The Dearly Departed
So it was with well-disguised delight that Nancy Mobilio listened to a committee of three ninth-graders complain that Miss Batten couldn’t teach health to save her life.
“You should hear her,” said Ogden, who already wore the haughty look and out-of-season striped wool scarf of a future society hooligan.
“She calls us names,” said Hugh.
“Such as?”
“‘You little shits,’” Rufus provided. “That was today. Yesterday I think it was …”
“‘Jerk! You jerks,’” yelled Hugh.
“Tell her that other thing,” said Rufus.
Ogden unwound his scarf and cleared his throat. “The stuff we’re learning? In health? My father saw my notes over March break and he thought it was porno.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was the handouts she gave us on female anatomy. It listed the words and then the definitions.”
“‘Clitoris: Female organ of pleasure!’” Ogden shouted gleefully.
“That’s quite enough,” said Mrs. Mobilio.
“My father called her up to ask what the hell she was teaching us, and she said it was science,” Rufus continued.
“Do you know if your father called the headmaster as well?”
“I think he changed his mind because Miss Batten gave me an eighty in health and it was my highest grade.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Mobilio.
“Is she gonna get fired?” asked Hugh.
“We don’t fire teachers because our students complain about them. What kind of due process would that be?”
“Huh?” said the boys.
“How fair would that be? We ascertain that there’s a basis for your charges. Then and only then would we discuss it with Miss Batten.”
“She sucks as a teacher,” said Rufus.
“For the record, I hate that word,” said Mrs. Mobilio.
“Can we go now?” asked Ogden.
“Let me ask you this: Are you speaking for the class? Are you three voices or fifteen?”
“Fifteen,” they said in unison.
“And why did you bring this to me as opposed to, for example, Dr. Lucey or Mr. Samuels?”
Hugh, who’d made the honor roll one term, spoke for the delegation. “We talked about who to go to, and we decided you’d be the most interested.” His friends nodded. “Also, we figured you’d want to help.”
“’Cause that’s your job, right?” added Ogden.
Mrs. Mobilio was not popular; she was visited by students infrequently and flattered even less. “It is one of the hats I wear,” she murmured.
“Are you going to do anything?” asked Hugh.
“The term is almost up. Do you think you can live with this situation for”—she turned several pages on her desk calendar—“three more weeks?”
“Then are you gonna fire her?”
“I don’t have any such powers, and furthermore, I explained to you about fairness and due process here at Harding.”
“His grandfather’s a trustee,” said Hugh, pointing to Ogden. “Plus, his father and all his uncles went here.”
“They could’ve named the new science building after him, but he likes to give money away anonymously,” Ogden said.
“You’re crazy if you don’t call him,” said Rufus. “I think he’d love to know that a teacher called you a shithead inside the building he paid for.”
“Are you gonna talk to Miss Batten?” asked Hugh.
“She’s fucked,” Rufus mouthed to his roommate.
Hugh added, “I mean, she’s nice sometimes, but most of the time you can tell she hates us.”
“No one at Harding hates anyone,” said Mrs. Mobilio.
“They’re lying,” Sunny told her chairman, Fred Samuels, who was sporting his trademark bow tie and buzz cut.
“More than one reported it.”
“Who were they?”
“I promised I wouldn’t say.”
“Why?”
“The usual fears—that you’d find out and they may have to face the music.”
“Me?” asked Sunny. “I’m the music?”
Samuels picked up his pen. “I need to ask your version of events.”
Sunny looked down at her lap. She’d been called out of practice and was still wearing a glove on her left hand.
“They say you called them names,” he prompted. “They said epithets were hurled—”
“They used that word? Epithets?”
“I need to know your version of events,” he repeated.
“This is not a version—this is the truth: I came into class and someone had drawn a naked man lying on top of a naked woman on the blackboard, and both were waving golf clubs in the air.” She took off her glove and stuffed it into the pocket of her chinos. “Not to be confused with the man’s erect, anatomically correct shaft.”
“I see. And what did you do?”
“I erased it, and then I turned around and said, ‘You’re like real-life clichés of nasty boys in movies about prep schools.’”
“They said you swore at them.”
“I called them nasty, spoiled brats.”
