The Affliction

  “The front door was unlocked?”

  The girl nodded. “Coach opens the building for us. We’re not allowed to swim if we’re alone, but I like to do my stretches in the pool room. I was a couple of minutes early, by the clock . . .”

  “What time, exactly?”

  “Six-fifty.”

  “So you . . .”

  “So I started with some sun salutations.” Maggie remembered how literal children are, especially in crisis. “I must have had my eyes closed for a while. Coach says you have to hear what your body says, where it’s tight, what hurts.”

  She was stretching this out. Was it because she wanted to avoid the thing that she didn’t want to see again? Or because she was stalling, thinking. There was something hard to parse in her manner. Maggie waited.

  “But—at some point, I was like . . . I saw there was something at the bottom of the pool. Something big, and dark. Like someone had thrown a coat or something in there. It seemed weird and I didn’t really want to look at it, but Coach still didn’t come and it was there.”

  She stopped again. Maggie waited. “So—there’s a net with a long handle? Like a thing you can use to fish things out with? Or skim things out of the water, I don’t know what. I guess we track things in on our feet or something. So I took it and I . . . sort of poked the thing at the bottom. It was right at the deepest part, under the diving boards. Over the drain. I thought if I moved it, I would see what it was, and then . . . it turned over.”

  She put her hands over her mouth and Maggie thought she might be going to vomit. Moving surprisingly fast, she crossed the room and returned with a wastebasket, but Lily took deep breaths and got through the moment.

  “The water’s a little cloudy,” she added. “I guess from all the chlorine. I wish they wouldn’t use so much it really hurts your eyes.”

  “But you could see well enough.”

  The girl nodded.

  “And then what did you do?”

  Lily thought for a long minute. Her eyes skittered, like someone dissociating. Or lying. “I can’t remember,” she said. “Coach came.”

  “She screamed,” Greta Scheinerlein said.

  She was called Coach because it was easier than teaching the girls to pronounce her last name. Greta had explained this to Maggie after the police were finished with her and Steph, the other swimmer. Lily Hollister had by now been taken to the infirmary to wait for her parents in private, but Steph was sticking close to her coach as they settled into the Katherine Jones room, which was once again Maggie’s headquarters.

  “Where were you when you heard the scream?” Maggie asked now.

  “In my office,” said the coach. She was a stocky brunette, all muscle by the look of her, with a short gamine haircut and enormous sloe eyes.

  “What did you do?”

  “Took off running,” said Greta. “I thought—I thought maybe Lily had tried a dive and hurt herself, I thought broken neck, broken back . . .”

  “And this was at . . .”

  “Right before seven.”

  “And you, Steph?”

  “I was in the locker room with my suit in my hand. I was naked and there was this scream like in a horror movie. I pulled my sweats on and ran toward it.”

  “Did you notice the time?”

  “No, but I was right behind Coach. I still don’t even have my underwear on.”

  “She was right behind me,” Greta confirmed. “We ran into the pool room and Lily had both her hands pressed to the sides of her face, like this, screaming and staring into the pool.”

  Steph began to cry and shut her eyes, as if she was now really seeing what they saw, but for the first time. The coach reached over and took her hand. She squeezed it hard.

  “And did you see at once what it was?”

  “It was Florence,” said the coach. “She was wearing a flowered dress. The skirt had floated up but her face wasn’t covered. Her eyes were wide open. Staring. Her legs were bare and her . . . She had her shoes on.” Here Greta Scheinerlein stopped. She was at a remove. Soon the effects of adrenaline would wear off and she’d feel how hard she’d been hit. Steph was feeling it already. Her narrow face was parchment white.

  “Were any of Mrs. Meagher’s belongings there in the room? Or in the pool? Other than what she was wearing? Jacket, handbag, car keys?”

  Greta shook her head. Steph, her eyes behind a thick lens of tears, shook her head. Her lips were pressed tight together to keep them from trembling.

  “Not anywhere in the room?” She had already asked Lily this. Lily said she’d seen nothing but the body, but Lily was so clearly in shock that Maggie knew not to trust her answer.

