“Yes, we were just sitting here and… Just look at these leaves!” Mrs. Renton exclaimed.
“Mom, we’ve been through this already. And if you don’t tell me what happened right now, your marble ficus plant will turn into a stripped version of it!
Trust me on that!” Jack grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the woman who seemed shocked by her son’s words.
“I always knew you were rather cruel,” Mrs. Renton half-whispered before adding almost inaudibly , “We talked a bit and made a decision.”
Reluctantly taking his eyes off the plant leaves, Jack stared at his teacher mother.
Something about that last phrase, thrown in seemingly casually, didn’t sit well with him.
“What decision?” He asked with growing irritation, showing no enthusiasm for continuing the conversation. His mother’s habit of speaking in riddles occasionally got on his nerves, and apparently, today’s conversation wasn’t going to be an exception.
“Lately, Eric’s been behaving, to put it mildly, poorly,” Mrs. Renton began quietly. The way she pronounced his best friend’s name made Jack once again look into his mother’s eyes. This time, her gaze was very sharp and attentive.
“What we embarked on twenty-three years ago was a deviation from the rules of the order. A very serious deviation, as you well know. Every month, sometimes even every week, Alex would send us detailed reports,” she continued.
“People need something to do in retirement,” Jack muttered sarcastically.
“Don’t interrupt me, Jack! As his illness progressed, he sent them less and less frequently, and you know that very well too. In one of his last letters, he promised that Eric would take over from him now.”
Jack lowered his gaze and started studying a piece of old gum dropped by some past student and treaded on a thousand times since by more student feet. He knew where his mother was heading with this, and he didn’t like it. More precisely, he didn't like it at all.
“After Alex’s death, we received only a few incomprehensible scribbles from Eric. Written in completely different handwriting, with all sorts of emoji is and other nonsense,” Mrs. Renton stared intently at her son. “Can you explain that?
And get off the table! What a bad habit!” she scolded her son, clutching her heart meaningfully once again.