Gypsy Dugan was a stranger here, she wandered a little.
She was wearing sunglasses, but she wasn't counting on them for
anonymity. She was hoping that no one would notice her simply
because no one expected her to be there.

She had rehearsed exactly what she would say
if she actually confronted Grant, but her real purpose in coming to
the school was to watch him from afar. Motherhood was a steel bond.
Her maternal instincts had been transplanted in her new body right
along with everything else.

She had hoped a wrestling match might be in
progress, that she could stand on the sidelines and watch Grant
with his team. He was average height and weight, but he had
wrestled all through high school and college, the quintessential
team player who was never star material but who kept spirits high
through good times and bad. His fondest wish was to pass on his
love of sportsmanship to his students.

It was obviously too early in the school
year for activities. The gym was empty, locked securely against
after-hours basketball games. She wandered down the wing where she
knew the literary magazine staff gathered, but there, too, she drew
a blank. A security guard stopped her, and as she flashed her press
badge she told him she was a reporter preparing a piece on
secondary education. Several teachers and students passed her in
the hallway and didn't even look at her.

Then she saw Grant.

He was standing outside the office, talking
to another teacher, a bleary-eyed young woman who looked as if the
demands of the day had nearly finished her. Grant wore a blue
Oxford cloth shirt and a three-dimensional geometric print tie that
his father would covet. His khaki trousers needed ironing and his
hair needed cutting, but he was Grant, in the flesh, and he looked
wonderful.

It was time to turn and walk away. She had
prepared what to say if she was caught and had to explain herself,
but her story was far from believable. She made herself turn and
start back the way she had come. She heard footsteps following her,
and she slowed, so that if someone was trying to overtake her, she
wouldn't look as if she was running away.

"Excuse me."

There was no doubt who was speaking. She
stopped, turned, and she was face-to-face with her son.

"You're Gypsy Dugan, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I thought so." He gave the same smile that
had captivated her the first time she met his father. Her heart
turned over, and she wanted to cry. For a moment she missed Owen so
much that his absence was a black hole in her life, sucking up
everything else in its orbit.

"I suppose you've seen me on television,"
she said. She couldn't dimple on cue, no matter how much she knew
it was called for.

"Once or twice. I . . ." He shrugged. "You
don't know who I am, do you?"

"Should I?"

"My name's Grant Whitfield."

She acted as if the name meant nothing. "Are
you a teacher here, Grant?"

"Yes."

She had always been able to read his
expression. Now she watched him struggle to decide whether he
should reveal their peculiar connection. She saved him the
decision. "Whitfield? Not . . . Are you related to . . ?"

He nodded. "She's my mother."

"I see." She did, of course, and he didn't
and never would. She put her hand on his arm and lied. "I'm so
sorry. I had no idea that Mrs. Whitfield had a son who worked here.
. . ."

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

She gave the explanation she had rehearsed.
"I'm interested in doing a piece on schools in the city. I've
chosen half a dozen at random to investigate. I thought we might
come in and follow students around for a day, or maybe even longer.
See what they have to put up with. I'm just doing a little advance
scouting before I approach anyone."

The explanation sounded even lamer than she
had expected it to.
The Whole Truth
didn't concern itself
with anything as socially responsible as what she pretended to
propose. Had there been an ax murderer custodian or a principal who
exposed himself during school assemblies, then her colleagues might
have been first in line at the door. But reporting on kids
imperiled by the rigors of urban America was too close to real
life. It was neither horror nor fairy tale, and most of the stories
the show took on were one or both.

"It seems like a good idea," Grant said.
"But not particularly your style."

"I guess we can say my style's changed
considerably since the accident." That was certainly true.

"What have you seen so far?"

"Just the basics. I've wandered the halls.
That's all."

"Would you like a tour?"

She'd had one as Grant's mother, of course.
A reticent Grant had walked her through every classroom. She had
tried to manufacture enthusiasm as she counted smoke alarms and
metal detectors. Now she regretted she hadn't let him know how
desperately proud she was of him for never taking the easy way out,
for championing kids with no champions, and for caring so much.

"I'd like that." She wanted to spend the
next minutes beside him. She didn't know how long it would be
before she could see him again.

