The Crazy School (26 page)

The two cops, rapt, asked a question here or there, but each inquiry seemed more like some little Hansel-and-Gretel chunk of bread thrown down in hope of their safe return, rather than any serious attempt to stop following Markham deeper and deeper into a forest of his own design.

The guy was so good I’d have skipped along behind him myself, blithely oblivious to the possibility of bears and snakes and impending nightfall.

He slid a hint of Gerald into the mists of enchantment so subtly that the pair of them latched on to the guy, thinking his alleged guilt was their own idea.

I had no doubt that Markham could easily have charmed the pants off Baker and eaten Cartwright’s lunch while he spoke, with out a one of us noticing that he’d so much as twitched in his chai r.

Finally, he looked at that achingly thin watch again, then said, “My client must return to work, and I think we can all agree that her continued employment at the Santangelo Academy is testament to that institution’s utter faith in her innocence of
any
wrongdoing. In fact, she’s in line for a promotion.”

Hands were shaken all around then Markham and I left the station.

As we climbed into the Beamer, he winked at me and kissed his own ring.

“Dude, that was
awesome
,” I said.

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“Let’s not go counting any chickens,” he said. “All I did was cast a few choice handfuls of grain as a temporary diversion.”

“Markham, that wasn’t chicken feeding, that was snake charming. Turban and all.”

“What can I say? ‘Sometimes the light’s all shining on me . . .’ ”

He hit the gas and shot us onto Route 20.

“Now you’re gonna pay me back by asking your friend Lulu what she remembers about your traveling jacket last Tuesday night. But that’s
all
. No meanderings from your appointed conversational task—we clear?”

“Crystal,” I said as we hightailed it back to Pittsfi eld.

Lulu and I were hiding out by the grape arbor, smoking and freezing our asses off on the cold ground during lunch break from Sitting.

“So listen,” I said. “Markham wants me to fi gure out how Fay’s necklace got into my jacket. I don’t have a damn clue.

I mean, if you took it with you when you left the Farm at the end of that party, then how the hell could anyone else get at the thing to slip any jewelry inside?”

“I
didn’t
take your jacket when I left,” she said. “I didn’t even know you’d left it there.”

“So how’d it get up to Dhumavati’s apartment?”

“Gerald gave it to me when I went out to wash your clothes.”

“What time was that?”

“After midnight, maybe? Not exactly sure. Defi nitely late.”

“What the hell was he doing up there? I mean, wasn’t he on overnight coverage at the Farm?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” said Lulu.

“Can’t,” I replied. “Markham said I’m not allowed to talk to 2 5 2

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anyone about it. Probably piss him right off if he knew I was chatting with you, except about the necklace thing.”

“So I’ll ask Gerald,” she said. “Piece of cake.”

We heard a rustling in the trees behind us and simultaneously dropped our Camels.

Lulu threw me a breath mint just as Wiesner emerged from the woods, snow dusting his cropped blond hair.

“Got another one of those smokes for a poor wayward runaway?” he asked.

“Wiesner, honest to God,” said Lulu. “You scared me to death, practically. And where the hell have you been?”

“It’s a secret. And I only came out because you guys were talking about Gerald, so it’s not like I’m going to come trotting back with either of you, okay?”

“We can’t let you just leave,” said Lulu.

“Lulu, get real,” he said, towering over her. “How the hell you gonna make me stay?”

“Um, there is that,” I said.

“I mean, no one will blame you for not trying to tackle me or whatever. And I wouldn’t recommend it anyway, what with my known predisposition for violence. So let’s just smoke and chill for a minute, okay? Then we can all just pretend we never ran into each other in the fi rst place,” said Wiesner.

“Oh, for chrissake,” said Lulu, shrugging and handing him my pack of Camels.

“Smart move,” he said, leaning down to give her a playful tap on the shoulder. “After all, I’m a dangerous man.”

“You’re a dangerous
boy,
Wiesner,” said Lulu. “Don’t let’s go putting on any airs.”

He grinned at her, cigarette clenched in his teeth, then held out his hand for the lighter.

