Cold River Read online

  She consciously took three steps after she was outside before she turned to take her leave. It was a trick she learned years before when she realized she wasn’t going to grow any more. Those three extra steps made it so she didn’t have to crane her neck to look people in the eye. “Thank you again, Mr. Gallant. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Any time.” He raised his hand in farewell and then reached to pull the door closed.

  A light rain had begun to fall, and Mandy hurried to her car. She got in and brushed the droplets off her jacket before starting the engine and turning the heater on high. As she waited for the car to warm up, she glanced in the mirror and was dismayed to see a black streak where her mascara had run and been smeared across her cheek. She took a tissue from her purse and did her best to rub it off, trying to remember how long she had been talking with a dirty face.

  She took out her planner and read again the directions to the home of the third school board member. She repeated them aloud as she backed out of Wesley’s driveway, and then she headed toward Highway 20.

  Gertrude Foley’s house was not easy to find, as it sat at the end of the road on a bench above town. Mandy found the retired schoolteacher out back of her house. On the cusp of eighty, big-boned and ruddy, Mrs. Foley wore bib overalls over a gray sweatshirt and slowly followed a rototiller as it churned a textured path through her garden spot. Five ducks waddled behind her, nuzzling their bills into the coffee-colored soil as they searched for grubs. At the far end of the garden, peas twined their way up a hog-wire lattice.

  Mandy had to call Mrs. Foley’s name twice before she got her attention. The old lady turned, and Mandy noted the generous mouth and hazel eyes that looked like they wouldn’t miss much. Though the old lady had agreed to meet Mandy this morning, there was no smile of welcome. She turned off the tiller and waited.

  “I’m Dr. Steenburg,” Mandy said. “Thank you for saying I could come by.”

  Mrs. Foley stood her ground, so Mandy stepped into the newly plowed garden. When her stylish high heels sank in and tipped her backward, she overcompensated and lurched forward. Had it not been for Mrs. Foley’s steadying hand, she might have gone down.

  “Excuse me,” Mandy said, color rising to her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to fall on you.”

  “That’s all right. You’re not wearing gardening shoes.”

  “No, I’m not. I think I’ll go back to where the footing is better.” She made the return trip with more grace, trying not to think what the rain and dirt were doing to her shoes. When she gained solid ground, she said, “I wanted to come and meet you. Report in, you might say.”

  “I suppose you’ve already talked to Vince Lafitte.”

  “Yes. Mr. Lafitte came to see me yesterday.”

  “I’ll wager he did. I taught that boy in fifth grade. Taught him and Grange both.” Mrs. Foley leaned down and began tugging on a hank of grass wound around the tiller axel. “Poor Vince. He always wanted to be somebody.”

  Mandy frowned. “He seems like somebody to me. How long must someone wear a childhood label?”

  Mrs. Foley’s head was still down as she yanked at the snarl of grass. “I don’t know, people being what they are. It’s a different world now, but back when he was in grade school, there was a stigma attached to being born out of wedlock.”

  Stunned at the old lady’s revelation, Mandy stood with her mouth gaping.

  Mrs. Foley straightened up and threw the grass on a compost pile, and the ducks ran to investigate, quacking in interrogatives. The old lady wiped her hand on her pant leg. “I think it still haunts him. He didn’t have time to be somebody in high school. No time to play football, like Grange. He had to work to help support his mother. As soon as he finished high school, he left to go to work for someone, setting off dynamite. Now he owns the company. And quite a few things around here, too.”

  Mandy shivered. The rain was growing heavier, and she hadn’t brought anything that would shed water. “Mrs. Foley, perhaps you’re telling me things that shouldn’t be told. Mr. Lafitte’s parentage is no concern of mine. What is my concern is the future of our schools. I’d like to sit down with the school board and talk about your vision for the district, maybe write a mission statement.”