  “And the body. Could you see if it was . . . intact? Any wounds or injuries?”

  Greta looked as if she might gag. She shook her head no. She had not seen. She had not looked.

  “All right. I’m sorry I had to ask that. Tell me what you did next.”

  “I took the girls back to the office and called Christina. She said she was coming and told me to call 9-1-1. She came and took Lily away, but Steph decided to stay with me to wait for the ambulance.”

  Maggie said to Steph, “You’re a tough young lady.”

  Steph shook her head no. She still wasn’t outright crying, but her eyes brimmed, and she bit her lips hard. Maggie could guess that Steph wanted to stay with her coach because they’d just been through something terrible together and it seemed wrong to leave in the middle.

  “So . . . the EMTs arrived. We went outside to meet them and showed them the way into the pool.”

  “But you didn’t go in with them.”

  “No. The police from White Plains came too, and they sent us back to my office. A detective went with us and took our statements. After a while we saw them wheeling a—” She gestured with her hands in frustration at missing the word . . .

  “Gurney . . .”

  “Thank you, outside, with a white sheet over—Florence. It was wet. Sticking to her. I don’t know how they got her out of the pool. They put her in the ambulance and took her away. Then when he finished taking our statements, they said we could go.”

  “Is there anything else at all you can tell us about the scene?”

  Greta shook her head. “They asked about when I locked up last night, and when I unlocked this morning.”

  “And you said . . .”

  “There was a town meet here yesterday evening. It was all over by eight-thirty. I locked up the way I usually do. I was home by . . . nine . . . ?”

  “That’s a guess?”

  “Yes. Nine-ish.”

  “You live alone?”

  The coach hesitated, then said, “No, but my partner was out. I fed the cat and turned on the TV, and the show had just started. That’s everything.”

  There was something in there that Ms. Scheinerlein didn’t want to talk about, at least not right now, and Maggie decided to leave it for the moment. The coach placed her broad strong hands on her knees, fingers splayed, as if to indicate she was about to stand and go.

  Steph said timidly, “Car?”

  Greta Scheinerlein, suddenly dazed to be shown how poorly her mind was working, bopped the side of her head in embarrassment. “The car! Thank you, Steph!” She turned to Maggie again. “Steph noticed as we were leaving the building. Florence’s car is parked outside the pool house. I’d seen it when I arrived this morning but I didn’t know it was hers so I didn’t think anything of it.”

  Steph said, “I was like, ‘There’s Mrs. Meagher’s car.’ Mrs. Meagher was Lily’s dorm mother until they moved up the hill. The car was always parked behind the dorm.”

  “Both the Meaghers lived in Sloane, didn’t they?”

  Steph’s mouth made a slight sign, of dislike or something else Maggie couldn’t tell. “Yes,” was all she said.

  “What kind of car is it?”

  “A Subaru. Gray station wagon. My grandma has that car.”

  “And does Mr. Meagher drive the Sub
aru as well? You called it Mrs. Meagher’s.”

  “No, he drives a snot.”

  Greta gave a surprised bark of laughter and then looked embarrassed, as did Steph, who hadn’t meant to be funny.

  Knowing that inappropriate laughter often occurred with shock, Maggie merely looked a question at Steph.

  “Smart car. The first time we saw it, Mr. Meagher drove by, all crouched in this tiny thing like a clown car, and my roommate tried to read where it said ‘Smart’ on the back and she thought it said ‘Snot.’ It did look a little like it said that. So.” The unseemliness of this sentence seemed to grow upon Steph with every word and her distress made Maggie want to tell her that it was all right to go on being human.

  There was no point trying to keep news of the death from traveling like shrapnel from an explosion. By the time Maggie reached Christina’s office, Hugo Hollister had arrived; by chance, he’d been on his way back to the city from the family’s country house in Hatfield. Hope was on her mobile in the corner of the room. Reporters for the Poughkeepsie Journal and the White Plains Daily Voice plus a stringer for the New York Post were in the outer office, corralled for the moment by Sharon. Christina was on the phone to the trustee who served as the school’s lawyer.

