The Witch Of Agnesi Part 29

"I keep asking myself the same thing. Supposedly, they were best friends." She let her voice trail off, a far away thought trying to leapfrog into her consciousness. G.o.d d.a.m.n it, they were best friends. I'm not wrong about that. I may not be able to read Armen, but I d.a.m.n well knew my students. Another more distant, more nebulous memory tried to elbow its way to the forefront. It seemed nestled in that library that Ed-mund had called his bedroom. Another more distant, more nebulous memory tried to elbow its way to the forefront. It seemed nestled in that library that Ed-mund had called his bedroom.

Jesse's insistent voice sent both thoughts packing. "Missus Pinkwater?"

She realized he'd been talking to her for the better part of a minute. "Sorry, I went visiting another time zone. What were you saying?"

"You can't drive." He pointed to her walking boot. "You think Mister Callahan will want to go to Mom's funeral?"

"We'll have to ask him. What about Ali Griffith?"

Jesse shook his head. "She's already got too many funerals to go to. Besides, she didn't even know my mom."

You're right about that crop of funerals. My G.o.d, Stephanie, Peyton, and now Edmund. My beauti-ful, beautiful children. She shook off the melancholia which threatened to drag her down. She shook off the melancholia which threatened to drag her down.

"But now Ali knows you. Jesse, we don't go to fu-nerals for the sake of the deceased. We go to comfort the living."

Again he shook his bald head, even more insistently this time. "Please, Missus Pinkwater, I just want to say goodbye to my mama. I don't care how many people come."

"Just for my own curiosity, how many do you ex-pect?"

He shrugged, looked embarra.s.sed and raised three fingers. "If Mister Callahan comes." His face and eyes went hard. "Like I said, I don't care."

Me thinks you protest too much. She remembered the antagonism of the crowd at the East Plains trailer park, and the way painter-man and the others had al-ready made up their minds about Jesse's guilt. She remembered the antagonism of the crowd at the East Plains trailer park, and the way painter-man and the others had al-ready made up their minds about Jesse's guilt. Surely, some of those people had been friends of the Pooles. Surely, some of those people had been friends of the Pooles. Anger and frustration welled in her. Collateral damage from these murders was beginning to spread. Anger and frustration welled in her. Collateral damage from these murders was beginning to spread.

As if he read her mind, Jesse said, "Rough times, huh?"

"You can say that again."

A smile crept onto Jesse's face. "Rough times, huh?"

Bonnie stared at him then mirrored his smile with one of her own. Who knew you had a sense of humor, you bald-headed joker. "You just keep surprising me, Jesse Poole." "You just keep surprising me, Jesse Poole."

"That's not too hard. Up until a day ago, you didn't know me from Davy Crockett."

On impulse, she extended a hand in his direction. "Bonnie Pinkwater."

He regarded the hand then engulfed it in his larger one. "Jesse Poole, nice to know ya."

"Same here."

TRADITIONALLY, MONDAY MORNINGS HAD NEVER been easy for Bonnie. If she did a statistical a.n.a.lysis, she'd more than likely find she'd been late for cla.s.s on Monday more than any other day. However, this par-ticular Monday she'd had good reason to get to school early. She had to present Jesse Poole to Princ.i.p.al Lloyd Whittaker for summary justice. She came out on the side of the boy, testifying she thought righteousness would be better served if leniency were the order of the day. And that was how she'd left it. There'd be no tell-ing what Lloyd would do, but she could hope her long time friend might listen to his better, his kinder angels.

She whistled as she hurried down the long hallway to her cla.s.s with ten minutes to spare.

Freddy Davenport poked his head out of his office. "Bon, do you have a minute?"

As per usual, the room was in disarray with candy wrappers filling the trash cans and spilling out onto the floor. Also typical, the man had the stick of a lollipop protruding from his mouth. Freddy plopped down at his lunch table/desk, a number of manila folders strewn across it surface.

Freddy licked his thick lips. "I have a quandary."

He collected the top three folders and swung around in his desk chair to face her. His eyes looked haunted.

Stephanie Templeton's name was printed on the top folder. It was no great leap of logic for Bonnie to de-duce the names on the other two.

Freddy's hands shook as he clutched the three folders. He offered a rueful half-smile. "I haven't in-formed J. T. Sullivan of the circ.u.mstances complicating the outcome of his scholarship. Truth is, Bon, I don't know how all this will play out. A part of me wants to throw up my hands and hope somebody else will sort it all out."