  “Is that the way you talk in the big city?” Mrs. Foley stomped through the tilled earth to get a hoe that leaned against the fence. “What you’re implying is that we have no vision. We’re not capable of looking to our children’s future because not having a mission statement means we have no focus.”

  Mandy blinked. “No, no. I didn’t mean that.”

  The older woman began cultivating between the rows of peas with the corner of the hoe. “Well then,” she said without looking up, “what did you mean?”

  “I meant that I wanted you to tell me what the district’s vision is. I’m new. I don’t know where you’re going and what you’ve already done to get there.”

  Mrs. Foley straightened and put a hand on one hip. “For that you need to talk to me? Grange can tell you. Talk to him.”

  Mandy flapped her arms against her side in frustration. “I’m not getting a lot of help there.”

  “Have you asked for help?”

  “Not from Grange. I’m asking you.”

  “And I’m giving it. Talk to Grange.”

  Mandy felt her throat tighten. The cold drizzle had made her hands numb and plastered her hair against her head. Water dripped down her neck and nose. She was miserable and fighting a lonely, losing battle. You are NOT going to cry, she told herself sternly and waited to speak until she could do so in some semblance of a normal tone.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me, Mrs. Foley.” She cleared her throat and went on. “I will talk to Grange, as you suggest. But I hope you’ll give Vince Lafitte credit for wanting to help prepare North Cascade students for life in the twenty-first century. Maybe he’s remembering the preparation he got and what it was like when he left Limestone. Maybe he wants better for the children of this community. They obviously have to go away for jobs. Let’s prepare them to be on an equal footing with graduates of other schools.”

  Mrs. Foley watched her through narrowed eyes. Then she nodded and took hoe in hand. “I’ll see you at the next board meeting, then?” She began loosening the dirt along the back of the trellis, and the ducks flocked around her feet.

  Feeling she had been dismissed, Mandy turned to go back to the car. She had taken only two steps when she heard Mrs. Foley call, “Dr. Steenburg.”

  Mandy turned and wiped the hair out of her eyes. “Yes?”

  There was a smile on that generous old mouth as Mrs. Foley said, “You’re very young. Welcome to Limestone.”

  “Thank you,” Mandy said woodenly. She turned and slogged back to her car, noticing too late the little mounds of duck droppings along her way.

  “Fits,” Mandy muttered. “A perfect end to a lovely morning.”

  She wiped her shoes as best she could on the grass before she got in the Miata. Then she retraced the route back to the highway, making only one wrong turn on the way, and headed home to dry out before the next stop on her list.

  An hour later, Mandy pulled up at the bus garage, dressed in the only other suit she had packed. In her briefcase she carried the classified workers’ contract, a set of charts and graphs Mo had put together for her, a job description she had written after networking with colleagues superintending small school districts, and two affidavits. She’d had the foresight to ask Mo to draw a diagram of the garage facility, located next to the high school.

  Harvey Berman sat waiting for her in the driver’s lunchroom. Fortyish, and small, with a thin face and wary eyes, he wore jeans, a black T-shirt, a Levi jacket, and a black baseball cap. He stood when Mandy entered, though he didn’t speak.

  “Mr. Berman? How do you do?” Mandy shook his hand. “Thank you for making time to see me.”

  Harvey murmured something inaudible.

  “Before we sit down and talk, would you please show
me around?”

  Harvey ducked his head in assent but didn’t move.

  There was an awkward silence, which Mandy broke by asking, “Is this the break room?”

  Harvey nodded.

  “And through that door?”

  “Garage.”

  “May I see it?” Mandy moved in the direction of the door, and Harvey scooted by her to open it. The cords in his neck stood out as he plastered himself against the doorjamb and held the door open with his extended arm.

  She passed through into the cavernous bus barn. At a nearby workbench, a man in greasy coveralls bent over a vise and plied a file. He looked up at Mandy’s approach.

  “Are you Del? I thought you must be. How do you do? I’m Dr. Steenburg.”

