Milford Elementary Read online

  “Not sure. I’m really busy lately. Can I take a raincheck?”

  “Let me know if you can make it, so I can set a place for you.”

  “Will do, Mom. Gotta go.”

  I say, “Love you.” Not sure if he hangs up first.

  I call Erin. She answers on the second ring. “Hi Mommy, what’s up?”

  “Just checking in on my favorite daughter.”

  “I’m your only daughter,” Erin teases me back.

  “How are the kids?”

  “We got them down about a half hour ago. Just finished cleaning the kitchen and family room. Getting everything ready for the morning. I’m a little late logging on to work.”

  “How well do you remember the Dawson family?” I ask.

  “I was in the same class as Warren Jr. Didn’t they have like six kids?”

  “Five, their youngest was Jake.”

  “Was?”

  “Your father and I went to his viewing tonight. They say that he shot himself.”

  “Accidentally?”

  “No, they are calling it a death by suicide.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “He was to get married to Sharon McGrath. Did you know her?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Both Jake and Sharon were in the same grade. They were always together. He died Friday night, and they were to get married the next day. “

  “Oh my God! That’s so sad,” she says.

  “Both his mother and Sharon don’t know what to believe. Warren, Jake’s father, is saying that it had to be drugs, but Sharon is adamant that Jake was not taking any drugs. He appeared happy at the rehearsal dinner and wasn’t drinking much.”

  She says, “The autopsy should include a toxicology report, but they don’t always check for all the drugs, just the usual suspects like marijuana, cocaine, heroin.”

  Before her part-time internet job, Erin was a true crime junkie. She knows the story of every serial killer since Jack the Ripper. The girl has an encyclopedic memory. She had inhaled the Oxygen, Investigation Discovery, and Court TV channels. Then she began listening to true crime podcasts and joining their closed Facebook groups. We had even attended a cold case symposium on a mother-daughter weekend last year. She is the right person to talk to.

  “I can’t make sense of it, honey,” I tell her.

  “What do you think happened, Mom?”

  “I’m having trouble believing that Jake committed death by suicide.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve known him and have seen him around town since he was five years old.”

  “People change.”

  “I know.”

  “What else?”

  I taught my daughter well. “His mother can’t offer any reasons.”

  “And?”

  “His fiancée said he didn’t shoot himself.”

  “Who were the last people to see him?”

  “His groomsmen wanted to have a drink with him back at his cabin.”

  “When did they last see him alive?”

  “Sharon said he died around midnight.”

  “How does she know the time?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “What else did Sharon tell you?”

  “He blew his head off.”

  “And the last time she saw him?”

  I recall the bloodshot eyes and mascara-covered face in the funeral home’s bathroom mirror. “Erin, it was the rehearsal dinner.” Can I separate my feeling at the viewing from what was said to me there? For Jake’s sake, I suck it up.

  “Let’s assume that I am right,” I say. The true crime junkie and her mother have had some practice at this. We reverse roles and she plays Watson to my Holmes. “For the sake of argument, let’s say that Jake Dawson didn’t shoot himself.”

  “Who did then?” Erin asks.

  “Are you asking the right question?” I prod.

  “No, you’re right. Why was he killed?”

  “What else?” I ask.

  “Why the night before his marriage?”

  “What reason did somebody have to kill Jake the night before he was to marry?” I pose a statement as question to her.

  “Because something changes when he gets married,” she says.

  “That something gets him killed,” I respond.

  We sit with this working hypothesis. Erin is offering no other questions or solutions.

  “What are you going to do now?” she asks me.

  “Sleep on it or try to, at least,” I reply.

  “How’s it feel to be back in the sleuthing saddle again, Mom?”

  “That was just beginner’s luck.”

  “Beginner’s luck, my derriere. You remember what the FBI agent said? You have a gift. Which reminds me—I have to get to work.”