She could see his problem. Not only were three of the remaining candidates for the scholarship dead, the sole finalist still drawing breath had a good chance of being arrested for their murders.

"What are you going to do?"

Without even seeming to notice he was doing it, he handed her the three folders then scooped up the rest. "I'm going back over the original thirteen, now ten of course. Before I call J. T., I want to tell him we at least have candidates for his largesse largesse."

Bonnie gave Freddy a cursory nod. Her attention was drawn to the folders that lay in her hands. She gave a quick peek at Stephanie's then Edmund's. For reasons she couldn't have explained, she ruffled through Peyton Newlin's pages with more scrutiny, as if she expected answers to the recent tragedies to reveal themselves in the official doc.u.ments and printed records. Bonnie also half expected Freddy to s.n.a.t.c.h the folders away claim-ing confidentiality was being compromised. When he didn't, she surmised confidentiality might be a moot point at this juncture of events.

She noted that Peyton would have been fourteen in a few days.

I think I knew that.

The young genius's grades, also enclosed, were cer-tainly no surprise. He'd garnered nothing but A's in all four of the schools he'd attended. He'd skipped second, fifth, and sixth grades shooting from fourth into sev-enth at a Kennedy Junior High in Norfolk, Virginia.

As she read through this stark biography, a deep melancholy came to rest on her. Was there anything in this bare-bones outline which would help her remem-ber the essence of the troubled child, or the even more troubled family that brought him into the world? If there was, she didn't see it. She shut the folder and handed it and the other two back to Freddy.

He took them without comment.

As Bonnie exited his office, they grunted their farewells. She turned the corner leading to her room. Carlita Sanchez, her books clutched to her breast, strode in from the gym hallway. They met at the door.

"Good morning, Missus P." The girl sing-sang the words, smiling like the proverbial canary-eating cat.

Bonnie had a sinking feeling what was coming. "Good morning to you, too, Carlita."

"Hanging with Mister Callahan is doing you good.

You're five minutes early." She tapped her imaginary watch. Her sly smile widened.

Bonnie didn't need to ask how her weekend with Armen had become common knowledge, or at least Carlita Sanchez knowledge. Bonnie had worked in East Plains long enough to know that nothing remained a secret for long. By noon there would be alumni from ten years back who would know she spent the night at Armen's.

"Put a sock in it, Carlita."

"Whatever you say, Missus P." Carlita held the door so Bonnie could maneuver through on her crutches.

Bonnie had more on her mind than small town gos-sip. In the early meeting, Lloyd told her he'd considered closing school for a day or two, but the Divine Pain in the a.s.s made the executive decision that life must go on even if, for some, it had ended abruptly. For once Bonnie agreed with Mr. Potato Head. A day or even a week wouldn't put a dent in the horror this community had experienced. The students might as well be here at school where they could at least commiserate with their friends.

Bonnie hobbled to her desk and draped her f.a.n.n.y pack on the chair. "Get out Friday's homework."

Several students groaned, including Salvador, who normally was a hard worker. A quick scan of the room made it clear a significant fraction of her students was missing. Ali Griffith was in that number. I suppose that's to be expected. I suppose that's to be expected.

"And do we have an alternate suggestion to the perusal of Friday's homework?"

Rebecca Weber, a slim black girl with a penchant for goofing off, raised her hand. "How about The Witch of Agnesi story?"

Bonnie's initial reaction was to perversely deny the request because acquiescing would mean relinquishing control. The random thought struck her as petty and mean-spirited. Her saner self prevailed. You're going to have to re-teach today's lesson no matter what. There's just too d.a.m.n many of them gone. You're going to have to re-teach today's lesson no matter what. There's just too d.a.m.n many of them gone. Besides, hadn't Bonnie herself asked for an alternative sugges-tion? A psychiatrist would probably point out she had been looking for an out. Besides, hadn't Bonnie herself asked for an alternative sugges-tion? A psychiatrist would probably point out she had been looking for an out.

