Read The Body in the Bonfire Online
Authors: Katherine Hall Page
The Body in the Bonfire (4 page)
“That's not it. Why I'm upset is because of the way he looked at me when he told me to get out. He looked⦔ She stopped and tears welled up in her eyes. “He looked like he hated me.”
“Anger, not hate,” Faith said calmly. “He was very, very angry. You'd found something out he didn't want you to know, and maybe he
has
done something stupid with the stereo, lost it in a bet or whatever. Which would make him even more angry at you, because he's mad at himself.” Danny was a human being, after all, and this was the way it usually worked.
Pix wiped her eyes with one of her big Eddie Bauer down mittens. “He didn't say a word during supper. It was just the two of us. Sam had to meet with a client. When Danny finished clearing the table, he came up behind me while I was loading the dishwasher and gave me a hug. I hugged him back and started to say something about what had happened. He broke away and said, âI don't want to talk about it. Not now or ever.' I should have kept my mouth shut.”
Faith agreed, but it was most women's tendency to want to make everything all rightâright away. And Pix was most women.
“He hugged you,” she said. “He loves you.
That's a given and that's what you've got to focus on; nothing else matters.”
“You're right, of course.” Pix sent what was left of the milkweed pod skidding across the icy surface of the small pond they had reached. It stood in the middle of the woods, the trees surrounding it bare, their branches sharply etched against the cold blue sky. The ground was frozen solid; sharp ridges bordered the ruts left by the previous spring's mud. It had been hard walking over them. Faith hadn't felt her toes for some time, but she followed Pix closer to the frozen water's edge. Ben and Amy liked to come here to feed the ducks. There were no ducks now. No sign of any living creatures, except the two human beings who peered at the cracks in the pond's surface, seeking patterns, augurs to fill their separate needs.
“I'll schedule an appointment with his guidance counselor. Danny likes him. Maybe he'll have some suggestions. Losing a best friend at school is hard. They'd been together since kindergarten. We may have been underestimating the effect on him. Brian Perkins is an only child. I wonder how he's feeling?”
“Probably like Dannyâwho's pretty much an only child himself now, with the others away. Since Danny's spending so much time at Mansfield, it doesn't sound as if Brian's replaced him, either.”
Pix nodded and straightened up. “It smells like
snow. You know, that peculiar empty-air smell just before a storm.”
Faith didn't know. This was apparently another regional genetic knack, but she nodded sagely and sniffed deeply. Her nose was a little stuffed from the cold. Maybe that was the point. If you
couldn't
smell, there would be snow.
“I've been pouring my heart out and never thought to ask why you were on your way over to see me and why you had all your recipes spread out on the table,” Pix said. “Do we have a big job coming up?” Pix worked part-time for the catering firmâkeeping the books, going over inventory, and anything else that did not involve her in any way with the actual preparation of food. She was notorious for her reliance on boxes with the word
Helper
on them and mysterious casseroles with an elbow macaroni base.
Faith began telling her about teaching the Mansfield Project Term course and then, with a thought to her friend's current stress level, hastily decided on an edited version that omitted Daryl Martin. Pix knew all about the Project Term, which was no surprise to Faith. Pix knew a little somethingâor a lotâabout everything in Aleford.
“Sam did one once on fly-fishing. Someone spilled the beans about his passion for fishingâand his ability to tie flies. They couldn't fish at that time of year, but they had a grand old time watching videos, practicing casting, and, of
course, tying flies. He took the boys fishing on the Sudbury River later that spring. And Millicent usually does a course on local history, except I hear she's too busy finally distributing all the stuff she stockpiled for Y2K, then held on to in the vain hope that âsomething' would happen when the
real
millennium arrived this year.”
Faith had seen Millicent's preparations, and it would indeed take weeks to dole out and transport all the bottled water, unspeakable freeze-dried food, and batteries she'd amassed.
“It wasn't a computer glitch she was anticipating this time,” Pix explained, “something more in the nature of the earth opening up selective maws, a Doomsday scenario. Not exactly a Congregationalist notion, but then, Millicent has always marched to a different drummer.”
“Yes.” Faith laughed. “A fife and drummer.”