  Thanks to Erin’s digging on a cold case last year, the number two person in the FBI offered her a part-time civilian gig working with a hand-picked intelligence analyst on cases having huge social media footprints. Erin has the smarts and drive to succeed at her task. She’s a woman possessed when she digs into a case. Since then, I just viewed my contribution as a fluke. I was Erin’s mom. But a gift? I don’t know about that.

  It’s late, I realize. “Okay, honey. Love ‘em and hug ‘em for me.”

  “Hugs and kisses for your grandbabies in the morning, I promise,” she says.

  I head off to bed and slip in next to Ken. I stare at the ceiling with racing thoughts as I toss and turn. What if I’m right? What if Jake was murdered? I can’t get comfortable no matter how I position myself. This is not like me. I am electric. Ken has to get up in the morning. I’m exhausted, but I can’t stop thinking about Jake’s death.

  I slide out of bed and go down to the kitchen and brew some chamomile tea with lemon, then go to my scrapbook. I slowly flip through thirty-five years of kindergarten class photos with the children’s names written under each photo. Each class brings back a flood of memories.

  Finally, I arrive at the one I am looking for. I take the page with Jake, Sharon, Yvette, and Mike’s smiling faces in the group photo and carefully remove it from the binder. I tiptoe upstairs past our bedroom on the creaky wooden floors and down the hallway to a spare room I use for my workspace. I center the photo on the corkboard where I used to keep lesson plans, and with a piece of chalk, I write on the slate board next to it: Jake Dawson. Suicide?

  I contemplate what Erin said about having a gift. Can I be there for just one child on this first day of school? He needs me to get to the truth. If it’s a death by suicide, why did he do it? If it’s not death by suicide? That answer may come from one of those kids smiling back at me in the photo.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  What was I thinking? And why am I thinking?

  I am supposed to be meditating in Abe’s seven a.m. meditation period. Ten of us sit on cushions or in chairs in a semi-circle facing him. This morning is cooler, with the sweet, dry cross breeze giving me goosebumps. I keep returning to my conversations the previous evening and not my breath. Slowly, though, my racing thoughts subside.

  I am left with a feeling of not being good enough for the task, and I am not talking about meditation. If I was preparing for class today, I’d be thinking about the kids and what we would do, as I have done it for thirty-five years. That routine allowed me to focus on the kids.

  I take a deep breath, pause, and count backwards from eleven, then I breathe in for a seven-count followed by a pause and let it out for a measured eleven count. Breathe and count. This is simple enough, except because these darn thoughts keep bubbling up. I don’t have a lesson plan for what I am contemplating. How can I allow myself to believe that I can investigate Jake’s death? I have no lesson plan; I have no guidebooks.

  I drift into a conversation with Erin in my head. No, Erin, last year we were presented with the facts of a twenty-year-old murder in New Haven. We visited the crime scenes and saw how the police decided to put the puzzle together with pieces that didn’t fit, an
d all I did was point out the obvious. Everything was laid out for us.

  In for seven, at the pause. I feel the need to finish that thought. No, honey, it’s not a gift, it was just common sense. The cops decided on a couple of suspects before they even started their investigation.

  Out for eleven. I take a deep, cleansing breath. Yes, honey, an FBI agent was interested in the case and asked us personally to get involved.

  In for seven, pause. But that doesn’t mean I know what to do.

  Out for eleven. I screw up the count and have to suck in air with a gulp. Why did I pick this day to meditate? Why did I pick this day to poke around a supposed death by suicide? I could think about my garden, but I am mulling over what I know so far.

  I open my eyes and see Abe’s tranquil half smile. The others are calmly breathing rhythmically. This isn’t rocket science, but there is something about sitting here quietly and focusing on my breath. It’s different from gardening, where I place all my attention on the task at hand, whether it’s turning the soil, planting, or weeding. Rather than let the thoughts drift away like puffy white clouds in a clear blue sky, I turn them over against the backdrop of a singular premise.