“Is there any chance you used the words little shits or shitheads?”
“None.”
“And if they reported that, they’d be lying?”
“Correct.”
“Still—it’s unusual for students to go to Mrs. Mobilio and complain about a teacher not having any control over the class.”
Sunny said, “Mrs. Mobilio? That changes the complexion of this matter slightly, I would say.”
Mr. Samuels’s face reddened.
“Clearly, you grasped the significance of the golf clubs.”
“Hard not to,” he murmured.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I am not having an affair with Chuck Mobilio.”
“I was quite sure of that,” he mumbled.
“It’s a stupid rumor based on the fact that he coaches varsity and I coach the j.v. and we happen to share an office.”
Samuels put his pen down and lowered his voice. “Entre nous?”
Sunny nodded.
“Chuck may have had a dalliance or two in the past, before you came here. There may be a problem between him and Nancy in the trust department.” He put his fingers to his lips. “You didn’t hear this from me.”
Sunny pictured the covert Mobilio gaze, the too-long and too-frank stare with which he punctuated their conversations when he thought no one else was watching.
“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Samuels said. “I’m going to let you off the hook as far as teaching health is concerned—”
“Are you firing me?”
“No! I’ve already talked to some people in the offices—development and admissions—about administrative jobs there.”
“And you don’t think that relieving me of my duties is the same thing as firing me?”
Samuels shook his head. “You were hired principally to coach golf and move into the varsity slot after a one-year trial. I think the students admire you for that and at the same time appreciate that you were, shall we say, untested in the classroom.”
“Who’s going to teach health now?”
“Chuck.” He coughed into his closed fist. “Mobilio.”
“Great. Perfect choice, since mine are extremely small shoes to fill.”
“The school is honoring its contract,” Samuels said, his voice now cool and eye contact abandoned. “Golf ends on Friday, May twenty-seventh. Finals begin the following Monday. Graduation is June the second. I’m sure you can appreciate that we’re doing our best under the circumstances.”
“I’ll be gone on the third,” Sunny said.
CHAPTER 5 King’s Nite
Mrs. Peacock couldn’t help looking pleased that the next of kin to a tragedy had checked into her motel. There was a connection, she explained: Her husband worked for Herlihy Brothers Fuel, and it was the two bosses, Danny and Sean, who’d fixed the fatal furnace. Volunteered. For free. Not that Miss Batten’s mother was one of their accounts. Not at all.
“That was very kind of them,” said Sunny.
“It’s good public relations. They’re smart in that way.” She ran Sunny’s credit card through her machine, once, twice, frowning. “Sometimes it’s the phone lines and not the credit limit. I’ll swipe it through again.”
“There shouldn’t be a problem.”
“We have a two-night minimum starting June first,” said Mrs. Peacock, whose gray hair had a pale lavender cast and whose coral beads matched her coral clip-on earrings.
“Fine.”
“Don’t think people weren’t upset about all of this happening in King George. First, your mother and Miles Finn, then, before we turn around, we almost lose our police chief. Another few inches and a bullet would’ve killed him, which makes me wonder what’s so great about bullet-proof vests if you consider all the parts of the body they don’t cover.”
“I’m in number ten?” Sunny said after a pause.
“Last unit. Don’t put anything in the toilet but toilet paper. Our septic tank can’t handle anything else.”
“Fine,” said Sunny.
“You can get a decent breakfast—eggs, toast, home fries, bacon, coffee—at The Dot.”
Finally, Sunny smiled. “Do the Angelos still own it?”
“Yeah. He’s sick, you know.”
“Do they still make those maple sausages?”
“I eat at home. You can’t smoke there anymore. Besides, I don’t like paying a dollar-fifty for a fried egg.”
“I’d better unpack,” said Sunny.
At 5,6, and 11 P.M., Joey Loach watched himself on three Boston TV stations looking worse than he realized and needing a shave. No reporter had asked him the question he feared—Why, in a one-horse town with no crime and no criminals, were you wearing a bullet-proof vest?
“Was I wrong?” he would have said. “Wouldn’t I be dead now if I didn’t arm myself every morning when I left my house?” For three years his vest had been a secret, purchased with his own money, a promise he’d made to his mother and the condition on which she had let him go to the police academy.