  Hugo was impeccably dressed, in a double-breasted suit and a tie, crisply knotted, that might as well have been spun from money. His handsome lined face was tense and focused, and Maggie found herself unexpectedly relieved to see him.

  Maggie said, “You’ve seen Lily?”

  “Yes, she’s packing.”

  “You’re taking her home?”

  “At least for the weekend. We’ll see after that.”

  “Have classes been canceled yet?” Maggie asked him, after giving Christina a signal that she needed to talk with her.

  “Not yet,” said Hugo.

  “They should be, pronto.”

  “Yes.”

  Christina got herself off the phone and joined them.

  “What is your crisis plan?” Maggie asked.

  Christina looked at her, her eyes wild. Crisis plan?

  “Right. Tell Sharon to get the word out that classes are canceled as of now. There will be an all-school meeting at”—she looked at her watch—“noon. Where do you meet when you are all together?”

  “The Delano Theater,” said Hugo.

  “Shouldn’t I talk to Mrs. George first?” Christina asked.

  “No,” said Maggie and Hugo together. Christina picked up her phone to buzz Sharon but got a busy signal. All eight lines on the phone were alight. Christina left the room. After a moment’s hesitation Hugo hurried after her through the throng in the hallway and reached her just as the reporters landed on her like ants on a jelly sandwich. Maggie heard him explaining with gracious firmness that Ms. Liggett would have a statement for them as soon as she could. Then he gave Sharon the message and escorted Christina back through what looked like a wall of curious faces, students, kitchen staff, teachers, and neighbors of the school who had seen the police cars and had a few questions. Maggie then ran the gauntlet to Sharon and told her to hold all calls and let no one through to Ms. Liggett’s office except Lily Hollister, if she came, or Mrs. Hollister, or Ray Meagher.

  Inside the office, they sat in a circle. Hope had silenced her phone at last. Maggie said, “All right, Hope will talk to the press. What do you want her to say?”

  “Our lawyer told me to say ‘No comment.’”

  “That’s wrong, makes it sound like you’re covering something up,” said Maggie. “What kind of lawyer is he?”

  “Family law,” said Hugo.

  “I rest my case. Hope, you’ll tell the press that there has been a tragedy in the school family and we ask them to respect our privacy at this time. Then they’ll all start to chew on you. Tell them that’s all you’re at liberty to say for now, then shut your mouth and keep it shut.

  “Now. The statement to the school. Christina? It will be best if it’s in your words, dignified but from the heart. Why don’t you try to talk it; Hope can take notes.” Hope beamed and whipped out her handsome notebook.

  In a quavering voice, Christina said, “I am sorry to tell you that our . . . honored teacher and . . . dear friend Florence Meagher . . .” And then she began to cry, great desperate sobs of unfeigned grief. Her friend, her school, her job—she wept, she was handed tissues, she wiped her eyes, she blew her nose, and then she began to hiccup.

  “Hold your breath,” said Maggie, patting her and looking over Christine’s shoulder rather desperately at Hugo. Christina took a deep breath and held it but kept hiccing painfully until she had to let it out.

  “She should hold her breath and drink a glass of water at the same time,” said Hugo.

  “I can fix this,” said Hope. “Christina, stand up.” Maggie and Hugo watched as Christina stood and Hope placed herself practically nose to nose in front of her.

  “Look me in the eyes and don’t blink,” ordered Hope, and Christina, surprised, obeyed. After they stared at each other for some moments, Hope said softly, “Go ahead, hiccup. Don’t blink. Don’t look away. Go on, hiccup.”

  Maggie and Hugo looked at each other as this went on for another minute. “Good girl,” said Hope, suddenly smiling.

  Christina’s crying jag was over and her diaphragm had abandoned its rebellion. “That’s amazing,” she said weakly.

  “Next, the press,” said Hope, and she left them.

  Looking after her, Hugo said, “I want to know how to do that.”