  “Mechanic,” Harvey offered in strangled syllables.

  “Yes, I know. Where are the other— oh, I see.”

  A dozen faces of different ages and both genders looked down on Mandy from the windows of a bus parked in the garage. Thinking she was growing accustomed to grim visages, she walked to the open door and climbed up the yellow stairs. Harvey followed.

  “Hello,” she greeted. “I’m Dr. Steenburg, the new superintendent. I know some of your names, but I’d like to meet you all.” She went down the aisle shaking hands and saying each name after it was given her. Then she turned and asked, “Did you abandon your break room so Harvey and I could talk?”

  One of the women drivers nodded, and Mandy looked at Harvey, who stood on the bottom step. “Don’t you have an office, Harvey?”

  Reuben Fellows offered, “He don’t want you to see his mess.”

  “Well, we can’t keep these good people out of their break room. Let’s go into your office, mess or no mess.” She walked down the aisle and paused at the exit, smiling. “It was nice to meet you all.” She turned to Harvey. “I’ll follow you. Lead on.”

  Harvey led to a room that was more cell than office. Thinking that the word mess was the understatement of the century, Mandy surveyed the grimy paperwork stacked on the olive drab metal desk, the gray steel filing cabinet, and the floor.

  “I’m a bit behind in my bookwork,” Harvey mumbled.

  Mandy did her best to suppress a smile. “Can you get another chair?”

  Harvey disappeared for a moment and returned with a folding chair. He opened it, set it beside the desk, and then stood awkwardly, waiting.

  “Thank you. Now, if you will close the door? Good. I appreciate you letting me come by here so I could see the bus facility. It helps me to get acquainted with the district. Please sit down.” Mandy sat in the swivel chair and gestured for Harvey to take the folding chair, which he did, sitting on the edge with his hands clenched in his lap.

  They stayed in the office for an hour, at the end of which Mandy emerged with her briefcase in her hand. Turning to Harvey, she smiled and said, “I’ll see you in my office next week, then?”

  Harvey didn’t return the smile. “I’ll be there.”

  “All right. Now, can you point me to the cafeteria? I have to see Arvella Shonefeld.”

  For the first time, Harvey lost his hangdog look. The corners of his mouth lifted. “It’s right across the way,” he said. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  MANDY CHECKED THE next-to-the-last item off her list, arched her back to stretch out some of the kinks, and swiveled around to look out her office window. The parking lot was empty except for Grange’s pickup, and she realized it had been a while since she had heard any of the normal noises of the district office in motion. She looked at her watch, saw that it was five minutes to five, and fingered the list, considering as she read the last item: Contract notes in Hawes and Cally files. She sighed and muttered, “Come on, Mandy. Finish it up!”

  Mrs. Hawes, a second-grade teacher, and Mr. Cally, high school math, were the last to be hired by the district, and therefore would be first to be let go because of budget constraints. The standard teacher’s contract was quite clear that today was the deadline for notices of non-renewal to be mailed. Mandy had dictated the letters to Mrs. Berman as soon as she got back at noon, and two hours later they were on their way to the post office.

  Mandy printed out two copies of the abstract she had made of pertinent contract sections, along with her comments. She opened the first file, and before inserting the notes, she scanned Vonda Hawes’s profile information. A native of Limestone, she had graduated from Western Washington University three years ago. She married a local fellow and worked summers at a restaurant in town until a position opened up in the district.

  Mandy next opened Sumner Cally’s folder. He was from the Midwest, and as Mandy flipped through his transcripts and application information, she was interested to find he had graduated at the top of his class from a small private college. His cover letter mentioned his love of math, his talent for making it relevant to students, and his desire to make a difference. He had included a picture, and Mandy, expecting a studious, shirt-and-tie fellow, was surprised at the tattoo of p on Sumner’s neck above the ribbing on his T-shirt.