  Jake was shot to death.

  I am startled when Abe sounds the bell. How long was I deep in thought about Jake? What started out as the slowest hour of my life went by quickly.

  “This is a good time to stretch your legs if you are seated on a cushion,” Abe says.

  I uncross my legs and find out the hard way they’ve fallen asleep. Standing up is not an option right now, so I shake them out in front of me on the floor. I am surprised as Emelina pops right up and starts readying the room for yoga. I am going to try it, I decide. Years ago, the rec center sponsored an introductory course, but the instructor was a posture Nazi and I ended up quitting after the first session. She was from the city and didn’t last long in Milford. Abe comes to his practice with reverence. It saved his life, and now he helps others improve their lives.

  Eventually, the pins and needles from toes to buttocks subside, and I stand. I retrieve a mat, a blanket, and a thing called a bolster from the hardwood cubbies along the interior side wall, then mimic how the others set them up.

  For the next hour, Abe talks us through seated, standing and relaxation poses. The guided meditation in corpse pose knocks me out, and for the second time in two days, Emelina and Abe hover above me as I wake up.

  “That was wonderful,” I say.

  Again, Emelina pulls me to a seated position. “You look so relaxed.”

  “That was wonderful,” I repeat, as much for them. Two and a half hours ago, I was a bundle of jangled nerves. Now I feel like jello. The tightness in my chest is gone. A warm softness radiates outward from my abdomen. Anything is possible.

  “Not a bad way to start your day,” Abe tells me.

  “Not at all,” I agree. I wipe down the mat, then roll it up and return it to the cubby along with the props. I linger until the last person leaves. Emelina notices my lingering and joins me.

  Abe looks towards us, and we meet in the center of the room.

  “I was wondering if you had a minute to talk with me,” I start.

  “I don’t know, Gwen. I am a pretty busy lady,” Emelina says.

  “Sure, what’s up?” Abe asks.

  I take a deep breath and resolve to myself to speak plainly and directly. No beating around the bush. “Last year, my daughter Erin and I helped the FBI solve a murder in New Haven.”

  I watched both of their jaws drop while they raise their eyebrows in surprise.

  “I figured that would grab your attention.” I smile. “They were so impressed with Erin’s skills they offered her a part-time, work-at-home job as a consultant. I won’t bore you with the details. Repeatedly, the agent in charge of the investigation said that I also had a gift.” I put air quotes around “gift.” “She said that I had a way of looking at things as they really were. You teach kindergarten for thirty-five years the way we have,” I nod to Emelina, who smiles knowingly, “and you see it written on the faces of the kids. There is no hiding what’s happening in their heads. What you see is what you get. They haven’t learned how to get cute with the truth yet.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” he says. “There is some of that in sales. You get to read people if you do it long enough.”

  “Erin reminded me last night of my gift when I told her about how a student of mine from twenty years ago died recently. The official version is that he shot himself.”

  “But you don’t think so,” Emelina says.

  “I didn’t think so last night, but this morning I am not so sure.”

  “What changed?” Abe asks.

  “Less about the facts and more about what I can do about it.”

  “Meaning what?” he asks.

  “You mean you’re getting cold feet,” Emelina says before I can answer. My hundred-year-old former mentor is throwing down the gauntlet, and she’s right. I don’t have a great answer why now differs from last night.

  “It was different in New Haven,” I try to explain.

  “You figured out something in a town you’ve never been to before and where you didn’t know anybody. Am I missing something?”

  Of course, she is right. Between us, we probably know all the locals and half the newbies. I’ve lived here since college. “It is still an active investigation; I would be intruding,” I tell them.

  Abe shakes his head. “That poop doesn’t flush.” His soft eyes drill into mine.

  “So, it would be better to wait twenty years and then solve it?” Emelina says with an innocent grin. It is allowable for centenarians to zing you; they’ve earned that right.

