When You Believe Page 4

  When the architect had designed renovations to the school building, the old-timers in town had thought it awful. Now the school had newfangled beams inside, heavy cement blocks, open iron trusses. There sat Charlie and several students on a truss, hanging over her head with three different tool belts wrapped over beams.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Homecoming decorations,” he informed her. “Nibarger decided we were the only ones who knew how to handle a nail gun.”

  A huge piece of plywood swayed to and fro. Lydia had to step back to see the rounded corners, the silhouette of a monstrous school mascot. In a white dialogue balloon the snake incited GO FIRE-RATTLERS! BURN THE BLAZERS! HOMECOMING 2003. Its fangs jutted at fierce angles from its open serpent jaws.

  Lydia watched Charlie for… what? Some clue? A tip-off that he might not be what he seemed to be? But there he sat, just the Charlie she loved. Just the Charlie she would spend her life with here in Shadrach. Or so they had both planned, before Shelby Tatum had revealed her terrible story.

  Lydia broke off the stare they shared. “I’d better go.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said to the kids, “I’ve got a class to get ready for, too. You guys, we have to make sure this thing is secure. Check that end, would you?” They took turns tightening the hooks, crimping the chain. “Who can help again fourth period? Jason, stop waving your hand. You’ve got a calculus test.”

  Lydia started toward her office. Behind her, she heard the clatter of ladder rungs sliding, a paintbrush falling to the ground.

  “You guys clean up here, okay?”

  She heard the thud as his shoes hit the floor.

  “Hey. Hey, Lyddie.” He grabbed her elbow and she spun around. Despite his jovial tone, his eyes hinted of worry. “What did you do all day yesterday? I thought you were going to come by my classroom after sixth period.”

  “I… I had a meeting with a student. It lasted awhile.”

  The ordinariness of Charlie’s greeting, the openness of his smile, made Shelby’s claim seem all the more ugly. Uglier than death. A single man around high school girls. Air forced itself into her lungs against her will. She toyed with the absurd, impossible thing. He’s been alone for a long time. And if he wanted me . . .

  “I even phoned your uncle’s place last night. He said he hadn’t seen you.”

  “He told me.”

  “Well, then. I wish you had called.”

  Other schoolteachers began to arrive, the muffled monotones of the inner sanctum coming to life. Every conversation was about someone, undertones, words drifting mysteriously in and out of rooms.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. “Are you having second thoughts? Is that it?”

  “No,” she said, the one word so vehement that she made him flinch.

  “Then why are you looking at me like that, Lyddie?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re seeing somebody you don’t know.”

  “I… I’m not doing that, am I?” Then, before he had the chance to dispute her, “I have to get to my office. I’ve got a lot to do this morning.”

  The hissing of air brakes came from outside, the safety beeps of a Shadrach Sanitation truck. The garbage truck played D-flat, measured and perfect, as it reversed toward the nearest Dumpster.

  I ought to come right out and ask him. I ought to say, “Do you know what Shelby told me?”

  He’d think she doubted him. If she asked, he’d think she didn’t trust him. There could be no turning back if she went forward with this; the damage would be done.

  I don’t need reassurances with Charlie. He said himself, I know him better than his own family.

  She knew he touched the thin spot on his sideburn when he was perplexed and she knew how it tickled him when she rubbed between his big toe and the next one, and she knew that when he came up after swimming underwater there was always a little pool of water caught in the scoop of his throat.

  She knew that cat dander gave him the sniffles. She knew he felt responsible for his parents because he was the youngest out of four. She knew he’d once hit five for five in a Little League baseball tournament and that he had played catcher and his best friend, Jay Lundeen, had played pitcher and that every week they’d changed their signals because the coach from Hollowsville was always trying to figure them out.

  She knew the silent, dark-river-eyed look of him whenever he disapproved of something. She knew the sweat smell of him when he’d just come in from running. She knew how handsome he looked dressed in his gray Brooks Brothers suit and his yellow-flecked tie.

