Fostering Death (11 page)

“Not true. People who are having trouble reading go there. Dumb ones and smart ones. They help you learn to read better. So you won’t be behind most people in your class. And then you won’t feel so dumb anymore.”

“Really? Did you ever know anybody who learned to read in Reading Resource?”

“Yep. Lots of people. Some of them just as smart as you are.”

She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like to be six years old and in first grade. And not to be able to read.”

“Mom!” Chris cried.

Kelly, wrapped in her bathrobe, was making her way down the stairs. Her hair was combed, and she didn’t look perfect, but she was much better than before. She smelled of bath powder and soap.

I longed to gather her in my arms, kiss her fragrant neck, and take her back upstairs.

“We saved you supper, Mom,” Chris said.

Maybe after the kids got to bed.

“So your dad didn’t pick you up from school?” she asked.

“Nope.”

She shook her head but didn’t say much as I brought her food to the kitchen table. The unfinished checker game lay spread out in the dining room. Kelly only picked at her food.

I put on a pot of coffee. Brianna began shoveling things back into her backpack.

Kelly sat at the table, her eyes clouded. She still didn’t seem to feel well. I decided my prospects for a tumble in her comfy bed later tonight were not good. Disappointing, but I could deal with that.

I had set aside the papers that needed to be signed for school. When she was done packing her backpack, Brianna brought them to Kelly.

I filled our coffee mugs and sat down next to Kelly. “Those are important,” I said. “You really ought to read them over. And get in touch with the school if you have any questions.”

Kelly’s nostrils flared. “Oh, and I guess you know better than me what’s important with the kids’ school.”

Surprised, I tried to backpedal. “No, no. It’s just that they’re from the special education department at the school. Brianna is having trouble with her reading. They might be able to help.”

Kelly stood up, knocking over her mug. Coffee splashed over the table surface and dripped onto the floor. “There’s nothing wrong with Brianna. She just isn’t that good a reader, is all.”

“Reading’s important,” I said.

“I’ll decide what’s important with my kids,” she said.

“Okay.” I tried to defuse the situation. “I was just afraid you hadn’t seen the papers, is all.”

“I’ll thank you to mind your own business.”

I glanced at the kids. Chris clutched his homework so hard he was wrinkling it. He stared at it. Brianna’s eyes were filling with tears. She was stuffing the rest of the papers into her backpack.

“Look, I’m sorry. You do a good job with the kids. They couldn’t ask for a better mother.” Unless they could find one who didn’t drink. But I didn’t say that.

Kelly drew her robe more tightly around her. “Thanks for fixing the dinner,” she said. “I suppose the kids told you it was a better dinner than I’d have fixed.”

The kids looked at me with pleading eyes. “No. They didn’t say anything like that at all. We wanted to fix dinner for you. The kids worked hard at it. And I was just trying to help.”

“Yeah? Well, go help someone else.”

With a last sorrowful look at the kids, I got up and got my jacket. “Sorry if I stepped in where I don’t belong,” I said. “I’ll be going now.”

Kelly didn’t turn to face me.

“See you at work Sunday night,” I said, and let myself out the back door.

Chapter 8

S
ATURDAY
M
ORNING
D
AWNED
B
RIGHT
A
ND
C
HILLY
. I woke up in my own bed instead of Kelly’s across town where I’d hoped to be.

I looked at the phone that hung on the wall across the room. Would it be a good idea to call her and see how she and the kids were doing?

No. I knew better than that. Chances were pretty good she’d hit the bottle again last night. With her mercurial mood swings and irrational anger at everybody but herself, she was showing many of the signs of an alcohol abuser descending into the depths of despair. Not much I could do but try to be there to help pick up the pieces when she began to claw her way back out. If she did.

I wondered if the kids’ father had ever come to get them.

The day stretched ahead of me.

I couldn’t waste a day like this. For one thing, if Belkins had his way, I’d be back on home detention after my next parole meeting, which was Thursday. I should get outside and walk in the sunlight.

And I should see if I could find out something about how Mrs. Coleman had died. Anything at all.

Montgomery has suggested I’d been seen around the Colemans’ house. I hadn’t been there since a social worker had picked me up and delivered me to my father in the slums of Baltimore years ago. Maybe I should go take a look around. I should be able to do that without calling attention to myself or bothering Mr. Coleman.

The Coleman house was across town and out in the hills a little, in what today would be called a subdivision, but when I was a kid was just a “neighborhood.” I made sure the cat had plenty of food and water, admired her kittens for her, and set out. I wore a heavy sweater under my oversized hoodie. Not as warm as my jacket, maybe, but much less noticeable.

It didn’t take me even an hour to get there. When I’d been a kid, the walk downtown had seemed to take forever.

My feet found their own way down the once-familiar sidewalks, past street signs and the bus stop. I turned into the dead-end street where I had spent the best part of my childhood. The best part of my life, really.

The house itself looked much the same, with its deep front porch and gravel driveway that ran back to the detached single car garage. The yews in the front were overgrown, hiding the windows, and the dogwood tree which had been a stick with a few leaves when Mr. Coleman and I had planted it now spread over the entire front yard. This time of year, its branches were bare.

No one was in sight. A few dead leaves skittered across the pavement, landing in a slushy puddle near a broken curb next to the driveway.

I walked past the house, trying to look casual as I peered at it. I couldn’t make out much except that it was older and more worn but reasonably well-kept.