  “I’ve found,” said Maggie, “that most of Hope’s gifts are nontransferable. Let’s get to work on the statement. First question, Christina, I assume you’ve notified the family?”

  Christina said, “There’s only her sister. I’ve told her. That was terrible.”

  “I’m not surprised. And Ray?”

  “Not yet. No one’s been able to find him.”

  The school nurse escorted Lily Hollister, carrying her weekend bag, to Christina’s office. Lily was wearing a long-brimmed pink baseball cap and dark glasses, but when she took the glasses off, her face was blotched and mottled. She and Christina said good-bye to each other and both started to cry again, so Hugo put his arm around his daughter and said, “Brace yourself, kiddo. Here we go.”

  “Go out through the kitchen,” Maggie said.

  “Smart,” said Hugo, shooting her an appreciative look. He opened the door and exposed them briefly to a line of faces craning to see into the room without seeming to. Then they headed toward the dining room, away from the crowd, and the door closed behind them.

  Christina unraveled once or twice during her speech to the school, but so many in the audience were undone that she was in good company. She remained enough in control to convey a sense of being buffeted but steady at the helm, and that was really all that was required. For most of the girls, Mrs. Meagher’s death was their first experience of the sudden extinction of someone they knew personally. For virtually all it was their first brush with death by misadventure.

  Lunch following the meeting was subdued, and after it girls could be seen in small groups, talking intensely, sometimes weeping, wandering the campus. It was lucky that the weather was warm and open; it gave those who mourned a chance to be out under the sky.

  Not everyone was mourning, of course. There were those who had threatened to kill Florence themselves if she didn’t shut up. There were faculty members who grumbled that Florence’s death would add to their workloads. There were teachers who resented the disruption of the schedule when they were trying to prepare their girls for exams, and students who agreed, especially among the grade-conscious juniors, ever mindful of the ordeal of college admissions rolling toward them in the fall. And there was that faction of the board that quite looked forward to the demise of the school as they knew it and the opportunities that might present themselves in the dismantling. In their view, the present unsavory tragedy could only hasten the moment.

  One of the true mourners was
Marcia Goldsmith, or so it seemed to Maggie when she encountered her sitting on a bench outside the library with a boy whose face was preternaturally pale, with a bush of white-blond hair and eyes like marbles. Whom she had, of course, seen before.

  Marcia looked up at Maggie and said, “I knew something was wrong, that morning when Florence didn’t show up. I felt it. I wish I’d . . .” Then she sniffled and stalled.

  Maggie gestured toward the empty end of the bench. “May I?”

  “Of course, oh excuse me. And you haven’t met my son Jesse, have you? Jesse, this is Mrs. Detweiler.”

  Jesse raised his eyes to a point about at Maggie’s chin, and flopped his hand in a wan greeting.

  “Could you say hello, honey?” his mother asked.

  He shrugged and looked at his shoes. His expression was stony. Maggie took that for a “no.”

  “What do you think you could have done?” Maggie asked Marcia.

  “Can I go?” the boy whined, twisting his body and speaking to his mother, his hand held up to conceal his mouth from Maggie as he spoke. It was a gesture Maggie associated with fifth-grade girls intent on signaling that whoever was looking on was being pointedly excluded. She found it surprisingly offensive.

  Marcia said after a beat, “Sure, honey.” Jesse took off without a farewell or a backward glance as his mother gazed after him.

  “He’s so upset,” she said finally. “Florence was very good to him.”

  “That’s hard. A big loss for him.”

  Marcia added, “I think it’s worse because he’d had a fight with her the last time they met.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He had just told me about it that morning, when you came to my classroom.”

  Maggie thought again of Marcia’s tears that morning.

  “Jesse doesn’t have many friends and it was so sad that he’d . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well I don’t know the details. He does drive people away sometimes, even when he doesn’t want to. I wish I knew why. I’m sure she would have forgiven him but, you know. It seemed like such a good sign, that they liked each other. I used to hear them laughing together when they played Scrabble. Even when they weren’t together, they used to play Words With Friends. I’d hear him laughing in his room, and I knew that he and Florence were online together.”