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“You got enough food, wherever you are?” I asked. “Blankets and stuff?”

“Taken care of,” he said, cupping the fl ame and pulling down a lungful of smoke. “Don’t worry your pretty head.”

“You should come back to school. I think Gerald’s under control. Plus, it’s not like you could testify against him. You weren’t even in the room, right?” I said.

“Speaking of dangerous men, let me tell you a little something about Gerald, Madeline,” he said.

Lulu reached up to pluck the lighter from his hand, then tossed it back to me.

“Go ahead, Wiesner,” she said, “spill.”

He turned his head to the side and blew out a plume of tar and nicotine. “Okay, start with this for spillage: I think Gerald’s a fucking spy.”

“Wiesner, if you go off ranting about the KGB or something, I’m not above jumping you myself,” I said.

That got me a leer. “Jump me any ol’ time you want. That kinda talk fi res my loinage right up.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” said Lulu. “Just tell us what the hell you mean by ‘spy.’ ”

Wiesner sank to the ground beside us, crossing his legs Indian-style and leaning back against one of the pergola’s rotting uprights.

“Gerald and I showed up here about the same time,” he said,

“and I gotta say, he seemed squirrelly from day one.”

“Compared to what?” asked Lulu. “I mean, if you ask me, this place is pretty much ground zero, vis-à-vis Team Squirrel.

Myself included, front and center.”

Wiesner laughed, raising a hand to cite his own membership 2 5 4

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on the squad. “Let’s just say he’s above and beyond. And even weirder lately.”

“I say again, weirder than what?” asked Lulu. “Weirder how?”

“Fussier. Twitchier.”

“We
all
are, Wiesner,” I said. “And come on, who could blame us? Fay and Mooney, all the Sitting . . .”

“So why’s Gerald wandering all over campus in the middle of the night? And I mean
every
night,” said Wiesner.

He took another hit of Camel. “And when he’s not
skulking around through the classrooms and the offi ces and the meeting rooms—with a fl ashlight, by the way, all dressed up in black sweats with a freaking watch cap on like he thinks he’s some hokey burglar—what the hell’s he doing sitting up in his apartment till dawn with piles of books on his desk, taking notes and talking into this very shpendy-looking microcassette recorder?”

“Um,” I said.

“You guys wanna ask me,” said Wiesner, “I think when it comes to Team Squirrel, Gerald qualifi es as outright bushy-tailed varsity captain. Possibly head coach.”

Not to mention, I thought, that the guy was rich enough to buy up the whole damn American Squirrel League and make it collect acorns on his lawn.

“Sounds like you’ve been doing a little skulking yourself, Wiesner,” said Lulu.

He shrugged. “Gotta keep my hand in.”

“So what’s he looking for?” I asked.

“Fuck if I know,” said Wiesner, stubbing out his Camel.

“Maybe you should ask your attorney—after Lulu fi nds out what the hell Gerald was doing with your jacket that night.”

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He stood up and patted each of us on the head. “Think I’ll be taking off now, ladies,” he said, then sprinted back out into the forest.

“Who
was
that masked man?” I asked.

“And we didn’t even have a chance to thank him,” said Lulu rising to her feet and brushing snow off the back of her pants.

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37

On the way back to the dining hall, I told Lulu the rest of what I now knew about Gerald, once we’d assured each other that Wiesner couldn’t be eavesdropping.

“So I’d love to know what happened at his last gig,” I said,

“that meant he ended up here.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Lulu. “And what the hell is a

‘special product,’ anyway?”

“I dunno. Like some weird kind of algebra-extrapolation stock/bond thing. Futures or something? Risky stuff, but I guess you can make a lot of money with them.”

“I’ll stick to cash crops, thank you very much,” she said.

“Nice and tangible. Soybeans, winter wheat . . .”

“You and Dean must be cousins somehow,” I said.

“All Methodists are cousins. It’s the bond of the Jell-O salad and the pale blue American sedan.”

“Not Lutherans?”

“
Lutherans?
Bite your tongue!”

I laughed.