Truth was she really hadn't the heart or the energy to push the children through the next unit. "All right, Rebecca, here comes the story of The Witch of Agnesi right smack at your face. But first, in order to under-stand how The Witch of Agnesi curve got its name, you need to know a little about an extraordinary woman Mathematician. Maria Gaetana Agnesi was born in 1718 in Milan, Italy. A child prodigy, she could speak fluent French by the age of five and had mastered Latin, Hebrew, and Greek along with several modern lan-guages by the time she'd reached nine."

Salvador, who could speak three languages, raised his hand. "Missus Pinkwater, I thought women weren't educated at that time."

Sally, you have a great career ahead of you as a straight man. "Right you are, Salvador, but Maria was an exception for two reasons. First of all, sections of Italy, particularly Bologna, were emerging as intellec- tual centers where traditional ideas about women were being challenged. More importantly, her father was the Professor of Mathematics at the University of Bo-logna, and unlike many scholars of his time, believed women, especially his daughter, the intellectual equals of men." "Right you are, Salvador, but Maria was an exception for two reasons. First of all, sections of Italy, particularly Bologna, were emerging as intellec- tual centers where traditional ideas about women were being challenged. More importantly, her father was the Professor of Mathematics at the University of Bo-logna, and unlike many scholars of his time, believed women, especially his daughter, the intellectual equals of men."

Her foot and the palms of her hands made protes-tations concerning her d.a.m.ned crutches. "Salvador, bring me my desk chair, please."

The boy rolled the chair from the back of the room. She handed him the crutches and sat. "Thank you, my fine young gentleman."

He made an exaggerated bow and returned to his seat.

She settled into the chair, mentally restringing the threads of her tale. "So precocious was Maria, her fa-ther insisted she hostess and partic.i.p.ate in round-table discussions with some of the great minds of Enlighten-ment Italy. Even though Maria was shy by nature, she held her own with these heavyweights."

Bonnie nodded to Rebecca. "Keep in mind, while all of this was happening, Maria Agnesi was younger than you are right now. For the next decade and a half this would be the reality in which Maria Agnesi resided."

Bonnie paused for dramatic effect and noted with sat-isfaction that several students actually leaned forward.

Gotcha.

"By thirty, Maria had published one of the most important mathematical treatises of her day, a.n.a.lytical Inst.i.tutions, a two-volume work on Integral and Dif-ferential Calculus and Real a.n.a.lysis."

Bonnie put her hands together and slowly spread them apart. When the s.p.a.ce had grown to about ten inches, she said, "We're talking huge math books here. Be grateful you don't have to carry those monsters around in your backpacks."

A few students laughed, albeit weakly.

What the h.e.l.l. At least some of them think you're witty. "The book ranged over much of the mathemati-cal topics of the day, but for the most part the hundreds of pages have been forgotten. What is remembered is a tiny section on parametrically defined curves." "The book ranged over much of the mathemati-cal topics of the day, but for the most part the hundreds of pages have been forgotten. What is remembered is a tiny section on parametrically defined curves."

"The Witch of Agnesi," Salvador said.

Right on time, Salvador. Bonnie nodded. "The Witch of Agnesi." She signaled for him to help her stand and hand her the crutches. Once at the black-board, she wrote the Cartesian equation Bonnie nodded. "The Witch of Agnesi." She signaled for him to help her stand and hand her the crutches. Once at the black-board, she wrote the Cartesian equation Bonnie underlined the equation. "Maria wasn't the first person to study this curve and its paramet-ric relatives. A century before, the famous French Mathematician Pierre de Fermat, in his posthumously published treatise, Isogoge ad Locus Planos et Solidos Isogoge ad Locus Planos et Solidos, had given the curve the Italian name versiera versiera, which simply means a curve that turns."

She swung round to face the cla.s.s. "And here's where the story takes an excursion into the bizarre." She rubbed her hands together and retook her seat.

"Maria used the same name that Fermat had used, versiera versiera, when she spoke of the curve in her a.n.a.lytic Inst.i.tutions. She embellished and extended Fermat's ideas, making large portions of the Mathematics her own."

Again, Bonnie paused, relishing the hold she now had on the children. When she thought she'd tor-tured them long enough, she went on. "Now the scene shifts some fifty years hence. Maria Agnesi is dead. John Colson, a British Mathematician and linguist at Cambridge University, decides to translate a.n.a.lytic In-st.i.tutions into English."

Bonnie wrote the word versiera versiera on the blackboard and underlined it. "He did an admirable job except for this one word." on the blackboard and underlined it. "He did an admirable job except for this one word."