  Two steps down the school hall, filled with personal despair, and she turned to say with a lowered voice, “Charlie?”

  “What?”

  “You know a girl named Shelby Tatum?”

  “Who?”

  “A sophomore. Shelby Tatum.”

  A beat. Two. “Oh, Shelby. Sure. I’ve got her third period, don’t I?”

  “Yeah, you’ve got her.”

  He didn’t respond as if anything was out of the ordinary.

  Lydia stood, fluorescent bulbs giving out a gentle buzz overhead. She had that sort of middle pain that made her feel hollowed out, ready to crumble inward. “What sort of a student is she?”

  “Quiet. Good. B student. Why do you ask?”

  She watched his face for signs of unease. Please, no. Please. She didn’t see any. The relief made her dizzy. “She’s been talking to me about things, Charlie.”

  “Oh?” A flicker came, a slight change in his expression. She didn’t know what it meant but she saw it.

  “Yes.”

  It might not have even been noticeable. But she’d seen it, although it had passed too quickly for her to analyze. She could have imagined it. She couldn’t be sure. And then, the shadow of concern in his eyes, the tightening of the cords in his neck. “Is everything okay with her, Lydia? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He had caught up with her in the hallway. When he touched her shoulder, she longed to grab his fingers and to hold them against her skin, to hold on to the hopeless affection, the curl of pleasure that came whenever Charlie was near.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe I didn’t see what I thought I saw. Maybe Shelby didn’t say what I thought she said. Maybe everything I thought I understood isn’t understandable at all.

  But what else did Lydia have to believe in besides her own ears and eyes?

  She stood still, her clammy palms clamped around the edges of the newsprint booklets, knowing that she had become confident and sure of herself because this man loved her. She ached from holding her mouth steady. “Charlie, she said some things about you.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked lost, as if he had no idea what she was talking about. Then he gave a little smile, as if he had it all figured out. “She said I was the best teacher she had ever had. That she wants to take woodshop every semester from now on until she graduates.”

  “No. That isn’t it.”

  “Mr. S? Mr. S!” A cluster of girls bounded up in the hall just then, bouncing and eager, a mixture of gawky colt and prima ballerina.

  They surrounded Charlie. “Hey,” he clapped his hands, not quite as enthusiastic as usual, reluctant to draw his eyes from Lydia’s. “What’s all the excitement here?”

  One girl wore her hair in blonde tufts that resembled the weeds growing from the cracks in the outdoor basketball court. “We want to help with homecoming decorations. If we come out during sixth period, will you let us do something?”

  Lydia focused on his left jaw, the inverted heart-shaped fold and shadow of his ear. “I can’t do it then,” he said. “I have to leave the building during sixth period.” He stepped sideways and caught Lydia’s gaze. “Because I’ve bought a fishing boat.”

  It was something, he’d confided to her, that he’d always dreamed of having. Once, sitting on the edge of Cy Porter’s new dock at su
ndown, their bare feet skimming ribbons in the water, he’d told her he’d had a name picked out for it since he was thirteen.

  Charlie’s Pride.

  “This is it, Lyddie,” he started off, grinning at her. “I know maybe it sounds crazy. There are so many other things we—” He stopped. There are so many other things we’re going to need once we get married. If he’d said too much, it didn’t matter. The troupe of girls had already lost interest and disbanded toward their lockers. “They had a sign about it up over at Show Me Kwik Gas,” he said. “Somebody dropped this boat, in its trailer, off in the front lawn of Big Tree Baptist. In the middle of the night.”

  “Charlie,” she said, knowing she had to make him listen. “By law, I’m required to report the story Shelby told me.”

  “Just parked a boat by the front door and drove away. Church folks decided that Jesus or God or somebody must want them to auction it off. They’ve been taking sealed bids all week down at the Show Me.”

