Will they handcuff him? Will people see them being taken away? Will it be thoroughly humiliating?
"Bet you don't take many people all the way out here." To distract himself, he makes conversation with the driver.
"More than you'd think," the cabdriver says. "I'm taking you, aren't I?" he adds, as if to prove Paul is just another sucker.
"You're taking me to my son's school," Paul says, as though there's a difference. "It's an emergency."
Paul plays a guessing game-how much will it cost, more or less than a hundred? He takes out his wallet and checks his cash supply. Will he need more? Will he have to stop? Later, Paul will think about the ways he wasted time, the things he ignored. Later, he will feel bad about everything. He will think it's all his fault.
"Hot for the beginning of June," Paul says.
"This is nothing," the driver says. "Just wait a couple of weeks, you'll be wishing we were back in January."
Paul rolls the windows down as far as they'll go. He looks straight ahead. He can't see through the Plexiglas divider. He is woozy, carsick. It will be over soon.
"People always want what they don't have," the driver says. "Why is that? Why aren't they ever satisfied? Human nature?"
Elaine is already gone.
The phone rang, an interruption. She stood over it, waiting to see if it was something she had to respond to. Incoming calls were almost always about other people's needs, rarely about what someone can give, mostly about things that can be taken.
She checked her watch-just after one.
"Mrs. Weiss, it's the Webster Avenue Elementary School. We're having some difficulty this afternoon. We need you to come down to the school." A bell rings in the background.
The school office-forgotten lunch money, an unsigned form, head lice.
"The principal asked me to call. She asked me to stress the urgency of the situation."
Elaine pictures Sammy gasping for air, powerless, terrified. She remembers him as a toddler, looking at her as if to ask, Why is this happening? "Fix it," he used to say. "Fix it." Halfway through the message, she can't stand it anymore; she picks up the phone. "Do you have his puffer?"
"Mrs. Weiss?"
"Yes."
"Did you get the message?"
"I just picked up," she says.
"One moment. I'll put the principal on."
"Do you have his medication?" Elaine implores. "Is he breathing?"
"It's not the asthma," the principal says, taking the phone. "He's having a problem with another student. They're in the cloakroom and won't come out."
Elaine is relieved-he's breathing.
"There's some question as to who's holding who and if they're armed."
"Armed?" "The police have been notified. My secretary has called your husband-he's en route."
"I don't understand," Elaine says. "Where is Sammy?"
"He's in the cloakroom," the principal says. "Please hurry."
The day twists, it turns, it starts in one place and ends in another. Elaine is moving backward and forward simultaneously. This is something Elaine can't control. She doesn't get to choose, to say yes or no.
She calls Paul; she gets his voice mail. "Are you there? Are you hiding at your desk? Are you out for lunch? Are you having an affair?" She stops and starts again. "We got a strange call. Something is happening to Sammy."
She hangs up and tries his secretary; she gets voice mail. "Fuck you. Fuck everyone." She runs out of the house.
A single police car is parked in front of the school.
Two by two, in long narrow lines, the children are being led out of the building and up the sidewalk to the farthest edge of the playground. It is a practiced procedure, like a fire drill or an Easter parade.
"Hold on to your buddy," the teachers call out.
Excited by the unexpected disruption, the children giggle, they wiggle, they dance.
"Don't let go," the teachers say. "Hold tight."
Elaine rushes up the front steps. The janitor blocks her. She tries to duck around him. Children are streaming out on either side. He holds up his broomstick, brandishing it like a sword. "This is an emergency evacuation," he says. "You can't go in."
She turns, spinning full circle, sweeping through a whirl of anxiety and indecision. Behind her is the semicircular driveway, the parking lot filled with cars. In front of her is the redbrick two-story school building. And Sammy. She hurls herself forward. The janitor puts his body between Elaine and the door. The children keep coming out, squeezing past them. He shakes his head no.
"I was called here. Let me in. I need to come in. I need to speak with someone."
"I'm sure they'll be with you directly," the janitor says.
Another group of students slips out.
"What grade is that?" Elaine asks.
"That's the fifth grade," the janitor says.
"Where is the fourth grade?"
"I don't know where anybody is," he says.
It is hot. She is panicked. She sweats profusely. "I'm the mother." She tries to sound authoritative. She stops one of the teachers. "Who's in charge? Where's the principal?"
The teacher points to a side door. Before the janitor can do or say anything, Elaine is in. It is cool and dark. There is the echo of a hundred small feet racing down the cinder-block halls. Controlled chaos. She sees the principal in the hallway ahead of her. The same bulletin boards that a few days ago were filled with hope and promise, celebrations of the future, things to come, now seem cold and menacing: RITES OF SPRING, SUMMER SAFETY TIPS.
"Where is Sammy? Where is my son?" Elaine yells.
The principal waits to answer until they are closer. "We believe they are in the cloakroom," the principal says, leading Elaine back outside.
"Believe?"
"Well, that's where the teacher saw them go."
"Can't someone go in and look?"
"We can't take any chances. He told us to go away. He threatened to shoot."
"Who?"
"Nate Warshofsky," the principal says.
"Nate?"
"I called his mother. She's not home. She doesn't have a job, does she? There's not a work number for her, is there?"
"No," Elaine says.
The principal is old. A couple of years ago there was a petition to force her to retire. Elaine fought against it. She thought the principal's age, her kindness and good faith were impressive qualities. She liked the way the principal ran the school, like a family rather than a corporation. The principal is shrinking; she is only about four foot ten. Her silver hair is twisted into a bun; it sits on top of her head like a brioche.
"When did this start?" Elaine asks.
The principal looks at her watch. "Less than an hour ago. I hoped we could handle it ourselves. Over the PA I asked Nate and Sammy to come down to the office. I said we would talk about things. I got no response. I went down the hall and knocked on the door and asked if I could come in. That's when he said, 'Go away, idiot.' I had Mrs. Goldmark, the teacher, try, and he threatened her even more explicitly."
Elaine looks bewildered.
The principal gestures to her breasts. "It's an issue."
Elaine nods.
"And so I called the police," the principal says, as though that's what logically follows.
"Did you offer them anything?" Elaine asks.
"Like what?"
"They're little boys. How about asking if they'd like to come down to the kitchen and have ice cream? I bet that would get them out right away. They both love ice cream."
"The boy is armed, people saw strange lumps under his clothing, he's got your son Sammy in the cloakroom. It's a hostage situation."