These Things Hidden (10 page)

A
s the three of them approach the playground of Joshua’s new school, Claire presses her fingers against the side of her head, finding the tender spot where her skull struck the floor after she fell off the ladder. It’s been a week since the robbery and Joshua has awakened each night calling out for her. Though Jonathan goes to him, tries to comfort him, it’s not enough. He has to see his mother, makes his father walk with him to the bedroom where his mother lies. He has to crawl into their bed, bringing his face close to hers. “You’re here,” he says, his sweet breath filling her nose. He says this as if it’s a surprise, as if he was certain that the two thieves from the bookstore had stolen her away during the night. During the day he is fearful of having his
mother out of his sight and stays near, a shadow following her about.

“Don’t worry,” Claire tells him, but Claire herself is apprehensive. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to return to the bookstore since the robbery, relying on Virginia to keep it open for part of the day.

Jonathan pulls open the doors of the old redbrick building and a stifling heat greets them, reminding Claire of her own school days in an almost identical building just a few miles from here.

“Who’s going to protect you?” Joshua asks, looking anxiously up at his mother, his eyes tired and red from another restless night. Claire and Jonathan glance at each other with worry. They’ve discussed taking Joshua to see someone, a doctor, a counselor. Someone who can help him with his fears.

“I’m hiring another worker for the bookstore, Joshua,” Claire tells him, trying to keep her voice light. “That way I will never be alone while I am working.”

“You still got hurt and I was there,” he reminds them.

“We put in an alarm, Josh,” Jonathan tells him. “If bad guys come, the alarm will scare the bejeezus out of them and then the police will come.”

Joshua nods, his face serious. He has to think about this for a while. “What’s the name of this place?” he asks for the third time this morning as they walk through
the empty, quiet halls of Woodrow Wilson Elementary School.

“It’s Wilson School,” Jonathan tells him, and tries to take his hand. Joshua pulls away and slides his fingers into Claire’s sweaty palm.

“It’s so big,” he says, looking around, his brown eyes woeful.

“Don’t look so sad,” Jonathan tells him. “You’re going to love it.”

“I’m not going to school,” he says with a finality that Claire has come to know too well.

The Kelbys missed the school’s scheduled registration day, which was held three days ago. They intended to go, had gotten in the car, had driven the five blocks, had pulled up in front of the school building. But it was all too overwhelming for Joshua. Streams of excited, rambunctious children of all ages and their families were entering and leaving the school. Josh tearfully clung to his booster seat and refused to exit the car. They left, went straight home, Joshua checking to make sure the doors were locked behind them after they went inside.

A little boy shouldn’t have to think about locking doors, Claire thinks as they stop in front of a classroom. A child shouldn’t have to worry about keeping his mother safe.

“You must be Joshua!” a woman coming to the doorway says in a loud but friendly tone, and Claire feels
Joshua flinch beside her. “I’m Mrs. Lovelace.” She holds out a hand for Joshua to shake that he shrinks shyly away from and Jonathan reaches for it instead.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jonathan and Claire say in turn. Mrs. Lovelace looks to be in her fifties, which Claire takes to mean that she is a seasoned teacher. She has short no-nonsense steel-wool-gray hair and sharp blue eyes that appear to miss little. Claire searches Mrs. Lovelace’s face for any indication that she might have a soft spot for timid, anxious children like Joshua who need a little more help navigating their way through the precarious world of kindergarten. “Joshua is nervous about starting school,” Claire explains, resting her hand on Joshua’s shoulder.

“We’ll figure things out together, won’t we, Joshua?” Mrs. Lovelace bends down to his level to speak to him and Joshua scurries behind Claire and presses his face into the small of her back.

“Joshua,” Claire says, trying to keep her voice soft and patient, “Mrs. Lovelace is speaking to you.” He wanders away from them and into the classroom toward a set of cardboard blocks, designed to look like bricks.

“Go ahead and build something, Joshua,” Mrs. Lovelace tells him. “I’ll visit with your mom and dad for a few minutes.” Joshua looks hesitant, but after an encouraging nod from Mrs. Lovelace, he begins to
methodically place the bricks side by side, one on top of the other, building a rust-red wall around him.

“Oh, Joshua, did you bring a baby picture to add to the bulletin board?” Mrs. Lovelace calls to him.

Joshua is so completely engrossed with building his wall that he doesn’t seem to hear Mrs. Lovelace and Claire bites her lip with worry. “Here you go.” Claire holds out a copy of the first photo she had taken of Joshua after they brought him home from the hospital. Grinning broadly, Jonathan was holding Joshua, who was staring, eyes wide and watery from a bout of crying. His bottom lip curled in an adorable pout.

“Oh, what a nice picture, Joshua,” Mrs. Lovelace exclaims, walking over to Joshua’s wall. “Who do you look like? Your mother or your father?”

“I’m buhdopted,” Joshua says, peeking out from behind the red bricks.

