Misconduct(39)

She approached. “I was just heading out, but I found Christian’s laptop in the TV room.” She handed it over. “I’m not sure where his charger is, and I didn’t want to leave it on the floor.”

I took it and set it down on top of my closed one.

“Thank you.” I smiled. “Now get home before your husband comes down on me,” I teased.

She rolled her eyes and waved me off. “All right. I’ll see how the weather is the day after tomorrow. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Will do.”

I watched her leave and then picked up the laptop, ready to set it aside, but then I stopped, hesitating for a moment.

Social media groups.

Letting my curiosity get the better of me, I set the laptop back down and opened it up.

I powered up the computer and brought up the Internet. Facebook was the home page, and I held back, feeling guilty about invading his privacy.

But I wasn’t prying unnecessarily. I was researching. I wanted to know what my son was like.

There was a shit ton of selfies, mostly young girls, and I immediately scrolled quicker, suddenly feeling like a perv for nosing around their adolescent world.

I caught sight of his groups on the left and saw MS. BRADBURY FIRST PERIOD and clicked on it.

Scrolling down the posts, I saw photos of student work, discussion threads about what they had talked about that day, and even parents commenting with their opinions on a historical event.

The participation was widespread, and everyone seemed excited.

I couldn’t help feeling like shit.

Christian was in this group, interacting with his peers, their parents, and his teacher, and I was nowhere.

I saw a message from Ms. Bradbury posted about two hours ago, wishing the kids a pleasant and safe few days off and to not forget to work on their assignments which were still due Friday.

Some of the students commented with pictures or jokes all done in good humor. They seemed to like her.

And I still knew almost nothing about her.

I closed the laptop and set it aside, opening up my own again.

I hesitated for only a moment, and then brought up my web browser, typing in “Easton Bradbury.”





NINE


EASTON





I

tore open the bag of microwave popcorn, a steam cloud full of the scent of butter and salt bursting forth as I shook the contents out into a large glass bowl.

“Always” by Saliva played on the iPod, and I bobbed my head to the music. Tossing the bag away, I grabbed two Coronas out of the refrigerator.

“All right. Your windows are all secure,” my brother called as he pounded down the stairs. “I’m surprised you don’t have shutters, though. I thought you’d think of that, Miss Self-Sufficient.”

I shook my head, handing him a beer. “Well, consider it my next project.”

He grabbed the bottle opener out of the drawer and popped the top. “There’s no way you’re hanging out the windows to install them yourself, Easton. You’re hiring someone to do that job.”

I shook more salt onto the popcorn. “I was going to.”

“No, you weren’t,” he deadpanned.

I laughed to myself. No, I wasn’t.

Installing shutters sounded fun. Of course, I’d have little knowledge of what I was doing, and by the time I was done, the house would probably look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, but it’d be something new to learn.

And it would get Jack off my back.

I think it honestly bugged him that I didn’t need his help more, which was why he reveled in situations such as these. It gave him the opportunity to hover even when I’d assured him the house was ready for a storm. Windows and doors secure, batteries and flashlights stocked in the kitchen drawer, and food and water shelved in the pantry if need be. That was about all we could do.

The ominous clouds this morning had turned into a light rain this afternoon, and after considering the forecast for the next forty-eight hours, most schools in the parish had decided to close. E-mails and letters were sent home to parents, and I posted in the Facebook groups, reminding students that the chapter test was still set for Friday and to continue with their reading to prepare.

I’d come home, changed into some pajama shorts and my Loyola Wolf Pack T-shirt, and then downloaded some scary movies. Jack had rushed over to make sure I was safe.

“Maybe I should stay here,” he offered, leaning against the counter behind me.

I picked two cloth napkins out of the drawer and then popped the top on my Corona. “Jack, when was I born?” I asked, not looking at him.

“November seventh.”

“What year?” I pressed.

“Nineteen ninety-one.”

“Which makes me how old?” I ran my hand over the napkin, smoothing the folded rectangle as I waited.

“Twenty-three.” He sighed.

I turned and looked at him, his contrite expression telling me he understood everything I didn’t say. He didn’t need to hold my hand during a rainstorm or worry that I’d cross paths with a black cat.

“I’m twenty-three,” I reiterated. “I don’t worry that you can take care of yourself.”

“I haven’t gone through what you’ve gone through,” he said, sounding defensive but sad. “You were sixteen when he started…”