Killing Mr. Griffin Read online

  “Okay, Sue?” David asked.

  “Well—”

  “Come on.”

  “Okay.” She heard her voice speaking the word, and her heart rose suddenly into her throat. Had she really said that? Had she actually agreed to this insanity?

  “Good for you!” Jeff said, and Betsy gave a crow of pleasure.

  “I knew you’d do it, Sue!” she said. “I told the guys.”

  “That’s my girl,” David said softly, and he kissed her. Lightly. On the forehead. His lips were like the touch of butterfly wings.

  Never, Susan thought deliriously, never in all the time to come will I ever, ever be as happy as I am right now.

  And she was right.

  CHAPTER 5

  The alarm went off at seven, and Cathy Griffin reached out without opening her eyes and pressed the button to shut it off. Just as automatically, she reached for Brian in the bed beside her, to find nothing but an empty pillow and a mass of tangled sheets.

  She groped for a moment, as though expecting to find him there, twisted somehow into the sheets or buried beneath the untidy lumps of blanket. Then, as she became more fully conscious, she sighed and opened her eyes to affirm the fact that she was, indeed, alone in the double bed.

  That man, she thought. I don’t know why he owns an alarm clock. He never bothers to use it.

  The sound of running water told her the shower in the bathroom was in use. She lay quiet, letting herself come slowly awake, until the water stopped and she heard the shower stall open and slam closed.

  A few moments later the bathroom door opened, and Brian came into the bedroom, dressed in T-shirt and boxers, toweling his hair.

  “Morning, Bri,” Cathy greeted him, hauling herself to a sitting position. “What’s the order of the day, fried or scrambled?”

  “Go back to sleep,” Brian told her. “I’ll fix my own eggs this morning.”

  “No, I want to.” A moment before she would have given anything to have been able to roll over and sink back into slumber. Now that she had been given a reason to, some contrariness in her personality kept her from doing it. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up slowly, adjusting herself to the unaccustomed weight of her rounded belly.

  “There’s nothing in the rules that says that pregnant women can’t cook breakfast.”

  “You’re sure you feel like it?”

  “Of course.” And now, suddenly, she did. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek in passing, pulled a terry-cloth robe on over her nightgown, and padded barefoot out to the kitchen to put on the coffee.

  To Cathy, going barefoot meant springtime. Raised on a farm in Michigan, she had gone barefoot in childhood from the time the first dandelions appeared in the new grass to the time of the first snowfall. Her feet were so tough that she thought sometimes she could walk across a bed of nails without any discomfort.

  To Brian, whose own feet were soft and tender as a baby’s, the whole idea was upsetting.

  “You’ll step on something,” he told her. “That’s the way people get tetanus.” It was one of their minor differences. There were many others. In fact, if a programmer had planned the most unsuitable partnership imaginable, Brian and Cathy Griffin could have been the outcome. Brian had his master’s degree in English from Stanford University; Cathy had been a C student in high school and had never gone to college. He had until recently been assistant professor in English at the University of Albuquerque; she had until two months ago sold contemporary sportswear at a department store.

  Their personalities were as different as their backgrounds.

  “He’s a fine man, I’m sure,” Cathy’s mother had said the first time she met him. “He’s certainly brilliant and dedicated to his work. But he’s so stiff and serious and—well, truthfully, dear, any man who is still a bachelor at thirty-six has to have something the matter with him.”

  “Perhaps he never met the right woman,” Cathy suggested mildly. “Or maybe it just takes him so long to loosen up and break through the ice that all the women he’s known have given up and walked off before they ever really got to know him.”

  “And you’ve decided to be different? Why?”

  “Because I’m stubborn,” Cathy had admitted truthfully. “And because I think that Brian Griffin is worth waiting for.”

  And wait, she did. They had known each other two years before Brian asked her to marry him and another year before that marriage took place.

  At the time he proposed, he had told her of his decision to leave the university and take enough education courses to become certified at the high school level.

  “It will be a year before I’ll be able to take on the responsibility of marriage,” he had told her, “and even then it won’t be milk and honey. I’ll be making less money than I have been, and there will be a lot less security. I have tenure at the college, which I won’t have in high school. I might not even be able to get a job immediately. The country’s overstocked with high school teachers.”

  “Then why do you want to be one?” Cathy had asked him, puzzled.

  “Because there aren’t enough good ones,” Brian had told her. “Many of the kids coming into my classes at the university are all but illiterate. You give them a page to read, and they can’t tell you what’s on it. Try teaching them the classics, and they can’t pronounce the words. Ask them to write about something, and they can’t make complete sentences, much less spell anything over two syllables.”

  “Can’t you do anything about it?”

  “I try, but it’s too late,” Brian had said. “By the time they’re in college, it’s gone too far. They’ve had twelve years without disciplined learning, and they don’t know how to apply themselves. They haven’t learned to study or to pace their work so that projects get completed on time. They fall asleep in lectures because they expect to be entertained, not educated.

  “We lost a third of our freshman class last year. They dropped out at the end of the first semester.”

  “And what would you do as a high school teacher that isn’t being done now?”

