Masquerade (3 page)

Something in her bristled, and she fought against a rising tide of anger. Yes, she could fuss at him for not being there to read a Bible story to the children, sing, and pray, but what sense would that make? He couldn’t help it if he had to work late. If only she could contribute somehow to the household income. Maybe that would ease her husband’s workload and give him more time with the family.

But buying Sam more time with the kids might cost Sonya her sanity. And the way she felt lately, it might not take much to push her over the edge.  

CHAPTER TWO

“Where’s my razor, hon?” Joe yelled from the bathroom.

Standing in front of the stove, Celeste wiped greasy hands on her apron. “I’ll get it.” She turned off the gas burner.

As she breezed past the bathroom, Joe stuck his head out and smacked the doorframe. “Been using my electric razor again?” He chuckled.

In the bedroom, she yanked the cord from the outlet and swept past the bathroom door once more. She paused long enough to drop the razor into her husband’s waiting hand without stopping to banter. Time was of the essence. The kitchen wall clock registered seven a.m. She had to be out the door to school by seven-thirty. The previous evening left her tired. Perhaps they should’ve waited until the weekend to celebrate their anniversary. But that wouldn’t have worked too well either, what with unpacking, setting up house, and making lesson plans for the following week. She sighed, worked her neck muscles.

As the razor buzzed, she turned back to the stove and scooped eggs onto two white Corelle-ware plates rimmed with tiny green flowers. Two slices of golden

brown toast, the way she and Joe liked them, popped up in the toaster, and she added them to the plates along with orange wedges. She opened her mouth to call for Joe, but before the words came out, he stepped into the kitchen whistling, “Close to You.” Remnants of their anniversary.

“You know, babe, I was thinking of planting the mums around the front of the house on Saturday.” Dressed in navy workpants, light blue shirt, and work boots, he dropped into a chair at the table, picked up a fork, and plowed into his food.

“Sounds good.” After she smoothed a cloth napkin over her lap, Celeste picked at her eggs. Such a carefree guy, shoveling those eggs in, talking about mums, whistling tunes. He didn’t have a clue about her sleepless night. How she’d tossed and turned, wishing she could shut off her overactive mind. Should she tell him? No, she couldn’t. He’d ask too many questions. Worse yet, he might hate her. He might even leave.

“Burgandy, white, yellow.” He jabbed his fork in the air.

“What?”

“That’s how I’ll arrange the mums out front.”

“Yes, good.” She nodded. “Sounds good.” Fumbling with her napkin, she finally tossed it onto the table. “Look, I need to hurry. I have some worksheets to copy before the students arrive.”

“Gotcha.” He stuffed a remaining orange wedge into his mouth, scooted his chair back, and stood. Leaning over, he brushed her lips with a kiss. His mustache tickled

her nose. “Got food for me?”

She ran her tongue over her lips, noting the citrus taste Joe left there. Scooting from the table, she followed him to the back door.

When she pressed a lunchbox into his warm hand, he kissed her once more, then jumped off the stoop. A bicycle, his mode of transportation since Celeste drove the Plymouth, rested against the side of the house.

Stroking her throat, she sighed.
That ol’ thing with the beat up basket. Wish we could afford another car.

Gravel crunched as Joe pedaled down the driveway. Turning right onto Maple Avenue,
he smiled and waved. A truck sped past him.

“Watch out!” She stomped her foot before closing the door. “He’s gonna get himself killed on that bike someday if he isn’t more careful.”

She quickly stacked the plates in the sink and removed her apron. After walking into the bedroom, she studied her face in the vanity mirror. Shadows underneath round gray eyes. Why after all these years did the memory of that day rob her of sleep?

She was an adult now, a special education teacher, happily married, and living in her dream house. The white frame doll house with forest green shutters she’d passed on her way to work every day and longed to own. How thrilled she’d been when the FOR SALE sign went up in the yard. “Please, Joe, can’t we at least go take a look?” She’d badgered until he finally broke down and set up an appointment with the real estate agent.

One  walk-through the newly-renovated house ce-

mented her desire to purchase the property. Freshly-laid hardwood flooring in the kitchen and bathroom. Large double windows over the kitchen sink. Pale yellow cabinets against yellow, green, and white striped wall paper. Large living room with green shag carpet, master bedroom with brown tweed carpeting, and a second bedroom added on to the utility area located off the kitchen. “Perfect for the addition of a family member,” Joe had noted, forever the optimist. On top of all that, a generous backyard with plenty of trees surrounded by a chain-link fence. But it was the two-car detached garage that finally won Joe over, and the price—only $34K.

She spoke into the stillness. “Thanks, Joe, for sharing this dream with me.”

Straightening, she brushed a hand over her polyester pantsuit and cinched the matching sash. Such a long torso. But then she was tall, five foot seven. Given her build, it was not surprising she’d been able to hide her secret for so long. But then mom found out. She squeezed her eyes shut. Why did she listen to her mother? She’d wanted to be independent, wanted to stand up for herself, but simply couldn’t. Always the dutiful daughter. Besides, her parents footed her school bill, and mom said they’d threaten to pull support if . . . 

She flashed her eyes open. Time to grow up. Shake off the feelings of guilt. What was done was done. She couldn’t undo that day.

Gathering her wits and her teaching satchel, she strode to the green Plymouth. During the ten minute drive  to  The  Brighton  Center,  she  listened  to classical

music on the radio. Such a good way to ease into the day.

Once at work, she scurried to the copier. Good, no waiting line. No idle chitchat among teachers. Worksheets done, she swept them from the bin. Turning, she slammed into the speech pathologist who instinctively reached out to steady her.

“Whew, sorry, Lorna, I didn’t see you.” Catching her breath, Celeste shouldered her satchel strap.

