‘Good,’ he told Todd. ‘As for this other matter…’
Dussander began to rock again, sipping from his cup. Todd pulled a chair up to the table and began to go to work on his report-card, which he had picked up from the floor without a word. Dussander’s outward calm had had its effect on him and now he worked silently, his head bent studiously over the card, like any American boy who has set out to do the best by God job he can, whether that job be planting corn, pitching a no-hitter in the Little League World Series, or forging grades on his report-card.
Dussander looked at the nape of his neck, lightly tanned and cleanly exposed between the fall of his hair and the round neck of his tee-shirt. His eyes drifted from there to the top counter drawer where he kept the butcher knives. One quick thrust — he knew where to put it — and the boy’s spinal cord would be severed. His lips would be sealed forever. Dussander smiled regretfully. There would be questions asked if the boy disappeared. Too many of them. Some directed at him. Even if there was no letter with a friend, close scrutiny was something he could not afford. Too bad.
This man French,’ he said, tapping the letter. ‘Does he know your parents in a social way?’
‘Him?’ Todd edged the word with contempt. ‘My mom and dad don’t go anywhere that he could even get in.’
‘Has he ever met them in his professional capacity? Has he ever had conferences with them before?’
‘No. I’ve always been near the top of my classes. Until now.’
‘So what does he know about them?’ Dussander said, looking dreamily into his cup, which was now nearly empty. ‘Oh, he knows about you. He no doubt has all the records on you that he can use. Back to the fights you had in the kindergarten play yard. But what does he know about them?’
Todd put his pen and the small bottle of ink eradicator away. ‘Well, he knows their names. Of course. And their ages. He knows we’re all Methodists. We don’t go much, but he’d know that’s what we are, because it’s on the forms. He must know what my dad does for a living; that’s on the forms, too. All that stuff they have to fill out every year. And I’m pretty sure that’s all.’
‘Would he know if your parents were having troubles at home?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Dussander tossed off the last of the bourbon in his cup. ‘Squabbles. Fights. Your father sleeping on the couch. Your mother drinking too much.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘A divorce brewing.’
Indignantly, Todd said: “There’s nothing like that going on! No way!’
‘I never said there was. But just think, boy. Suppose that things at your house were “going to hell in a streetcar”, as the saying is.’
Todd only looked at him, frowning.
‘You would be worried about them,’ Dussander said. ‘Very worried. You would lose your appetite. You would sleep poorly. Saddest of all, your schoolwork would suffer. True? Very sad for the children, when there are troubles in the home.’
Understanding dawned in the boy’s eyes — understanding and something like dumb gratitude. Dussander was gratified.
‘Yes, it is an unhappy situation when a family totters on the edge of destruction,’ Dussander said grandly, pouring more bourbon. He was getting quite drunk. ‘The daytime television dramas, they make this absolutely clear. There is acrimony. Backbiting and lies. Most of all, there is pain. Pain, my boy. You have no idea of the hell your parents are going through. They are so swallowed up by their own troubles that they have little time for the problems of their own son. His problems seem minor compared to theirs, hein? Someday, when the scars have begun to heal, they will no doubt take a fuller interest in him once again. But now the only concession they can make is to send the boy’s kindly grandfather to Mr French.’
Todd’s eyes had been gradually brightening to a glow that was nearly fervid. ‘Might work,’ he was muttering. ‘Might, yeah, might work, might -’ He broke off suddenly. His eyes darkened again. ‘No, it won’t You don’t look like me, not even a little bit Rubber Ed will never believe it.’