James stayed late at Robbie’s, and did try to invite himself to dinner, but they were going out for pizza with Max’s baseball team, and Robbie’s dad politely but firmly insisted that James had to go home.
He was dropped off at his house just after five, and, looking at the front yard as he got out of the car, seeing the tree with the tire swing, the green grass and full foliage, knowing that the backyard was brown and dead, he had the uneasy feeling that the house was putting on a show, presenting a cheery false face to the public while keeping its ghastly secret self hidden. He stared up at the structure. It had a porch and a door, windows and walls, the same elements all houses had. But were they arranged in an eerie way? Could you tell the house was bad just by looking at it?
No, not really.
That was the truth. He wanted to ascribe malevolence to the building, wanted to see a face in the arrangement of windows and door. But those things weren’t there. The truth was not that simple. The house was haunted, but it wasn’t alive. Whatever evil resided in this place, it lived in his home; it was not his home.
And it had control over the backyard.
“See you later!” Robbie’s dad called out.
“Thanks for coming over!” his mom said.
James waved at them as the car pulled away. Robbie, he noticed, hadn’t said anything. He, too, had been looking at the house.
James started slowly across the lawn, walking toward the front door, feeling like a man stepping up to the gallows, a fearful heaviness settling over him the closer he got to the building. Summer was nearing its end, but though it was after five, the day was still bright, the sun still fairly high in the sky. So there was no reason for the lights in the house to be on. But the fact that they weren’t made him feel anxious, and he took a deep breath before opening the front door. Would he find his sister lying on the floor of the living room in a pool of blood? Would his parents be locked in the basement, begging to be released? He didn’t know, but he pushed open the door, prepared for anything.
And saw Megan and his dad on the couch, she reading a magazine, he watching the news.
His mom was in the kitchen, where a light was on, and she’d obviously heard the door open, because she stepped into the kitchen doorway and looked at him from across the dining room, across the living room. “Why are you so late?” she wanted to know. “Did something happen?”
“No,” he said, and exhaled the breath he’d been holding.
“Is something wrong?”
He smiled at her, not a strong smile but a real one. “No, Mom. Everything’s okay.”
Eighteen
Oscar Cortinez wanted to sue the school district.
He was a longtime history teacher at the high school, and his contract had not been renewed for the coming school year. The district claimed it was for purely financial reasons—across-the-board budget cuts had been made throughout the district—but Oscar contended that it was the fact that he’d taught “the truth” about local history that had cost him his job. He’d gotten in hot water before for teaching off-curriculum material, but had successfully defended himself by pointing out that he had covered the required subject in the required way and had simply taught his students additional facts that inconveniently conflicted with the conventional narrative. The principal at his school had not liked that, and neither had the suits at the district office, and he and his union rep had had several more meetings with various administrators over the past few years.
He needed more than a union rep this time, though, and that was why he’d enlisted Claire.
It was easily the biggest and best case she’d had since leaving Los Angeles, and Claire was grateful that it had fallen into her lap at this time. Ever since the party, she’d been completely obsessed with monitoring everything that happened in or around their house. Every. Single. Thing. Scrutinizing the children for any unusual behavior, jumping at every stray noise, mentally cataloging the slightest shifts in the shafts of sunlight that streamed through their windows. Julian said she needed to back off and calm down or she’d go crazy, and she agreed, so it was good to have something else to focus her attention on, good to be able to direct more of her attention toward work.
Besides, if this case had a big payday—not an unreasonable expectation—they might be able to get out of the house and find someplace else to live.
The thought fueled her.
They met in her office for a consultation that lasted most of the day. Oscar explained that he believed he had been singled out and let go solely because of the subject matter he taught, a blatant infringement on his academic freedom. He’d been a model instructor until he started teaching an enhanced version of the standard syllabus, but after that he had become a pariah in the district, although his work had been recognized and rewarded by interested outside parties. He had documentation to back this up: a series of e-mails and memos covering the controversy, a stack of glowing evaluations from a period of fifteen straight years that suddenly grew harsh and critical when the current principal came on board four years ago, commendations from various teaching organizations and historical societies. His complaints seemed legitimate, and when he pointed out that no other history teachers in the district had been let go and that two of them had less seniority than he did, she told him that she thought he had a case.
Over the next two days she did some research, and the news when she saw him again wasn’t encouraging. “They might have a case,” she admitted. “They’re claiming that test scores in your classes have been falling consistently for the past three years, and that in this era of accountability, they could not justify protecting your position at the expense of instructors whose students have been performing better on the tests.”
He snorted. “Tests? What tests? That standardized pap the politicians foisted on us? My tests are twice as hard and three times as comprehensive as those generic multiple-guessers we’re supposed to teach to.” He leaned forward. “For over ten years now, America’s been scapegoating teachers: ‘We’re falling behind the Chinese, Japanese and Koreans because there are too many bad teachers, and we can’t get rid of them because they have tenure. Oh, and they’re bankrupting the country because they have good pensions.’ Well, the teachers in China, Japan and Korea have tenure and good pensions! Has that caused their educational systems to fail? No. Because their societies value education! They treat their teachers with respect. How do you expect American students to treat us with respect when their parents don’t, when the politicians don’t, when the media doesn’t, when all they hear is how bad our country’s teachers are? You know what? The Asian kids in my class do just as well on those standardized tests as the ones actually in Asia! You know why? Because their parents make them study and do their homework. If every parent did that, maybe we wouldn’t be falling so far behind!”
“We’re getting a little offtrack here,” Claire said gently.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I’m a good teacher. I always have been. And the reason I was let go is not the test scores of my students. That’s just cover; that’s just the excuse they’re giving. The reason is, I teach real history. Yes, I teach the requirements. But I go deeper. And these days, if you deviate at all from the party line, you’re penalized for it. Initiative used to be rewarded; now it’s not only discouraged, it’s punished.”