School Gate Predator

The school gate always sticks. You have to lift it with your hip while you pull, and if you don't, it screams across the concrete like a cat with its tail under a chair. I've learned the trick. Hip, pull, and step through fast before it bangs shut behind you.

That's where I was standing. Tuesday. Three-fourteen in the afternoon, the sky the color of dishwater, and my son's backpack hanging off one shoulder because he'd shoved it at me the second he saw me, like I was a coat rack put there for his convenience.

"Mom. Mom. Mom."

"What."

"Can I have a snack."

"You just had lunch."

"That was hours ago."

I checked my phone. Three-fourteen. He'd eaten at noon. He was six. Everything was hours ago to him.

"Wait till we get home."

He groaned like I'd told him he had to walk to Canada. I dug in my purse for the granola bar I always keep in the side pocket, the one that's gone soft from sitting there since September. He took it without saying thanks. That's fine. He's six. I'm not keeping score.

That's when I noticed the man.

He was parked along the curb in a silver car, engine running, watching the gate. Not in a creepy way, I want to be clear about that. Just sitting there. Plenty of parents sit in their cars. It's cold. Some of them are on their phones, some are listening to the radio. But this one wasn't doing either. His hands were on the wheel and he was looking at the kids coming out, one by one, like he was counting them.

I looked away. Not my business. I'm not the type to stare.

My daughter came out last, the way she always does, dragging her feet, her hair half out of its braid. She's eight and she's decided that everything is boring. School, food, her brother, me. Especially me.

"Hi, baby."

"Don't call me baby."

"Hi, person."

She rolled her eyes and got in the car. I buckled the boy in, checked the mirror, pulled out. The silver car was still there. Still running.

I forgot about him by the time I hit the roundabout.

---

He showed up again on Thursday. Same spot, maybe ten feet further down the curb. Same silver car. This time he had the window down and he was smoking, one arm hanging out, tapping ash onto the street. I don't like smokers. My father smoked and the house always smelled like an ashtray and I swore I'd never live like that. But I'm not the kind of person who says anything. I just got the kids in the car faster than usual and drove off.

Friday I didn't see him. I thought, good. Maybe he was just waiting for somebody. Maybe his kid got sick. Maybe he was a grandfather. I don't know why I thought grandfather. Something about the way he sat, patient, like he had all the time in the world.

Monday he was there again. This time he waved.

Just a little wave. Two fingers off the steering wheel, like we were neighbors. I didn't wave back. I pretended I was looking at my phone. My heart did something weird, a little jump, and I told myself it was because I was startled. Nobody waves at me. I'm not the kind of woman people notice.

I got the kids in the car and I drove home and I made dinner and I didn't think about it. I didn't.

---

Wednesday. It was raining, one of those cold rains that gets into your shoes. I had the umbrella, which meant I had one hand for the boy and one hand for the umbrella and no hand for the gate, so I did the hip thing and nearly dropped everything. The boy was crying because his shoe was wet. The girl was walking ahead of me like she didn't know us.

"Ma'am. Excuse me. Ma'am."

I turned around. It was him. The silver car man. He had an umbrella too, a big black one, and he was holding it over me and the boy before I could say anything. The rain stopped hitting my face. It was such a relief that I actually said thank you before I remembered to be suspicious.

"Your boy's soaked," he said. "Here."

He crouched down and I saw him pull a handkerchief out of his coat pocket, a real handkerchief, ironed, and he dabbed at my son's face. The boy stopped crying. He just stared at this stranger like he was a magician.

That's the thing about my son. He trusts everybody.

"Thank you," I said again. "You don't have to."

"It's nothing. I see you here every day. You've got your hands full."

There was nothing wrong with what he said. I want to be honest about that. He said the most normal thing in the world. But something in my chest went tight, like a belt pulled one notch too far.

"I'm Ray," he said. He stood up. He was tall. Gray at the temples but not old. Maybe fifty. He had a nice face, actually. Kind eyes.

"Marie," I said. I don't know why I told him my name. I didn't plan to. It just came out, the way things do when you're holding an umbrella and a crying kid and you haven't talked to an adult in three days.

"Marie," he repeated, like he was trying it on. "That's pretty."

The girl came back then, thank God, and tugged my sleeve and said she was cold and wanted to go home. Ray stepped back. He didn't push it. He just nodded at me and said, "See you around, Marie," and walked back to his car.

I got the kids in. I started the engine. My hands were shaking a little on the wheel and I couldn't have told you why.

---

That night I lay in bed next to my husband. He was asleep in about four seconds, the way he always is. He works construction. He's tired. He's a good man, I know he is. He doesn't hit me, he doesn't drink, he brings home his paycheck and he fixes things around the house and on Sundays he watches the game. That's a good man. Everybody says so.

I stared at the ceiling and thought about the handkerchief. Ironed. Who irons a handkerchief anymore.

I thought about the way he said my name. Marie. Like it was a word worth saying.

And I thought, I should probably tell my husband about the man at the school. Just in case. That's what a smart woman would do.

But I didn't. I turned over and closed my eyes and told myself it was nothing. Just a nice man with an umbrella.

I'm not very smart. I know that about myself. I've always known it. In school I was the one who got the notes sent home, the one who sat at the back and copied off Kelly Marsden and still got it wrong. My husband calls me his little bird, and he means it sweet, but he also means it like a bird is a thing that doesn't understand much.

So maybe that's why I didn't see it. Or maybe I saw it and I didn't want to.

Either way, I went back to that gate on Thursday. And he was there.