Anchored on the beige linoleum, Lorna laughed. “I guess not. What’s the hurry?”

Celeste stepped back and massaged the side of her neck. “Got some things to organize in my room before the kids arrive.”

Lorna trudged to the copier, her flats scuffing the floor. “Well, take it easy, gal.”

She nodded and hurried to her classroom. As she pinned student artwork to the clothesline strung along a paneled wall, her two aides walked in.

“Good morning, Celeste.” Barbara Kelly, a bubbly woman in her late forties, curly hair cropped around her plump face, set her purse on the counter and stowed a brown bag in the refrigerator. Luckily, a small kitchen at one end of the room afforded the children an opportunity to learn simple cooking skills on occasion.             

A much quieter Amelia Walters followed suit. At sixty, her upper back was beginning to bow, her salt and pepper hair styled as though someone had placed a bowl on her head and trimmed around it.

“Good morning, ladies.” Celeste pinned the last paper  and  approached  her aides. “Could we sit a couple

minutes and review our game plan for the day?” The metal chair scraped on the linoleum as she pulled it from the rectangular table.

Barbara and Amelia sat across from Celeste. A dull ache pulsed in her temple, and she rubbed the spot. These ladies were much older and wiser than she. At twenty-seven, how could she direct them? Certainly, she had the special education degree and five years of experience working with the mentally retarded to her credit. Of this the women often reminded her. Still, she felt like a kid in their eyes. Why, Barbara had a daughter Celeste’s age. And Amelia had sons older than her.

Straightening, she sucked in a breath. She could do this. Although her mother had failed to affirm her, these dear women had done so time and time again.

“Okay.” She patted her planner. “We’ve made it through our second week. Good job, ladies, helping usher in a new school year. This is Friday, so we’ll follow the typical schedule.” She studied her notes. Since the class of twelve students was organized into three separate groups—educable, trainable, and the profoundly retarded—varied activities were devised to accommodate learning on these levels. “We’ll open with the class together. Afterwards, we’ll break into our small groups. Barbara, your group will prepare lunch. Amelia, your group will practice telling time.” She retrieved the worksheets from her satchel and handed them to Amelia. “And my group will sort blocks into colors. Any questions?”

Previewing  the  sheets,  Amelia  shook  her   head.

Typically compliant and non-confrontational, she was not one to challenge Celeste’s lesson plans or judgment concerning how to deal with students.

“Is Lorna coming in for afternoon speech class?” Barbara’s eyes crinkled into quarter moons when she smiled.

Always smiling. Didn’t it hurt to smile that much?

“Yes, sorry, forgot to mention that. Thanks for the reminder. Group speech class is now on Friday instead of Monday.”

Luke shuffled through the door, hands splayed at his side, buck-tooth grin on his face. His mother poked her head in and waved.

Feigning a smile, Celeste rose from the table and waved back. “Have a great day, Mrs. Larson.” Nothing but trouble, that woman. She challenged everything Celeste tried to accomplish with Luke. Not one word of gratitude ever passed her lips.

Close behind Luke, Jocelyn clipped the floor in short steps, her back arched and head lowered. Mark and Linda, two of the Down syndrome students, giggled and pushed each other along.

Within minutes the classroom filled up. On the ready, Barbara and Amelia urged students to their seats at the three tables lined up parallel to one another. Celeste manned her post at the front.

“Good morning, children.” Her gaze swept the room, coming to rest on Teddy who sat closest to her. Hopefully, this would help her monitor his behavior. Rocking  back and forth, he released an occasional groan

while fumbling with his shirt. Every few seconds, he hurled his hand toward the wall. Drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

Barbara said something that made Mark laugh, but Celeste couldn’t detect her words.

“Ah, Mrs. Kelly, you’re so funny.” Thick glasses sliding down his nose, Mark beamed and smacked the air with his hand.

Barbara leaned in to him, a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

With scrunched face, Mark clapped his hand over his mouth.

“Okay, class.” Celeste picked up a piece of chalk and pointed to a sentence written on the blackboard. “Let’s read together:
Today is Friday, September 20, 1983.
” The room erupted in a chorus of murmurs. Except for Teddy, who continued his rocking ritual, everyone participated, even Lewis who rarely spoke.

After several more recitation drills, Celeste directed her aides to gather the children into their groups. Glued to his chair, Luke, yellowed teeth protruding over his bottom lip, stared straight ahead, fingers spread on the table.

“Come on, Luke.” Barbara motioned him over to the kitchen area on the other side of the room. Amelia hustled her children to an adjoining room equipped with an accordion partition.

Holding Teddy’s hand with Lewis close beside her, Celeste followed Barbara. “You have everything you need?”

“Yep.” Hands on ample hips, Barbara surveyed the

children and then began positioning each one around the work table.

With a mischievous grin, Linda grabbed at the flour sack sitting in the center.

Barbara lunged forward. “Wait just a minute, Linda.” She hurriedly distributed supplies—a measuring cup to one, spoons to another. After she placed a mixing bowl on the table, she opened the sack. A puff of white powder escaped. She brushed her hands together. “I believe we’re set, Mrs. Tatem.”

“All right, then. Listen to Mrs. Kelly, boys and girls. Can’t wait to taste your yummy lunch.”

“It’s pi…zza.” Mark anchored his stubby hands on the table and worked his jaw muscles, causing his freckles to twitch.

“Wonderful, Mark.” As Celeste navigated her two boys through the door, Barbara told Luke he would get to knead the dough when it was ready. Good. That would work his under-developed hand muscles. What an effort it had been to even get him to hold a pencil. Such an accomplishment for this nine-year-old boy. He’d come so far in the last year.