Free In the Air Tonight by Lori Handeland Page A

with a meat cleaver could have gotten in ahead of him.
    On the one hand, the need for such methods made him sick. On the other hand, so did the children. He hadn’t been in a school since …
    Bobby turned and walked right back out.
    *   *   *
    After lunch everyone retrieved their nap mats, blankets, sleeping bags. I turned down the lights and we had a quiet hour. I read a story; everyone rested, or at least pretended to.
    The first weeks of a new school year I often had to sit next to one or two of the kids, keep my hand on their backs until they got the idea that they would stay on their mat until the hour was up. But by this time of year, over six weeks in, everyone knew the rules. I think most of them even enjoyed that bit of downtime. It recharged them enough to rev right through dinner. I’m sure their parents were thrilled.
    I opened Stafford’s favorite book, guaranteed to get him to come out, come out, wherever he was, and began to read. “‘I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there’s gum in my hair.’”
    You can see why Stafford might enjoy the tale of Alexander’s terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.
    Because I’d read it so many times I could recite most of the story without even looking at the book, I spent half my time glancing around the room. Stafford didn’t materialize, but Genevieve did. As it was her I wanted to talk to, I didn’t mind. I did wonder where Stafford had gotten to. I should have wondered harder.
    I read the last lines just above a whisper. Then I got up and walked to the back of the room—with no fast, loud, or too interesting movements, otherwise everyone’s head would be up and my peace would be over.
    Genevieve sat in the alcove of cubbies where my kids kept their coats, boots, sleep mats. “My daddy used to read that to me,” she said.
    Curses! Alexander had been published in 1972. While it was helpful for getting Stafford to come out, it was not very helpful for deciphering much of anything else. If I’d chosen a more recent release, it would have given me a smaller window to determine when Genevieve might have died. But I’d been a kindergarten teacher long enough to become crafty. In truth, it had taken about a week.
    “You love your daddy?”
    Genevieve’s lips curved in the kind of smile reserved for the most beloved—Mommy, Daddy, Granny, depending on the kid.
    “More than anyone,” she said.
    “What’s his name?”
    She took a breath. Her mouth pursed. I leaned forward, expectantly.
    And the fire alarm went off.
    My entire class popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. Genevieve vanished. For the rest of the afternoon, the children were so jazzed I wished I had a whip and a chair.
    Or an industrial-sized bottle of Benadryl.
    By the time school let out, I was fantasizing about an industrial-sized bottle of something dry and red for myself. As it was Friday, I could even drink one.
    I’d almost forgotten about Bobby Doucet. Almost.
    I considered calling my father, asking if the detective was still in town, and if he was, suggesting he and I get together for a fish fry.
    Friday night in Wisconsin meant that every place serving food served fish. Fried. Certainly you could get your fish baked. In butter. Sides of potatoes—pancakes, French fries, boiled in butter. Rye bread, with pats of butter. Cole slaw—mayo base, never vinegar.
    Sense a theme?
    However, I’d never asked out a man, and as I found my key and opened my front door I decided against making the call. One didn’t dive into the deep end of the pool after the very first swimming lesson, and a woman like me shouldn’t ask out the hottest man she’d ever seen the first time she asked anyone out at all.
    Instead, I did what I did every day. I went into my bedroom and took off my school clothes, grimacing as I drew what had once been my best sweater over my head.
    I’d been right about the barf. The fire alarm had riled everyone up so high that not only had Susan urped on me, but