Elsie Loach was both inconsolable about her son’s near disaster, imagining the inches in either direction that would have left him dead or paralyzed, and triumphant that she’d saved his life. She wanted him to resign immediately. No one’s son should be a police officer! They should come from the ranks of orphans and middle-aged men whose mothers have passed on. He practically lived at the station, like a firefighter, like a lighthouse keeper, like a monk. She’d brought the braided rug from his room at home and a reading lamp for his bedside, which necessitated her acquiring and refinishing a solid maple night table from the rummage sale at Saint Xavier’s along with a bureau scarf that wasn’t frilly or stained.
Strangers assumed that she was thrilled to have Joey in uniform; exhilarated by the sight of him behind the wheel of his cruiser, pressed and clean-shaven, but she wasn’t. She turned off the news when she saw reports of police officers shot, killed, sued, eulogized. And now it had happened. A crazy man had shot Joey at close range as he ambled in his good-natured fashion up to the half-open window of—as best as he could remember—a Ford pickup with Massachusetts plates. They were out there—nuts and murderers; sociopaths who thought it was better to kill someone’s son than get a ticket. Marilee and her husband had safe jobs—day-care teacher at a state building with a metal detector and dairy manager at Foodland.
Worst of all, the murderer was at large. “He’s gone,” Joey had promised. “Even the stupidest cop killer would get out of town and not look back.”
“Maybe he wasn’t just passing through. Maybe this was his destination. Maybe he was out to get you.”
“I pulled him over! He shot me because he must’ve had drugs in the car or it was stolen, or there was a body in the trunk.”
“Promise me you’ll let the state police handle this. Let someone else go looking for him.”
“I’m not going looking for him, okay?”
“Will you spend tonight at home?”
He shook his head. She walked from the foot of his bed to one side. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“I want to see what he did to you.”
Joey pulled the thin cotton blanket up to his shoulders. “It’s black-and-blue. They told me to expect a few more shades before I’m done. But forget it. I’m not showing you.”
“Is it very painful?”
“No,” he lied.
She narrowed her eyes. “They said on television it was like getting beat up by a heavyweight boxer.”
“Nah,” said Joey. “Bantamweight, maybe.”
She opened the flat, hinged carton that held his new bullet-proof vest, picked it up by its shoulders, held it against her own chest, and said, “It seems so flimsy.”
“That’s the point—lighter; new and improved.”
“But strong enough to stop the bullets?”
“Definitely. More than ever. You’re worrying about nothing. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.”
“That’s not true! If you’re chief of police, you’re a lightning rod.”
“This is King George, Ma. This was a bad break, but it’s not going to happen again.”
“What if he’s never caught? How do I get to sleep at night knowing he’s out there?”
“You’ll sleep fine. So will I. In fact I’ve got a prescription for sleeping pills. I’ll give you one.” He folded the blanket to his waist. “Now I’m getting out of bed and I’m getting dressed, so you may want to leave.”
“I’ll wait in the hall. I want to speak to the nurses anyway.”
“About what?”
“I want someone besides you to tell me that the doctor discharged you.”
Joey picked up a cord and followed it to its grip. “See this? It brings a nurse in five seconds and I’ll tell her you’re harassing me.”
Mrs. Loach looked around the room. “Your uniform. Where is it? Can I mend it?”
Joey’s mouth formed a tight, grim line. He shook his head. “The FBI gets the uniform.”
Mrs. Loach backed up to the visitor’s chair and sat down heavily.
Joey tried again. “I think visiting hours are just about over. Besides, it’s polite to give the patient privacy when he wants to get out of bed and his ass is hanging out of his johnny.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. “Why does the FBI need your pants if you were shot in the chest?”
“For lab work. Ballistics. Powder burns. You know the drill.”
“I wish I didn’t!” she cried. “I sit around hoping I’ll never get a phone call from the emergency room, and then it happened, like my worst fear come true.”
He sidled out of bed and walked backward to the bathroom. “It wasn’t your worst fear, though, was it, because I’m fine. The vest worked. I’ve made those phone calls to mothers—’There’s been an accident, and I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith or Jones, but your son didn’t make it.’ That’s someone’s worst fear. This is nothing. Day before last, I had to call the son of the man who died at Margaret Batten’s house. And then Sunny. She’d have been thrilled if her mother was merely in the hospital with the wind knocked out of her.”
