“Do you think she ran away?”
“Frankly, I don’t know anymore,” she says after a moment. “I didn’t use to think so. But who knows who’s going to do what? She was my daughter, but I don’t think I knew her. I thought I did, but …” Her voice trails off. “That’s my regret,” she says softly. “I do regret that. Maybe … but there’s no way of knowing. Anyway, we’re moving on with our lives. We need to put the pain of this behind us.”
“‘We’—you mean you and Will?”
“No, I mean me and Ralph,” she says, a quiver of tension in her voice. “This has been hell on Will. And then—his lifestyle choices and the consequences of that … I just think the strain of this has made him a different person. I wish I could help him, I really do. But he’s got to help himself.”
When the conversation is over, Kathryn opens the back door of the house and walks out into her mother’s garden. Sitting down under the apple tree, she gazes up at the gnarled branches and the small, unripe fruit. She thinks of Mrs. Pelletier in the days after Jennifer vanished, her face drawn and scared. Without benefit of makeup, her eyes were rabbity, her lips chapped and white. She seemed not to know what to do; she stood on her porch wrapped in Jennifer’s letter sweater, her eyes darting anxiously up and down the street as if she expected her daughter to come sauntering up any minute. In interviews on TV she was always pleading and sobbing, her mute, hulking husband at her side. Five weeks to the day after graduation she was hospitalized for exhaustion. When she was released from the hospital, she told the newspaper that her doctor had forbidden her to go back to search-party headquarters. Will had to keep it going on his own.
Kathryn’s own mother had been disapproving. “You’d think she could pull herself together and try to be useful,” she said, clucking her tongue at the television, where Linda Pelletier was huddled behind her son as he patiently answered questions on the local news. “If I were her, I’d be up day and night looking for my daughter.” Kathryn didn’t doubt it; she knew how tenacious her mother was. But sometimes, in a particularly indulgent moment, she let herself wonder how long it would last-how long before her mother would decide there was nothing more she could do and it was time to let it go, let her go. Her mother could be fickle; she threw herself into hobbies and projects and friendships and then, without warning, it seemed to Kathryn, abruptly gave up and moved on. It was a bleak thing to think about, how your mother would handle it if something happened to you, and it always put Kathryn in a bad mood. But it was just one of the many questions that Jennifer’s disappearance had stirred up in her. It was part of the wound that wouldn’t heal, and she picked at it like a scab.
Chapter 19
The school secretary confirms that though Miss Hallowell quit teaching several years ago to sell beauty products and Mr. Richardson recently retired from teaching drama, Mr. Hunter is still at the high school, still teaching social studies. Kathryn leaves a message for him at the school, and later that day he returns her call. His voice on the phone is guarded; he seems not to remember who she is.
“Jennifer Pelletier’s friend,” Kathryn reminds him. “We were in your class together senior year.”
“Oh, right. Miss Campbell. Brown hair,” he says finally. “You went to Penn, right?”
“Virginia.”
“That’s right.” He laughs; she’s not sure why. She remembers this now, that he was always laughing at his students, always finding some private humor at their expense. It made Kathryn uncomfortable, but it also gave her a small, edgy thrill. The lure was that you might someday be in on the joke—that you might earn his trust enough for him to confide in you. “I know who you are. It’s all coming back,” he says. “Jennifer’s shadow.”
Kathryn knows he’s needling her, but it stings nonetheless. “Oh. That’s a pleasant way to be remembered.”
He laughs again. “Well, I’m sure you’ve carved your own path since then.”
“I haven’t had much choice,” she says dryly.
“No, I guess not,” he says. “So what can I help you with?”
“I have a few questions,” she says, and explains about the article. When she finishes, he pauses for a moment before answering. Then he says, “I believe my statement is on record.”
“I know. This isn’t for the police.”
“Well …”
Hearing the hesitation in his voice, she says quickly, “I guess this is as much a memorial as anything else.”
“The problem is, I didn’t really know her all that well.”
“That’s okay. I only have a few questions.”
“Well … all right,” he says. “Why don’t you come by the high school sometime tomorrow morning? I have some stuff I need to do there anyway.”
“Where can I find you?”
“Right where I was ten years ago,” he says. “Room 201, up the ramp and to the left.” He laughs again, that same dry sound. “They’ll probably scatter my ashes up there someday.”
BANGOR HIGH SCHOOL, built in 1961, sprawls on a flat-topped hill on the outskirts of town. A long, circular drive in front connects two ribbons of road, one in each direction, that circle back to Broadway. The school is bordered on two sides by grassy playing fields fringed with fir trees that stretch back into a wooded expanse, large enough for science-class forays and orienteering classes, but too sparse and circumscribed to get lost in. As Kathryn drives up to the front entrance the next morning, she thinks about these woods. Up until midyear, when accumulated snow made surreptitious entry difficult, kids would slip through the trees to smoke cigarettes or pot or engage in other unsanctioned activities. Every now and then one of these forays would coincide with a class excursion, and two half-dressed seniors would find themselves looking up into a huddle of leaf-gathering sophomores.
