“No. I don’t know. You should hear what people are saying.” She coughed into the phone. “What do you need? Are you staying with him?”
“Yes, of course I’m staying. Libby, it’s a lie. Do people really believe that Nate would sleep with a student?” From downstairs, Alecia could hear the sounds of lunch being prepared. Their second day home together, after having a week together only the week before, and she thought about driving up to Motel Deannie’s herself, just to see it. Gabe wailed in protest at something Nate did, and Nate responded, his voice muffled but loud, frustrated. Nate didn’t know there were only certain plates—sectioned so his food wouldn’t touch— that Gabe would tolerate. There was so much Nate didn’t know. Alecia drummed her fingertips against the phone, anxious. “Libby, listen to me. Nate didn’t do this, okay? Tell everyone that. I mean, even Bachman believes him, he just has to do the full investigation. The truth will come out. Okay?”
There was a pulse of silence. Alecia pulled at a thread in the pillowcase and all the stitching zipped out with a single pop, the hem opening up in her palm like a flower.
Libby said, “People are worried. About their . . . own kids. This is a really small town, not like Philly.” Libby had a daughter, a junior, not in Nate’s class.
“I’m from Doylestown, Libby,” Alecia snapped back. The implication had grown old: Nate, born and raised in Honesdale, was one of them. Alecia was bright lights, big city, sleek and blond and missing that rural twang from the back of her throat, that Pennsyl-tucky drawl.
“The parents are calling a meeting later. At the park. Supposedly Bachman will answer questions, but he’s said he can’t say much, it’s an ongoing investigation.”
“A meeting? About Nate?” The idea was alien. Three weeks ago Nate was some kind of hometown hero. “Libby, what are people saying happened? Who supposedly discovered the affair and why or how did it get into the paper?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? That reporter saw them together at a motel, last week I think.”
“Last week? Not a month ago?” Alecia felt her hands go cold, palms and fingertips numbed, the blood coursing through her body seeming to skip her hands entirely.
“No, a week ago. Maybe less? Not more than that. Not in Mt. Oanoke, though, I forget where.”
“Honesdale,” she whispered.
“Yeah! That’s it. How’d you know?” Libby’s voice sounded tinny, far away.
Alecia felt her heart unfurl, like the hem in her hand.
I never give her any thought at all. You asked why and I don’t know. I just don’t think of her. She never thinks about me. You said how do you know? She’s your mother. And the truth is that I just know. You said you’d help me find her, if I ever wanted, which is maybe the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my whole entire life. Everyone I’ve ever known has one thing in common. They don’t want to be found.
I shouldn’t come to you every day. I know this. I’m not an idiot. You don’t send me away, though. I can see your eyes drifting. I can see your smile when I knock on the door. I can see you. You just don’t know it.
CHAPTER 13
Bridget, Thursday, April 30, 2015
Bridget watched from her car. All the parents—mostly she knew them all—trudged across the parking lot toward the pavilion, their hands clutched, their faces white and blank. Blinking eyes and open fish mouths, a sort of soulless wandering.
To talk about Nate. Was there anything crazier?
Bridget stayed in the back. The last picnic table under the pavilion, far in the corner.
About forty people milled around, waiting for someone to take charge. Tad Bachman tapped his foot against the picnic table bench, his hands tented under his chin, like in prayer. Tad was young, smart, attractive with a soft wave of chestnut hair that fell over green eyes. It was no secret that he and Nate were friends. Until two days ago, everyone and Nate were friends. Tad’s pink polo shirt was tucked into khaki pants and he gave every parent an encouraging smile, a soft, mild-mannered hello.
After a while, the din died down.
Jennifer Lawson, Taylor Lawson’s mother, stood, smoothed her palms down the front of her Under Armour running jacket and spoke first. Her voice was high and her jaw shook.
“I wanted everyone to meet today to discuss Nate Winters. I know we all have girls in the high school. I just wanted this to be a . . . safe space.” She splayed her hands out, moved them around in a circle. “To see if anyone had information that could aid Mr. Bachman and the school board in the investigation.” Her lipstick was bright red, her eyes rimmed in black. She had dark brown hair that fell in glossy waves down her back, and her clothes fit her like a second skin. She was barely five feet tall, and at five foot eight, Bridget always felt like a towering giant when Jennifer was around.
Jennifer was an interesting choice to lead the meeting. She had a reputation for sleeping with married men herself. Husbands on the PTA, fathers of classmates. None of it was substantiated, but she was divorced and dressed the part, and people talked. It was Mt. Oanoke; sometimes there was nothing to do but talk.
Jennifer stood, ironically sanctimonious, on the picnic table in front. Sweatpantsed stay-at-home moms—who just last week would have rolled their eyes at her tight Lycra shirt, her lululemon leggings, her French-manicured nails—now watched her rapt and nodded along. They were all suddenly teammates, united for the same noble cause.
Jennifer took a deep breath, her breasts heaving. Tad looked away.
She dabbed at her eyes. “I also wanted a safe space to ask questions. We all have . . . so many questions. Our girls.”
Oh brother. They acted like Nate was convicted, abusive. Bridget wished she’d stop saying safe space as though the school was a danger zone.
Bridget was here because she told Nate she’d come. He’d called her, whispering from his car. Alecia said there was a parents’ meeting at the park about me. Tonight. Can you go?
Bridget wanted to ask Nate what did Alecia believe?
Tad Bachman stood.
“I can answer a few questions, but not many. We are doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this. To understand what happened, and most important, why and how. We are cooperating with the police, with the school board, while trying to be sensitive to the young lady involved as well as Nate Winters.” The crowed murmured and Bachman held up his hand. “We do not live in a guilty-until-proven-innocent society. Nate Winters has been an exemplary teacher up to this point, going above and beyond for his students.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Kelsey Minnow’s father grumbled loudly.
“And,” Bachman continued, “the school and the board are not defending him, but everyone has a right to due process. We are trying to understand all the pieces. When we do, we’ll issue a public statement and figure out next steps. Right now, we’re all in flux. I understand it’s uncomfortable. I’ll answer any question I can, but right here, tonight, most of my answers are going to be no comment.”