Millicent Revere McKinley, who had been admitting to turning sixty-nine for some fifteen years, was a direct descendant of a distant cousin of Paul Revere and had total recall for both the distant past and immediate present. She wasn't too bad at predicting the future, either. A maiden lady, she lived in a white clapboard house that was strategically located across from Aleford's green, with a perfect view down Main Street. Years ago, Faith had had the misfortune to break one of the town's taboos by ringing the great alarm bell, sounded only on Patriots' Day or to commemorate the deaths of presidents or some
one from one of Aleford's original families. Faith rang it in true alarm upon discovering a still-warm corpse in the belfry, but Millicent and others continued to shake their heads over this rash act. To make matters worse, Millicent had saved Faith's life, and Faith was on the point of throwing the woman in the path of the commuter train, then snatching her back just in time to even the score. Still, Millicent was a veritable font of information when she chose to turn on the tap, and Faith thought she might pay a call on her to ask what she knew about Mansfield Academy.
“Have you seen them? Probably not,” Pix was saying. They were trudging back to the car, and Faith had been so lost in her thoughts about Millicent that she'd missed a vital reference.
“Seen what? Sorry. I was thinking about something else.”
“These computer games the kids play. We can control what Danny has at home, but not what he plays outside the house. Just take a look the next time you're in Toys âR' Us or Staples. âAnimated Blood and Gore' and âAnimated Violence'âthat's what it said on one he wanted to buy. It was labeled for seventeen and over, but I'm sure he could have bought it. He says it's just a game, that it doesn't mean anything, but it
does
mean something. I'm not about to get an ax and start smashing computer screensâalthough I've felt like it sometimes when he won't even look up at meâbut I think it does say something about the times we live in.”
Ben had already moved on from total devotion to Mister Rogers to an obsession with Inspector Gadget, and Faith was pretty sure Captain Kirk would be next. “I do agree with you. It's why we never let Ben have a toy gun. Yes, it's a toy, but it's a replica, and I don't even want one of those around. He can, and does, use his finger. A finger never hurt anybodyâso long as it's not on a trigger. I wish all those people who are so crazed about banning Harry Potter because it's about witchcraft would focus on these dismemberment games instead. Not that any of it should be banned, but perspective, please. I'm beginning to feel like we're on NPR. How did we get onto the First Amendment? Oh, Danny and his games.”
“It's just another of the things that worry me about him. Why would he want to play them?” Pix sounded seriously concerned.
“Power, controlâall the things a kid his age doesn't have.” As she answered Pix, Faith wondered about these as a motive behind the racial attacks on Daryl Martin. Power and control, strong adolescent urges. She, like Patsy and Daryl, were assuming it was a fellow student, someone with deep-seated racial hatred, and a sick need to bully.
“And these chat rooms,” Pix said. “He says he doesn't go into them, and I have to believe him, want to believe him, but the idea of Danny going into one and thinking he's talking to another teenager about their favorite groups, when he's
actually talking to an adult masquerading as someone Danny's age, is terrifying.”
They were at the car. “Don't worry,” Faith said. “This is Danny we're talking about. Your Danny. Everything's going to be all right. He's just going through a hard time.”
Pix sighed. “Maybe I'm getting old. It takes so much energy to raise kids, although when he's out of the house, I'll probably cry every day.”
“No, you won't,” said Faith. “You'll be able to wear sexy nightgowns and play
your
music loud.”
On the way back, Faith thought about Daryl's E-mail and the explanation he'd given Patsy about how the sender could conceal his identity. Danny was a computer-savvy person and close at hand. She should ask him more about how you could do this.
“I might want to ask Danny about some computer stuff. He may read manuals for fun, but I don't. Maybe he can stop by this weekend. He knows all about the Net and E-mail, right?”
“Oh yes, or he thinks he does anyway. The Internet. I sound like a Luddite, I know, yet I do wish it wasn't swallowing up our lives so completely.”
The Net. The information highway had some pretty strange off-ramps. For a moment, Faith felt a twinge of concern about Danny Miller. What
was
it on the screen that was obsessing him so totally?
Pix pulled into Faith's driveway and Faith started to get out of the car. She would have to go pick up Amy soon.
“I may not know how to cook, but I do know what teenagers like to eat,” Pix said. “I'll be glad to help you with your course. I'm assuming it really is going to be for idiots. You're not planning to teach them to make puff pastry or duck à l'orange.”
“Duck à l'orange is not that hard to make, but yes, I'm only going to teach them the basics. They all know how to use a microwave to heat a Hot Pocket. I'm going to take them a step further. Maybe two steps.”
