The Fragile World. Paula Treick DeBoardЧитать онлайн книгу.
been waiting for it. Maybe I’d known since the moment Bill Meyers had appeared on the cafeteria roof. He was going to do it—he was going to release me, quickly and painlessly as pulling off a Band-Aid.
But instead, Bill laid out a rationale over the next hour or so, and everything he said made perfect sense. I was struggling. I wasn’t giving one hundred percent. The state testing—that grasping, insatiable god all public school teachers worshipped—was over, the year was winding down. It was nearly May, so I could limp through the last month of the school year, doing right by no one. I could keep going through the motions. But it wasn’t fair to my students. It wasn’t fair to my own sense of integrity. I stiffened again when he mentioned that it wasn’t fair to Olivia—but I was starting to see that he was right. What was Olivia doing at this very moment? Probably freaking out about what I’d done.
On the other hand, Bill pointed out—I did have plenty of sick leave accrued. I’d taken two weeks when Daniel died, and the odd day here and there during my annual bout with laryngitis, but I had more than enough days banked to take the whole rest of the year. I could start fresh in the fall, and my job would be waiting for me.
As for Olivia, Bill continued—something could probably be worked out if we wanted to take a little time off. Independent study packets, an incomplete that could be amended later, a summer class at a community college to fulfill the P.E. requirement. There were options; it just required a little creative thinking. “She’s a good kid,” he said. “She’s going to come through one way or another.”
Of course, I thought. Of course she’ll come through.
Then Bill said, “Forget about school,” with a little flick of his wrist as if school had no significance at all. “Forget about students and responsibilities to the job. For now, just forget about all of that. What you need is to figure out what you really want to happen in your life, Curt. What is it that Curtis Kaufman needs to do right now, more than anything else in the world? What’s going to be the best thing for Curtis Kaufman and his family?”
His question startled me, even though it was one I’d been considering in a subconscious way, all week.
My eyes flicked to the print on the wall. It was a vintage Jefferson Airplane poster, hand-lettered. Kathleen had found it at a store near Haight-Ashbury on a trip to San Francisco early in our marriage, then mounted and framed it. It had hung in our first apartment, and later in the two-bedroom house we’d rented until Olivia was born, when we’d offered our meager savings for the down payment on this house, which Kathleen had dubbed the “funky fixer-upper” and I’d fondly referred to as “the money pit.” I’d half expected Kathleen to take the frame off the wall when she went, but maybe it was more significant that she’d simply left it behind.
And maybe it was significant that behind that particular frame I’d taped the letter from the Lorain County D.A. Although we understand that such a notification is not welcome to families of victims...
“Curt? Are you listening? It’s important to rediscover your purpose. I know that must sound like a bunch of New Age bullshit, but—”
“No, you’re right,” I said. The tightness in my chest, which had been there all day, was releasing, like the loosening grip of a blood pressure cuff.
My purpose.
One single act could set everything right, reestablish the balance in our lives.
Deep down, of course, I had known this all along.
I needed to kill Robert Saenz.
At 3:15 p.m., Mrs. Silva and I got into her little red Volkswagen Beetle and navigated our way through Sacramento. I tried very hard not to grab on to the door handle every time we turned, and it seemed that she was trying very hard not to appear annoyed with the situation—angling the A/C vent directly toward me, turning the radio station to something fast and upbeat. It was a relief to see Dad’s SUV in the driveway, to feel for a second that everything might be normal. We parked on the street, and Mrs. Silva followed a few feet behind me. I was shaking as I let myself in the front door, not sure what I would find inside.
Mr. Meyers met me in the entryway, stooping to avoid our overhead light fixture. “Hey, Olivia. I think your dad is going to be fine, but just in case, I’m going to leave this with you, okay?” He passed me a slip of paper with a phone number and his name printed in block letters: BILL MEYERS—HOME.
I folded the paper and pushed it deep into a pocket. It was uncomfortable and strange enough to have my school principal in our home—I couldn’t imagine calling him at his.
“You’re all right now, Curt?” Mr. Meyers asked, and from the couch Dad said, “You bet, Bill.”
“Dad?” I let my backpack slide to the floor and studied him. He looked normal—not unfocused like he’d looked coming down from the cafeteria roof, and not grayish like he’d looked only this morning on our way to school. He actually looked good, healthy and smiling, as though he’d been home all afternoon doing shots of wheatgrass infused with extra vitamin C.
He patted the couch. “Come here, Liv.”
I sank down next to him, leaning my head automatically into his shoulder, something I hadn’t done in a long time. My head must have grown, because it wasn’t the comfortable fit I used to remember.
“Hey...hey. Don’t cry.”
I was about to protest that I wasn’t crying, that I was freaked out since my father had been sitting on the roof of the cafeteria, thank you very much, but I wasn’t going to cry about it. And then I realized that my shoulders were heaving, and my breath was coming out funny, and that Dad, as usual, was right.
Outside, a car started; Mrs. Silva and Mr. Meyers had left. This made me a little worried, and then it worried me that I was worried—because being with Dad should have been the least worrisome thing in the world.
I pulled away and looked at him. “What happened?”
“Really, it was nothing. I just felt like I needed to take a little break.” There was something I didn’t trust about his face. It was exactly the way I’d look if someone had a gun to my back and was telling me to smile or else.
“In the middle of the school day. On the cafeteria roof.”
Dad pulled me close again. “Everything’s fine now, Liv. There’s something I want to tell you.”
I groaned. Whatever followed this statement wasn’t going to be good. Cue Daniel telling me he was going to college halfway across the country, but we would talk every week. Cue Dad announcing that the guy responsible for Daniel’s death had worked out a plea bargain. Cue Mom telling me she had something to talk about, and then moving to Omaha. I braced myself as if I were preparing for a slap to the face or a punch to the gut. Maybe it was worse than I thought—maybe Dad had had a stroke or been diagnosed with brain cancer or any one of the awful diseases you could find on medical websites.
But what he said was, “Love.”
It took me a minute, and then I realized he was playing this game we’d made up when I was just a kid and had trouble falling asleep at night. It went like this: The first person said the word “love,” and the second person said a word that started with “e” like “elephant,” and the first person said a word that started with “t”, and so on and so on, with the last letter of one word spawning the first letter of the next. It used to make me feel happy and silly, and then somehow in the middle of thinking of the next word, I’d fall asleep. Now it seemed ridiculous. Shouldn’t we be doing something other than playing games?
“Come on, Liv,” Dad prompted. “Love.”
I shook my head. “Empty.”
He gave me a hesitant smile. “Yield.”
“I really don’t feel like playing