Cutting Teeth(55)
“It’s not Mrs. Tokem’s fault, really.”
“She called the cops.”
“She what? Why? Why would she do that? It’s not a crime. Or it shouldn’t be when kids—when—” A creeping, sick sensation turns over her own bowels. “You know what? I’ll just go investigate, at least represent the class. In an official Room Mom capacity.” She pulls herself together, tucking herself in, making herself as tall as a woman who has never managed to clear five foot three inches can possibly look. She can fix this. That’s what she does, that’s who Mary Beth is. She’s a fixer.
But, as she approaches Asher’s father, Bill, and Mrs. Tokem where they stand talking over the playground fence, she’s sweating in all the places you can’t see.
“I was specifically asked to provide this sort of information,” Mrs. Tokem is saying, and for a flash Mary Beth hates her, this stupid, old, no-fun woman in knee-length shorts. And it’s an emotion that shocks her system because Mary Beth hasn’t hated anyone, maybe ever. “If any became available. I’ve been in close contact with the detectives on the case.” As though she’s been given some sort of volunteer deputy sheriff star to pin to that beige cardigan of hers.
“But—” Mary Beth stammers, not waiting for an opportune moment to interject, just going for it. “But what were you thinking?”
Mrs. Tokem has adopted a “power stance,” feet wide apart on the playground’s artificial turf.
“You’re also required to protect our children’s privacy,” Bill insists. He’s always walking fast around the school with the hard soles of his dress shoes clacking too loudly, all Look at me! Here I am! Mary Beth can’t decide whether Bill’s a nice person, but right now she doesn’t care because he happens to be right. Privacy is all the rage in parenting these days, a hex on parents who post pictures of their toddlers in the bathtub, and, well, doesn’t this seem like the most extreme violation thereof?
Mary Beth thinks yes. She thinks she is not overreacting, that no one can suggest she is. She’s simply reacting. That’s an important distinction to remember. It’s the job of adults to protect kids. It’s more than that. It’s her moral obligation.
“I was thinking that a teacher is dead and that I am a teacher,” replies Mrs. Tokem. “They’re just finishing up collecting the sample from the classroom and then they’ll be on their way.” Mrs. Tokem swishes her palms together, done and dusted.
“Think about it. Why would the police want DNA samples from our children?” She can’t help if she’s talking too loudly; Mary Beth is naturally sort of a loud person.
“We can’t interfere with the investigation.” Maggie’s mother, Roxy, leans over, obviously having been listening the entire time. Of course. How very helpful, Roxy. Not only is she unconcerned, if Mary Beth isn’t mistaken, she might be giving off signals in the opposite direction: Get your little monsters under control.
“There are consent forms for saliva samples via a mouth swab. You can sign them or not, completely voluntary.” The teacher hands them out to each parent, moving on from Bill and Mary Beth. Dismissed! Easy as that.
“Why the kids, though?” Mary Beth’s mind is spinning.
“Isn’t it obvious?” asks Tamar’s mom. “The footprints. The creepy little footprints.”
Bill trots after the teacher while Mary Beth watches helplessly. “There are only ten kids in the class. The police can use process of elimination,” he tells her.
Word of his son’s overzealous feeding on his wife had spread well beyond their classroom by now; Mary Beth understands his concern.
As a parent, Mary Beth sometimes finds that there are things her children want to do that she instinctively says no to. You cannot play with the Scotch tape. Don’t sit on the countertop. Quit playing with the faucet. Because …
Because …
She’s been a mother long enough to know when things are a bad idea, and right now her mom sirens are blaring. They can’t allow this to happen because … because … because …
Just then the male officer and female detective who were snooping—unchaperoned—through their children’s classroom emerge. They look overheated and unhurried, the man in his slim-fitting navy pants and bulky belt, the woman in her wool suit, the top buttons of her starched pastel-pink shirt unfastened at the neck. Each year the school invites police officers and firefighters to the school for a career day and every time she welcomes them with a box full of doughnuts, not caring if the gesture is too on the nose. Well, she might not be so quick to offer next year.
She’s trying to think of what to say or do. Something. Something. She is supposed to be doing something.
“Stop!” she yells at the police officers, who are making their way back to the patrol car.
To her surprise, they do stop and turn.
It’s best if she doesn’t conjure too vividly an image of what they must see walking toward them, but if she had to, it would be a woman with a messy mom bun, frizzed where the tail of her hair sticks out of its rubber band, a pudge of fat and skin hiding not very well beneath the waistband of her black yoga pants, the control-top band of which she can never decide whether to wear over the lump, under it, or strangling it down, and sporting flip-flops. A mom of the first order.