“Why don't you throw in some simple etiquette? Napkin in lap, what to do with a salad fork, that type of stuff. Again, my children may not be well fed, but they are well bred. And yes, you may use that line.” Pix smiled for the first time since she'd knocked at Faith's door. Her kids were well bred, even aside from table manners. Everything was going to be all right. Sooner or later.
“That's a terrific idea. I read in the
Times
that teaching Miss Mannering to young Wall Street hotshots and others eager to climb ladders has become a booming business. I'll end the course with an elegant but easy dinner prepared by the students and take things over from work so they can set a nice table. They can invite faculty members and show off.”
“Invite some girls from Cabot instead. More fun showing offâand not so much pressure,” Pix advised.
“Much better idea. I haven't met any of the faculty yet. The headmaster invited Tom and me to their weekly sherry hour today. But you're rightâif I were a sixteen-year-old boy, I'd rather cook dinner for a sixteen-year-old girl than for my math teacher. Call me. I'd love to have your help. And don't worry about Danny,” Faith repeated. “He's a
teenager.
”
Faith got out of the car, acutely aware of the number of italics she'd thrown into the conversation, and went into the house to thaw out. She dearly loved Pix, but she wished her friend's idea of an expedition tended more toward a stroll through Barneys in Chestnut Hill, with lunch at Figs afterward, than brisk walks with an inevitably squashed sandwich in one's pocket.
At precisely 3:30, the appointed hour, a tall, attractive woman in a houndstooth-check suit, only slightly bagged out in the seat, came striding overâhand already extended in greetingâto Faith, who'd been sitting in the hall outside Mansfield's main office, leafing through outdated issues of the
Atlantic Monthly.
“You must be Mrs. Fairchild!” The woman's enthusiastic tone would not have been out of place on the sideline of a lacrosse match going into sudden-death overtime.
“And you must be Ms. Reed!” Faith replied in as close an approximation as she could muster.
“Do call me Connie. Everyone does. We are terribly grateful to you for pitching in like this.”
“Oh, it's nothing. My pleasureâand please call me Faith.” Everybody didn't, but she felt compelled to match point for point. So far her contact with Mansfield had resulted only in dredging up
reminders of her own school daysâmemories she would rather have consigned to the oblivion they had happily occupied since graduation. Connie Reed was the embodiment of all her games mistressesâthey had used the British term at Faith's schoolâas well as every Joyce Grenfell character in the British comedies Faith had seen. Connie even had a slight overbite. Faith's main goal in phys ed had been to avoid as many classes as possible, which won her the title “Queen of Cramps” from her more athletically inclined or envious friends. Hope, of course, had led the school to victory after victory on all sorts of playing fields, and her name was inscribed on a number of the shining silver cups on display outside the headmistress's office. Faith had heard that Aleford High School offered such things as yoga and even walking for phys ed nowadays. They didn't even call it phys ed anymore, but wellness. She had definitely been born at the wrong time. Connie Reed, on the other hand, was born for all seasonsâemerging from her mother's womb with field hockey stick in hand. The image made Faith wince and smile.
“Everything all right?” Connie didn't miss much. “Let's be off, then. We don't have that much time. Mustn't be late for our sherry!” She gave a jolly laugh that sounded very much like a whinny. “We'll start at Carleton House, where the course will be meeting.”
Faith trotted obediently alongside Connie,
sensing that if she did not, she might feel the flick of a crop.
As she'd driven up the drive leading to the cluster of main buildings, she had been struck by the beauty of the campusâand the quiet. The school had been marked only by a discreet wooden sign suspended from a post, the entrance flanked by two ivy-covered stone pillars. The late-afternoon sun promised a brilliant winter sunset and its slanting light bathed the buildings she'd passed in a warm glow at odds with the temperature. There was a variety of architectural styles, yet they were all very much in keeping. Dropped from the sky, Faith would still instantly have known that she was at a New England prep school or small college campus. Some of the buildings were clapboard, a few Victorian, and a stone chapel sat complacently on a rise overlooking the lot where Faith had parked in a visitor's space. The buildings were set on well-tended grassy open spaces, paths lined with ancient hardwoods, their branches denuded now. Yet pressing in on this microcosm was a dark forest of pines. In the fading light, they had looked impenetrable. There were few students out, but Faith had passed several lone figures and one small group, all of them walking quickly through the frigid air, figures casting long shadows, eager to get inside.
