Cutting Teeth(11)
On her way onto campus, a group of old church ladies wave from the Mobile Loaves and Fishes truck—“Good morning!”—back from their morning rounds feeding the community’s homeless. Rhea smiles back at them, tight-lipped.
She presses the passcode into the preschool hallway keypad and holds the door open to enter the upper-age-range hall. Everything smells like apple juice, but not how Rhea makes it. No, the kind with “made from concentrate” stamped across the box. Surely parents wouldn’t choose to rot their children’s teeth with that junk if they knew what kind of pesticides and growth hormones went into it, but, then again, she’s always surprised what parents will and won’t do.
Rhea joins the other parents in line to pick up their children. She watches the class through the doorway and, for a moment, she forgets herself, forgets her foul mood, forgets that she’s avoiding Bodhi’s teacher. She loves the time at the end of Bodhi’s school day when she gets to watch him play, stolen seconds before he senses her presence.
She scribbles gibberish across the sign-out sheet and, when Miss Ollie’s back is turned, waves to get Bodhi’s attention. Miss Ollie helps one of the little girls gently collect a stack of not-quite-dry art projects.
Come on. Rhea gestures to her son enthusiastically. And you know, she’s about to get away with it, too. Other parents collect their children, other parents leave. And Bodhi moves slowly.
Like he’s got some kind of Mommy’s-in-a-hurry radar that taps his internal brakes upon detection. The boy can mosey. Mosey to gather his artwork. Mosey to retrieve his backpack. Mosey to locate his water bottle. Easy like Sunday morning.
And here’s Rhea, losing her mind.
“Rhea?” Out of nowhere, Miss Ollie turns and registers her. “I wanted to say again how sorry I am about what happened to Bodhi. It looks like it really hurt. He seems to be doing much better today, though. I’m sure you saw my message,” she continues. “If it’s any comfort, I’ll just say that Bodhi isn’t the only one, and we’re working on the biting behaviors. We’ll be talking about it in class—”
“That’s all right.” Rhea leans in, looking for Bodhi again.
“Also.” Miss Ollie pushes back into Rhea’s line of vision. “I was thinking that I really would like to speak with Bodhi’s father about what we discussed last time.”
“Not necessary,” says Rhea.
“I know.” She gently touches Rhea’s arm; Rhea’s whole body goes rigid. “I would just feel more comfortable. I wanted to give you a heads-up and make sure you had the opportunity to catch up with him first if you wanted.” Miss Ollie beckons and Bodhi comes trotting over. The teacher helps him loop his skinny arms through the straps of his backpack. “Please feel free to have Marcus contact me. If I haven’t heard from him by Friday, then I’ll go ahead and reach out directly.”
Finally, Bodhi rushes out the door, headlong into his mother’s body. He wraps his arms tightly around her waist, pressing his face into her belly button. Her fingers find the familiar flat spot on the back of his skull. Ears ringing, her feet feel like they’ve been planted there and put down roots.
Miss Ollie busies herself with the other children. A hot flush rises between Rhea’s breasts, sweat building in the pockets beneath her arms. Is it because of what Rhea said, about none of the children being hers? Could Miss Ollie, a whole-ass adult, really be that petty? Is this some kind of power trip? Is this because Rhea is the only single mother in the class? Would she be making a thing about contacting the father if Rhea and Marcus were together? Or how about if Rhea looked more like one of the Lululemon moms, the PTA moms, the moms who wear Tom Ford lipstick and consider drag queen brunch a wild girls’ outing, and who are not “alternative,” as Mary Beth once described Rhea?
“Mommy? Mommy?” Rhea feels the tug on her skirt and understands her son has been trying to get her attention. Mommy. Mommy.
The world and its sounds come crashing back in, fast and loud.
“What, honey?” She takes his wrist gently in her hand. Mommy. Mommy.
The spit that hits the back of her throat feels tacky. She tries to let the name soak in—Mommy. What business does Erin Ollie think she has stepping between her and her child? She has half a mind to—
“Can we go?” Bodhi whines.
Rhea looks down at her beautifully innocent son and sees how rare and precious a thing that is.
Adults, in comparison, are garbage. If Erin Ollie doesn’t understand the line between doing her job and meddling, then Rhea will have to show her.
TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW OF WITNESS, GEORGE HALL
APPEARANCES:
Detective Wanda Bright
PROCEEDINGS
DET. BRIGHT: So it was sudden? One day friends just started biting; is that right, George?
GEORGE HALL: Yeah. But Zeke said sorry and it’s not nice to stay mad at people, Miss Ollie says.
DET. BRIGHT: I agree. Do you have any idea why they were biting?
GEORGE HALL: Over the bus usually. Sometimes the big elephant because there is only one big elephant. Their tusks are actually teeth and they can use their trunks to snorkel.
DET. BRIGHT: Right, yes, the elephant. But did anything happen? Did anything change that gave kids the idea to start biting?