Masquerade (8 page)

“Oh, goodie, goodie, goodie.” Mark flew out of his seat and clapped his hands in rapid succession. He pulled a harmonica out of his pocket and waved it in the air. “I brought this.”

“Mauk, sit down!” Linda, now out of her seat, gripped the boy’s shoulders and pressed him into his chair.

At another table, Lewis, jaw clamped tight, began to quiver. Amelia moved to his side while Barbara gathered musical instruments from a shelf.

Amelia helped Lewis to the floor so he wouldn’t fall out of the seat during his epileptic seizure. Celeste drilled the other children on the day, month, and year, followed by the first line of the Pledge of Allegiance. She’d found  it  important  to  keep  the normal flow of the class-

room intact, especially during a student seizure. The routine made the other kids feel safe.

After his muscles stopped twitching, Lewis slumped against the wall, exhausted. Amelia lingered beside him. “He’s wet,” she mouthed to Celeste and pointed to his pants.

Voices sounded outside the door. Martha emerged through the opening, red hair straight from a bottle, gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. Two students tripped in behind her, followed by more children and Martha’s aides.

Barbara ushered them to chairs arranged in a circle next to the tables.

“Welcome, boys and girls. Miss Filbert will lead you in the first song.” Her head dipped toward Martha who stood beside her class, eyes wide. “The music is ready to go.” She pointed to a record player which sat on a small table at the front of the room. “Mrs. Kelly, would you pass out the instruments?”

As Barbara distributed bells, triangles, sticks, maracas, and bongo drums, Martha, face aflame, crept to the front. Stifling a giggle, Celeste guided Lewis to the restroom, leaving Amelia to mop the floor.

“Good timing, Lewis.” In the bathroom, Celeste patted his back and helped him out of wet pants into dry ones. Dodged that red-headed bullet and got a dig in as well. Yes!

By the time Celeste and Lewis returned to the classroom, Martha’s students were lining up at the door. “Over so soon?” She grinned at Martha.

Straightening her vest, Martha blinked and donned her sickly sweet smile. “Kept it short this morning, dear, since you had to leave.”

“Of course.” Celeste arched her eyebrows and smiled back. “But I’m sure you did a splendid job leading the music session.”

Martha’s jaw pulsed as she guided her children out the door.

After group time, lunch, art, and reading time, the school day ground to a halt with the last child on his way home for the evening. Amelia had slipped away an hour before school let out to keep a doctor’s appointment. Humming softly at the counter, Barbara unloaded the dryer and folded towels, some used as bibs for students who needed them at lunchtime.

From a table, Celeste studied her aide. “Why are you so happy?”

The aide chuckled and dropped a folded towel on top of the growing stack. “Why not?”

Elbow on the table, Celeste propped her chin in her hand. “No, really. You’re always so, so content, it seems. An encouraging word for everybody. And the kids, well, they love you.”

“They love you, too, Mrs. Tatem.” Barbara winked. A genuine smile spread across her face. She opened a cupboard and stored the towels inside. She lifted her purse from the counter and walked to the table. “I like my job. Working with these kids gives me purpose in this season of life. It’s quite rewarding to know you’re helping someone.”

“And they sure do appreciate you.
I
appreciate you.”

“Well, thank you. All glory truly goes to God.”

Celeste frowned and tapped her chin. “Reserve a little bit for yourself, okay? You deserve it.” She pulled a pencil from behind her ear and thumbed through the pages of her planner.

“See you tomorrow.” Barbara padded across the floor.

When Celeste looked up, the aide was gone. Something about that woman felt like coming home. Except no home Celeste had ever known. Maybe someday she’d learn Barbara’s secret of happiness.

Although she had a firm grip on the schedule for the next day, she glanced at her planner. She knew it—no music session had been arranged for today. What was wrong with that woman? Didn’t Martha have enough to do badgering her aides without spreading the joy to Celeste?

After she closed her planner, she stuffed it in her tote and started for the door. Startled when she saw Martha, she stepped back. Great, what did she want now?

Martha clicked the doorframe with her fingernail. “I wanted to thank you for the combined music time this morning.”

Where was she going with this? “Uh, no problem.” Celeste moved toward the door and attempted to wedge past the other teacher.

When she did, Martha gripped Celeste’s arm. “I’m sure you never would have left me with the music load if

you’d been thinking straight.” She tossed her head. “Everyone knows my niche is art.”

What was wrong with this woman? “I’m sure you handled the class just fine. Besides, what could I do? I had Lewis to tend to.” She wrested her arm away from Martha’s grasp. “The unexpected happens all the time around here. You know that.”

“You could have sent an aide with him.” Face hard, Martha clipped her words. “But I want you to know, I understand. Lorna told me everything. You poor girl.” Eyes softening, she cocked her head and scrunched her face as if in pain.

What had Lorna done?

“Have a good evening, Martha.” Celeste plowed through the cafeteria and into the hallway. Spotting Lorna at the exit, she charged toward her, seized her arm, and tugged her outside. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah?” Lorna reached up to settle her dangling earrings.

“Not here.” She scanned the parking lot. “In my car.”

Pounding the pavement, she strode to the Plymouth, yanked open the door and tossed her tote in the back seat. She inched behind the wheel and waited for Lorna to catch up.

A few seconds later, Lorna, huffing and puffing, opened the passenger door and lowered into the seat. “What in the world’s wrong?”

“What’s
wrong
?”

The  pathologist  scratched  her  ear.  “Is  there  an

echo in here, my friend?”