“Our new sports center is in this direction.” Connie waved briskly to the left, where Faith
could see a large building looming far away on the horizon, perpendicular to the woods. Mansfield seemed to own quite a substantial piece of Alefordâand in Aleford, as in all the western suburbs, land was at a premium, with developers paying the equivalent of the debt of a small country for lots on which to build multimillion-dollar mansions complete with great rooms, central air, and Jacuzzis in all five baths.
Connie was still urging the sports center on Faith. “Do make time to take a peek while you're here. We're very proud of it. Our headmaster ran a marvelous campaign and actually raised more money than we needed! Mansfield has always believed in a sound mind in a sound body.” She gave a little chuckle to let Faith know that it was a clichéâbut Faith didn't believe Connie for a minute. It was no cliché; it was dogma.
“Here we are.” She led the way up the front stairs and across the large porch of a comfortable-looking white Colonial house. “This is one of our older dorms and it's not fully occupied this year, just some of our overflow seniors. That's why the kitchen is free. Normally, we'd have resident houseparents, but Professor Boothe is acting as dorm master, and he preferred the suite on the top floor. He's a single gentleman and eats his meals with the boys or elsewhere. He should be taking your course!”
Faith remembered the name. This was the his
tory teacher Daryl had mentioned to Patsy. The one with the “cult following.”
“He must be teaching one himself.” Faith decided taking Connie's jocular remark at face value might yield some information. It did.
“Oh my, yes, his is always one of the most popular. I believe this year he's doing something called Alger Hiss's Pumpkin: Animal or Vegetable? Do not ask me what that means, because I have no idea. The only animals I'm afraid I have much interest in are my corgis.”
Dogs. Faith knew it.
“Like the queen's?”
Connie beamed at what she assumed must be a kindred spirit.
“I don't have as many as Queen Elizabeth, but I dare say my Bonnie and Heather would fit in quite nicely with their cousins across the sea.”
She closed the front door behind them. They were standing in an elegant foyer with curving twin staircases on either side leading to the second floor. Looking through an arch to the left, Faith could see a living room with comfortable couches and armchairs. There was an upright piano and bookshelves filled with books. A fireplace was at one end. A school banner and framed Currier and Ives prints hung on the walls. It looked like a cozy place to sprawl out and read or do homework. On the other side of the hall was another opening. This led to what might originally have been a dining room, but which
was now fitted out with large library tables and several computer stations. It, too, had bookshelves. Connie led the way into the room.
“In the old days, students ate in their dorms, but when Robert, Robert Harcourt”âthere was no mistaking the reverent toneâ“came in, one of the first changes he made was to have everyone eat together. Community building. The kitchen, though, is still right through here.” She opened a door.
It wasn't as bad as Faith had expected. It must have been updated for the dorm parents. There was a good-sized gas rangeâshe hated cooking on electric burnersâa large fridge, a dishwasher, and plenty of counter space.
“Do you have any idea how many boys I'll have in the course?” she asked.
“Probably no more than ten. You can always limit it, if you want.”
Ordinarily, Faith would have, but in this case, the more Mansfield students she could attract, the better.
“Ten, or even a few more, will be fine.”
She opened some cupboards and drawers. There was an odd assortment of china, glassware, and cutlery. The same was true for pots, pans, and utensils.
“I should come back when I have more time and make a list of what I'll need to bring from work,” she told Connie. She hadn't found a whiskâor any cutting knives.
“The door's always open. Come whenever you like. Now, there's a bathroom at the end of the hall, and I think that's all you need to know, unless you have any questions.”
“No, not really. I'm assuming the rest of the house has student rooms, that sort of thing.” She wouldn't have minded a peek at Paul Boothe's suite to see what was hanging on his walls and filling his bookshelves, but she couldn't think of a legitimate reason for asking. She pulled open another drawer. It was filled with pot holders and plastic spoons. Nobody had done any serious cooking in this kitchen for a very long time.
But she did have a question after all. “Will it be all right to eat in the other room? I'm not sure we could get everyone around this table.” A Formica-topped table from the fifties and four chairs had been pushed against the wall under one of the windows.
“The big tables in the other room will be fine. Just make sure they don't spill anything on the computers. Normally, we don't allow food in that room, but you'll be there to supervise.”
Suddenly, the impact of what she'd agreed to do hit Faith with the force of a blow to her solar plexus. She'd fallen down the stairs at her grandparents' once as a child and had the wind knocked out of her. Lying on the floor, terrified, she hadn't been able to make a sound. She opened her mouth now and was not surprised
nothing came out. Supervision! Responsibility! She'd been so caught up in the real reason for being at Mansfield that she'd pushed the ostensible one way to the rear.