  “I’d teach, damn it! I wouldn’t baby them or play games with them. I’d push each one into doing the best work of which he or she was capable. By the time they finished a class with me, my college prep students would be able to handle university work.”

  “And the others?” Cathy had known in her heart that, during her own school years, “the others” would have included her.

  “The others would graduate with a knowledge of what disciplined work is all about. That should stand them in good stead, no matter what they decide to do.”

  “You wouldn’t be very popular, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve never been very popular. Anywhere. I have an abrasive personality. Fierce dogs cower when I walk down the street and slink away to hide under porches. Small children run screaming to their mothers. Beautiful girls rip their numbers out of the phone book and chew them up and swallow them, for fear I might call them.”

  “Oh, Brian!” She had burst out laughing. He was so seldom humorous that his awkward attempts at joking touched her deeply.

  “And so,” he had continued, “are you willing to wait a year to be the wife of a high school English teacher? It isn’t a very exciting prospect, I must admit. Not nearly as respectable as being the wife of a college professor. I wouldn’t blame you—I really wouldn’t—”

  His sentence had trailed off, unfinished. His eyes had dropped from hers, and she had looked down to see that his hands were clenched in his lap, the knuckles white, the nails making little grooves in his palms. And she had known then how much her answer meant to him.

  “Yes,” she had said. “I’ll wait a year, Bri.”

  “You’re sure it’s what you want?”

  “I’m sure.”

  And now, three years later, she was still sure. Cathy had never needed a great deal to make her happy, and what she had now was more than sufficient.

  Humming tunelessly benea
th her breath, she made the coffee, mixed the frozen orange juice in a pitcher, put bread in the toaster, broke two eggs into a pan.

  It was springtime! Under the kitchen window the first hyacinths were blooming. Last week’s dust storm was behind them, and the air was fresh and clear and sweet. The nausea that had accompanied her first months of pregnancy was over also. She would eat a good breakfast. Later in the morning she would go out into the yard and sit in a lawn chair in the sunshine.

  She glanced up and smiled as Brian came in, his hair slicked down, his hands deftly adjusting the knot in his tie.

  “Do all the teachers at Del Norte wear ties to class?”

  “No, the riffraff wear open-neck sports shirts.”

  “Wouldn’t that be more comfortable?”

  “I like a tie. It gives me dignity.” He was only half joking. “I got used to wearing one at the university. Why change now?” He took his seat at the kitchen table and reached for his glass of orange juice. “Call the pharmacy and order a refill on my pills today, will you? I’ll pick them up on my way home. That’ll be a bit later than usual.”

  “Oh? A faculty meeting?”

  “No, a student wants a conference. I’m meeting her at three. It may take a while. She wants to go over some papers.”

  “Is she one of your problems?” Cathy asked, sliding the eggs onto a plate and carrying them over to him.

  “No, actually she’s one of my good ones. Name’s Susan McConnell. She’s quite a talented writer. Very imaginative. I had them all write final songs for Ophelia. Hers was exceptionally good.”

  “Have you told her that?”

  “Of course not. I don’t want her resting on her laurels, thinking she’s a genius. She still has things to learn. She tends to get overdramatic. And she’s sloppy about details, spelling and punctuation and such. She’s not a perfectionist.”

  “She’s still young, Bri.” Cathy seated herself across from him. She took a slice of toast and began to spread it with jam. “Most kids are sloppy.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right about that.”

  “Your own may be. Have you ever thought about that?”

  “Brian Junior? Surely, you jest!” His eyes moved fondly to the bulge in the front of her robe. “How is he this morning?”

  “Fine and active.” She took a bite of toast. “Seriously, Bri, I worry sometimes about that. About your wanting him perfect, and his not measuring up. He might be born with crossed eyes or a birthmark or a harelip or something. Would you still love him?”

  “Of course.” He was answering her seriously. “He wouldn’t be able to help those things. We’d ride with it, take care of him, get him fixed up if we could. He’d still be ours.”

  “If you really feel that way,” Cathy said thoughtfully, “why can’t you be more tolerant of your students when they’re not perfect?”

  “Because they can help it, especially with today’s technology. Anybody can Google a word if he doesn’t know its meaning or use spell-check if he doesn’t know how to spell it. Time can be planned so that assignments come in on time. There’s no excuse for carelessness.

  “The Ruggles boy, for example, came in last week with a real sob story about how he completed his paper and the wind tore it out of his hands and blew it away. Papers put carefully into a notebook don’t blow off. On a windy day, you close a notebook and put it under your arm. That’s elementary enough.”

  “Did he redo the assignment?”

  “He did, but I wouldn’t accept it. It would set a precedent. If I took one late paper, I’d never be able to refuse the next one. Within a week everything I’ve taught them about work discipline would be down the drain. The class would be as much of a mess as the one taught by that idiot Luna woman.”

  “Dolly Luna.” She smiled despite herself. “I’ve got to meet her. After all, the kids dedicated last year’s yearbook to her. Is she really a ‘dolly’?”

  “Sure is. Two big eyes that open and shut, painted-on smile, head full of sawdust. Ever see a thirty-year-old teenager? That’s our Dolly. She doesn’t want the kids to think she knows more than they do for fear they won’t like her.”

