He needed something to do. Usually, that meant work. But not this time. He phoned the office, told Jeremy he didn't need him to pick up Morgan, and drove straight to the Bertschi School north of Capitol Hill.
He knew where Bertschi was in the sense that he knew the street address. He had never actually been there before. Beth had checked out the school before Morgan enrolled last September. Gus was out of town for the first biannual parent-teacher conference. He missed the holiday party in December, too.
As he turned on to Tenth Avenue, he could see the line of cars forming at the curved private drive that led to the main entrance. Jaguars, BMWs, Range Rovers. It looked a lot like his law firm's parking garage. He pulled behind the last car and waited his turn, inching forward at less than walking pace. At this rate it would take a good twenty minutes to reach Morgan. Maybe more. Bertschi was a small private school, averaging fourteen students per class, but a hundred seventy-five students meant a line of a hundred-seventy-five cars every afternoon. Many of them had obviously arrived long before Gus had. Apparently the trick was to get there before school actually let out. He was beginning to understand what Beth did with all her "free" time.
He found some light jazz on the radio and tried to relax. A sudden anal-retentive impulse had him reaching for his phone to check his voice mail, but he was in no mood for the rest of the world's problems. Finally, he reached the entrance. He was one of the last. In fact, he was the very last. Morgan stood outside the front entrance. Her skinny legs were covered by warm red knee socks, sticking out like toothpicks below her bulky winter coat. She didn't look happy. Two adults stood at her side. Gus rolled down the window as one of the supervisors came to his car.
"Hi, I'm here for my daughter."
"And you are . . . ?"
"Gus Wheatley. Morgan's father."
"Beth always picks her up." She checked her watch. "Usually a lot earlier than this."
"I know, I know. Beth couldn't make it. So I came. If you could just bring Morgan over here, we'll be on our way."
"I'm not sure I can do that, sir."
"Why not?"
"You're the last car, and Morgan's the only student left. But when you pulled up, I asked her if this was her ride. She said she doesn't know you."
Gus rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'm late. She's mad." He pulled his driver's license from his wallet and showed her. "See, I'm Gus Wheatley."
She checked the photo and handed it back. "Wait right here."
She went back to the school entrance, took Morgan by the hand and brought her to the curb. She crouched beside Morgan and pointed at Gus through the open passenger-side window. "Morgan, is this man your father?"
She pursed her lips, then answered reluctantly. "Yes."
Gus popped the automatic door locks. The woman opened the rear passenger door and buckled Morgan in the backseat, obviously having seen enough 600 series Mercedes to know they came with dual. Air bags in front. As the rear door closed, the woman reappeared at the open window, looking at Gus. "Come by and see us some time, Mr. Wheatley. We here at Bertschi encourage parent involvement."
He smiled sheepishly and pulled away. Beth had once mentioned that Morgan's teachers thought she was smart enough to skip a grade. He was beginning to wish for a way to skip elementary school altogether.
At the stop sign, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Morgan was pouting.
"Sorry I'm so late, sweetheart. I'm new at this."
"I thought you said Mommy was going to pick me up." "I said Mommy would come if she was back in time.
She's not back yet."
"When is she coming back?"
"I don't know. Soon, I hope."
Morgan peered out the window. Gus knew he was going to have to tell her something soon. This very instant, however, didn't feel like the right time. "Hey, how about some ice cream?"
"Mommy doesn't let me have ice cream before dinner." "I won't tell if you won't."
She shrugged, seemingly indifferent. "Okay."
With a little coaxing from Gus, Morgan navigated the way to her favorite ice cream parlor. It was a quaint place with old-fashioned wire chairs and marble-top tables. The walls were exposed red brick, warmed by some orchids and green plants hanging from timbers in the vaulted ceiling. Gus and Morgan were the only customers. Most people didn't flock for ice cream when it was forty degrees outside, but for Morgan it was never too cold. An assortment of flavors was arranged in big tubs behind the glass display. Rows of pizza-sized cookies were on the top shelf. Morgan ordered a "create-your-own" sundae: one scoop of bubble gum sorbet, two scoops of rocky road ice cream, topped with crushed Reese's Pieces and pineapple sauce. Gus suddenly lost his urge for anything sweet. He ordered coffee. They sat in a corner booth near an old, broken jukebox that was just for show. Morgan was totally absorbed in her treat, careful not to spill a drop from the overflowing bowl.
"How was school today?" he asked.