The Forgetting Time(49)

And there was the Sawyers’ gray house with the basketball hoop, same as ever, and there was McKinley. There were lights on in the office. Too late for afterschool and there weren’t enough cars to suggest a meeting; probably it was the custodial staff. Or Dr. Ramos was working late.

If he was still the principal. Probably he had moved on. He had always been an ambitious man.

The light went off. She should go. But she sat in the car until the robust figure of Roberto Ramos exited the building, heading for his car in the parking lot. The same Subaru. He reached into his pocket, fumbling for his keys, and then out of some instinct he looked up and saw her car across the street. They looked at each other across that distance, a tall figure in a black coat; a battered minivan. She shivered in the cold air of the car, rubbing her arms. Maybe he’d just wave, get in his car, and go on. She hoped that was what he’d do.

And yet there he was, knocking on the window. She paused a millisecond and then unlocked the door. He slid in beside her in a rush of air and body heat, so vivid with his smooth pink cheeks and black hair and red scarf that it hurt her eyes to look at him. It was a mistake to have come here. So many mistakes today. She focused her attention on the steering wheel.

“Denise. It’s so good to see you.”

“I was just passing by on my way home. I work over at the Oxford Home now, you know, on Crescent Avenue.”

“I’d heard that.”

He rubbed his hands together. He was wearing winter gloves. “Some spring, huh. Hard to believe it’s April.”

“Yes.”

“And how’re they treating you over at the home?”

“Oh, fine, thanks. They’re good people, most of ’em, anyway.

“Glad to hear that. It’s so cold in here, can you—?”

She turned on the car. The heater whirred to life.

They sat there, warming up. “That’s better. Isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“We’ve missed you, you know. I’ve missed you. Best first grade teacher we’ve ever had.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

He put his gloved hand on top of her bare one and she let him, the muffled warmth of his flesh working its way slowly through the leather. Her principal; they’d worked well together for years. Just over six years ago now. No time at all, and yet she’d lived a hundred thousand lifetimes in between.

They had never talked about what had happened between them, and she’d been grateful for that. And yet it was one of the few memories she came back to—that she could stand coming back to—a half hour of time, six years ago, after the Valentine’s Dance at the school. Eight months after Tommy had gone missing.

Those were the months, early on, when she thought maybe she could pick up where she left off, that it would be easier to go on with the life she’d had, taking care of Charlie, teaching her classes. She still checked findTommynow.com every night, of course, and put up fresh flyers in the library when the old ones became encroached upon, Tommy’s chin covered by someone else’s yoga lessons or baby and me classes. She no longer threw the offending flyers in the trash but simply moved them aside, tacking them a good few inches away from her boy’s sweet face, and got herself out of there.

Dr. Ferguson thought going back to work might not be the worst thing for her—anything to ground her. The somberness never entirely left the other teachers’ faces when they looked at her—laughter stopped when she entered the faculty room, though this had always been the case, actually. She was never sure why. Maybe they thought she was too proper for the kinds of jokes they told, when at one time she would have enjoyed hearing them. The parents, too, were uncomfortable with her, but she didn’t mind. She was a robot, not a woman, but no one needed to know that. The kids were a little scared of the woman whose son went missing, and they knew something wasn’t right with her, but they couldn’t put it into words.

She was fine. Especially when there was work to do. That’s why she had volunteered to chaperone the Valentine’s Day Dance, and why she’d stayed late, cleaning up.

They’d been the last two left. Dr. Ramos had told the other teachers to go—she was the only one who resisted. They worked silently, swiping down the streamers like candy-colored cobwebs, sweeping the cupcake crumbs and the sparkles and paper hearts from the floor. “You really should go home, Denise,” he’d said after a while. “I’ll finish up here. I’m sure your husband’s waiting for you.”

“No,” she said. She didn’t really want to leave. She had nothing to do at home.

“Excuse me?”

“I just meant, Henry’s away on tour and Charlie’s on an overnight with his grandma. Why don’t you go, maybe you can pick up some flowers for your wife—”

“Cheryl and I are separated.” He sat down heavily on the bleachers and tugged his hair with his hands. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. It just happened.” His eyes watered suddenly. “Damn it all. I wasn’t going to do this. I’m so sorry, Denise. I’m such an ass.”

He had never called her Denise before. It was always Mrs. Crawford. She sat down next to him.

“What are you sorry for?”