Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [27]
“What subjects did Alice teach here?”
“She taught GED, mostly, and social studies, though her main area of expertise was math.”
“Did you ever meet her husband?”
“David? Such a nice man.”
“Did she ever talk about any marital problems they might’ve had?”
“Not at all.”
“Did she seem depressed in the weeks leading up to her death?”
“Depressed?”
“Withdrawn,” Hastroll said. “Antisocial.”
“She seemed quite exuberant. She’d lost over a hundred and fifty pounds this past year.”
“Thank you, Ms. Fax.” Hastroll stopped at the door. “If you don’t mind my asking, who did that sculpture in the corner?”
Fax turned to look at it. It was three small spheres contained within the gaping hole of a larger one. It loomed. It gave off a hum. It was the only piece in the room that showed any talent.
“Why, Alice did,” Fax said. She covered her mouth and began to cry. “It’s called Hunger.”
He went to Alice’s former classroom. Her weight chart was pinned to the wall, off to the left of the blackboard, a week-to-week bar graph chronicling the whole year, the red construction paper bars marking her progress and climbing steadily like stairs (YOU CAN ACCOMPLISH ANYTHING! it read at the top), one pound lost one week, nine the next, then five, then four. Remarkable. In the drawer of her desk was a picture of the Pepins hugging on a park bench, Alice obese, the couple obviously in love, but the glass shattered in the center as if by a fist. Hastroll picked it up and looked at it, then rummaged around a little.
“Trouble,” someone said.
He looked up. A woman in a nurse’s uniform stood at the classroom door.
“I got a nose for it. I can smell it right here in this room.”
“Who are you?” Hastroll said.
“Who are you?”
He flashed his badge.
“Nurse Ritter,” she said. “I care for the kids here at the school. That is, of course, if you think medicating monsters is care.”
“Did you know Ms. Pepin?”
“Not well,” she said. “But well enough to tell you that girl didn’t commit suicide.” Ritter closed the door and sat down.
Hastroll had to get Hannah out of that room. There had to be a way. If he could lure her out, he decided, he’d rush past her, and lock the door. He tossed ideas around. He thought of releasing a bottle of moths into the room—she hated flapping things, pigeons, moths, bats—but where did you get such a swarm?
He decided to get rid of all their furniture. Not sell it. Literally give it away. Year after year, Hannah had carefully picked each new piece they’d bought. “Better to spend extra and buy something you keep for life,” she’d always said, “than spend a little less and see it out on the street in five years.” (Oh, his practical little wife!) They had many pieces that were of great sentimental value to her. She’d be forced to get out of bed and stop him! He called the Salvation Army. “I have an offer you can’t refuse,” he said. They refused. Or, more accurately, they couldn’t get by his apartment for over a week, and another week of Hannah in bed seemed to him like an eternity. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll give it to someone else then!” He called the Association for Retarded Citizens. A person who sounded retarded answered the phone. “I want to get rid of all my furniture,” Hastroll said.
“Okay,” the person said. “Where do you live?”
“Greenwich Village,” Hastroll said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we don’t go to Connecticut,” then hung up.
“Who are you on the phone with?” Hannah said from the bedroom.
“No one!” Hastroll yelled.
“Jeez Louise,” Hannah said, “somebody’s in a bad mood.”
He called Finders Keepers, a consignment store, but when he listed everything he had—a sofa, an easy chair, a television set, a stereo, silverware,