As Night Falls Page 18

  “It’s about Nicholas and whether he should be here, isn’t it?”

  An expression of something like relief crossed Ms. Castleman’s face. “Why, yes, Mrs. Burgess. I’m not sure how you knew—what you might’ve been told—but that’s exactly the reason I called you both in today.”

  “We’ve been wondering the same thing,” Barbara said. She snatched a quick look at Gordon, keeping her line of sight sideways so it wouldn’t wander over to the play corner. “I have at least.”

  Ms. Castleman nodded. “And what is it that you’ve been wondering?”

  “Why, whether Nicholas wouldn’t be better off advancing more quickly,” Barbara said. “To a kindergarten class where the other children will be—up to his level.”

  She hadn’t realized how awkward it would be to put this into words, until silence cast a heavy shroud over the office.

  Ms. Castleman aimed her gaze down toward her desk.

  Gordon gave a cough. “That’s not—this isn’t why you brought us in here today, is it, Mrs. Castleman?”

  Barbara frowned at him. “It’s Ms. And what are you saying, Gor—”

  Ms. Castleman shook her head. “No. I’m afraid it isn’t.”

  “Well, what is the reason, then?” Barbara asked. She was accosted by the strangest urge to get up and leave. Just run right out of the office, the whole school, fetch Nicholas away from Glenda at the rectory, and never let these halls darken him again. “Is it because he’s a little undersized? Because I’ve been working on that. He drinks milkshakes every day.”

  Ms. Castleman spoke stiffly, as if her words had just been cued. “We here at Happy Learners don’t feel that your son is a suitable addition to our facility. We think that he would be better off someplace else.” She took a breath before going on. “Less officially, I would like to tell you that I have been a nursery school director—and a teacher before that—for more than fifteen years. And from what Nicholas’ instructor has told me, and what I took the opportunity to witness myself, I think that your son would benefit greatly from some sort of intervention.” She paused. “A visit to a psychiatrist or a child psychologist would not be out of order.”

  “A psychiatrist!” Barbara burst out, so loudly and suddenly that there was a clatter from behind. Barbara remained in place, chest heaving, as Gordon got up and restored whatever order had been breached. Ms. Castleman sat there, watching, a perplexed expression on her face.

  “What?” Barbara snapped. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Ms. Castleman’s cheeks fired. “I wasn’t looking at you, Mrs. Burgess. In fact, I was just wondering…”

  “What?” Barbara returned in the same clipped tone as before. “Wondering what?”

  Ms. Castleman shook her head before speaking in a great rush. “How you can have one child who’s so well behaved and pleasant, when the other appears to be so greatly troubled.” Her professional voice returned. “Perhaps that is for the doctor to get to the bottom of.”

  “We’re not taking Nicholas to any head shrinker,” Barbara answered. “He’s gifted. That’s why he can be moody while his sister is level, as you say. It will be the challenge of my life to help Nicholas direct his talents instead of being driven by them.” That phrase had been in the book she’d read. “And I’m deeply sorry that you won’t join me in that pursuit.”

  She stood up.

  Ms. Castleman rose and put a hand out to stop her.

  “Mrs. Burgess,” she said. “I didn’t say that your daughter was level-headed. I said that she was sweet and well behaved. Just look at how she’s putting those blocks together. Look at her smile.”

  Barbara stared steadfastly ahead at the director, who took a breath and went on.

  “And Nicholas isn’t only moody. For one thing, he’s not achieving in an age-appropriate manner, learning letters or numbers with the rest of his class, nor even colors and shapes. And it has nothing to do with his size.” Ms. Castleman paused as if waiting for a response. When none was forthcoming, she added, “Nicholas is the most unstable and roughly tempered child I’ve ever met.”

  Barbara felt a vein pulsing between her brows.

  Gordon placed his hand on her arm, but Barbara shook him off. “He’s stormy,” she told the director. “As are most geniuses and artists.”

