kind of music did John like? What kind of movies?
Books? Was he fan of any professional sports? Given
how much she did know about him, it was startling to
realize how much she didn’t.
She wished she’d known him before he went to war.
Had he smiled easily? Laughed? Or had he always been
closemouthed, perhaps even a loner?
Why, she wondered, were some people more traumatized by war than others? Was it what they’d experienced? What they’d seen or—worse yet—what they’d had to do? Or did personality predetermine
who would suffer from PTSD? Now that he’d made
her curious, she would have to find a book on the
subject once she got home.
“Dieter, Amy and Erin, you’re the cleanup crew tonight,” she said, picking the names almost at random—
except that she always tried to team Amy up with kids
who’d keep her on task.
She’d enjoyed teaching at Willamette Prep in part
because she didn’t have to use the well-motivated pupils
to propel the rest forward. In a school where students
were accepted on academic merit, the kids were pretty
uniformly motivated and college-bound. Amy, however,
was proving surprisingly deft at evading work. Fiona
was beginning to wonder whether she was the same
with her schoolwork. And if so, how was it that she consistently turned in essays and papers that lifted her grades above the results of midterm and final exams?
And, oh, how Fiona hated to have such a suspicious mind.
After dinner, she had the kids bring the remaining
soggy clothes down, and she folded laundry, moved a
load to the dryer and started yet another.
Thank goodness for multiple hot water tanks! she
thought, passing back through the kitchen to see Amy
and Dieter unloading and drying dishes from the commercial dishwasher while Erin rinsed off plates and placed them in a rack in preparation for starting it again.
They had all proclaimed the dishwasher, which did
a load in under two minutes, “major cool.” The fact that
they had to dry dishes rather than leave racks to air-dry
on the counter had dimmed its appeal.
“Anyone know where John is?” she asked casually.
“Who?” Amy asked. “Oh. Him.”
“I think he went that way.” Erin nodded toward the
great room.
Surprised he hadn’t shut himself in his apartment,
Fiona followed. Not because she necessarily wanted to
spend time with him—after what happened today, she
wasn’t so sure that was a good idea—but because she
ought to check on the rest of her students.
Kelli and Tabitha were nowhere to be seen, but
Willow sat curled in one of the armchairs watching the
boys bouncing a hacky-sack between them, using heads
and knees. John was just tossing a piece of wood in on
the fire, creating a burst of sparks.
“Hey, Mr. Fallon,” Troy said, “do you have a
soccer ball?”
He turned and stared at the boys, who were still
keeping the hacky-sack in the air. “No.” His voice was
guttural, the look on his face strained.
None of the kids noticed. Fiona started toward him.
He walked past her as if oblivious to her presence,
unlocked the front door and went outside, closing it
behind him. Determined, she followed.
He stood in the dark between bands of light that fell
through the windows. His back was to her as he stared
out at the night. Fiona didn’t have to be able to see him
well to know that he stood rigid, undoubtedly wishing
to be alone.
Hesitating—perhaps she should have pretended not
to notice that something in the exchange with the boys
had upset him—she hugged herself against the bitter
cold.
“Are you all right?” Her voice sounded as uncertain
as she felt.
“Yes. Go back in.”
She bit her lip and took a step back toward the door.
About to turn, she stopped. “Why soccer?”
For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to
answer at all. He didn’t move.
A shiver racked her.
“I can’t talk about it.”
The words sounded torn from him. Painfully, leaving
an open wound.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind listening, if you want
to talk.”
He wheeled toward her. “But you’re not listening, are