The occasion was unpleasant but the day was pretty, and since I was early, I took the opportunity to spend a few minutes in the old brick library that holds aloft the name of one of the early worthies of this town. Plenty of parking available on the wide Main Street. I strode across the ample grass verge to the sidewalk and the stone stairs, past the columns, into the high ceilinged foyer. I ook a deep breath of cool air that had picked up the scent of books.
I love old libraries, and this had been a place of calm and reassurance when I'd been head of the school down the street. Now, looking forward to the hearing up at the court house in a few minutes, it still had the power to put things into perspective. The institution that we'd run had done good work, necessary work, difficult work. That we'd lost our funding was not justice, as some said, but a tragedy. Who was going to take care of the kids no foster parents wanted? Had the state made them magically disappear?
And Jennifer Cogden, who surprised us by running away so far and so fast that we weren't ever able to find her and get her back, was just one of those. I remember her well, we all do. She could turn on a dime from sweet and gentle to bitter and violent. Smart, insightful, she won the hearts of all (or most) of her teachers by what seemed to be her genuine interest in their subjects. She had a way of listening with head-cocked to one side, her long red hair falling across her forehead, her chin in her hand, eyes, those intelligent hazel eyes, open, receptive. The science teacher Steve Issicar would tell her story after story, set up special demonstrations, bring in specimens just to feed the well of curiosity he found in her.
But press her, push her, try to get her to commit to anything and she would balk, wriggle, resist and finally rage. All of the hurts, slights, betrayals of her pitiful upbringing along with the failures, derelictions, bad faith of each of us and the school and the state and everyone would be slung about her like an axe wielded by a beserker cutting off heads in a wide swath around her.
We had to restrain her, as we sometimes had to with other girls, and confine her, so we wouldn't injure herself. I don't like to medicate but it was hard hearing her howl. How she cut off her hair, her beautiful hair, the night she ran away I don't know. She could have chewed it off, she got so frantic.
She had so much potential, but nothing about tomorrow trumped how she felt today. Over and over, we made plans for her, with her, only to see them come to nothing when she felt the harness of discipline. She bucked and reared, and finally bolted.
Our security was pretty good, no one else had ever gotten away, but one night she found a way, and a pretty tricky one at that, and was gone. Another runaway, fresh meat for every pimp and trafficker out there.
I had a few minutes so went down the spiral staircase to the book sale area that most libraries have in their basement these days as they de-acquisition their collections. There are lots of relatively recent books on the shelves next to the children's books, the oversized, the textbooks and assorted old titles.
The simple pulling of books from shelves, perusing of covers, thumbing through of pages, and replacement in the long lineup is soothing, especially considering what was coming. The fire that had broken out in the office the night she escaped destroyed many of our records, including hers, and now there was this young dead, disfigured woman, and was she our Jenny? How could we tell?
Just a moment to go, and I pulled down a book of botany. I seemed to recognize it and sure enough, on the side, was Property of the Cathcart School. Must have been Steven Issicar's, given to the town library when the school closed. I wondered briefly where he'd gone. Ah well. I tucked a dollar in the slot and walked up and out into the bright spring morning with it under my arm.
The pictures of the body were gruesome; the face was shattered, the body emaciated. Could it have been Jennifer? The coroner was long-winded on the cause of death. The district attorney said that witnesses had linked the girl to this town, and since no townspeople had missed a daughter in the last years, perhaps the school.
He looked at me accusingly as if I was the perpetrator. I'd been called that directly and worse in the past. No, I didn't have any dental records, or photographs, they'd all been burned. No, I hadn't failed to follow any state guidelines for collecting identity information. They were just gone, and that was that, I said, half rising and knocking the book on my lap onto the floor.
It splayed open, and as I bent down to close it and pick it up, I noticed a strand of hair between the leaves. As I brought it up to the stand, I peeked and saw a lock of red hair.
'Are you all right, Doctor?' the prosecutor asked snidely. 'You seem a little flushed. But if you're ready, one last question: are you sure there is nothing you can tell us which can link this unfortunate girl to your school and help us identify her?'