Next to versiera versiera she wrote she wrote aversiera aversiera and underlined the new word as well. "He mistook and underlined the new word as well. "He mistook versiera versiera for this almost identical cousin . . . with disastrous results. For, you see, this second word, although it differs from the first by only one letter, has an entirely different mean-ing. The word for this almost identical cousin . . . with disastrous results. For, you see, this second word, although it differs from the first by only one letter, has an entirely different mean-ing. The word aversiera aversiera means bride of the devil." means bride of the devil."

"A witch," Rebecca said.

Bonnie nodded with satisfaction. "You betcha. And Maria, being dead, isn't around to correct the mis-take. Thus, this innocent turning curve is dubbed . . ." She spread wide her hands, inviting her cla.s.s to finish the sentence.

Almost to a child, they called out, "The Witch of Agnesi."

"The infamous Witch of Agnesi. Over the years, this appellation has become so intertwined with Maria Agnesi herself that many later thought Maria was a witch who named the curve because of some perversity in her nature. That was the unkindest cut of all."

Bonnie let her last statement hang in the air, hoping for a response.

Moments later Salvador raised his hand. "Why?"

Bless you, dear boy.

"Because Maria's fondest wish, one which her scholarly father denied her, was to become a nun. As it was, she spent a goodly portion of her life in the service of Bologna's poor and sick. Maria would have been ap-palled to learn her curve had been so named."

In no mood to redirect the energy back to cla.s.s-work, Bonnie spent the remaining time answering questions about Maria Agnesi and Colson's unfortu-nate translation of her work. When the bell finally rang, she rationalized the wasted time by telling herself the story would help her students remember the curve and how to graph it.

When the last student exited the room, she realized that another day had pa.s.sed where she failed to give homework.

And so it goes.

She forgave herself the lapse. Fortunately, Friday's homework was still on tap to go over Tuesday morning. Besides, the entire business of homework and paramet-ric curves seemed to pale in comparison to the tragedies of the past few days. She knew this att.i.tude, so unlike her, would pa.s.s, but it also served to point out just one more bit of collateral damage the murders had thrust upon her world.

A selfish way to think of it, but what the h.e.l.l, I suppose most of us believe the world revolves around ourselves. Irrationally, she cast the blame for her wast-ed Math a.n.a.lysis Cla.s.s on Edmund's Wicked Little Witch. Irrationally, she cast the blame for her wast-ed Math a.n.a.lysis Cla.s.s on Edmund's Wicked Little Witch.

It was with this mind set, eraser in hand, she turned back to her blackboard and prepared to expunge both versiera versiera and and aversiera aversiera in one broad stroke. Her hand froze just inches from its target. Bonnie studied the pair of words, and a grin spread across her face. in one broad stroke. Her hand froze just inches from its target. Bonnie studied the pair of words, and a grin spread across her face.

"Of course." She chuckled. "I know you now, my Wicked Little Witch."

CHAPTER 18.

ARMEN SHOT BONNIE AN UNEASY GLANCE. "All right, here we are, my Robin to your Bat-man. Now I want that explanation. I don't even know where we're going. And I hope to G.o.d you're right about someone covering my cla.s.s." He slowed Alice for the stop sign at East Plains and Belleview.

Bonnie waved an impatient hand urging him to turn left. "Stop worrying and convince this ancient jalopy to give us just a little more speed." She bit back a sudden urge to tell him to turn around and head back to school. In the cla.s.sroom her reasoning seemed flaw-less; now she wasn't so sure.

Armen must have seen the look of uncertainty on her face. "Bonnie?"

No, dammit. I'm right.

"All right, hang on. First of all, the key to unlocking this string of murders resides in the person of the Wicked Little Witch. If she didn't actually commit murder, she certainly urged Edmund to do his worst."

"You'll get no argument from me there. I just don't see-"

Splaying her fingers, she cut him off. "Bear with me, Mister Mouse. Our problem all along was that we couldn't see the forest for the witches. We're lousy with them-Ali, Rhiannon, not to mention Winston and the rest of the Beltane bunch. You couldn't swing a black cat for the past couple of days and not smack a witch upside the head." She hesitated, hoping Armen would at least acknowledge her witticism with a grunt.

A smile played at the corner of his mouth, but he extinguished it. "I'm listening."