Milford Elementary Read online

  I can’t believe how the chamomile in that tea calmed me down. I was so fortunate to find Emelina and Abe when I did. I will explore with Ken about what the next third of my life might look like. My dad is doing okay at 81, but he and his recliner have become one lately, and he needs to move more. I hope to follow in my mentor’s footsteps and hit triple digits, not spend the next part of my life tethered to a recliner.

  “Hello, Mrs. Strong,” I hear from down the paper goods aisle. It’s Yvette Strohmeyer. She is due any day now and swore to me once that she would never carry another pregnancy through the summer. She was a student of mine from twenty years ago. She married Mike Strohmeyer, a sheriff and a student of mine from back then. Having chance meetings with my students or their parents at the store or around town is not uncommon. I always take the time to chat.

  “Hi Yvette. How are you?” I say as she walks over. Yvette knows that I am looking for a real answer, not a polite response.

  “Big as a house, miserable with this heat and humidity, and can’t wait to become a mother.”

  “When’s your due date?”

  “Last Tuesday, Doctor Lockhart says not to worry. Everything is fine, she tells me.”

  “Pepperoni pizza worked for me. Erin was late, and I had a pepperoni pizza. At first, I thought it was heartburn at four in the morning, then my water broke, and off to the hospital we went. You don’t want to hear how long I was in labor with her. They pulled her out kicking and then screaming.”

  “Why is it that every mother doesn’t want to tell me about labor, other than that it’s worth it?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “You always did that to us, Mrs. Strong. You always made us come up with the answer.”

  “So, Yvette, what’s the answer to your question?” I smile as Bill finishes prepping the second rib eye.

  “Here you go, Mrs. Strong,” he says. “You and Ken will like these.”

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  I turn back to Yvette, who gives me her answer. “Because for every woman, it is different, and there is a reason it’s called labor. The moms don’t want me to be any more nervous than I am,” she offers.

  “That’s part of it, but it is also indescribable to someone who has never experienced it. You will find the words to describe it when it’s over as you stare at your precious baby.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Strong. Hey, how come you aren’t at school? Today’s the first day, right?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you, Yvette, that they closed Milford Elementary. They decided to shut it down for budgetary reasons.”

  “I didn’t hear that. That’s terrible. How many kids passed through there? I have so many memories, especially in your class.”

  “They combined the kindergartens, and I chose to resign rather than have them lay off the other teacher, who is also pregnant and had less seniority.”

  “Wow, she must have been happy to keep her job. Good jobs are hard to find in Milford. What are you going to do, Mrs. Strong?”

  “They gave me a package, so I don’t have to rush. It’s been too much of a blur since it happened. I am nervous but excited, sort of like you, Yvette. I don’t know what to expect.”

  “Whatever you decide, Mrs. Strong, you will be good at it, I know,” Yvette tells me.

  “Thanks,” I say, happy for the affirmation of a former student.

  Changing subjects, Yvette asks me, “Isn’t that terrible about Jake Dawson?”

  “I didn’t hear. What happened?” Jake was a student of mine from the same class as Yvette. I try not to be alarmed when I hear bad news, so I work to keep a calm face.

  “He died Friday night, the night before he was to get married.”

  “That’s terrible!” I blurt out. “How?”

  “They say he shot himself.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The wake that night for Jake Dawson takes up the largest parlor in the McSweeney funeral home. The parking lot is overflowing with classmates and friends waiting their turn to pay respects. His extended family takes up all the seats in the room. It will be a long night for them.

  Ken understands from the note I left him why dinner was microwaveable leftovers. When he joins me in his best and only suit, we process in a long line, room to room. Flowers of every imaginable color and fragrance form an arch around the closed casket. Between us, we know almost everyone in attendance. The music is soft, the drapery luxurious. The period furniture is from the time after the Civil War when this mansion was built. The grand structure sits a few blocks from the town center. The property does not show the tired expression of a town that has seen its better days. Death is a steady business. The large oak tree in the center of the front lawn may be the oldest in all of Milford, and purple azaleas and crimson hydrangeas flank either side of the columned portico.