What was he insinuating, I wondered. I closed the book firmly, looked him in the eye, and said, 'Nothing.'
I love old libraries, and this had been a place of calm and reassurance when I'd been head of the school down the street. Now, looking forward to the hearing up at the court house in a few minutes, it still had the power to put things into perspective. The institution that we'd run had done good work, necessary work, difficult work. That we'd lost our funding was not justice, as some said, but a tragedy. Who was going to take care of the kids no foster parents wanted? Had the state made them magically disappear?
And Jennifer Cogden, who surprised us by running away so far and so fast that we weren't ever able to find her and get her back, was just one of those. I remember her well, we all do. She could turn on a dime from sweet and gentle to bitter and violent. Smart, insightful, she won the hearts of all (or most) of her teachers by what seemed to be her genuine interest in their subjects. She had a way of listening with head-cocked to one side, her long red hair falling across her forehead, her chin in her hand, eyes, those intelligent hazel eyes, open, receptive. The science teacher Steve Issicar would tell her story after story, set up special demonstrations, bring in specimens just to feed the well of curiosity he found in her.
But press her, push her, try to get her to commit to anything and she would balk, wriggle, resist and finally rage. All of the hurts, slights, betrayals of her pitiful upbringing along with the failures, derelictions, bad faith of each of us and the school and the state and everyone would be slung about her like an axe wielded by a beserker cutting off heads in a wide swath around her.
We had to restrain her, as we sometimes had to with other girls, and confine her, so we wouldn't injure herself. I don't like to medicate but it was hard hearing her howl. How she cut off her hair, her beautiful hair, the night she ran away I don't know. She could have chewed it off, she got so frantic.
She had so much potential, but nothing about tomorrow trumped how she felt today. Over and over, we made plans for her, with her, only to see them come to nothing when she felt the harness of discipline. She bucked and reared, and finally bolted.
Our security was pretty good, no one else had ever gotten away, but one night she found a way, and a pretty tricky one at that, and was gone. Another runaway, fresh meat for every pimp and trafficker out there.
I had a few minutes so went down the spiral staircase to the book sale area that most libraries have in their basement these days as they de-acquisition their collections. There are lots of relatively recent books on the shelves next to the children's books, the oversized, the textbooks and assorted old titles.
The simple pulling of books from shelves, perusing of covers, thumbing through of pages, and replacement in the long lineup is soothing, especially considering what was coming. The fire that had broken out in the office the night she escaped destroyed many of our records, including hers, and now there was this young dead, disfigured woman, and was she our Jenny? How could we tell?
Just a moment to go, and I pulled down a book of botany. I seemed to recognize it and sure enough, on the side, was Property of the Cathcart School. Must have been Steven Issicar's, given to the town library when the school closed. I wondered briefly where he'd gone. Ah well. I tucked a dollar in the slot and walked up and out into the bright spring morning with it under my arm.
The pictures of the body were gruesome; the face was shattered, the body emaciated. Could it have been Jennifer? The coroner was long-winded on the cause of death. The district attorney said that witnesses had linked the girl to this town, and since no townspeople had missed a daughter in the last years, perhaps the school.
He looked at me accusingly as if I was the perpetrator. I'd been called that directly and worse in the past. No, I didn't have any dental records, or photographs, they'd all been burned. No, I hadn't failed to follow any state guidelines for collecting identity information. They were just gone, and that was that, I said, half rising and knocking the book on my lap onto the floor.
It splayed open, and as I bent down to close it and pick it up, I noticed a strand of hair between the leaves. As I brought it up to the stand, I peeked and saw a lock of red hair.
'Are you all right, Doctor?' the prosecutor asked snidely. 'You seem a little flushed. But if you're ready, one last question: are you sure there is nothing you can tell us which can link this unfortunate girl to your school and help us identify her?'
What was he insinuating, I wondered. I closed the book firmly, looked him in the eye, and said, 'Nothing.'
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