What exactly had I intended to do when I got here? I knew going up and knocking on the front door wouldn’t be a good idea. Mr. Coleman would call the police if he saw me. I couldn’t blame him.

I decided to walk around the block, see if I could see the backyard between the houses. The houses, all built around the same time, had been staggered on their lots to provide maximum privacy.

The neighborhood was quiet. Much quieter than I remembered it. It was Saturday, so the children wouldn’t be in school. People don’t seem to send their children out to play the way they did when I was a kid. The original inhabitants who remained, like Mr. Coleman, would be elderly and would probably not have kids in the house.

The street behind was equally deserted. I tried to judge the distance from the corner. When I figured I was behind Mr. Coleman’s house, I hesitated. The side yard between the two houses was overgrown, but there was no fence. One house had a glassed-in porch that ran down the length of the house. No curtains covered the windows, and I couldn’t see any sign that anyone was around. The few small windows of the other house had their shades closely drawn.

I stepped off the sidewalk and pushed my way among the bushes between the houses.

My guess had been right. I could just see Coleman’s backyard. The swing set I remembered was gone. The back of the garage was freshly painted. On its side, the paint was chipped and peeling. It looked as if someone had started repainting and quit partway through. The sticker bushes that lined the path to the garage were much bigger than I’d remembered, and their thorns looked even more wicked than they had when I had run into them as a kid.

A row of lilacs divided the properties. I recalled their heady aroma in the spring when they bloomed. I inhaled deeply, as if the winter-bare branches could give off the scent.

A slight movement on the path in Coleman’s yard caught my eye. Whatever it was hadn’t moved much, but it was big. Person-sized. I ducked down.

What was the matter with me? Here I was trespassing. Mr. Coleman had specifically told me to stay away. And Detective Montgomery had re-enforced that. If I got caught, my parole officer would certainly have something to say about it. I was sure I wouldn’t be happy with what he said.

From my crouched position, I continued to stare through the branches at the place where I’d seen the movement. I was about to decide my overactive imagination had interpreted some windblown vegetation as something more substantial when I caught a staggering motion near the garage.

Peering through the bare lilacs and over the sticker bushes, I tried to make out what it was. A person. But not a person moving normally, more like somebody stumbling, pitching sideways, and reaching out a hand to brace on the garage wall.

Gingerly, I pushed my way through the vegetation and almost into the yard.

It was Mr. Coleman. He was dressed in a plaid shirt and dark pants. No jacket. I shivered. He looked down. I followed his gaze. A cane was lying on the ground, its handle facing away from him.

As I watched, he struggled to reach the cane. And tumbled to the ground.

He just lay there. He needed help.

Maybe I could go find a pay phone and call 9-1-1. But even if I got to the corner store, which might or might not still be there, so many public phones had been removed since then. Most people had cell phones now. I didn’t, of course, but everyone else seemed to have one.

Or I could knock on one of the doors around and see if someone couldn’t go help.

Then I’d have to answer awkward questions about what I was doing around here. And why I just didn’t go help him myself.

The only thing that was clear was that I couldn’t just go and leave him.

I stepped out from the lilacs and made my way around the sticker bushes, approaching Mr. Coleman from behind. I went down on one knee next to him, reaching for the cane and bringing it to where he could reach it.

He looked at me, his eyes fierce. He took the cane and tried to use it to sit up. He fell forward again.

“Are you hurt?” I asked. “Maybe you should stay there while I go in the house and call an ambulance.”

“No ambulance,” he said gruffly. “I’m fine. Help me up.”

I placed my hands under his armpits and brought him to a sitting position. He seemed to understand what I was trying to do. He pulled his legs under him, planted the cane solidly on the flagstones and lurched upward.

With my hands still under his armpits, I supported his weight as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

When he was upright, I backed off. He hadn’t gotten a good look at me. Maybe I could take off before he fully recognized me.

Mr. Coleman stood swaying slightly, looking around himself in confusion. “What happened?” he asked.

“You fell,” I said, hoping my voice wouldn’t give away my identity and trigger his anger.

“It’s cold out here. I need to get back into the house.” He turned and stumbled toward the back steps, almost losing his balance again.

I had to at least get him into the house. And maybe find someone to call. So far he hadn’t realized who I was. He seemed to be in a daze. Maybe he’d hit his head when he fell.

Taking him by the elbow, I held him upright. We made slow progress toward the door.

The stairs were difficult, but we made it. I opened the back door, and he hobbled to a chair by the kitchen table.

The kitchen was chilly. I went back and shut the door. Mr. Coleman wasn’t dressed for the cold. He was shivering. I went to the front hallway to get a sweater from the closet and grabbed an afghan from the couch as I passed by the living room.

Inside the house was pretty much like I remembered it, too. I swallowed hard to get rid of the lump that was rising in my throat.

I helped him put on the sweater and put the afghan over his lap. He smoothed it with a hand that felt icy when it brushed mine.

“Shall I fix you some hot coffee?” I asked.

“Tea,” he answered, closing his eyes. “With plenty of milk.”

I put a mug in the microwave and searched the cabinets for tea bags. I pulled the milk jug out of the refrigerator and shook it. It sounded funny, chunky. I opened it to sniff, but I didn’t have to bring it anywhere near my nose to tell it was sour.

“The milk’s turned,” I told him. I’d seen the jar of honey in the cabinet and a bottle of lemon juice on the refrigerator door. They didn’t go bad with tea. “How about some lemon and honey in it instead?”

He nodded without opening his eyes.

I was chilled through, too. “Do you mind if I join you?” I asked.