A Map of the World - Jane Hamilton [54]
I didn’t want to think about him, wouldn’t think about him because I had other sad affairs with which to occupy my mind, as well as the setting of the sun and my trip down the highway to get home. “I have to go,” I said to the officers. “My husband has chores and I—”
“Just a few more questions, please, Mrs. Goodwin. The more we know about Robbie the better we can assist him.”
“What sort of trouble is it?” I thought to ask.
“We aren’t at liberty to comment, I’m afraid,” she said. “We were hoping you could tell us if you noticed any signs at the end of the year, if he seemed anxious, if there were any behavior changes you noted.”
I tried to remember. I shut my eyes, falling into a gray sleep. “No more than usual,” I whispered. I didn’t care if they couldn’t hear. They’d have to come so close they’d have to hold me to listen. “The parents send him day after day to school sick,” I maundered. “He’s a baby, really, at five, even at six. The parents are legally entitled to school and the school is obligated to care for him. Robbie went to the Latch Key program too. He was in that building twelve hours a day sometimes, from six to six. It must have felt like a cage to him, a dumping ground, a kitty carrier. I don’t think they let you dream in those places.” I opened my eyes and looked at the two of them, and again I felt like laughing, because they were listening so intently to my aimless thoughts.
“What kind of sickness did he have?” Grogan asked.
“Sore throats, ear infections, the common cold, allergies, bee stings, influenza, chicken pox, skinned knees. He had strep throat about five times last year. I had the feeling that his mother was, well, sloppy about medication.” I was being only too kind. “Strep throat can be quite serious,” I said, frowning like a concerned health-care worker.
I had once gone to the guidance counselor about him because I could never get him to take his Suprax. He spit it up in my face or on the floor and I know for a fact that one bottle of about six ounces costs fifty dollars. Mrs. Watson, her dyed beet-red hair pulled severely into a bun, was a broad, square woman with all the softness and curves of a Sherman tank. She was supposed to be a resource person, but she was always thundering at the children and the staff alike, as if what you’d come for and what she had to give away was something bitter, for your own good. She said to me, “Go back to your office and make him take it. It’s medicine, he needs it, you are responsible for making sure he gets it down.” David Henskin was an older, remote person who also gave the message that we were to take care of our own problems. I used to have nightmares that Robbie missed his medication and died standing by my desk.
“Robbie destroyed my idea that I could help, or make a difference,” I said, apparently out loud.
“How do you mean?” Grogan asked.
If she knew Robbie at all she would know what I meant. It was obvious the way he spat at you, called you names, busted you to pieces. It occurred to me only then that maybe they knew what I had done. Of course! They had come to question me because I had slapped him once, last year. I had nearly convinced myself that it hadn’t happened but Grogan saw—she knew. She was shrewd behind her Tupperware Party face. Stay calm, be calm, I ordered. It hadn’t been too hard, that slap. I had hit him and that actually was the truer reason I hadn’t gone to the principal, for fear Robbie would tell. I had been composed since that day months before, when I had struck him across the cheek. I had been sure that I would be fired, that I was finished, that my license would be revoked. I had waited, day after day, week after week, month after month. He had stared at me with such scorn, stared until I walked over to him and slapped him back and forth. He had stood with his arms at his side, continuing to stare, as if I hadn’t gotten anywhere near him. I hadn’t told anyone about it, not even