The school is virtually empty now, its ramps and hallways startlingly quiet. Kathryn hasn’t been here in years—possibly not since she left it ten years ago—and she’s amazed at how vivid her memories are, brought back in a sudden rush of sights and sounds. She remembers the lockers, metallic brown, that fell open when you found the combination and shut with a satisfying click; water fountains with too much pressure; hand-lettered Student Council election posters; snow tracked down long hallways; the squeak of chalk on a dusty board.
Her life back then was dictated by routine. At 7:59 lockers would click and clatter, rubber-soled boots squealing around corners, hall monitors clapping their hands: “Let’s go, people!” School began promptly at eight. By 8:03 the classroom doors were shut and the hall was quiet. Announcements began. The vice-principal’s voice crackled over the PA system: a lacrosse match, a bake sale, auditions for the talent show, rehearsals for the one-act plays. The school was unevenly heated; in some classes students were falling asleep, in others they’d be hunched over their desks, knees together, hands tucked under their arms like birds on a sill.
Because of the way the place was built—with wide ramps and hallways and open public spaces on the one hand, and narrow back stairwells and small secret rooms off empty corridors on the other—it was possible to conduct a very public life and a very private one at the same time. It took time to learn about these secret places, and the kids who did generally kept it to themselves. The teachers and administrators, for the most part, didn’t want to know. And some of them secretly thought, Give the kids their hiding places. What harm can it do? There were a few incidents—one time a janitor stumbled on an unconscious student behind a stairwell with a bottle of malt liquor; it was rumored that a fifteen-year-old girl who dropped out of school had gotten pregnant in the back row of the darkened auditorium—but nothing tragic. Nobody had died, or disappeared.
By eleven o’clock the sounds and smells of school became a stew. In a senior English class the students would dutifully copy the themes from Macbeth that their teacher spelled out on the board—greed, lust, jealousy, betrayal—watching dust motes float in a slice of sunlight. Wafting from another part of the building, the smells o
f art class—acrylic paint and turpentine—mingled with the meaty aroma of Salisbury steak from the cafeteria and the faint scent of formaldehyde from biology, where rubbery frogs, splayed and pinned to a board, were being dissected.
The back of the day was broken by noon. Afternoon classes were never as focused as those in the morning; the kids knew it was a waiting game. There’d be more doodling, more flirtation, and by one-thirty school might as well be over. The seniors left early, trickling out to their cars or migrating to different parts of the building for play rehearsal or band practice or ROTC, and outside to play sports. At three o’clock a small army of teenagers replaced middle-aged women in hairnets at fast-food restaurants all over town. The best low-paying jobs came with hefty discounts or tips; landing a job at the Weathervane, where Monet pearls and pastel cotton sweaters could be had for 40 percent off, would set you up for the year.
In the main office now, Kathryn chats for a few minutes with the principal’s secretary, a woman who had been the vice-principal’s secretary when Kathryn was a student. Then she makes her way to Mr. Hunter’s classroom, her footsteps echoing in the stillness like a ticking clock in an empty room.
He may not remember her, but Kathryn has no trouble remembering being his student. Mr. Hunter was one of the most charismatic teachers she ever had. He always acted as if he didn’t care whether anyone showed up to his class; he pretended that teaching these morons annoyed him. He said he didn’t expect his students to understand what he was talking about because they were ignorant, because they were philistines—but that anyone with half a brain should already know this stuff. He stood at the doorway at the beginning of class, ushering the students inside, corralling them with his voice: “Mr. Peterson! So nice of you to join us!” “Well, Miss Geary, are you planning to bring Mr. Wilson for a show-and-tell today, or are you going to leave him in the hall?” Students learned not to be late; anyone who showed up after the door was closed risked speculation about where they’d been, an analysis of their clothing, or having to give an impromptu lecture on the topic of the day.
Though he pretended to be cynical about social studies, it was clear that he was passionate about the subject. “Social studies is the world—your world,” he’d say. “Look at today’s paper. South Africa is divided over apartheid. There’s a battle over abortion in Kansas. Junk-bond millionaires are ruling world financial markets. All of this has to do with you, and you know why that is?” He’d sit on his desk and appraise them coolly. “Because, whether you like it or not, you are part of this world, and it is part of you. The ways we interact and the things we learn and the ways we choose to share that knowledge are affected by and have an impact on what’s happening in your neighborhood,” he’d say, pounding a fist into his open hand for emphasis “what’s happening in your state, in your country, and throughout the planet.” Though the students affected nonchalance, they seldom exhibited the telltale signs of a restless class—passing notes or drawing in notebooks or crinkling candy wrappers. The air in Mr. Hunter’s classroom felt crisp and clear. Much of the time the students were raising their hands to talk, reading essays aloud, debating euthanasia and the drinking age, taking turns being president and discussing how best to allot welfare money to the states.
“I’m wasting my mind with you people,” he’d mutter under his breath, loud enough for them to hear. “I could be orienteering in Spain right now, teaching English to flamenco dancers.”
“Then why aren’t you?” one brazen student would venture to ask.