  I kneel before the closed casket, and Ken does the same. I see a recent picture of Jake with a dress shirt and tie. He is smiling the smile I remember from the first day of school when told him that everything would be all right. He was the youngest of the Dawson family, and I told him his brothers and sisters had sat in the same chair he was sitting in that day. Of course, I wasn’t sure if it was the exact wooden chair, but telling the youngest child that older siblings survived kindergarten always worked.

  Kneeling there brings back memories of Jake as if it was yesterday. He was calmer and quieter than most of his class. The girls that year were more rambunctious than the boys. Maybe it had to do with sibling order or some other nurture versus nature argument, but the girls were a handful, as I recall. Jake was always willing to help me with handing out glue sticks, crayons, and blunt scissors. He was taught manners at home, and the other kids learned about “please” and “thank you” from him and a few others.

  Ken nudges my elbow to bring me back to the present. We stand and make our way to Mabel and Warren, parents burying their youngest.

  “I am so sorry, Mabel,” I tell her.

  “Oh, Mrs. Strong, it seems like just yesterday that I sent him off to kindergarten.”

  We hold each other close.

  “I remember Jake’s first day of school,” I say. “He was so happy.”

  “He was always happy, Mrs. Strong. We had been with him at the rehearsal dinner, and he was so excited about getting married, and now he is dead. I don’t understand.”

  “We both watched him grow up. I was speechless when I found out,” I tell her.

  “We’ll know more after we get the results of the autopsy,” Warren says over her shoulder.

  Ken reaches for his hand. “My condolences, Warren. If there is anything I can do, just give me a holler.”

  “Had to be drugs,” Warren says resolutely. “He never would have done it in his right mind.”

  We remain silent for a moment, contemplating that possibility. Drugs were the X factor that explained a Jekyll and Hyde change in so many people around town. Unlike with alcohol, the changes were often swift and dramatic.

  “He drank only a little Friday night, as he was getting married the next day. He didn’t want to be hungover on his wedding day,” Mabel tells me. “None of this makes sense.”

  “I’ll come by in a couple days,” I promise her. “If you need anything.” I nod to her, and she nods back as Ken and I move down the line.

  We know Jake’s brothers and sisters and are introduced to their partners. We repeat our condolences. I flash back to each brother and sister’s time in my classroom. Each relationship is unique, as each one of them is different. They were vulnerable then and are shaken to the core now, and they look to me for strength and steadiness as their worlds fill with deep sadness and shock. Everyone repeats that Jake had everything to live for. I have a little training in grief counseling and promise each one that I am there for them. If they want to talk, I am available. No job to go to in the morning or for the foreseeable future makes my promises real.

  Next, we talk to aunts, uncles, and cousins, the locals we know and the out-of-town
ers we are introduced to. The Dawson family tree fills out. Either Ken has done work for them, or I taught them in school. A small town has a way of magnifying relationships. A funeral, more than a wedding, cements that feeling of interconnectedness, as the dead don’t have a guest list. Anybody can mourn.

  “Go ahead, Ken, I’ll catch up with you outside in a few,” I say as I spot Jake’s fiancée.

  Sharon McGrath is sitting by herself on a sofa. She is utterly alone in her thoughts. She spots me and stands. She is as tall as I, five-foot-ten and much thinner than my 135 pounds. My soft Afro and darker skin contrasts with her tied-back blonde hair falling limply to mid-back and her mourning pallor. A simple black dress hangs on her frame.

  “Mrs. Strong,” she says, “thank you for coming.”

  There is more to that greeting, like she is the little girl who trusted me with her feelings all those years ago. “Sharon, I am so sorry for you.”

  “He wouldn’t do this to himself, and he didn’t do it to me.”