  “Mrs. Burgess!” Ms. Castleman burst out, raw exasperation now present in her tone. “It’s not moodiness, it’s not storminess, and it is most certainly not genius. Nicholas is violent. Do you know, I nearly lost another student after he attacked her in the classroom? The only way this child’s mother agreed not to withdraw her daughter from my school is because I promised that the little girl would never again have to go near the boy who hurt her. The girl is having bad dreams every night.” An expression of repugnance rolled across Ms. Castleman’s face. “She had a perfectly round circle driven into the skin between her thumb and forefinger. It was put there by the hole punchers we use for making Christmas ornaments.”

  “Well,” Barbara replied. “Perhaps you shouldn’t allow weapons into your classroom.”

  Ms. Castleman was finally at a loss, standing behind her desk, mouth rounded and silent.

  “But thank you for helping me to understand,” Barbara said.

  “Understand?” Ms. Castleman echoed. “Understand what?”

  “How two children got into a tussle because your teacher cannot maintain control and you decided to scapegoat mine.” Barbara whirled on her heels. “Good day, Ms. Castleman. All told I am glad we found out sooner rather than later that you don’t have the skills or resources necessary to educate a child like Nicholas.”

  Barbara strode across the room without checking to see if Gordon was behind her.

  Ms. Castleman spoke up as she reached the doorway. “Do you know what I noticed when I told you about the hole puncher?”

  Barbara paused with her hand on the knob.

  “You didn’t seem surprised.”

  —

  Gordon drove the station wagon to the end of the winding lane that led to the rectory. He parked and got out, then busied himself with something in the backseat. Barbara strode across the lawn, stepping without particular care over the walkway flowerbeds to approach the front door.

  Glenda answered her abrupt knock. “Back already? How did it go at the school?”

  Barbara gave a rapid shake of her head. “How is Nicholas?”

  Glenda gestured her inside. “Fine, just fine. Come on in. You look like you could do with a cup of tea.”

  Barbara was about to shake her head again when tears suddenly spilled over. “I want to go see Nicholas.”

  Glenda noticed her tears, which Barbara rued inwardly. She couldn’t stand to be chided by one more person right now.

  “You poor dear. Nicholas is perfectly fine. My youngest is taking care of him. He’s the only one who never had anyone to babysit.” She offered a smile of fond reflection, considering her brood. “You have yourself a cup of tea and relax.”

  There was a knock on the front door, then Gordon walked in.

  Glenda smiled brightly in his direction. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. I bet you’ll be just the thing to cheer Mama up.”

  Glenda walked over to the door and lifted Gordon’s burden into her own arms. She returned with her neck wreathed in a choking clasp. Glenda looked down with a smile, her hand stroking wisps of hair, and positioned herself in such a way that Barbara couldn’t help but see what she carried.

  Barbara blinked back the last of her tears and turned away. “No tea, Glenda, thank you. You said Nicholas is upstairs?”

  Barbara heard murmurs as she left the room.

  Gordon’s voice, then Glenda asking, “Leave the school completely?”

  Gordon said, “It’s not as if she gave us much choice.”

  If she hadn’t been headed upstairs to Nicholas, Barbara would have wound her arms around her husband’s throat in a merciless hug, and squeezed the words right out of him.
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br />   A mewling cry began behind her. “Mama?”

  Barbara’s nerves felt like fur being rubbed the wrong way. She walked away from the sound. Glenda and Gordon spoke in similar soothing tones while Barbara mounted the stairs, and the cries grew muted.

  In a back bedroom, Nicholas was sitting at a little table with Adam, a strapping boy of fourteen or fifteen who straddled a too small chair, a leftover from one of the many childhoods lived in this house.

  Barbara stood in the doorway, barely allowing herself to breathe.

  Nicholas sat straight and still in his chair while Adam laid cards out in front of him. They were Candy Land cards; Barbara recognized them from a set Nicholas had shredded for some art project. Squares of bright M&M colors: red, green, yellow, orange.

  “Now which one is this?” Adam asked.

  “Purple?” Nicholas guessed in his sweet piping voice.

  Barbara’s heart clutched with love.

  Adam shook his head. “Try again,” he said. “You’re close. When you get real good at this, I’ll tell you about the color wheel, and then you’ll see just how close you were.”