“Margaret Batten,” murmured Mrs. Loach. “What a terrible thing.”
“You’re right about that, and it gets worse. Her daughter heard it secondhand from Finn’s son. I called him because she wasn’t home. But that didn’t bother him: He left a message on her answering machine. That’s how she found out.”
It had the desired effect: Mrs. Loach’s features reset themselves for a new course of misfortune. “That poor girl,” she cried.
Joey closed the bathroom door behind him.
“There was just the two of them,” she said. “And I always admired the way her mother fought for her. I hope I told her that. I must have at some point.”
“No doubt,” said Joey.
“Were you nice to Sunny?” his mother called.
“Of course I was.”
“Sometimes you can be brusque over the phone.”
“To you.”
“Did she go to high school with you or with Marilee?”
“Me.”
“She was the girl who golfed, right? Wasn’t there some hysteria about her playing on the boys’ team?”
“They had to let her play. They didn’t have a girls’ team and she was better than all of the boys.”
“It’s because of where she lived,” called his mother. “If you grow up next to a mountain, you learn to ski, and if you live next to a country club, you learn to golf.”
“What?” Joey yelled.
“Bad luck, as it turned out, that house by the golf course. And you know what makes it worse? They fixed the furnace in a half hour. Maybe less.”
“Who did?”
“Herlihy Brothers Fuel just showed up—not ten minutes after they read about it in the Bulletin. Sean and Danny both.”
“Who let them in?”
“I did! When no one answered at the station, they came by the house.”
“But, Ma—”
“No charge. They donated their services.”
“What about the police tape no one was supposed to cross?”
“The door was open. They know their stuff, believe me. They wear gas masks or whatever they’re called these days.”
“Ma! How many goddamn times do I have to tell you that you can’t let every Tom, Dick—”
“I’m leaving,” she said, “but only because you sound like yourself and can walk and do your business. Just promise—”
“No promises,” he yelled, followed by a muffled, “Ouch. Shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!”
“I heard you say ouch.”
“I’m a little sore. It’s nothing. Just go. I’ll call you tomorrow. And stop making decisions about police matters. Nobody swore you in as my deputy.”
There was silence beyond the bathroom. Joey opened the door.
His mother’s face brightened. “Should I strip the bed?” she asked.
The hospital operator said that Chief Loach’s condition was not a matter of public record. Could she have the name of the caller?
“Sunny Batten.”
The operator gasped, then introduced herself as Danielle Thibault’s sister Celeste, two years ahead of Sunny in high school. So sorry for her loss. Every time she picked up the newspaper, it seemed, there was a tragic headline about someone she knew. Oops. Hold on.
Celeste returned. “Everyone’s calling about him since it was on the news.”
“You can’t say if he’s still there?”
Celeste paused. “I’m not supposed to. And get this: That’s a direct order from the FBI: ‘If anyone calls asking about Chief Loach’s condition, take down his name.’” Celeste’s tone grew conspiratorial. “A couple of women didn’t leave their names, but I knew exactly who they were.”
“Who?”
“Old girlfriends of his! Linda LaDue, Patty Timmins, for sure. Or it could have been her sister. They sound the same.”
After a moment Sunny said, “I did see him on the news, but I’m calling for official reasons.”
“Call him at the station. He should be back by now. Or run over there. Where are you calling from?”
“King’s Nite.”
“The office phone or the pay phone?”
“Pay phone.”
“Is there a light on in the front of the station—I mean, not just the porch light, but inside?”
Sunny turned and looked.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s there. Just walk over. The front door’ll be open. If he’s snoozing in the back, ring the bell on his desk. How long are you up here for?”
Sunny said, “Until I figure out where to go next.”
“Any chance you’d stay?”
“First I need a job,” said Sunny.
“Like what?”
“A change,” said Sunny. “I was teaching, which I sort of fell into. I think I might try something a little more exciting.”
“We have openings here,” said Celeste. “In fact they just posted ‘In-patient Pharmacy Technician.’ Heather Machonski’s taking maternity leave. Do you want me to pick you up an application?”