  Mandy punched two holes in the top of her notes. As she was undoing the metal fasteners on the files, she glanced at the copy of her letter and froze. The latch stayed half undone in her fingers as she read a note scrawled under her signature. She grabbed the other file and examined the copy of Vonda Hawes’s letter.

  “Count to ten,” she admonished herself between gritted teeth, but she didn’t get past five before she sprang from her chair, scooped up the folders, and stormed through her door and down the hall to Grange Timberlain’s office.

  His door was open, but she rapped on the frame before entering. The sound echoed through the quiet office, and he turned to face her with one eyebrow raised. His good eye widened when he saw her face, and when she tossed the files on his desk, he jerked his pencil out of the way.

  “How dare you?” She was so angry that her voice quivered, and that made her even madder.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You added a post script to my letters before they went out.”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t do that! It isn’t done! If something goes out with my signature on it, I need to okay it first.”

  Grange leaned back in his chair. “If you had come and discussed this with me first, there would have been no need to add anything.”

  “What was there to discuss? You said yourself that two teachers had to go, so we could balance the budget. I read the contract. Those letters had to go out today.”

  Grange opened Sumner’s file and tapped the letter with the pencil he still held. “Today is the day, but whether these particular letters had to go out is debatable.”

  “And just what’s wrong with them?”

  “They’ll ensure that in next week’s mail, Sumner Cally will be sending out applications to other districts.”

  “Hello? That’s the intent of the contract. It’s meant to protect teachers from a district waiting until there are no openings left before telling them their positions have been cut.”

  “Yes. I understand that. But Mr. Cally is too good a teacher to let go. I’ve got five students signed up for AP math next year. That’s a first.”

  Mandy leaned over and put her finger on the note Grange had written. “Come and talk to me about this,” she read. “What do you intend to say to Sumner Cally when you have this little talk?”

  “I’m going to ask him to give us a little time. If I had written the letter, or had some input in its writing, I would have softened it, told him this was official notice, but we were trying to work something out.”

  “And you would have laid the district open to a suit from the union when there wasn’t a job for him.” Mandy picked up the files and turned to go. “By contract, the letter cannot be ambiguous.”

  “Well, as to laying the district open to a suit from the union, what about your little trick today?”

  Mandy paused at the doorway and turned to face Grange. “What little trick?”

&nbs
p; “Your sleight of hand over at the bus garage.”

  Mandy frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you or did you not get Harvey Berman to sign something saying he would spread the extracurricular duties among all the drivers when I expressly told you that went by seniority?”

  “I don’t know how well you read the contract, but there was certainly a provision there to have a supervisor with assignment duties in his job description. It seems to me that things have been allowed to continue because of tradition when all that was needed was for someone to care enough to do a little reorganizing.”

  “And how are we going to pay for this reorganizing?” Grange drummed the pencil on his desk. “I can’t believe that Harvey went for this just because of a title.”

  “Certainly he’s getting a raise. However, when you spread the overtime hours over all the men, the difference in what they make as opposed to what Harvey would have made will pay for his raise.”

  Grange’s good eye narrowed and one corner of his mouth curled down. Mandy took it to be a look of disdain, and she felt the anger rising again. She concentrated on speaking slowly, as if explaining to a child. “I worked it out with Mo. We’ll have the same outlay, only we’ll have peace in the bus barn. And I’m going to get him some clerical help.”

  “And where is that going to come from?”

  “The same place we get the clerical help for the district offices— from student aides. What he needs are routines set up and someone to stay on top of it.”

  “Who is going to set up these routines?”

  Mandy had a fleeting thought about delegating that to Grange, and though she didn’t voice it, the idea was so delicious she had to smile. Instead, she said, “Maybe I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, that makes sense.” Grange stabbed the pencil into a mug and threw up his hands. “What a great use for the mega salary they’re paying you! Have you tumbled to the fact yet that the reason we have to let Vonda and Sumner go is so we can pay you? Two teachers! The best math teacher we’ve ever had, and we have to let him go.”