  Lydia made a small, indeterminate sound. It should have been one of those slightly comic moments, something she could tease him about later, her fiancé purchasing something he said he’d always wanted right before they announced their engagement to everyone they knew.

  “Somebody called this morning and said I’d won.” He looked like a little boy who’d bought something he shouldn’t have. “I’ve never had a fish finder, either. That came with it.”

  Before Lydia could stop him, he pitched the keys to his truck to her. “You mind driving me back in the GMC? That trailer isn’t too sturdy and I wanted to keep a close eye out the window.”

  “Charlie—”

  “And you know,” he said, winking at her, “it isn’t just any girl that I would trust to drive my truck.”

  “—did you hear me?”

  Just a smile in the hallway, a conversation or two, a distant knowledge of Shelby’s family, an adolescent girl who’d seemed a little over friendly, anxious to have a friend.

  How could I think I don’t trust him? How could I even think?

  “You have to understand that they don’t ask me to pass judgment. And I’m not. Certainly not about this.”

  He took one step toward her. “Lydia, what are you talking about?”

  “You don’t know?” she asked, and then she wanted to smack herself because she’d made it sound like she expected him to.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Now that she’d come this far, she did not want to voice the ugly thing. But she forced herself, while his truck keys lay heavy and warm in her hand. “Shelby Tatum. Have you ever touched her, Charlie? Have you done anything wrong?”

  “Huh?” He jerked up his chin and frowned at her. “Whadyousay?”

  “Has anything inappropriate happened between you and your student, Charlie?” She had never meant to take it this far. She had only meant to feel him out before she went to the principal.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and stared at her in disbelief. “Why would you even ask that?”

  “Because she says it has.”

  His body reacted first. He straightened, arched his spine, as if the shock coursed through him like electricity. “What?”

  “You heard what I said.”

  “She’s accusing me?”

  “Yes.”

  She could see he wanted to pound something. He wheeled away, slapped a row of lockers, then hung his head. He did a hard, Army-style pushup against the wall.

  Slowly, as if it was all he could do to contain his anger, he turned toward her. He stood with his chin raised and his jaw square. He threw words as if he was throwing dirt clods in her direction. “If she told you that, she’s lying.”

  Yes,yes. Oh, yes, I know.Of course I know she is.

  “I shouldn’t be worried, should I, Lyddie? This isn’t going to be a problem, is it? She’s just some messed-up kid.”

  “There are a lot of people who might not think she’s messed up at all.”

  “Well,” he asked without missing a beat. “Do you?”

  Her chin jerked up. She stared at him.

  “Oh, Charlie.”

  This time he did hit the wall, leaning hard against the flats of his hands. He held the flex as if he could shove all of his anger and frustration into the wall of the school.

  Oh please do something better than that, she wanted to beg him. Say something that will make it easy for me to stop this right here.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lydia eased open the door to Mrs. Brubaker’s second-period advanced-algebra class that Wednesday morning. Through the crack she could hear chalk clicking fervently on the blackboard. “In this case—” Tap tap tap went the chalk. “—degree refers to the largest exponent of the variables in a polynomial. For example, if the largest exponent of the variable is 3, as in Ax-cubed plus Bx-squared plus Cx, the polynomial is of degree 3.”

  Sunlight blazed in through the windows. Rows of students slumped at haphazard angles in their seats, the full weight of their chins propped on their elbows. Whitney Allen, the captain of the Rattler-Den dance team, focused her complete attention on the ribbon dangling from one hank of her hair. Behind Whitney, Adam Buttars drummed his yellow No. 2 pencil against the open pages of his textbook. With sleight of hand, Cassie Meade slipped a note across the aisle to Will Devine. Will socked it away with a magician’s stealth and dexterity.

  “There you have it,” the teacher said to the chalkboard. “When you have x to the n plus x to the n-minus-1 plus x to the n-minus-2, the equation is of degree n. Any questions about that?” Followed by a dull, unresponsive silence.