  Jilting a bride on her wedding day is terrible; a groom killing himself to avoid getting married is almost unheard of. “You’re right, Sharon. It doesn’t make sense.”

  She pulls me in close and whispers, “My parents didn’t come. They have some weird thoughts about suicide and blame Jake for robbing them of a wedding.” She fixes me with a trembling gaze that tells me everything. She isn’t officially Mrs. Dawson, and Jake’s death the night before they were to get married raises all kinds of questions. I could tell she feels like a leper on the day when she should have been a bride in wedded bliss on her honeymoon.

  The school district had some arcane rules about hugging children when they were in pain, but nothing prohibits me from hugging her closely today. She sobs as I hold her. I don’t care that the Dawson clan looks on or that townsfolk who came to pay their respects watch me comfort her. It is the right thing to do at exactly the right time. Sharon held it all inside until somebody she trusted came in, and that person is me, her kindergarten teacher.

  We slowly make our way to the bathrooms and kick out a couple of bored teenagers on their cellphones.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Strong, for saving me. I thought I was about to explode.”

  “I can’t imagine what you are going through. I don’t know the words to comfort you.”

  “You being here is enough. You were the only one to ask me how I was doing.” She blows her nose and stares in the mirror. “Look at me, I’m a mess.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Sharon blasts the cold water and scoops handfuls onto her face over the sink. Staring into the basin she says, “My dad told me that the photographer and DJ refused to give them back the deposits. Like I friggin’ care.” She places both hands on the marble sink as her face drips.

  I hand her a paper towel. She blots her face, then lifts her head and composes herself with a couple of breaths. “We were best friends in grade school, and he took me to both my proms. We wanted to get started on our careers before we got married. He didn’t get cold feet, Mrs. Strong.”

  My thoughts drift back to when they played together at recess. My students were on the playground when the other grades were outside, and I watched years of my students growing up before my eyes. Conversations with other teachers filled in why some kids were misbehaving. Jake and Sharon were never mentioned.

  “Jake and his best man Brian were inseparable at the Vo-Tech. They wanted to bang on fenders for the rest of their lives. They had a good business,” Sharon adds after blowing her nose again loudly. “They had a great future and talked about building another bay. Does that sound like somebody wishing he were dead?”

  I hand her another paper towel. I knew that the boys own an auto body shop and were making a go of it. I say, “They fixed my father’s car after his last oops before we convinced him to stop driving.”

  Her voice is stronger now. “We said good night after the rehearsal dinner. I wanted to get a good night’s sleep. His groomsmen wanted to have one last drink with him back at the cabin. He kissed me and told me he loved me and wished we were already married. Does that sound like somebody who would blow his head off?”

  “It doesn’t,” I tell her. “Mr. Dawson was wondering about drugs.”

  “No way, Mrs. Strong. I would have known if he was doing drugs. I could drink more than him, and whatever we did in high school was years behind us. Brian handled the paint booth, as Jake would get nauseous around it if they didn’t ventilate well enough.”

  She reapplies her makeup. Dark mascara over reddened eyes doesn’t make for a good look, but she is composed. “I sat there for two hours until you came in, Mrs. Strong. I made my presence known to the family. Now I will grieve by myself.”

  “You don’t have to grieve by yourself. You’re not alone, Sharon. I am here for you.”

  “I know, Mrs. Strong. You’ve always been there for us.”

  We hug again, then walk out of the bathroom. A line of thin-lipped women has formed in the hallway.

  I find Ken outside in the parking lot talking with some other fellows and tug on his arm.

  “Do you think Dairy Queen is still open?” I whisper to him. “It’s been a heck of a day.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Many years ago, before Ken and I were married, we would get frisky at our favorite parking spot down by the river, but tonight we’re here sharing a peanut butter sundae with two spoons. Different kind of frisky. Late summer thunderstorms power the swift current. When our children were teenagers, we would tell them we were going out to watch the submarine races. “Ew,” Erin would say. “Mom,” Wesley would add, making a face like the one time I made him eat lima beans. We just needed an excuse to get out of the house, and they were old enough to fend for themselves. We’d come down here to stare at the river and be together.