“Not just yet,” said Sunny.
“You probably want something out of doors, right? You were the big tennis player.”
“Golf,” said Sunny.
“I’d try the summer camps,” said Celeste. “Maybe they have camps for golfers—there’s one for everything else.”
“Maybe when my head is clearer,” said Sunny.
“Gotta get this. You stay strong, okay? Call me if you want to bounce any job ideas off me. In any event, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Sunny repeated.
“Your wake, hon,” said Celeste.
“Keep it on,” said Sunny as Chief Loach snapped off the television and jumped to his feet. “Joe—it’s me, Sunny. I made it back just in time to hear you were shot.”
“Shot at,” he said. “The bullets bounced off me.” He banged a fist against his ribs. “Kryptonite.” He winced. “More or less.”
“No damage?”
“Plenty,” he said. “I’m black-and-blue like I was worked over by an angry mob.”
“Should you be back at work so soon?”
“I’m it. There’s no one else.”
“When do you sleep?”
He shook his head. “I’ll let you in on a little secret: Nothing ever happens here—until this week, that is. I’ve been in this job for three years. I was on the Keene force for nine years before that, but I swear to God this thing at your mother’s house is the first time I had to put up my police tape.”
He stared at her hair. Finally, he pointed. “When did this happen?”
“Prematurely.”
“Like, overnight?”
“Not overnight. You haven’t seen me since graduation.”
“It’s nice,” said Joey. “Gray-blond, you could say.”
Sunny didn’t respond.
“So where have you been?”
“College. Then various schools, teaching.”
“How many?”
“Three: one in New York and two in Connecticut. Private schools, so I had to teach and coach and sleep and eat in one place, all for a pittance. I couldn’t find a good fit.” She backed up to the visitors’ bench and sat down.
“You okay?” he asked.
Sunny shook her head.
“Want a glass of water? Or juice? I’ve got a refrigerator in the back. Or I can pop a potato into the microwave.”
She looked up at the large, plain-faced wall clock: nine o’clock, and she couldn’t remember when or what lunch had been.
Joey asked, “Anything I can do for you?”
Sunny said, “I’m staying at the King’s Nite, and I don’t have a phone in my room.”
“Do you want to use mine?”
“I just thought you should know I was here if anything came up.”
“Did you want to go to the house tomorrow?”
Sunny closed her eyes, then opened them before she spoke. “Not unless I have to.”
“There’s nothing there that would upset you. I mean, sure—everything would upset you—the house where you grew up and then your mother dies there. But I meant everything’s in order. It’s not creepy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Who put everything in order?”
“I stopped by on my way back from the hospital to take down the police tape.” He shrugged. “Maybe I moved some dirty dishes to the sink.”
“Have I asked you if they had been there all night? I mean, I know they were, but did anyone figure out how long before they were discovered?”
“Mr. Finn picked up their sandwich orders at The Dot, so we know they were alive the night before. They must’ve been overcome between dinner and when the paperboy arrived. It wasn’t really important to pinpoint the exact time of death”
“I guess,” said Sunny wanly, “that you only have to do that if there’s a murder.”
“So they tell me.” Joey checked his clipboard. “Mr. Finn’s next of kin? Fletcher?” He looked up. “Has he been any help?”
Sunny said, “Not so far.”
“Is he here?”
“He’s coming up for the funeral, but he’s too busy to come any earlier.” She stood up and said, “I’m sure you’re busy, too.”
“Busy putting ice on my hematomas,” he said. When she didn’t respond, he added, “No one told me to do that, but it feels better when I do.”
“Did they catch the man who shot you?”
Joey said firmly, “They will, any second. Nothing to worry about.” He reached for his hat, grimaced in pain at the stretch. “C’mon. I’ll walk you back.”
“No. I’m fine. You’re working.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Friday morning. The wake is tomorrow night.”
“Dickie been okay? Helpful and all that?”
Sunny shrugged. “He wanted the wake at the funeral parlor, but I insisted. He said he’d need a permit for the theater, but I said, ‘Give me the name and number of the custodian and I’ll make one phone call.’ It turned out it was his sister’s husband—”
“Roland LaPlante.”