  “Ask yourself why you need to know what really happened,” Abe adds.

  “Because I owe it to my former student to find out if he really committed death by suicide and why.”

  “And?” Abe prods me.

  “Because I think I can discover the answer.”

  “And if he didn’t shoot himself?” Abe lets the question hang in the air like my intimates flapping on a clothesline.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The monotony of the glossy white-trimmed windows and eggshell white walls in the Milford Community Church color scheme are broken up by the colorful flags of our country and state mounted next to the pulpit, where the silver-haired Reverend Steele is delivering the eulogy. I stare at the closed economy silver coffin in the center aisle of this non-denominational house of worship. Many attending would have been here for the wedding wearing colorful outfits. Instead, they have donned their darkest suits or most somber dresses. The mood is hard to judge. A death by suicide leaves a lot of questions.

  As Jeremiah Steele pauses, I hear more clearly the sobbing coming from Jake’s family directly in front of him. They would have sat on the other side of the aisle for the wedding with Sharon’s extended family taking up the pulpit side. The bride’s folks are MIA.

  Sharon McGrath is present, however; I am clutching her hand in mine in the pew furthest from the Dawson family. She would be alone again in her grief if it wasn’t for me. I checked in with her after I had gotten home from yoga. She picked me up, and we came together. Just the two of us.

  Who am I to judge her family? The only times I concern myself with what makes a family tick are when I see abuse, neglect, or the refusal to allow a sick child the miracle of modern medicine. Mrs. Strong can be a fearsome advocate—that was written more than once on my performance appraisals. The revolving door of school principals had to write that occasionally, even before I was a mandatory reporter of abuse. They would profusely apologize and tell me that my nemesis in the school system, Superintendent Mary Meade, made them issue the thinly veiled warnings. I count many friends and only a few enemies in this town, Mary Meade being one of the latter but every child that came through my classroom knew I had their back.

  Today, I am here for two of my students. One is sitting next to me, and the other is dead.
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  Sharon has a different black dress today, one that fits her better. Her hair is flawless, and her make-up hasn’t felt the sting of tears yet. That will come at the interment, I am sure.

  The groomsmen are interspersed in the crowd with their families. The Reverend’s daughter Rebecca, or Becky as she prefers to be called, was to be the maid of honor. She sits with her mother and brothers in their usual spot. Jake’s sisters were to be Sharon’s only bridesmaids. They are up front.

  I tune out what is being said as I gaze about. The church is nearly filled, better than most Sundays, I imagine. I’m sure that Jeremiah takes weddings, baptisms, and funerals as an opportunity to reacquaint town folk with his ministry. Maybe he’ll get more congregants from this crowd, but I doubt it. A senseless death by suicide doesn’t impress me as a Come to Jesus moment, but I could be wrong.

  Jeremiah is winding down. “He is no longer in pain and is in a better place.” The sobbing increases. It pulls on my tear ducts. “He is with his Grandpa Jake, for whom he was named, and his Grandma Helen. May he rest in eternal peace.”

  Others get up to remember Jake. His auto body shop teacher and his oldest brother are the last to offer kind words. To a person, they describe his death as a surprise and a shock, no warning. “He had so much to live for. He had a bright future. He was always happy,” ring in my ears repeatedly.

  Barney Williams isn’t here. He may show up at the gravesite, but probably not. He is the senior police officer in town. We have two full-timers and two part-timers. Major crimes or a fatal car wreck are handled by the State Police. I honestly don’t know where a death by suicide fits in.

  The speakers only validate what I already believe. I listen intently and I make a mental note to ask follow-up questions when I see them afterwards at the Dawson house.

  The organist plays a hymn from the dog-eared hymnals. Those who know the song are too saddened to sing it well, and those who don’t know the tune or for whom nineteenth-century songs of worship are a foreign language struggle with it respectfully in softer voices. Four verses later, the service mercifully ends.