  The half-moon reflects off the undulating water. Our windows are up. We learned the hard way all those years ago when mosquitos (which I swear were the size of hummingbirds) were attracted to my bare skin like it was nectar. The truck’s AC cools us as we share the sundae with the quiet calm of a long and mostly happy marriage.

  “How was your day, Hon?” I ask.

  “Hot. The fans I brought to the farmhouse didn’t move the air at all.” He is doing a kitchen and bathroom update for a city doctor looking to retire to the country.

  “Did you stay hydrated?”

  “Coffee.”

  “That doesn’t count,” I remind him.

  “Sure, it does. I made it with water, didn’t I?”

  We have this argument all the time. “Well, I didn’t drink enough water this morning before I went for a walk. I got dizzy, and luckily found Emelina at Abe Schatz’s yoga studio. He says hello, by the way.” That part is true. I fail to mention my crying jag or the tightness in my chest. I don't want to worry my man.

  He finishes his scoop and asks, “Were you okay?”

  “Tea and a raspberry gluten-free scone fixed me right up.” Moving on to avoid further inquiry I say, “I had grand intentions of having you grill a couple steaks, while I did the corn and string beans—Bill the butcher says hello too—when I met Yvette Strohmeyer at the store. That’s how I learned about Jake.”

  “Talk about a rollercoaster for Mabel and Warren,” he says. “To go from planning a wedding for your youngest to standing next to his casket. I can’t imagine how his family is dealing with it.”

  “Sharon McGrath, his bride-to-be, was utterly alone in her despair. I did my best to comfort her. She doesn’t want to believe that Jake killed himself.”

  He ropes me back to the earlier part of the day. “I never got to ask you how you felt about not being in the classroom.”

  “It hit me harder than I thought it would. I really missed being there for the kids on their first day of school. I felt like I was playing hooky when I went for my walk. Emelina and Abe talked me through it, though.”

  “Any thoughts on what to do?”

  “Besides car-racing, hang-glidi
ng, and learning to play the violin?” I wink at him. “Nothing else pops up right now. Emelina says retirement is a state of mind, and Abe advised that my future purpose would come to me in time.”

  “No rush, no pressure from me. The kids are doing fine, and we have enough saved in the emergency fund.”

  “The kids are doing fine,” I repeat. “We should call them and tell them about Jake.” I want to do that as much for me as for them, to reassure myself that my kids are well, my grandkids are well, and we have much to be grateful for. Small towns are not immune to sudden deaths. A car wreck, a heart attack, and yes, even death by suicide are all parts of the cycle of life here.

  I hold the ice cream boat in my hands and don’t give in to the temptation to lick it clean while Ken drives back to our latest fixer upper. He speculates on houses in town. We live in them while he fixes them up so he can later flip them. He’s done that since Wesley moved out. Buy low. Sell high. The locations of each were always within walking distance of Milford Elementary. I guess he can widen that circle now.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  “Nothing, Wes. Can’t a mother call her son to see how he’s doing?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, how’s work coming along?”

  “Fine. I’m really busy with projects all the time.”

  “That’s good. Do you like them?”

  “Did you call me up to talk about my job?”

  “No, honey, not really. There was a sudden death in town this week. Did you know Jake Dawson?”

  “Kinda. I went to school with his sister, Candace. I think we were a couple of years apart. He went to Vo-Tech, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. He and Brian Yelito have an auto body shop in town and fixed your grandfather’s car. We went to his viewing tonight. Jake was twenty-five.”

  There is silence now. Wesley has more patience than me. He’s not even asking me how Jake died. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” I say. “Do you think you will make it home for Sunday dinner?”