Teenaged boys! They might give her a hard time, not want to learn what she'd be teaching, say it was all boring, make farting noises under their armpits, put straws in their nostrils, laugh uproariously when she talked about breast of chickenâthe list was endless. Was it too late to back out?
It was.
“I hate to ask you to do anything else for us after you're already doing so much.” Connie's eyes locked on Faith's and Faith could feel the force of Ms. Reed's so very sincere gratitude bore a tunnel straight to the lobe housing Faith's own conscience. She had agreed. It was like swearing an oath. “It won't take long, and you might be interested to see the big kitchen.” Connie invested the last words with all the promise of a very special treatâhot chocolate
and
s'-mores. “I'd like to introduce you to Mrs. Mallory, the school cook.”
Compared to what she had already so heedlessly agreed to do, this was very small potatoes, and Faith found her voice. “Of course, I'd be delighted.”
Outside, night had fallen fast and hard, as it does in January. Faith could see only Connie Reed's face when they passed under one of the
lampposts. The woman was nattering on about the school and her dogs, which appeared to occupy equal places in her heart. Faith learned that Connie had come to Mansfield after a brief secretarial stint with a Boston law firm before she'd found this, her dream job, in rural Aleford the year Harcourt resurrected Mansfield from its ashes. As her panic ebbed, Faith hoped it would be as easy to get information from everyone at Mansfield as it had been from Ms. Reedâbut she doubted it.
Approaching a large brick building, Connie stopped abruptly under one of the lights and cleared her throat. A slight unease was dimming her previously genial expression.
“Mrs. Malloryâa wonderful, wonderful lady. The boys adore her, and of course she's a superb cook. Mrs. Mallory,” Connie started again, “apparently is a tiny, tiny bit miffed at not teaching this course herself, but it would be impossible with all her other duties. Still, I thought if she met you and perhapsâ”
Faith thought, Why put the woman through any more misery? and interrupted Ms. Reed. “I understand completely. The kitchens of Mansfield, be they big or small, are her bailiwick.” Why was she speaking this way again, the way she had when she'd talked to the headmaster on the phone? She took a firm hold of herself. She'd be dashing off five-paragraph standard-form history essays soon. “I will be happy to make nice on
your cook.” That was better, although Connie looked slightly startled.
“Well, good. Good, good, good. She'll be busy with dinner preparations, but I'm sure she can spare a few moments.”
Making nice on Mrs. Mallory was not easy. Bearding the dragon would have been a more appropriate way to describe the endeavor. Mrs. Mallory was almost the size of one and her lairâwith an enormous cast-iron stove, blackened and encrusted from many years' worth of chicken à la king, meat loaf, and tomato sauceâwas as hot as dragon's breath. Connie nervously introduced Faith, and Mrs. Mallory swiped at the torrent of sweat on her brow with her stained apron, grunting something that might have been an acknowledgment of Faith's existenceâor not.
“Something smells absolutely wonderful. What are these lucky boys getting tonight?” Faith gushed, since she hadn't thought to bring a sword.
Mrs. Mallory seemed to consider this a deeply personal question and one Faith had no right to ask.
Connie began to babble on about the length of Mrs. Mallory's tenureâshe was one of the holdovers from the original Mansfieldâand about how they didn't know how they could ever get along without her.
Mrs. Mallory's presence had so dominated the room that Faith didn't realize anyone else
was there until a slender African-American woman who looked to be in her mid-sixtiesâimpossible to guess Mrs. Mallory's age without counting the ringsâopened the oven door and slid a tray of biscuits in, then retreated for another one.
“And this is Mabel. Mabel, this is Mrs. Fairchild, who is here just for Project Term to teach the boys to make some snacks.” Mabel nodded and Faith took note of the emphasis placed on the words
just
and
snacks.
She also noted that Mabel was introduced only by her first name, as opposed to both herself and Mrs. Mallory.
Mrs.
Malloryâsurely, like all those British
Upstairs Downstairs
cooks, her title was honorary. She wore oven mitts like gauntlets, so it was impossible to see if the woman by some remarkable chance was wearing a wedding band.
Faith gave it one last try. An appeal to Mrs. Mallory as cook to cook. Or, more appropriately, woman to behemoth.
“I understand that you would have been doing the course, except Mansfield would have had to starve.” Smile, smile. “But perhaps you could do a guest lecture or twoâteach them to make some of their school favorites?”