brown-and-white terrier, tipping its head quizzically from one side to the other. “That’s beyond the call of duty, isn’t it? It’s just a stomach bug.”
It was Anne’s turn to look puzzled. “Um, well, I had a feeling, after what happened yesterday . . .”
“What happened yesterday? Did something happen at school?”
“Didn’t Principal Garnett’s office call you?”
“Not that I know of. I ran out to get something for Cody’s stomach this morning. Maybe they called then. We don’t have an answering machine.”
“Oh,” Anne said, at a loss. Cody had obviously not told his mother about finding the body in the woods. It was a hard idea to grasp that a child would keep that kind of information to himself.
“What happened?” Renee asked, getting anxious.
Anne took a deep breath. “You might want to sit down for this.”
They went into the Roaches’ tiny living room where the television was playing a
Star Trek
rerun. Anne expected to see Cody on the couch, watching intently. Spaceships were his obsession. But the couch was empty and Renee offered her a seat there.
Dinner was cooking, the smell of roast chicken drifting in from the kitchen. The little dog hopped up on the couch to give Anne a closer look.
Anne told the story for what seemed like the tenth time in twenty-four hours. Cody’s mother sat, stunned.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” she asked, her voice as thin as she was. “He came running home yesterday with a bad stomach. He’d had an accident in his pants. I thought maybe it was something he ate at school, or there’s always a bug going around . . . He didn’t say a word.”
“Did he seem upset?”
“Well, yeah, but . . . He’s a ten-year-old boy. I thought he was upset about having the accident. He gets picked on a lot, you know.”
That was true. In the jungle that was childhood, Cody Roache was well down in the pecking order. Children could be cruel, their meaner instincts yet to be padded over by the layers of subterfuge, dishonesty, and social niceties adults accumulated over the years. And the kids who were a little different, a little slower, not as hip, took the brunt of it.
Cody was small and homely and a little odd. He didn’t really have friends, Anne had observed. He had Dennis Farman, but that relationship was symbiotic, born out of necessity. None of the kids liked Dennis because he was a bully. He had teamed up with Cody to have a sidekick who looked up to him because of his toughness, and Cody had made friends with Dennis because it was safer for him to be for Dennis Farman than against him.
“He was sick all night,” his mother said. “And still this morning. He stayed in bed all day. I can’t get him to eat anything.”
“Would it be all right with you if I spoke with Cody?” she asked. “I’ve had some training . . .”
She felt like a fraud saying it. She was no more a child psychologist than the man in the moon. But for the time being, she was the closest thing these kids had.
Renee Roache led the way down the short hall to a bedroom with
Star Wars
stickers all over the door, knocked once, and cracked the door open.
“Cody? You have a visitor. Miss Navarre is here.”
Not a sound came from inside the room.
Renee opened the door and went in. Anne followed. The room held the musky gym shoes smell of ten-year-old boys—a combination of sweat and dirt and less-than-meticulous hygiene. The room was dark, the shade pulled down on the single window. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Slowly she began to make out a small lump in the twin bed that was pushed up against the wall in one corner of the tiny room.
Cody’s mother sat down on the edge of the bed, turned on the lamp, and peeled the blankets back, exposing the boy’s head. He played dead, squeezing his eyes shut a little too hard.
“Cody, why didn’t you tell me what happened yesterday?” his mother asked.
“Nothing happened,” he said.
One eye cracked open. His mother
It was Anne’s turn to look puzzled. “Um, well, I had a feeling, after what happened yesterday . . .”
“What happened yesterday? Did something happen at school?”
“Didn’t Principal Garnett’s office call you?”
“Not that I know of. I ran out to get something for Cody’s stomach this morning. Maybe they called then. We don’t have an answering machine.”
“Oh,” Anne said, at a loss. Cody had obviously not told his mother about finding the body in the woods. It was a hard idea to grasp that a child would keep that kind of information to himself.
“What happened?” Renee asked, getting anxious.
Anne took a deep breath. “You might want to sit down for this.”
They went into the Roaches’ tiny living room where the television was playing a
Star Trek
rerun. Anne expected to see Cody on the couch, watching intently. Spaceships were his obsession. But the couch was empty and Renee offered her a seat there.
Dinner was cooking, the smell of roast chicken drifting in from the kitchen. The little dog hopped up on the couch to give Anne a closer look.
Anne told the story for what seemed like the tenth time in twenty-four hours. Cody’s mother sat, stunned.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” she asked, her voice as thin as she was. “He came running home yesterday with a bad stomach. He’d had an accident in his pants. I thought maybe it was something he ate at school, or there’s always a bug going around . . . He didn’t say a word.”
“Did he seem upset?”
“Well, yeah, but . . . He’s a ten-year-old boy. I thought he was upset about having the accident. He gets picked on a lot, you know.”
That was true. In the jungle that was childhood, Cody Roache was well down in the pecking order. Children could be cruel, their meaner instincts yet to be padded over by the layers of subterfuge, dishonesty, and social niceties adults accumulated over the years. And the kids who were a little different, a little slower, not as hip, took the brunt of it.
Cody was small and homely and a little odd. He didn’t really have friends, Anne had observed. He had Dennis Farman, but that relationship was symbiotic, born out of necessity. None of the kids liked Dennis because he was a bully. He had teamed up with Cody to have a sidekick who looked up to him because of his toughness, and Cody had made friends with Dennis because it was safer for him to be for Dennis Farman than against him.
“He was sick all night,” his mother said. “And still this morning. He stayed in bed all day. I can’t get him to eat anything.”
“Would it be all right with you if I spoke with Cody?” she asked. “I’ve had some training . . .”
She felt like a fraud saying it. She was no more a child psychologist than the man in the moon. But for the time being, she was the closest thing these kids had.
Renee Roache led the way down the short hall to a bedroom with
Star Wars
stickers all over the door, knocked once, and cracked the door open.
“Cody? You have a visitor. Miss Navarre is here.”
Not a sound came from inside the room.
Renee opened the door and went in. Anne followed. The room held the musky gym shoes smell of ten-year-old boys—a combination of sweat and dirt and less-than-meticulous hygiene. The room was dark, the shade pulled down on the single window. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Slowly she began to make out a small lump in the twin bed that was pushed up against the wall in one corner of the tiny room.
Cody’s mother sat down on the edge of the bed, turned on the lamp, and peeled the blankets back, exposing the boy’s head. He played dead, squeezing his eyes shut a little too hard.
“Cody, why didn’t you tell me what happened yesterday?” his mother asked.
“Nothing happened,” he said.
One eye cracked open. His mother
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