Separation Anxiety - Laura Zigman Page 0,29

In Cambridge?—but there’s no time for house ogling today. “They’re the grown-ups. They’re supposed to tell us about any kind of dangerous situation.”

“Dangerous? It’s just poop.”

I can see a flash of fear in Teddy’s eyes, even under the hair that crosses his nose, how he starts to fidget with the zipper on his hooded sweatshirt. Great. I’ve leaked my fear and distrust of life and sparked his, just like my parents did to me. Have I learned nothing about how to pretend I have faith and hope in humanity so that I don’t incite and escalate my child’s imagination about all the dormant evil lurking in the world? “You’re right,” I say, trying for a calming clinical tone. “I’m being ridiculous. It is just poop.” And then, of course, because I can’t help myself, I add: “But sometimes disturbing behavior is a symptom of something else.”

“Like what?”

“Sadness. Loneliness. Being deeply troubled.” I look down at the sling and realize that I should probably either use myself as an example of the connection between feelings and behavior manifesting in some kind of outward sign or metaphor—I’m sad, therefore I wear my dog—or stop talking so he doesn’t make the damning connection himself. “Sometimes the things we do are clues to how we’re really feeling. So, like, if someone poops like this, on the floor, at school, it probably means they’re unhappy. Or angry. Or maybe they’re unhappy and angry at school, since that’s where they’re doing the pooping.” I pause to think. “Unless they’re also pooping on the floor at home, which would mean they’re unhappy there, too.”

Teddy is now running the zipper of his sweatshirt up and down in short frantic spurts. “Maybe it’s not a kid who’s doing it.”

I pull into the school lot, push the gearshift into park, and turn to him. It hadn’t occurred to me that it wasn’t. But now that he’s mentioned it: maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s a grown-up, a pissed off teacher, a disgruntled employee. “When the poop was discovered, were both teachers in the classroom?”

He thinks for a minute. “The first time, Mr. Noah was teaching and Ms. Grace was on her way into the classroom. And the second time was when we were all downstairs for your thing.”

“So Ms. Grace found the poop both times.” That’s like finding a body. Once is possible; but twice? Isn’t that too much of a coincidence? Or maybe it is entirely a coincidence. Teachers probably get their anger out in different, less creepy ways—refusing to give extra help after school when asked for it; grading down; being shitty to kids they don’t like. Little power-grabs and shame-fests. Could it be that Morningside Montessori is harboring a teacher with a serious grudge against the school? Doubtful. No, my money is on a student—a boy, I’m sorry to say—someone who is troubled at home or maybe the product of an unpleasant divorce, a boy for whom the daily annoyance of school feels like the last straw.

* * *

I let Teddy go into the building first before I go in to track down Mr. Noah or Grace—whomever I find first—which turns out to be Grace. Same zip-up fleece; same beverage-equipped nylon knapsack; same plastic container being snapped shut with a loud and proud freshness-burp. She waves, friendly and conspiratorially, as I open the glass door to the office.

“Have you decided about the People Puppets?” she coos.

“We need to talk first.”

“Of course,” she whispers, pulling me off to the side of the office. “The tuition credit. Now, if you’re able to take two People Puppets, we can give you more money. Close to a full month’s worth, which would bring your account almost, but not quite—but almost!—current.” She opens her knapsack, takes out a file folder, and quickly flips through the papers inside. “Nick and Phoebe, who lead the puppet company, are a couple,” she says, rolling her eyes and shrugging, as if to say, Young people! Who knows?! Then she shows me printouts of each of them, like mug shots. “So they’d be a logical pair to take.”

I ignore the pages she’s holding up. “Tell me about the Secret Pooper.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Secret Pooper. The Mysterious Defecator. The Crazy Shitter. Whatever you’re calling the person who’s gone to the bathroom on the floor of the middle school. Twice.”

She lets out a short panicked gasp. “Who told you about that?”

“My son, of course!” My voice is suddenly shrill but I don’t care. “Why haven’t you informed parents? Why haven’t you