Mrs. Lovelace doesn’t miss a beat. “And your mom and dad picked you! How lucky they are.” She steps more closely to the cardboard fortress and asks in her soothing voice, like milk being poured into a glass, “May I join you, Joshua?”

Joshua considers, and Claire sees for a fleeting moment the possibility, a faint light in his dark eyes, but it is quickly doused out and replaced with doubt.

“No, thank you,” he finishes politely, placing another
brick on top of his wall, completely blocking off his face from view.

Mrs. Lovelace tries again. “I see you like to build things, Joshua. I’d really like to help you.” She takes away the top brick so she can see his face again.

Joshua startles and accidentally knocks down several bricks, causing the structure to collapse in a heap around him. “Oh, no!” He moans in despair at the pile in front of him.

“Oh, Joshua,” Mrs. Lovelace says soothingly, “it’s okay. We can put it back together. See?” Mrs. Lovelace begins to rearrange the blocks again, one on top of the other. Joshua sniffles, but begins to help rebuild the wall. In a few moments Joshua is once again safely ensconced behind the barrier.

Mrs. Lovelace leads Jonathan and Claire to a table surrounded by exceptionally small chairs and invites them to sit. “Tell me about Joshua,” she says.

“Joshua is a very sweet, caring little boy, but he can get very anxious at times. Especially when he is asked to try something new,” Claire admits. “Sometimes he seems like he’s off in his own little world and it can be really hard for us to pull him back to us.”

“That’s not unusual in a kindergartener, Mrs. Kelby,” Mrs. Lovelace says. “I promise to keep a close eye on him and let you know of any issues that come up.”

“Joshua also had a very traumatic experience recently,”
Claire explains, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. Jonathan squeezes her hand. “Last week, the bookstore that we own was robbed and Josh was right there and saw everything. It scared him, and me, terribly.” Claire shakes her head at the memory of the thieves and the glint of the knife in the tall boy’s hand.

“The police haven’t caught them,” Jonathan continues, “and Joshua’s very worried about not being with Claire at all times. He feels like he needs to be her protector.”

Mrs. Lovelace furrows her brow with concern. “Thank you for telling me about this. Let’s see how Joshua does the first few days of school and then touch base again. We can always bring in the school counselor to visit with him, if needed. All new kindergarteners have an adjustment period when starting school. Some adjustments take longer than others.” She stands and walks over to where Jonathan is sitting in his fortress. “It was nice meeting you, Joshua,” she says to him.

“Nice to meet you,” Joshua replies, his voice barely audible.

Mrs. Lovelace turns her attention back to Claire and Jonathan. “It was nice meeting you, too, Mr. and Mrs. Kelby. If you’re interested in chaperoning any of our amazing kindergarten field trips, just let me know.” Her voice noticeably louder, she continues, “This fall we get to visit the fire station, the apple orchard and the
pumpkin patch. In the winter we go sledding down the hill behind the school and make gingerbread houses, and in the spring we get to go on the very best trip of all!”

“Oh, what’s that?” Claire says in an affected tone she reserved specifically for trying to get Joshua excited about something.

“We don’t tell anyone that until the first day of school. It’s just too special.” The three glance covertly at Joshua. He is still sitting behind the wall, but his toes, clad in sandals, peek out, inching slowly forward.

“Hmm, I guess we’ll just have to wait until then to find out. Come on, Josh,” Jonathan says. “What do you say to Mrs. Lovelace for letting you play with these great blocks?”

“Thank you,” comes Joshua’s squeaky, timid reply.

“You are welcome, Joshua,” Mrs. Lovelace says warmly. “The blocks will be here waiting for you on the first day of school.”

Jonathan holds out his hand to help him up from the floor, but Joshua ignores it and scrambles to his feet on his own and moves out of the room ahead of his parents, his footfalls echoing off the newly waxed floors. He is walking slowly, head down, his shoulder hugging the painted cement wall.

“Oh, Josh,” Claire whispers, knowing he can’t hear her. “It’s going to be okay.”

I
’m nervous about my upcoming interview at the bookstore. I’ve never had a real job—I never had time when I was in high school. Oh, we practiced interviews in Cravenville and Olene did a mock interview with me last night. But I’m still sick with worry. I’m not sure why the owner of the bookstore would want to hire a convict, but she’s giving me a chance. Olene told me that there are some pretty good tax incentives for businesses who hire people like me.

“Does she know what I went to prison for?” I ask Olene before I leave. Bookends is only a few blocks from Gertrude House and if I get the job I’ll be able to easily walk back and forth to work.

“She knows the basics,” Olene explains, “but she
wants to help, plus it helps that the government is footing the bill for your paycheck.”

“How do I look,” I ask, holding out my arms and spinning around. I dressed up, borrowing an outfit from Bea. The skirt is a bit too short, the sleeves stop just above my wrists and the shoes pinch my feet, but I look somewhat professional and I hope to make a good impression. I need to go to my parents’ house and retrieve some of my old clothes, but I haven’t been able to get ahold of them just yet. My father travels a lot for work and my mother has all her projects and causes. They’re very busy people.