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“Do you want me to ask Gerald about his career shift?”

said Lulu.

“Lulu,
no.
Seriously, I’m not even sure you should bring up the jacket. We don’t know what the guy’s deal is at all. Especially now, with the whole burglar-skulking thing. Gave me the creeps, Wiesner talking about that.”

“You’re sure? I can be circumspect. Methodists are justly famed for their circumspection.”

“Let’s let Markham handle it. He’s practically Samoan.”

“Samoan?”

“Had to be there.” I said, shaking my head.

We trudged along in silence for a minute.

“Hey, what’s today?” I asked.

“Shitty,” she said.

“No, I mean the day of the week.”

“You know what? With all this Sitting, I don’t even know.”

“If it’s Friday, I might like to do a little skulking of my own.”

“For what?”

I told her about Santangelo’s dirt meetings.

“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re serious? No confi dentiality?”

“Anything you wouldn’t want them to know?”

“Whining about my mother? Not a lot anyone could hold over my head, unless they threatened to reveal her secret Jell-O

recipe.”

“So what’s the secret?” I asked.

“Shredded carrots,” she said. “You can throw in mini marshmallows, if you want to get hoity-toity.”

“That’s
nasty
.”

“I’m not going to lose any sleep over the possibility of blackmail.”

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“Blackmailers would pay
you
to keep that stuff under wraps,”

I said.

“And don’t get me started on Mother’s scrapple.”

“Your poor therapist! I bet she goes to those secret meetings and just uncontrollably weeps.”

“Heh,” said Lulu.

“Can’t believe I’m about to ask this, but do you think we missed lunch?”

“Mmmm,” said Lulu, “I wonder if they have any scrapple Jell-O.”

She leaned down and picked up a large pinecone from beside the path. “I can make a nice centerpiece with this.”

We made it before the steam tables went all verboten on us—in fact, they hadn’t even started moving the salad bar back over to the wall.

I snaked myself some cottage cheese and artichoke hearts and cucumber slices and Italian dressing, with grated cheddar and even some of Santangelo’s Salvation Army croutons for good measure.

When I got to the faculty table, the only place left was next to Gerald, who was fastidiously chewing each bite of his Salis-bury steak and whipped potatoes thirty-two times, while Mindy babbled on about the latest pink additions to her stuffed-animal menagerie. A bunny and a puppy and two of just absolutely the
cutest
little fl uffy kittens you ever
saw,
apparently. Blink blink.

I waved at Pete, but he was staring out the window and didn’t wave back. Or look.

Whatever. Sitting made everyone cranky.

So, since I couldn’t talk to Gerald about my jacket, or his Hamburglar deal, or anything real, I started trying to fi gure 2 5 9

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out a way to bring up fractals to see if I could get him chatting about his previous job.

Only let’s face it, fractals are not exactly something that come up naturally in your average conversation. I couldn’t just go, “Fluffy kittens, Mindy? Funny you should mention them, because I was just thinking how they relate to the philosophical vagaries of investment banking.”

We weren’t exactly talking me having some whole bounty-licious smorgas-copia of higher-mathematics small talk at my disposal.

I had to say something, though, before Mindy’s jawing on about all those cuddwy iddoo-widdoo puddy-tats made me fwow the fuck up.

I looked around the table, desperate for inspiration. When I saw that Lulu had deposited her spiky forest swag right next to her plate, I heaved a sigh of relief.

“Hey Lulu, okay if I play with your pinecone?”

“Have it,” she said, handing it over.

“Love these things,” I said to Gerald. “They’re just so damn Fibonacci, you know?”

Which was, like, the only other thing I knew about math, aside from my general suckage at the subject—that all pinecones were examples of the Fibonacci series, a string of numbers that kept appearing in nature.

I started counting the petals of the cone as they spiraled out from its base: “One, one, two, three, fi ve,” hoping to hell this would somehow coincide with fractals.

“Eight, thirteen,” continued Gerald. “I love that stuff.

I always used to count them when I was a kid. Did you know it works with the heads of sunfl owers, too?”