“Very good question,” he’d say. “I suppose it’s because I’m a little slow. I’ve been operating under the illusion that every now and then I’m actually doing some good—that I’m teaching you people something. Not all of you. Mr. Kellerman, for example, would rather be reading comics than participating in this discussion, but I understand that I’m not going to reach everybody. Still, I do like to think that some of you people are listening to me once in a while, that some of the stuff I’m putting out here might crowd its way into your brains. I know I’m probably delusional, but hey, it helps me get out of bed in the morning.”
Mr. Hunter, then in his mid-twenties, was one of the younger teachers in the school. He was ruggedly handsome, with short, virtually black hair, dark eyebrows, and brown eyes. The bones in his face were strong and well defined, and when he smiled he had dimples. Most teachers dressed unimaginatively, the women in frumpy, stretch-cotton dresses and low-heeled shoes, the men in worsted-wool pants and nondescript ties and shirts. Mr. Hunter was different. He wore khakis, button-downs, colorful ties, and blazers, with patterned socks and black suede shoes. His eyes were large and expressive; with a subtle change of focus his entire demeanor would shift. He was thin and muscular, with the elegant carriage and intense gaze of a German shepherd. But there was something about him that could intimidate, a coldness behind the eyes, the way his smile could turn into a sneer without notice.
A certain kind of student was drawn to Mr. Hunter—the type who felt he spoke for them, who felt, as he said he did, that they were players in a phony game but players nonetheless. They weren’t so alienated that they drugged up or dropped out, but despite their generally respectable grades, their tendency to join school clubs, their jean jackets and Gap T’s and Bass shoes, they considered themselves different from the other kids in their class. Mr. Hunter cultivated these students through gesture and expression. Like birds in a flock, they recognized each other’s characteristic markings: a like-minded restlessness; a bone-deep boredom, invisible to the naked eye; an appreciation of irony and a sense of their own destinies as unpredictable, and therefore different.
Kathryn remembers being one of these. Mr. Hunter would roll his eyes at her when she interviewed the hockey captain for the school paper; he shook his head and smiled as he passed her selling whoopie pies in the hall outside the cafeteria for the French Club school trip. She felt, somehow, that he knew her—though in a strangely impersonal way, as if he had quickly surmised the type of person she was and dealt with her on that basis. It was disconcerting and oddly flattering to be analyzed and categorized so openly. He always seemed to catch her at the most embarrassing moments—or was it that the moments only became embarrassing when he noticed?
Reaching the door to Hunter’s classroom, Kathryn hesitates. Then she knocks, and he glances up. He still looks young, she thinks fleetingly, but he probably isn’t mistaken for a student anymore, as he sometimes was ten years ago. He’s sitting at his desk at the front of the class, filling out some kind of form. The blackboard behind him is blank and clean.
“Well,” he says, a slight smile on his face, “it’s a new you.”
She knows right away it’s the red hair he’s talking about. He was always noticing things about his students other adults seemed oblivious to. “So, Mr. Pierce with your newly pierced ear, let’s hear your take on affirmative action,” he’d say, or “How is it possible, Miss Buckley, for one girl to own so many shetland sweaters? You are probably single-handedly boosting the economy of some small Scottish community.”
Like everything else about Mr. Hunter, this attention was complicated—it was both unnerving and strangely flattering. As he well knew, most of them spent their days vacillating between wanting desperately to be noticed and wanting to sink into the floor, and he managed somehow to tap in to both desires simultaneously.
“People change,” Kathryn says.
Mr. Hunter leans back in his chair. “Think so?”
“People grow up,” she says. She doesn’t know why she’s taking the bait; it doesn’t matter, she shouldn’t engage it. But this was always the way it was in his class. He’d ensnare students in an argument they couldn’t win—about human behavior, nature versus nurture, do-goodism versus pragmatism—and before they realized it they had become Exhibit A of a lecture, the example of muddy thinking that proved his point.
“They get bigger,” he says. “Their skin wrinkles. They pay bills and hold down jobs. I don’t know i
f they change.” He sits forward and sweeps his arm across the rows of empty desks, a phantom class. “See, in my experience, the fourteen-year-olds who walk in here on the first day of school already possess the core of what they will become. They might as well be thirty years old.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not the same person I was in high school.”
“Oh? How have you changed, other than superficially?”
Again, she flinches. Is she being overly sensitive, or are his comments laced with barbs?
“You don’t follow Jennifer around anymore,” he says, prompting her.
“Just for the record, I don’t think I followed her around in high school,” she says, a little irritated.
He nods amiably. “Okay. And you don’t now. So that’s the same. But—actually you do. Don’t you? It’s been ten years, right? And here you are, following her around again.”
She tells herself not to react, but she can’t help the flush of heat that rises to her cheeks. “I am,” she says. “You win.”
“Nah, I didn’t win. I trapped you,” he says. “So let’s start over. Welcome back to Bangor, Miss Campbell. How can I be of help?”
WHEN, FINALLY, HE talks about Jennifer, Mr. Hunter becomes thoughtful, his voice low and serious, stripped of its usual irony. “She was a pretty good student,” he says. “Worked hard but didn’t always think things through. When she focused she could be surprisingly original. She seemed older than her years in some ways, younger in others.”