  Nicholas squinted at the card. His little hands knotted in frustration, and his brows drew down. He was going to get upset; Barbara could feel it.

  “Take your time,” Adam said.

  “I’m just thinking right now,” Nicholas said.

  “That’s right,” Adam said. “That’s a good thing to do. Want me to give you a hint?”

  “No.” Nicholas caught the tip of his tongue between pearly teeth. “I can do it.”

  “I bet you can.”

  Barbara walked into the room. “Adam Williams! Don’t you talk to him like that!”

  Adam pushed backwards in the small seat, toppling it over. He stood up awkwardly. “Like—like what, Mrs. Burgess?”

  “Why, sarcastically. Making him think he’s not good at this.” She looked down at her little boy. “Nicholas knows perfectly well what color that is.”

  Adam’s face tangled in a frown. “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I’m trying to help him learn his—”

  “He doesn’t need any help,” Barbara said.

  Nicholas was standing up now too, looking from his mother to Adam.

  “Do you, Nicky?” Barbara asked.

  Adam took a step away from the table, holding out his hands. “We were having fun, Mrs. Burgess. Nick has been learning a lot. He’s a real good kid.”

  Barbara looked down at Nicholas. He tilted his face, gave her a smile that felt as if it were attached by cords to her heart.

  Barbara crouched beside him. “It must be so hard for you.”

  “What, Mama?” He pitched on tiptoes, looking into her face. “What you mean?”

  Barbara wrapped her arms around him. “So hard,” she crooned. “To have to sit still like that. And do silly, stupid exercises.” Her voice slid into a singsong. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Adam leave the room. “I remember what happened when you played with these at our house.” She leaned over, still hugging Nicholas, and teetering in her crouch as she snagged a handful of cards from the little table. “Do you remember what you did?”

  Nicholas looked at her. Then he looked at the cards.

  Barbara’s shoulders settled. She gave a nod, so small it hardly felt as if her head was moving. Nicholas closed his miniature fist around Barbara’s hand, and she savored his touch, sitting back on her haunches.

  Nicholas let out a wolfish howl then, hooking his little fingers. His nails dug divots into the cards as he began to tear each one into pieces. Though small for his age and slender, Nicholas didn’t lack strength. He threw the scraps into the air, running back to the table for the rest. These Nicholas set upon with a vengeful rage, howling, ripping, tearing. And as the pieces of card stock fell around them like snow, Barbara rested, and watched her son be consumed by his desperate need and vision.

  —

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Cards lay all around, obscuring the floor. Even the game board had been broken. The little table had joined the chair that fell over when Adam got up.

  Nicholas’ chest rose and fell, his body heated as he lay in Barbara’s arms. His curls were tangled so badly, she was going to have to comb them out when he was asleep.

  There were footsteps along the hall. A sucked-in breath from Glenda. Gordon’s defeated sigh. “Nicholas, come here,” his father said.

  Nicholas roused himself enough to scream, “No!”

  Barbara forced herself to stand, lifting Nicholas unsteadily and carrying him out of the room. “I’m sorry about the mess, Glenda. Adam chose quite an activity to do with my son. Perhaps you were right never to let that boy babysit.”

  There was the barest of pauses. “Barbara, I’m a pastor’s wife,” Glenda said. “I pray every night not to judge myself when I fail, and not to judge anyone else either.”

  “Someone should judge you,” Barbara bit out. “Raising a great, big strapping boy who likes to torment little ones.”

  Glenda blanched.

  Nicholas flung himself around in Barbara’s grasp, nearly sending himself over the stair railing. Glenda reached out and repositioned him more safely in Barbara’s arms.

  “I have my limitations, Lord knows.” She let out a sigh. “And I fear I may only be making things worse in this situation. For your child, perhaps, but certainly for mine. Right now Adam’s so mad at himself, he can’t stop pacing downstairs.”

  Barbara didn’t respond as she began to trudge down the steps.

  “Please don’t bring your boy here again, Barbara,” Glenda said. “May God bless and keep him. And that little girl of yours, too. Gordon, watch out for her. Watch out for them both.”

