word. “Go get Josh.”
Mrs. James calls for her PA and we wait in tense silence while our son is fetched. My mind is racing, racing. Why wouldn’t Josh tell us about Ben’s fall? I’m afraid of the answer: because he pushed him. But why would Josh push Ben? He doesn’t push. He doesn’t get angry; he goes quiet. Nothing makes sense.
A few minutes later Josh appears in the doorway, his eyes huge and dark in his pale face. I rise from my chair and go to hug him; his shoulders are bony and thin under my hands and he leans into me for a second before he moves away.
“Josh, sweetie,” I say quietly. “Mrs. James and Dad and I want to talk to you about what happened yesterday.”
He nods slowly, and a sigh escapes him, a sound of defeat. “Okay.”
“Joshua, why don’t you sit down,” Mrs. James says. Her voice is brisk and to me it sounds unwelcoming. I grit my teeth, wishing she could try a little harder.
Josh takes a seat next to Lewis and rests his hands on the armrests of the chair; they look pale and thin, his fingernails bitten down to the quick. I wonder if that is recent; I don’t remember Josh biting his nails before.
“Joshua, can you tell me what happened yesterday at the playground?” Mrs. James asks.
Josh doesn’t answer. Seconds tick by, and no one says anything. I can feel tension knotting my shoulders, dread pooling like acid in my stomach.
I take a deep breath. “Josh,” I say softly. “Please answer Mrs. James.”
He takes a deep breath. “Ben fell,” he finally says, his voice so soft we all strain to hear it.
“How did he fall?” Mrs. James asks. Josh doesn’t answer. “Joshua?” Impatience sharpens her voice. “Did you and Ben have an argument? Were you fighting on the playground?”
“Talk about leading questions,” Lewis mutters.
“No,” Josh says softly.
“No, you weren’t fighting?” Mrs. James clarifies. She sounds like a lawyer.
“No,” Josh says again, and this time his voice is clear. He looks up at Mrs. James and meets her narrowed gaze unblinkingly. “We weren’t fighting.” And then he sets his jaw and I know we’d have an easier time pulling teeth rather than words from his mouth.
“Joshua, this is quite serious, you know,” Mrs. James says. “Some children in your class have said they saw you talking heatedly with Ben. They say they saw you push him.”
“And you trust their word over Josh’s?” Lewis demands.
Mrs. James swings towards Lewis to look at him severely. “When it is several children, yes, I do, Mr. Taylor-Davies. Yes, I do.”
“We weren’t fighting,” Josh says again. He sounds obstinate.
“Please,” I interject. “No matter how it came about, this was clearly an accident. Children push each other all the time. It’s just that a brain injury doesn’t normally result.”
Now I’m on the receiving end of one of Mrs. James’s chilly stares. “We take bullying very seriously here at Burgdorf, Mrs. Taylor-Davies.”
Bullying? The idea that Josh could be bullying Ben is ludicrous, laughable. Surely this woman realizes that.
“My son is not a bully,” Lewis says.
“We have policies in place to deal with physical aggression,” Mrs. James continues. “An act of this nature results in one week’s suspension. Any further infractions will require the Board to reconsider Joshua’s place at Burgdorf.”
It’s as if she’s lobbed a grenade right onto our laps. Lewis and I gape. Mrs. James sits with her hands primly folded in front of her and waits.
“Are you saying,” Lewis finally asks in a low voice, “that my son might be expelled? For possibly pushing one kid one time?”
“No, I am saying he will be suspended for one week, starting immediately,” Mrs. James answers. “If there is a repeat infraction, then we will be forced to consider expulsion.”
Her face is a bland mask as she holds our incredulous gazes. What has happened, I wonder in disbelief, to Burgdorf’s nurturing the whole child, ‘place of positivity’ atmosphere? It’s all a crock of shit, apparently, just as Lewis has said.
“This place is full of kids with syndromes and learning difficulties and all the rest of it,” Lewis says. His voice is still low, but furious. “There are kids pushing other kids all the time. I’ve been on playground duty, and I’ve seen it.”
Lewis has been on playground duty? This detail snags on my brain, because he never told me that. Why would he do playground duty? We paid the two thousand dollar exemption from the mandatory parent volunteering; both of us were realistic enough to acknowledge that we wouldn’t be able to manage it.
“Even so, Mr. Taylor-Davies,” Mrs. James says, which is no response at all.
Lewis stares at her for a long moment and then he rises from his chair in one abrupt movement. “Fine. We’re leaving.”
We are? I rise too, because what else can I do? “I have some serious questions about your handling of this situation,” I tell Mrs. James. I don’t want to say more in front of Josh.
“You will find,” Mrs. James answers, “we are acting in accordance with our published policy, the policy you signed upon Joshua’s admission to this school.” A policy they hardly ever enforce. So why now? Why Josh? I don’t trust myself to say anything civil so I just nod tightly.
“Come on, Josh,” Lewis says, and with one hand on our son’s shoulder, he steers us out of the headmistress’s office. School is letting out as we head down the halls to the double doors. A teacher is on duty; I don’t recognize her, and it isn’t until Lewis strides up and gets in her face that I realize this must be Mrs. Rollins.
“Do you know Josh has been suspended?” he asks quietly, but with menace.
Mrs. Rollins blinks several times. “No, I…I wasn’t aware,” she stammers. She can’t meet any of our eyes.
“Do you think that’s fair?” Lewis demands. “Considering?”
“It’s not my place to decide on disciplinary measures, Mr. Taylor-Davies,” Mrs. Rollins says. She’s still not looking at us.
“You were there on the playground?” Lewis presses. By now children are staring; a knot of mothers has gathered by the door, their highlighted heads bent together as they whisper and dart looks toward us. They remind me of a flock of blonde crows. “You saw it happen?”
Finally Mrs. Rollins looks at Lewis. “No, I didn’t. There were two parents on playground duty yesterday.”
“Which parents?”
She hesitates, and I sense she’s nervous, even afraid. “I’m not sure…” she hedges.
“Bullshit,” Lewis snaps, and the crows outside whisper furiously. It sounds like hissing.
“You’d have to ask Tanya,” she says, and she shoots Josh a look that seems full of apology. “She has the schedule.”
Without another word Lewis marches out the doors and past the whispering mothers, his hand still on Josh’s shoulder. I follow alone. My face burns with both anger and shame.
On the corner of Fifty-Fourth and Sixth Avenue Lewis hails a cab. Thankfully one screeches to a halt in front of us within seconds; I can feel the stares of all the Burgdorf mothers boring holes into my back from halfway down the block. We all climb into the cab in silence.
Josh sits between us, his arms and legs folded up as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. I wrestle the seatbelt over his inert form as Lewis