  Lydia waited a full twenty seconds before she whispered “Knock, knock” and poked her head inside the door. In a hushed voice, “You mind if I interrupt?”

  The chalk rolled into the tray. “No problem.” Judy Brubaker straightened and dusted off her hands.

  “I need to see one of your kids in the counseling office. You mind?”

  The algebra teacher pulled open a drawer, took out a stack of peel-off hall passes. “Which one?”

  “Shelby Tatum.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Judy dropped the pad of passes inside the drawer again and Lydia’s heart plummeted to her toes. “That one came through as an unexcused absence this morning.”

  “I see.”

  “Sorry. No Shelby today.”

  Lydia hurried back down the hall to the office, her sandals making a rapid ker-snap ker-snap on the floor. “We don’t have an excused absence for Tatum?” she asked as she passed the first row of metal workstations.

  Someone called after her, “Nothing from a parent yet.”

  Lydia headed straight for the multi-use file cabinet in Mayhem Central, which is what the teachers called the administration office. She wound her way through five different staff members doing five different things, yanked open the third drawer, and rifled through the queue of green, dog-eared forms.

  Tanner.

  Tasker.

  Tattersall.

  Ah, there she was. Tatum, S. Lydia seized the paper from its place and squired the St. Clair County School District Emergency Information Form back to her quiet cubicle, reading the entire time.

  Social security number, birth date, insurance policy. Mother or guardian’s name: Tamara Tatum Olin, who resides at 913 Sweetwater Court, Shadrach. Physician: Dr. Stanley Lerch, with his clinic in Osceola. In case of emergency contact: Mr. Milburn Woodruff, same address, different number. Relationship to student: grandfather. Yes, the box was checked, my child may have Tylenol and topical first-aid preparation. No, my child does not have any known allergies. Yes, my child may participate in field trips.

  There were no notes saying: Yes, this child can exaggerate. Yes, this girl often tells stories for attention. Yes, she sometimes fibs and causes problems.

  Lydia dragged her telephone across her desk, punched a button for an open line and dialed the establishment listed as mother’s workplace.

  “Shadrach Land Titl
e,” a girl answered like she was singing a Branson country song. “You can’t lien on us.”

  “Tamara Olin, please.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  What has happened at your house, Mrs. Olin? Why isn’t your daughter in my office today?

  A quiet whirring came, and the line was connected. Someone else picked it up, asked, “You looking for Tammy?”

  “Yes.”

  “She isn’t in, I’m afraid. Some sort of family emergency or something.”

  The adrenaline buzz began in Lydia’s ears again, heavy and unnavigable, stealing her senses.

  “Perhaps someone else in the office can help you.”

  “No… I mean, well, this is a personal call.”

  “She may be at home. You might want to try her there.”

  “I will.”

  Lydia dialed a second string of digits and waited, her hand gripping the earpiece as if everything depended on it; if she clasped the receiver hard enough against her head, Shelby might answer the phone.

  I didn’t know the name you were going to give me was Charlie’s.

  After all I coaxed you to say, you have to find someone else to do this for you. I can’t get tied up in this, do you understand?

  The answering machine picked up and all the breath went out of her. She sat through a garbled message and a long series of beeps before she finally admitted that no one would be answering at the house.

  Where could they be, if Shelby was sick? If she was trying to change a lie? Or if she had broken down, trying to make them hear her?

  The fourth period bell rang. From outside the counseling office, conversation spilled in. “At senior night there were seven of them, a couple of big girls that are coming up, two sophomores, and one little point guard. But I don’t—”

  The conversation faded down the hall.

  Oh, Father. How do I know what to believe?

  On Lydia’s desk sat a half-empty jar of candy Kisses. She dug for one, took it out and twisted, twisted the wrapper until the foil fell to pieces between her fingers.

  Of course, I believe Charlie. I’m in love with Charlie.

  With painful care, she set the tear-shaped chocolate on her desk. She stared at it until it began to swim before her eyes.