“Some friend. You told Martha Filbert I can’t have children.”

“So?”

“I shared that in confidence. I didn’t expect you to turn around and—”

Lorna’s hand lunged forward. “Now, wait a minute. You never said anything about your infertility being a secret.”

Celeste gaped at her. “You were the first person I’ve ever told. Do you know how hard that was?”

Lorna expelled air through pursed lips. “I’m getting an inkling.” She shifted in her seat. “Look, Celeste, I thought maybe Martha would ease up on you if she thought you were having problems.”

“You are so naïve. You might as well have handed that woman a gun. Besides, how did you know she was giving me trouble?”

“After group speech class in her room today, she mentioned something about music not going so well, that you had the nerve to step out of the room and leave the entire class under her care.”

Celeste balled her fist, punched her leg. “Did she also mention I had to clean up Lewis?”

Lorna scraped her teeth along her bottom lip. “Uh, no, that little detail must have slipped her mind.”

“Conveniently so.” She glanced at her watch: four forty-five. Time to pick up Joe. “Look, Lorna, don’t do me any more favors, okay?”

Lorna   pressed   her  lips   together.   “Mum’s   the

word.”

Yeah, right.

“Still friends?” Lorna opened the door and swung her legs to the pavement.

“Friends.” She rolled her eyes and waved her on. “See you tomorrow.”

With Lorna out of the car, Celeste drove out of the parking lot.

Minutes later, she inched up to Schreiber Metal Works and parked.

Orange smoke billowed from the roof. Uniformed men poured out the door, like ants from an ant hill, running this way and that.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she fumbled with the door handle. “Joe!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sirens blared as two fire trucks, ambulances, and a police car arrived at Schreiber Metal Works. Celeste pressed through the gathering crowd which stood gaping at the inferno. Fear gripped her stomach as she searched the parking lot for Joe. No sign of him. The smoke irritated her throat, and she coughed. Her gaze darted from one person to another. Desperate to locate someone she recognized, she charged toward the front of the building.

A fire fighter put out his arm to stop her. “Stay back, ma’am.”

“Please, I think my husband’s in there.”

He shook his head. “Everybody’s out, ma’am.” He dashed to his truck.

She trailed after him. “Then where’s Joe?”

Busy unraveling more hose, the fireman apparently didn’t hear her.

Flashing lights and wailing sirens caught her attention. Two ambulances sped out of the parking lot and down the road.

Heart pounding, she paced the lot. “Joe? . . . Joe?”

Someone touched her from behind. Trembling, she

spun around.

“Mrs. Tatem?” It was Cecil Donnelly, Joe’s boss. Wild-eyed, with soot covering his face, he exhaled, then spit on the asphalt.

“Where’s Joe?” Her words punched the air.

He coughed into the crook of his arm. “On the way to the hospital. Along with another injured employee.”

She swallowed, throat tight and dry, and turned to leave.

Donnelly grabbed her arm. “Let me take you. You’re in no condition to drive.”

“Neither are you,” she yelled as she hurried across the lot.

Settled in her car, she turned the key in the ignition. No action. She thumped the steering wheel and cursed. “Come on, come on.” She engaged the key once more and pumped the gas. The Plymouth sputtered to life. Shifting into Drive, she pulled out of the lot
and skidded onto Turner Street and straight through a red light. A flashing light appeared in her rearview mirror.

No, please, I can’t stop now. Joe’s life is in danger.

On her bumper all the way to the hospital, the policeman took the space beside her in the parking lot. He glowered at her when she exited the Plymouth.

“Please, officer, my husband was in that fire.” Turning, she rushed to the double door which opened to the emergency room. Breathless, she darted inside and over to a counter with a sliding window. She pounded on the glass.

The   receptionist   looked   up   and  slid  the panel

aside. “May I help you?”

“My husband, Joe Tatem, please.” She raked a hand through her hair. “The ambulance brought him in a few minutes ago.”

“Take a seat, ma’am. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

“You don’t understand. He was in a bad fire. I’ve got to see him.” Her voice rose with every sentence.

“Calm down, ma’am, and take a seat.” The woman arched her bushy eyebrows, accenting each word. “Everything’s under control. In the meantime, you can fill out this brief form for your husband.” Through the window, she passed a clipboard with a pen attached by a string.

With slumped shoulders, Celeste received the board, turned, and walked toward the waiting area. The officer sat in a chair eyeing her. A few seats down, a toddler whimpered in his mother’s lap. An older gentleman in a wheelchair stroked his wife’s hand.

Celeste sank into the chair beside the policeman. She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I went through the stop light, but my husband—”

“I know. How can I help?” He jiggled his foot on the linoleum.

“Go tell that shrew over there,” she pointed to the receptionist window, “I need to see my husband. I have no idea what’s happened to him.” Tears stung her eyes.

He licked his lips. “What’s his name?”

“Joe Tatem.”

Rising, he reached for a walkie-talkie hooked to his

belt and pressed a button. “Officer Little here. Do you read me?” He released the button.

Static clipped the air as a voice responded on the other end. “I read you, Officer Little.”

Little rambled off some kind of police code.

The voice responded.

“Over and out.” The officer snapped the walkie-talkie back on his belt. 

The glass slid open when he approached the window. “Officer Little, ma’am.” He rested his hands on the counter ledge. Anything but small, the man probably stood over six feet tall. Solid, but trim. “I’m investigating the status of a Joe Tatem, brought in here a while ago after the explosion at Schreiber Metal Works.”