Page 39 of For Your Own Good
He gets out of his car and heads into the school. No police, no angry husbands, no pitchforks. An auspicious start to the day.
As soon as he walks inside the building, Ingrid Ross stares him in the face.
A tribute has already been erected, no doubt by the Collaborative, and it features a large framed portrait of her. It’s perched on a table, with flowers around the bottom, which makes Frank feel bad he didn’t bring anything. Didn’t even think about it.
The picture of her is one he hasn’t seen before. Her hair is longer, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. She’s outside, with a big tree behind her, and she’s smiling like she’s truly happy. The Ingrid he knew wasn’t happy. Determined, yes. Focused, absolutely. But happy? No, he wouldn’t say that. Then again, neither was he. Not completely, anyway.
She knew that. Saw it in him, zeroed in on it, and made her move. Like a... one of those Greek things. He can’t think of the name—he’s a math teacher, not a mythology teacher—but eventually it comes to him.
A Siren.
Is that it? No, no. A succubus. Ingrid Ross was a succubus.
Just thinking about her makes him furious again.
He grabs his cross, outlining it with his finger through his shirt. Sometimes he thinks he’s going to spontaneously combust for the things that go through his mind. Actually, heshouldspontaneously combust for what he has done.
For some reason, it doesn’t happen. Instead, he is left with the guilt. That might be worse.
He walks away, not wanting to be caught staring at Ingrid’s picture. Down the hall, he takes a right, away from his classroom, and heads to the Porter Room. Over the weekend, the school sent out a notice about a faculty meeting before first period.
The room is half-full when he arrives. Unlike the Stafford Room, this room isn’t open to students. It requires a key card, and it’s at the end of the south hall—too far away for any kids to hear what’s happening.
Ms.Marsha stands at the front and starts the meeting precisely at 7:40. Her tweed suit is as crisp as her voice.
“I’ll be brief, as I know you all need to get to your first class,” she says. She holds a clipboard in her hand, because, like many of the old guard, she eschews technology. Even things that would make her job easier. “You have all heard about the passing of Ingrid Ross. Rest assured, we are in constant contact with the police and the family about what happened to her. We are waiting for autopsy results to confirm the cause of death.”
News of an autopsy doesn’t make Frank feel better. Not one bit.
“The family, as you might imagine, is devastated,” Ms.Marsha says. “We’ve placed an area at the school’s entrance for anyone to express their condolences with flowers or notes. All of them will be passed to the family. In addition, we have extra counselors on staff today for the students and faculty. Please don’t hesitate to refer someone there if they need help. That’s what the counselors are for.” She stops and looks up from her clipboard. “Questions?”
Someone else asks if attendance will be excused due to seeing a counselor. Another asks about Ingrid’s funeral.
The funeral. Frank hadn’t even thought about that.
God help him if it’s held in a church. No way could he sit through that.
“We’ll give you more information as we receive it,” Ms.Marsha says. “That’s all for now.”
Eight minutes. That’s how long the meeting took, and yet Frank’s blood pressure feels even higher. He is standing near Sonia when Ms.Marsha approaches her.
“Teddy Crutcher is out sick today. We’re bringing in a substitute, but can you...”
Sonia nods, and Frank walks away, missing the rest of the conversation. He’s too busy thinking about that autopsy.
He should have stayed away from her bottle of green tea.
That’s what he had been looking for in the Stafford Room. Not his pen.
26
FOR THE FIRSTtime in who knows how many years, Teddy stands on his back porch—still worn, still dilapidated—and looks out over his backyard. It’s been cleared of every single plant, bush, and shrub. The only thing left is the trees that were too large to cut down.
It’s Tuesday evening, right around dusk, and Teddy hasn’t been to work since Friday. He isn’t sick and can’t remember the last time he was. He’s been too busy to go to work.
But he wasn’t at first. Although he’d never admit it to anyone, he almost gave up. In fact, for a little while he did. Friday evening, after going through the school dumpster and coming up with nothing, he went home and got into bed. No food, nothing to drink. Certainly not milk—he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve anything. Not after what he had done.
It was so horrible.