They talked about his job as he led her into
classrooms. He showed her the former band room that was used as an
in-school suspension center because so few of the students could
afford to rent or buy musical instruments, the metal and
woodworking shop that no longer was in use because liability
insurance was too costly, the art studio where a large metal bucket
sat under a broken skylight to catch leaks.

"You know, everyone tries," Grant said. He
pointed to the new paint on the studio walls. "We painted this room
ourselves. The kids did most of the work. It took half a day, and
they did a great job. Some of the teachers and the parents came in
and made lunch for them. It was a real community affair. Then
someone got up on the roof a couple of weeks later. We don't know
how or why. They threw a brick through the skylight. The school's
trying to find the money to replace it. But I don't think they'll
find it this year."

"One step forward, two steps backward."

"No, we're keeping pace. But barely. Drugs
and the economy hit this neighborhood hard. The parents who work
are working more than one job just to put food on the table. The
parents who don't work are too strung out to remember they have
kids. Either way there's nobody home to listen to them or set
limits." He paused. "What were your parents like, Gypsy?"

It was a question she couldn't answer. She
guessed, based on the little she knew. "Rigid. Disapproving."

"Mine were perfect. Are perfect." He looked
away a moment as if he needed to get hold of himself. "They were
always there for me. I guess you know what a difference that can
make in your life."

"Perfect, Grant?"

"In the ways that really matter. Sure, they
screwed up sometimes. My father has a hard time expressing his
emotions, but I always knew he loved me. And he was crazy about my
mother."

Her skin prickled all over, almost the way
it had after her one fateful bite of Perry's shrimp creole. Owen
had fooled almost everyone, even this remarkably perceptive young
man. "That sounds almost ideal."

He looked away, as if to compose himself.
"It's not ideal now."

"I'm sorry. I can only imagine what you're
going through."

"It wasn't your fault. Everyone knows
that."

Not everyone, of course. Owen had made it
clear that he blamed Gypsy for his dilemma. He had half a wife now,
and that was certainly harder to get rid of than none. "I check on
your mother every day," she said.

"Do you?" His eyes flicked back to hers. He
seemed genuinely surprised. "Then you know she's been moved to a
nursing home in Great Neck."

Gypsy nodded. She'd had the home checked
out. It was the best that money could buy. "I may not be
responsible, but I feel responsible."

"She wouldn't want you to. She never blamed
anyone else for anything."

Gypsy was struck by how little he had known
Elisabeth. For months before the accident she had blamed everyone
but herself for her unhappiness. She had blamed everyone but the
one person who could have made real changes in her life.

Grant put his hand on her arm. "Are you all
right?"

"Yes. I'm fine. Thanks."

"Are you sure you don't want to sit down?
You look pale. You're still recovering from the accident, aren't
you?"

"I'm fine. I appreciate the tour. I can't
promise anything about the show. I'll admit this is out of line
with our usual. But it's intriguing." As she said the words, she
realized they were true. Could she find an angle here that would
interest Des? If so, it was the answer to a prayer. She could stay
in touch with Grant and live Gypsy's life at the same time. She
could have the best of both worlds.

Almost.

"Can I call you if I need more information?"
she asked.

"Sure." He grinned, and for a moment she had
a glimpse of the young boy who had been the greatest joy of her
heart. The child she had willingly given up her career to raise.
"Has any man ever turned down a phone call from Gypsy Dugan?"

By Wednesday she had ping-ponged between
hope and despair so many times that she was keeping score. So far
despair was in the lead.

Elisabeth had worked in a television
newsroom in the early seventies. How could she ever have believed
that her limited training would prepare her to anchor
The Whole
Truth
? She was a Stone Age hunter trying to figure out how to
launch a nuclear missile. Even the language was unfamiliar.

"Now we're gonna run through it one more
time, Gypsy." The floor manager, a potbellied man named Hal whose
headset took the place of hair, looked toward the control room
where no one was sitting at the moment. He started to count down,
and more sweat ran from his pores with every number.

He pointed to her and she dimpled on cue as
if the teleprompter was an incredibly sexy man. "Good evening.
Welcome to
The Whole Truth
. And before we begin tonight's
top story, may I say that it's good to be back? Your cards and
letters made my recovery speedier, and I'm grateful to all of you
for your support." She smiled again, then followed the prompter
with her eyes as the camera changed position.