  Gordon gave a nod, then bent down. “Cassandra,” he said. “Come to Daddy.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Ivy jumped to her feet. “Please,” she said. “We have to go see who that is.”

  Harlan moved more slowly, but he too turned in the direction of the bedroom door. “Nick will take care of it.”

  Ivy ran back to the window, feet suddenly light with hope. One of her dad’s sportsman friends, a lost hunter with a gun, maybe even the police.

  Visoring her eyes, Ivy peered out. She could see only part of their driveway from this angle, but it was enough to reveal the rear portion of an SUV.

  Everything inside her plummeted. Seconds ago, she’d sprinted on air; now it was as if both shoes had been sunk into cement. She couldn’t believe he had actually come. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten.

  Well, said Darcy, inside Ivy’s head, a home invasion can be kinda distracting. And it’s not like you ever had a boyfriend before.

  Even scared as she was, Ivy felt her ears grow hot. Cory wasn’t her boyfriend.

  Ivy couldn’t let him walk into this. Not with Nick downstairs.

  With a mad shriek, Ivy ran past Harlan. He moved clumsily enough that she made it into the hall. But sheer size allowed Harlan to catch up to her in two jerky steps, and then his hand settled around her arm. The force with which he pulled her back was staggering. Ivy felt her shoulder wrench in its socket. She flew through the air, coming down so hard at Harlan’s feet that the wind was knocked out of her. She sat, holding on to her sore shoulder, and heaving and grasping for breath. She stared upwards with burning eyes.

  “I’m sorry!” Harlan said. It almost looked like he was crying. “I told you I didn’t want to hurt you!”

  “That’s my…” Ivy began as soon as she could speak. “It’s my…that car.”

  Harlan shook his head, confused.

  Ivy forced air down into her lungs. She took her hand off her throbbing shoulder. “I know that car. It’s my friend’s. I can’t let Nick get there first.”

  Harlan’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Nick isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

  Ivy shook her head hopelessly. “Oh yeah? How about what he did to my dad?”

  For the first time, Harlan looked doubtful. He
pinched Ivy’s hoodie between his thumb and forefinger, setting her back on her feet. Then he turned in the direction of the stairs.

  Ivy could hear gravel being churned by tires now. At any minute that car would pull up, spelling safety and escape and freedom. But Harlan, standing beside her in the hall, was as big a barricade as the whole rest of the house. The whole rest of the world.

  “Okay?” she whispered. “I can go?”

  Now he was crying for sure. His tears were like the rest of him, big, like beads.

  “I don’t know,” he said through them.

  Nick appeared at the bottom of the stairway, gun hand extended. Ivy’s mom moved into view slowly, like someone who’d been wakened out of a deep sleep.

  Nick crooked his elbow around her mom’s neck, pulling her forward. Ivy’s mom went slack, allowing herself to be dragged.

  “Mom!” Ivy screamed, and started downstairs.

  “Harlan,” came Nick’s growl. “Stop her.”

  He stopped Ivy mid-step, the ledge of his hand holding her in place.

  A car door slammed.

  Ivy’s stomach turned to ice water; she was going to puke.

  “Kill those floodlights outside,” Nick commanded. “Where’s the switch?”

  Ivy’s mom looked around as if she weren’t sure. It was like she was drunk or something.

  “If you turn the lights out now, it’ll only attract more attention!” Ivy shouted.

  Keeping a hold of her mom, Nick craned his head upstairs.

  Ivy fought to get free of Harlan, but it was no use. She might as well have been trying to shove ten boys off of her. And she couldn’t figure out why her mom was acting like one of the special-needs kids in class, who couldn’t follow instructions, or put five coherent words together.

  “Plus our neighbors will wonder!” Ivy called down again. All things her mother should be saying. “They know we’re supposed to be home!”

  “Your neighbors,” Nick scoffed. “All zero of them?”

  He didn’t know about the Nelsons, then.

  The doorbell rang, a jarring clang.

  Nick aimed the gun at her mom and spoke in a deadly, drilling voice. “You didn’t get rid of that girl on the phone.”