“He’s a little man who wears purple all the time.”
“Does he ride a pink elephant?” Grin.
“Myra Evans.”
Eyeblink. Frown.
l D A L U v I repeated the name.
“You used another name before,” she said. “Myra something hyphenated.”
“Evans-Paprock–Paprock was her married name.”
“Evans.” Another smile, not at all happy. “Myra Evans– Myra the Bitch. She was a teacher, right? A little blond with a tight butt and an attitude–am I right?”
I nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “Myra the Bitch. She was assigned to tread where others had failed. Like teaching moi how to read. She kept drilling me, harassing me, forcing me to do stupid exercises that didn’t do a fucking bit of good because the words stayed all scrambled. When I got something wrong, she’d clap her hands together and say no in this loud voice. Like training a dog. Telling me I was stupid, a moron, not paying attention–she used to clamp her hands on my face and force me to look into her eyes.”
She placed her hands on my cheeks and pressed them together, hard. Her palms were wet and her mouth was parted. She brought me forward and I thought she might kiss me. Instead, she said, “Pay attention! Listen, you moron!” in a grating voice.
I suppressed the impulse to twist free. That instant of confinement drove my empathy up another notch.
“Pay attention! Stop wandering, stupid! This is important! You need to learn this! If you don’t pay attention, you can’t learn!”
She squeezed harder. Let go. Smiled again. “Breath mints– that was her smell.
Isn’t it funny how you remember the smells? Mints, but her breath was still shitty. She thought she was hot. Kinda young, little miniskirts, big boobs. .
. maybe she was letting Dr. B. slip it to her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because of the way she acted around him. Looks. Following him around. She reported directly to him. One thing you could count on, after a difficult session with Miss Bitch, you’d soon be seeing Dr. Botch for candles and needle twisting. So she got murdered, huh?”
“Very nastily.”
“Too bad.” She pouted, then smiled. “See, I can be a hypocrite, too.
It’s called acting, I work with people who do it for a living–we all do, actually, don’t we?”
“What about Rodney Shipler? Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Nope.”
“Delmar Parker–the boy I told you about over the phone.”
“Yeah, the truck. That’s how I knew you were for real. He was before my time.”
“May seventy-three. You heard about it?”
“I heard about it from Botch. Boy, did I.”
“During a bad love session?”
Nod. “The wages of sin. I’d committed some major felony–I think it was not wearing underwear, or something. Or maybe he caught me with a boy–I don’t remember. He said I was a vermeen aneemal and stupid, then gave me this whole spiel about a vermeen aneemal boy who’d received the ultimate punishment for his stupidity. Death, young lady.
Death.”” “What did he say happened?”
“The kid stole a truck, ran it off the road, and got killed. Proof positive of what happened to vermeen aneemal moron children. Botch had a good time with it–making fun of the kid, laughing a lot, as if it were just a big joke. Do you comprehend, you bad, styupid girl? A boy so styupid, he steals a truck even though he doesn’t know how to drive?
Ha ha ha. A boy so styupid he virtually choreographs his own death?
Ha ha ha.”” “He used that word? Choreograph’?”
“Yes,” she said, looking surprised. “I believe he actually did.”
“What else did he say about the accident?”
“Disgusting details–that was part of bad love. Grossing you out. He had a ball with this one. How they didn’t find the boy right away and when they did there were maggots in his mouth and crawling in and out of his eyes–‘He is being eaten by maggots, my dear Meredith. Feasted upon. Consumed. And the animals have feasted upon him, too. Chewed away most of his face–it is a real mess– just like your character, styupid Meredith. You are not listening, you are not concentrating, you bad, styupid girl. We are trying to mold you into something decent but you refuse to cooperate. Think, Meredith. Think of that styupid boy. The bad love he received from the maggots. That is what happens when vermeen aneemals don’t change their ways.”” She gave a hard, dry laugh and dabbed her nose again.