The playground at St Andrew’s was empty. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still a sodden, muddy mess, dotted with puddles you could sail boats in. Faith spotted the forlorn faces on a few of the preschoolers staring out the window at the slides and jungle gym, wishing either they could play on the swings or jump in the mud. Seeing as those faces belonged to boys, the wishing was probably on the side of making mud pies in the sandbox.
She opened the door slowly so as not to take out a kid. Or let one escape. Maggie was sitting by herself playing with a My Pretty Pony. Ms Ellen, one of the volunteer moms, sat at the opposite end of the table watching her carefully while cutting out ghosts from a white sheet of paper.
‘Hi there, Magpie!’ Faith called out.
Maggie didn’t answer. She didn’t even look up. She was intensely trying to dress a pony in a Barbie gown. It wasn’t working and her face was growing red.
Faith tried again and got the same reaction: none. Not even a tilt of the head to acknowledge that she’d heard her. Ms Ellen looked at Faith, smiled awkwardly and shrugged. More guilt. Faith had wanted to treat Maggie to a movie or to something special today but the time had gotten away from her. Lou had managed to fix her car, but hadn’t finished till close to six. She’d had to race here from three towns over to make it by six.
Mrs Wackett, the preschool teacher, was hanging up Halloween decorations around the chalkboard. In her seventies with poofy, marshmallow-colored hair, she had a cherubic face that belonged in an AARP ad. She smelled like rose-scented hand lotion and always wore a bulky purple sweater that she had hand-knit herself. Always. Even when it was ninety. ‘Hi, Mrs Wackett,’ Faith said softly after Maggie still hadn’t acknowledged her. ‘How was she today?’
The news, she could tell, wasn’t good. Mrs Wackett put her cardboard witch down and went over to the inbox on her desk. ‘She tried, Mrs Saunders,’ she began with a frown and in a disapproving voice as she looked over at the clock. It was five minutes of six. ‘But this is a very long day for her. Very, very long.’ She handed Faith a slip of paper with a traffic light on it. It was colored red. ‘We tried time-out, but she had to go to the cafeteria with Sister Margaret because she didn’t want to listen to Ms Ellen or me. She has been somewhat better since the cafeteria break; I’ve been letting her do her own thing. She’s been working on the pony for a while now. Longer than I’ve ever seen something hold her attention, so I suppose that’s good.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to be this late, Mrs Wackett. I had some car issues.’
‘I understand. Things happen,’ she replied, but her scowl did not match the words coming out of her mouth. It was like the audiovisual wasn’t properly synced. ‘We’re working on boundaries, like you and I have discussed, and respecting other children’s feelings, but Maggie shoved Melanie, one of the girls, and when she was reprimanded she, well, she ran out of the room – right out of the room and down the hall, heading for the exit door. One of the janitors stopped her, thank God. We simply can’t have that, Mrs Saunders; she has to be able to listen to teachers and adults. That’s why she received a red light today.’
Faith nodded somberly. That’s why Maggie had received a red light today. The ‘get all green lights for a week and pick a toy from the treasure chest’ motivational system was obviously not working for her – she got more red than she did yellow and hadn’t seen a green since the first week of school.
‘Perhaps she didn’t get enough sleep?’ Mrs Wackett tried.
God bless Mrs Wackett for continuing to try and find a simple, organic reason for why Maggie was … well, the way Maggie was. While she had been polite enough not to come out and say it – not yet anyway – Faith suspected that, like most people, Mrs Wackett attributed Maggie’s behavioral issues to bad parenting and a lack of discipline and follow-through at home. Today, though, unfortunately her question was right on target. ‘We did get home late last night,’ Faith admitted, sheepishly.
‘Maggie did say that she was at her aunt’s house and that there was an argument and she had to leave in the rain. She was quite upset.’
Faith swallowed hard. ‘She was, but then she fell asleep in the car,’ she replied slowly. ‘My sister lives in Sebring, you see, and it was a long drive home. Maggie slept the whole way back. I would have kept her home today, but my husband said she wanted to come in.’
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. What else had Maggie told her about last night?
‘Hopefully tonight she’ll get to bed early.’ Mrs Wackett nodded curtly. She didn’t have to say what she was thinking: keeping a child out late and then dropping her off at school the next morning so she could be the teacher’s problem was not acceptable. Especially not a child with issues like Maggie.
‘Come on, Magpie,’ Faith said, bracing for the embarrassing fight she knew was coming. ‘It’s time to go. We have to hit the grocery store.’
Maggie shook her head.
Faith sat down next to her, feeling the judging eyes of both Mrs Wackett and Ms Ellen upon her. ‘I like your pony; she’s pretty,’ she said in a low voice.
‘It’s a boy!’ Maggie gave another vigorous shake of her head, stood and walked over to the toy bin.
‘We have to go, Maggie; Mrs Wackett wants to go home. School’s over.’
Again the shake of the head. This one was even more defiant. The ponytail whipped about like the stinging tail of a scorpion, hoping to find a victim within its reach. ‘No!’
It was the same thing most every day. On red-light days, it was guaranteed. Faith felt her cheeks go crimson. She followed her over to the toy box. ‘We have to go now.’
‘No!’ Maggie screamed.
Next would be the pony, thrown across the room. Followed by half the toy bin. Then the stomping feet, the crying, the pacing of the room like a wild tiger. And then Maggie would go to the place in her head where she could not be reasoned with.
At this very moment, Faith didn’t care what anyone thought about her or her parenting skills – she just wanted to go home. She leaned in close to Maggie’s ear. ‘Do you want to go for ice cream? Huh? Would you like that? Chocolate? You can get marshmallows, too.’
Maggie’s face calmed to pink. ‘I don’t want to go to ballet. I don’t like Cecilia.’ Cecilia was another little girl who, for some reason, Maggie despised.
‘We’re not going to ballet; we’re going to Publix. You can help me pick out dinner.’
‘I want ice cream.’
‘OK, then let’s go for ice cream, but only if you’re good. And we have to go now. No screaming. No tantrum. Best behavior.’
Mrs Wackett shook her head in disappointment.
With Maggie’s hand firmly in hers, Faith walked to the door. In Maggie’s other hand was the My Pretty Pony. ‘I’ll bring the pony back tomorrow, OK, Mrs Wackett?’
Mrs Wackett nodded. ‘How’s therapy working out, Mrs Saunders? Is she still going?’
Faith nodded. ‘Very well, thanks. See you tomorrow.’
Then she and Maggie walked out the door and across the dark parking lot as the sad-eyed boys looked on from the other side of the window, waiting for their parents to come for them.