“You look just fine,” Olene tells me. “You sure you don’t want a ride?”

“No, thanks, I don’t mind walking,” I say. I have a newfound appreciation for being able to step outside whenever I want to, for being able to feel the sun warm my face, the night air on my skin.

I arrive at Bookends just after it opens. I see the woman I assume is Mrs. Kelby through the window. She is smiling at something one of her customers has said as she slides the purchase into a paper bag stamped with the store’s name on the front of it. I study my reflection in the window. Then I take a deep breath and push open the door.

“Hi,” I say with more confidence than I actually feel, while I walk up to her. The woman is tall, but not as
tall as I am. She is solid, strong and fit-looking, with olive skin and thick golden-brown hair that hangs loose around her shoulders. She wears a chunky, hip pair of glasses with tortoiseshell frames. “My name is Allison Glenn,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand, just like I practiced. “I’m here to interview for the part-time position.” This was where things got tricky. Do I remind her that my parole officer helped set this up? Do I bring up my past? Olene and I discussed the pros and cons of being the first to mention my conviction. I’m still not sure what to do.

Mrs. Kelby smiles at me. A real, genuine smile. Not the kind that looks like it has been spackled on with a trowel. A good sign. “Allison,” she says. “Thank you for coming in. It’s nice to meet you. Have a seat and we can chat. I’m sorry if we get interrupted, but we’re a little shorthanded around here.”

We sit and I cross my legs, fold my hands in my lap and wait for the first question.

“Why don’t you start by telling me a little bit about yourself?”

“Well, I’m twenty-one years old,” I begin nervously. “When I was in high school, I was a straight-A student and a member of the National Honor Society …” I stop. My voice is high and I must sound ridiculous. Mrs. Kelby is looking at me expectantly. I take a deep breath. “Mrs. Kelby, I would really like to work for you. I’ve
made some terrible mistakes in the past, mistakes that won’t ever happen again.” I lean forward and look her straight in the eyes. “I’m starting over and I would be so grateful if you …” My chin begins to wobble and tears fill my eyes. “If you just gave me one chance.”

Mrs. Kelby is quiet for a moment and looks at me, her face impossible to read.

“You know, Allison, I think this might work out well for the both of us. Olene thinks highly of you and I could really use the help.” Mrs. Kelby smiles and there is such kindness in her eyes. A kindness I haven’t seen in a very long time.

I clear my throat and quickly brush away the tears. “Thank you,” I say with relief.

“Great,” she says brightly, and stands. “Can you start the day after tomorrow? Come in at nine and stay until four or so?”

I nod. “That will be great. Thank you, thank you so much!” I reach out to shake her hand again and she takes it without hesitation.

“You’re welcome. This is a great place to work. You’ll get to meet my little boy tomorrow, too. His name is Joshua.”

“I look forward to it. And, Mrs. Kelby,” I say, emotion threatening to spill over again, “I’m going to do a really good job for you. You won’t be sorry.”

I catch myself practically skipping back to Gertrude
House. I want to tell someone about my job interview. Want someone to feel the same excitement I do. But the only person I can imagine calling is Brynn.

For years, I’ve kept having this dream—a nightmare, really—even before I went to jail. The same dream over and over again. It’s not what you’d imagine someone like me would be dreaming about … you’d think babies and rivers. No, you’d be surprised. In my dream I’m at home, studying for the SATs. I’m bent over my books and writing furiously in my notebook when an alarm goes off. This is it. It’s time. I need to go take the tests. I carefully place my books and notebooks in my book bag and I sharpen seven number-two pencils. They have to be number-two pencils; it has to do with the computer being able to read the answer sheets. I calmly walk to my bedroom door. I’m ready, I’m confident that I’m going to ace these tests. My hand reaches for the doorknob. It doesn’t turn.

I try and try to twist it, but nothing. I’m locked in. Panicking, I go to the window and try to lift it open; it’s stuck, too. Air gets locked in my chest—I can’t breathe. I have to get out of my room; I have to go take that test. I pound on the door, calling for my mother, my father, my sister, anyone to let me out. I return to the window and knock on it, trying to get the attention of those down below. No one notices. I beat harder on the window with my hands. My fingers are tingling and
cold from lack of oxygen; I see them turning blue. I’m dying. I need to break the window and in desperation I begin to strike my head against the glass. It shivers and cracks. I feel the blood warm and wet on my forehead. It doesn’t matter. Again I smash my head against the window and again it cracks a bit more. It doesn’t hurt and the need to escape takes over everything else. Over and over I pound and pound my head, until I can’t see through the blood and I can feel the little slivers of glass in my skin.

Then I’d wake, in my bedroom or in my cell, drenched in sweat but shivering from cold.

I don’t give up. Ever. I’m going to get Brynn to talk to me, no matter what it takes.