We reached her office. As she unlocked it, she said, “Alex, I know it’s the same old question, but what’s the psychological effect of something like this on the kids?”
“Let’s hope they’ll have some fun, get back to their routine in a day or so, and move on. The main risk you run is that they’ll get so overstimulated that they experience a case of the morning-after blues once the hoopla dies down. I used to see it a lot when I worked at the hospital. Celebrities would blow in for photo-op visits with poor little sick kids, then disappear just as suddenly, and the kids would be left with their pain and disease and a sudden silence on the wards that was really… harsh. It was due to the shift in arousal- decompression. I started to think of it as the psychological bends.”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “We see the same kind of thing after an all-day field trip. They’re supposed to be having fun but they fall apart.”
“Exactly,” I said. “It’s why so many birthday parties end up in tears. Another thing to consider is that all this excitement and strangers- politicians, the press- could cause them to remember the last time things got so excited around here.”
“The sniping? Oh, boy.”
“Some of them may flash back to it, get anxious all over.”
“Terrific,” she said. “What do I do?”
“Keep an eye out for anxiety reactions- especially among the younger ones. When things quiet down, try to get them back to a routine. Maintain discipline but be flexible. They may need to talk about the concert, talk out the excitement- and any fear they’re experiencing. If any persistent reactions develop, you know where to find me.”
“You’re becoming a fixture here, Doc.”
I smiled. “Ulterior motives.”
She smiled back, but looked low.
“What is it?” I said.
“I’m supposed to be in charge, but I feel… irrelevant.”
“This is a one-shot deal, Linda. By tomorrow you’ll be back in control. But yeah, it stinks. They should have told you.”
She gave another sad smile. “Thanks for the support.”
“Ulterior motives.”
This time her smile was untarnished.
She took my hand and led me inside the office, locked the door behind us, threw her arms around me, and kissed me hard and long.
“There,” she said. “My own contribution to overstimulation.”
“Acknowledged,” I said, catching my breath. “And appreciated.”
She kissed me again. We went into her inner office. The music from the schoolyard pounded through the walls.
“Here’s the list of parents,” she said, handing me a sheet of paper.
I took it. The music stopped. An amplified, reverberating voice took its place.
She said, “Let the games begin.”
We stood at the back of the yard, looking out over hundreds of heads, watching Gordon Latch.
He stood behind a lectern at the center of the stage, brandishing his harmonica. The lectern was polished walnut embossed with the city seal. The stage was heavy lumber, elevated and backed with a thirty-foot wall of black silk that looked like a patch on the clear blue eye of the sky. Lots of sound equipment but no instruments. No musicians either. Just the press, crowding around on all sides, filming, talking into tape recorders, jotting. And a small army of hulking types in orange T-shirts patrolling with walkie-talkies. Some of the Beef Brigade stood on stage, others down at spectator level. From the way they glared and scanned the crowd, they could have been guarding the crown jewels.
Latch grinned and waved, puffed a couple of high notes into the mike, and said something about celebrating life. His words echoed across the schoolyard and died somewhere out on the spotless streets of Ocean Heights. A row of ten folding chairs had been set up to the left of the podium. Eight of them were occupied by middle-aged men and women in business suits. Except for the sound gear and the Orange Men lurking behind them, it could have been a middle-management seminar.
Sitting in the two seats closest to the podium were Bud Ahlward, in the same brown suit he’d worn the day he’d shot Holly Burden, and a thin, attractive woman with taffy-colored wedge-cut hair, a deeply tanned face, and a jawline so tight it looked like a seam.
Mrs. Latch. The former Miranda Brundage. Looking at her attire reminded me the sixties were ancient history. Or maybe they’d never happened at all. She had on a two-piece black leather outfit with padded shoulders and gold lamé appliqué, diamond earrings, and the rock Linda had mentioned- a solitaire on a chain that, even at this distance, reflected enough light to brighten a ballroom. Her legs were well shaped, sheathed in gray silk, crossed at the ankles, her feet encased in spike-heel thonged affairs that had to be handmade Italian. She alternated between gazing out at the audience and looking up at her husband.
Even at this distance she looked bored, almost defiantly jaded. I thought I remembered that she’d once wanted to be an actress. Either she had no talent or wasn’t bothering to fake it.
Latch held forth in echoplex eloquence:
“… so I told DeJon [jon… jon… jon] you’re someone everyone looks up to [to… to… to]. Your message is positive, a message for today, and the kids at Hale need you!”
Applause line.
Latch stopped and waited.
The kids didn’t get it, but the suits and the orange gorillas did. The sound of twenty pairs of hands clapping was feeble.
Latch beamed as if it had been an ovation at the National Convention, removed his welfare glasses, and loosened his tie. His wife’s affection for high style hadn’t rubbed off: He had on a rumpled tan corduroy suit, blue chambray shirt, and navy knit tie.
“DeJon said yes!” Up-raised fist.
“The school board said yes!” Punching air.
“So we put it together for you!” Both hands raised. Dual victory V’s.
“… So here he is, boys and girls of all ages: the Chiller, the ultimate Crowd-Thriller, DeJo-on Jonson!”
Power chords tumbled out of the speakers like avalanche boulders: rumbling, deafening, threatening, finally picking up melodic content and terminating as a sustaining organ tone- a fugue performed by an E. Power Biggs on acid. A hailstorm of guitar chords shattered the silence. Thunderous drums. Hissing cymbals. The suits on stage looked stricken but kept their places. The orange T-shirts marched toward them and touched the backs of their chairs. As if choreographed, the bureaucrats in the suits got up and filed off the stage. Miranda Latch and Ahlward hung back, she applauding with aerobic fervor that seemed disconnected to the ennui in her eyes.
Latch left the podium and took her hand. Waving to the audience, the two of them walked off the stage. Ahlward trailed, looking bored, one hand inside his jacket.
The three of them took seats in the front row, amid a group of plainly dressed women- my group. The mothers were all applauding. I couldn’t see their faces.
The music got louder. Linda grimaced.
I said, “One sec,” and made my way toward the front of the assembly, weaving past news crews and camera gear.
Finally I got close enough to see. Hundreds of faces. Some blank, some puzzled, some burnished with excitement. I glanced over at the front row. The mothers looked intimidated but not unhappy. Instant celebrity.
Latch noticed me. Smiled and continued snapping his fingers in time with the beat. Bud Ahlward followed his boss’s glance, let his eyes settle on me, then looked away. Miranda was snapping her fingers too. For all the fun she was having it might have been physical therapy.
I returned my attention to the kids. The volume of the music continued to climb. I saw one little girl- a first grader- slap her hands over her ears.
I moved forward to get a better look. The little girl’s eyes were squeezed shut and her mouth was trembling. A blast from the speakers and she burst into an open-mouthed wail rendered silent by the din. No one noticed. All eyes, including those of her teacher, were fixed upon the stage.