  Cathy didn’t know why, but the metaphor struck her strangely. The grin faded from her lips. She herself smiled a lot. She had never thought about that.

  “Brian,” she said slowly, “am I—do you think of me—as a ‘dolly’?”

  “Of course not.” He was honestly shocked.

  “What am I—when you think of me?”

  “You? Why, you’re my wife.”

  “Before that, what was I?”

  “You were Cathy. You were real—a person. All you’ve ever been to me is Cathy.”

  He took a final swallow of coffee, stood up, took the paper napkin and ran it across his teeth. It was a gesture she hated. If people were that concerned about their teeth, they should brush them one extra time in the morning.

  At the same time it made him suddenly so human, so vulnerable, that she wanted to hug him. It was terrible to be so in love with a man whose weaknesses were his virtues.

  “Bri,” she said, “I want to ask you a favor. About the McConnell girl.”

  “What?” He looked surprised.

  “If she is really as talented as you say, I want you to tell her. There’s something, you know, to handing out something positive. So she overwrites; so she’s messy. She’s imaginative and bright and special. You said so yourself. I want you to tell her that.”

  “Cathy, you don’t even know the kid.”

  “Yes, I do.” She stood her ground. “Not personally, maybe, but I know her. What you just said to me—‘you are real—you’re a person—you’re Cathy’—that matters, Brian. Tell her that. ‘You are real—you are Susan—you are a writer.’ You don’t have any idea how much it matters, to be real.”

  “I can’t say a thing like that.”

  “Then write it. Put it on her paper.”

  “Not the test paper. She didn’t do well on that quiz. In fact, it’s her worst paper so far. I think she’s got a boyfriend.”

  “Then on another paper. On the song for Ophelia.”

  “You are a bossy wench!” He made a grab for her. “Kiss me, Kate!”

  “Not if you talk in Shakespeare.” She pulled back, both pleased and offended. “You’re not taking me seriously. I meant it, every word about Susan McConnell. You’re taking it too far, Bri. You’ve got to give them something besides criticism.”

  “I won’t tell you how to cook eggs; you don’t tell me how to teach a class. Okay?” He was leaving now, and he was suddenly angry.

  Her eyes filled with tears. It was ridiculous how often this happened lately. It must have something to do with being pregnant, shethought. Every time she got mad—or sad—or even happy—she cried.

  “Okay,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Have a good day. I’ll phone the pharmacy for you as soon as it opens. I love you. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Okay—later.”

  He was out the door, and for one sharp moment she almost ran screaming after him, “Come back!” That suddenly, that quickly, it struck her—I don’t want him to go! He can’t go! Without reason, terror shot through her. But she was as frozenas stone, her lips open to shrill the words that would makehim stay.

  Something is wrong, she thought wildly. Something terrible! Don’t go!

  And as though her thoughts had been strong enough to reach out and touch him, he was back again. He was bending over her, his hand under her chin, raising her face to his.

  “Cathy,” he said, “I love you.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

  It was strange, like a formal good-bye. But how could it be, when he would be back so soon, in only a matter of hours? After school, after the conference with the McConnell girl, he would be home.

  It will be different, she thought, when the baby comes. It will all be different. Once he’s a father, he will be able to give love more easily. He’ll be
able to reach out to all of them then, and touch them.

  It will be different—in only months now—when the baby comes.

  CHAPTER 6

  At ten past three on Thursday afternoon, Mrs. Irma Ruggles sat in a chair at her bedroom window and watched the woman in the house next door making her bed. She didn’t know the woman’s name, but she did know that she was slothful. She never got up in the morning before ten o’clock, and the bed lay open and messy until midafternoon.

  Mrs. Ruggles, who was herself up each morning by seven so that her daughter-in-law could give her breakfast and fix her hair before leaving for work, was horrified by such laziness.

  “It’s better to wear out than to rust out,” she quoted self-righteously. “The Lord loves willing hands. Early to bed and early to rise makes the days fly.”

  The bed-making woman could not possibly have heard her because the windows between them were closed, but she did lift her eyes in time to see the old lady’s lips moving and the disapproving expression on her face.

  The woman left the half-made bed and walked very deliberately to the window and pulled down the shade.

  “Well, of all the rude things!” Mrs. Ruggles exclaimed in an injured voice, but an instant later her hurt was forgotten as she heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  Her eyes brightened in anticipation.

  “Is that you, Davy?”

  “Sure, Gram, it’s me.”

  He came swinging into the room, his schoolbooks under one arm, his Windbreaker hung over one shoulder. He bent to kiss her, and he smelled of fresh air and sunshine.

  She reached up to ruffle his hair.

  “Davy, Davy, you look more like your daddy every day.”

  “Do I, Gram?”

  “The spitting image of him at fifteen.”

  “I’m seventeen,” he reminded her.

  “Oh, you can’t be, dear. That’s just not possible.”

  “Time gets away from us.” He dumped the books on the table by the bed. “I’ve got something for you. A surprise. I’ll be back in just a minute.”