Cutting Teeth(22)

Mary Beth paces at the foot of her bed. She’s locked the door, for privacy. “Someone must have seen something, right?”

She hates that she was gone by the time it all went down. She missed everything. She should have been there. She could have helped. It’s not her fault that she has migraines. She does wish she had communicated with Darby earlier about the meeting, it would have been preferable, but she wasn’t planning on missing it.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Think of what our kids might have witnessed. It’s making me sick. This is just—unbelievable. I really can’t believe it.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Mary Beth agrees.

“Miss Roberta across the hall was keeping tabs, but apparently there was a potty emergency and she can’t be totally sure on the timeline.”

Mary Beth paces on the bedroom carpeting she’s said she’s going to replace for the last three years. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Everything was fine, though, when you picked up Noelle, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, completely.”

“And you spoke to Miss Ollie?”

“Just briefly.” Mary Beth should have a reason for calling other than stirring up chatter. “It’s unfathomable,” she says. “Miss Ollie’s family is in my prayers. I thought I might organize a meal train for her—well, for whoever her next of kin is. I think we should do something.”

It’s seamless getting other mothers to agree to help. Everyone wants to do something, and so once Mary Beth has taken up the mantle of the meal train, she experiences zero friction as she slips in and out of telephone calls.

“Lena? Hi, it’s Mary Beth Brandt. I’m calling around to organize a meal train for Erin Ollie’s family,” she says. “And I’m curious—have you heard anything more about what they think happened?”

“Mary Beth. God. Sorry. Gosh. My husband and I are freaking out. Have you talked to Asher’s dad, the lawyer?” Now Chelsea is on the phone. Mary Beth is trying to keep up. “Our kids might be called in as witnesses. They’re only four. Four-year-old criminal witnesses. Who’s ever heard of such a thing?”

“That seems way too young,” Mary Beth agrees. “Isn’t there some kind of age minimum for that sort of thing? I mean, what could they really know?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to get it out of Lincoln, you know, what might have happened, but—”

“But what?”

“He’s four.”

“Right.” A small laugh. If nothing else it helps Mary Beth to evacuate the hot, stagnant air from her lungs. She hangs up. No one mentions the biting. Not one single person.





TWELVE




Lola is screaming her head off.

Not actually, Darby concedes, but give it ten more minutes, then check back and who knows.

In the background, Jack watches his sister from his high chair, where he regally munches on soggy noodles and canned green beans like: What’s the fuss.

“Deep breaths. Let’s try to calm down.” Darby channels the lessons of a certain cartoon tiger. “Can you count to four with me? One … two … three…” Lola’s tantrums trigger a diarrhea of energy in Darby, the final reserves of vitality and resolve slowly squirting out her ass.

She wonders if there’s some safety precaution she ought to be taking on behalf of her daughter, the way you’re supposed to roll someone onto their side in the event of a seizure.

The back door beeps. She can literally see the moment Griff’s face hits the tantrum air.

“Who died?” he asks, glumly dropping his car keys onto the kitchen counter.

“Miss Ollie!” she screams, but mainly because it’s very, very loud and she is very, very close to losing her shit.

There was a time, she remembers, when she used to feel like they really had their shit together, by the way. But ever since having children, they’ve let their shit get everywhere. Filling up trash cans, in the bathtub, sometimes even in her hair.

She watches his face carefully. “Wait, what?” She tries to decipher what she sees there. Shock? It definitely seems in the shock family. God, but maybe she needs to get her eyes checked. She could have sworn she saw … for an instant … just in passing …

One thing’s for sure: She should never have gone into that school without Mary Beth.

“Lola’s teacher,” she says in a tone that implies this is somehow, some way, his fault. “Miss Ollie died during school today, which you would know if you were answering your phone.” Or if you were there, she thinks grimly. But why would he be? It certainly has been a day. A long, terrible day.

“I’m sorry it … died … too.” Perhaps, and this is just a thought, there should be a different word for what happens to cell phones when they stop working temporarily than the one for people who cease to exist permanently. “Jesus, what happened?”

“I don’t want to say.” She makes eyes at the children. Jack shrieks, could be happy, could be mad, they’ll know in a minute.

Griff follows her look, nods. Then he grips her arm, fingertips digging into her bicep, and drags her roughly into the pantry.

“Ouch, Griff, too hard.” She shrugs him off.