principal was unavailable, out of the building, conferring with the superintendent of schools, but his assistant was in, a chatty fellow with a face fenced in by black hornrims. Dawson gently interrupted him, mentioned the Bauer boy, and asked to see him.
“What’s Wally done now? I can assure you he hasn’t bothered Mrs. Medwick again. She’d have told me.”
“It’s nothing. I just want to talk with him.”
“Far as I can tell he’s doing OK. ’Course he’s quiet, shy, you never know what’s going on in his head. I saw him in gym this morning. Wouldn’t want him mad at me.”
“I’ll wait in your office, you don’t mind.”
“I’ll have to pull him out of a class.”
“Please.”
Dawson stepped into a small office, sat on the edge of a metal desk, and waited. Nearly five minutes passed before the boy appeared, morose in a cable-stitch sweater, a shock of blond hair over one eye, a slouch to the broad shoulders.
“Close the door,” Dawson said softly.
The boy did as he was told, with a shuffle, and then stood as if tongueless. His arms hung dead at his side.
“Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s good, Wally, because there’s nothing to be afraid of with me. We’ve talked before. We know each other.”
There was no response. Despite the size of him, the fullness of his chest, the stretch of his sweater at the shoulders, the only aggressive feature was the jut of his chin. The rest of him was muted, equivocal, his muscles merely dimpling what seemed the unshed chrysalis of childhood. Dawson spoke gently.
“I’ve seen your attendance record. You’ve had some recent absences.”
“I had the flu.”
“I’m glad you’re better.”
Dawson’s solicitude seemed to paralyze him. He had a ballpoint pen in his hand, ink on his fingers. When the pen slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, he merely stared at it.
“Do you still see Dr. Stickney?”
“I don’t need to anymore.”
“Everything’s fine?”
“Yes.”
Dawson stared at him in a way at once forebearing and insinuating, as if he could chart his thoughts and understand them all, maybe even trace them to their darkest roots. “I saw your parents at the cemetery. Mrs. Gately was there. Attorney Rollins. Mrs. O’Dea. I was surprised you weren’t.”
He was silent, a tightness pulling at his face.
“It was a nice service. Subdued. Dignified. She’d have liked it.”
The silence lingered.
“Do you want me to pick up the pen for you?”
“I can do it,” he said in a burst, as if breaking a spell. He went down fast and came up ghastly from the strain. Something snapped loose within him. “Why don’t you say her name? You haven’t said it once.”
“You say it instead,” Dawson urged gently.
“I don’t want to.”
“Yes, you do.” Dawson mouthed it.
Melody. Melody
. Made it into a soundless tune. And watched him recoil.
“I didn’t do it.”
“Let’s talk about it.”
The boy’s face was full of alarm, sweat on his nose, more on his upper lip. His bottom lip trembled.
“Everybody still wants to help you. Dr. Stickney. Myself. You trust me, don’t you?” A bell rang in the room, throughout the school, startling them both. The stampede of feet was ubiquitous, endless rolls of thunder. “The business with Mrs. Medwick. I didn’t do you wrong there, did I?”
He chose not to listen.
“I helped you.”
He gave Dawson a wild look. He was backing away, pushing the hair from his forehead, his eyes not truly in sync. Neither was his step. “I don’t have to talk to you ‘less I have a lawyer.”
“I know you were at the Silver Bell. I know you made the call. Why’d you do that, Wally? You must’ve known I’d know.”
“You can’t prove it.”
“I don’t have to. You’ll tell me.”
He stumbled, groped for the door, fumbled for the knob. Dawson did not try to stop him. He had the door open, one foot out. “Do you hate me?”
It was a question Dawson could not
“What’s Wally done now? I can assure you he hasn’t bothered Mrs. Medwick again. She’d have told me.”
“It’s nothing. I just want to talk with him.”
“Far as I can tell he’s doing OK. ’Course he’s quiet, shy, you never know what’s going on in his head. I saw him in gym this morning. Wouldn’t want him mad at me.”
“I’ll wait in your office, you don’t mind.”
“I’ll have to pull him out of a class.”
“Please.”
Dawson stepped into a small office, sat on the edge of a metal desk, and waited. Nearly five minutes passed before the boy appeared, morose in a cable-stitch sweater, a shock of blond hair over one eye, a slouch to the broad shoulders.
“Close the door,” Dawson said softly.
The boy did as he was told, with a shuffle, and then stood as if tongueless. His arms hung dead at his side.
“Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s good, Wally, because there’s nothing to be afraid of with me. We’ve talked before. We know each other.”
There was no response. Despite the size of him, the fullness of his chest, the stretch of his sweater at the shoulders, the only aggressive feature was the jut of his chin. The rest of him was muted, equivocal, his muscles merely dimpling what seemed the unshed chrysalis of childhood. Dawson spoke gently.
“I’ve seen your attendance record. You’ve had some recent absences.”
“I had the flu.”
“I’m glad you’re better.”
Dawson’s solicitude seemed to paralyze him. He had a ballpoint pen in his hand, ink on his fingers. When the pen slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, he merely stared at it.
“Do you still see Dr. Stickney?”
“I don’t need to anymore.”
“Everything’s fine?”
“Yes.”
Dawson stared at him in a way at once forebearing and insinuating, as if he could chart his thoughts and understand them all, maybe even trace them to their darkest roots. “I saw your parents at the cemetery. Mrs. Gately was there. Attorney Rollins. Mrs. O’Dea. I was surprised you weren’t.”
He was silent, a tightness pulling at his face.
“It was a nice service. Subdued. Dignified. She’d have liked it.”
The silence lingered.
“Do you want me to pick up the pen for you?”
“I can do it,” he said in a burst, as if breaking a spell. He went down fast and came up ghastly from the strain. Something snapped loose within him. “Why don’t you say her name? You haven’t said it once.”
“You say it instead,” Dawson urged gently.
“I don’t want to.”
“Yes, you do.” Dawson mouthed it.
Melody. Melody
. Made it into a soundless tune. And watched him recoil.
“I didn’t do it.”
“Let’s talk about it.”
The boy’s face was full of alarm, sweat on his nose, more on his upper lip. His bottom lip trembled.
“Everybody still wants to help you. Dr. Stickney. Myself. You trust me, don’t you?” A bell rang in the room, throughout the school, startling them both. The stampede of feet was ubiquitous, endless rolls of thunder. “The business with Mrs. Medwick. I didn’t do you wrong there, did I?”
He chose not to listen.
“I helped you.”
He gave Dawson a wild look. He was backing away, pushing the hair from his forehead, his eyes not truly in sync. Neither was his step. “I don’t have to talk to you ‘less I have a lawyer.”
“I know you were at the Silver Bell. I know you made the call. Why’d you do that, Wally? You must’ve known I’d know.”
“You can’t prove it.”
“I don’t have to. You’ll tell me.”
He stumbled, groped for the door, fumbled for the knob. Dawson did not try to stop him. He had the door open, one foot out. “Do you hate me?”
It was a question Dawson could not
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