by Ron Levitsky
“My brother, Nina’s husband, has been dead for five years.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. The records weren’t quite clear. You see, sometimes in cases like these—sponsorship, I mean—the mother comes here with her children to work for a family, while the father stays behind in the country of origin.”
“We know exactly what you mean.”
His cheeks colored as he turned to his right. “Uh, we have here Mr. Rosen, Sarah’s father. I’m not really certain that it was necessary for you to attend this meeting—this really only directly involves Nina. But Mrs. Gold informed us that you’d like to be here, so welcome.”
When Rosen wouldn’t respond, the principal’s smile flickered, then died. “Mrs. Ellsworth is currently president of P.P.A.—Parents for the Performing Arts, and has been a past president of the P.T.A. I thought that, as a parent with a thorough understanding of our school, as well as being Mrs. Melendez’s sponsor and employer, she should be here as well. Of course, we all know Mr. Bixby. I’d like to make this quite clear at the outset that—oh, here’s Mrs. Gold.”
Bess walked around the table and sat beside Rosen. She wore a white blouse with a pleated blue skirt and when she nodded a greeting, he inhaled her perfume. Even with his eyes closed, he would’ve known she sat beside him.
The principal continued, “Besides being Sarah’s mother, Mrs. Gold is one of our most respected teachers. Over the years, she has assisted in several of the school’s dramatic presentations and variety shows. As such, she knows Mr. Bixby as well as any faculty member. I’d like to make it perfectly clear that this gathering is . . . uh . . . informal and should be regarded simply as a response to a parental concern, just as this school is sensitive to any parental concern.”
He spoke very carefully, pausing to reconsider the implications of each word, as if searching in his closet for the best tie to match his suit. “You do understand.”
Lucila shook her head. “What are you saying—that this meeting doesn’t really mean anything?”
“Not at all. I’m merely saying that we think this can be resolved informally.”
“We?”
“Mr. Bixby, the school board, and myself. Otherwise, Mr. Bixby would have his union representative here. The school’s attorney might be present, even the superintendent. My goodness, we might have to use the auditorium.” He laughed nervously. No one else did. “Uh, I’d like to say that yesterday I reviewed the matter thoroughly with Mr. Bixby, and he categorically denies any accusation of impropriety.”
“What a surprise,” Lucila said.
“I did interview separately your niece Nina and Sarah Rosen. Both girls were rather uncommunicative.”
“What did you expect? They were scared.”
A smile slid across the principal’s face. “Certainly not of me.”
“Of him.” She nodded toward Bixby.
“As a matter of fact, the only thing they definitely said—and they both were in agreement on this—was that Mr. Bixby had never . . . uh . . . acted improperly toward them.”
Rosen asked, “Did the two girls actually say nothing happened, or did you make that statement and they both agreed with it?”
“I don’t really see any difference.”
“If you made the statement, they might have nodded agreement, because they were nervous or felt under pressure. It’s a big difference.”
“Oh really, Mr. Rosen, you’re beginning to sound like a lawyer.”
“I am a lawyer.”
Dr. Winslow grimaced. “Oh, I see. Well, let me think. I suppose the girls did nod their heads when I mentioned Mr. Bixby’s statement that nothing happened. But I still don’t see the difference. Believe me, I’m not one to frighten children.”
Thumping the spiral notebook on the table, Nina’s mother said in a heavy accent, “El diario—the diary. You read the diary. It tells you what happened.”
“In and of itself, the diary isn’t enough to bring . . . uh . . . charges of misconduct against Mr. Bixby.”
“No, no,” Mrs. Melendez insisted, “you read the diary. Lucila!”
The two women conferred in Spanish, the mother’s hands growing more animated. Nodding in agreement, her sister-in-law opened the spiral notebook and began reading.
“‘April 2—Tonight at rehearsal he said Sarah and me we’re good enough to be professionals. He’s putting —’”
“Ms. Melendez,” Dr. Winslow protested, “we’ve already agreed that it serves no purpose to—”
“‘He’s putting us in the second act with the better groups. In his office he put his hand on my shoulder, like he usually does, but this time it brushed against my breast. Did he do it on purpose? What should I do? Does he do it to Sarah too?’”
Staring at Bixby, whose glance darted away, Rosen felt his throat tighten.
“‘April 4—After rehearsal, he picked me up on his way home. We went to the park overlooking the beach. His eyes, so stern with everybody else, looked so gentle tonight. We kissed. He says I’m not a girl to him but a woman. A woman! I think we might make love. Should I tell Sarah? April 6—’”
“Please!” Dr. Winslow rapped his knuckles on the table, as if calling class to order. “I’m afraid if you’re going to persist, I’ll have to . . . uh . . . adjourn this meeting.”
“‘April 6—’”
“Ms. Melendez!”
She slapped the diary on the table. “Isn’t what I read proof enough! Words don’t lie!”
Swallowing hard, the principal shook his head. “Ms. Melendez, if I were to present Martin Bixby’s personnel file, you would see literally thousands of words filled with commendations for all the wonderful things he’s done for this district. Do you know that, three years ago, he was chosen as Arbor Shore’s Teacher of the Year?” Winslow opened his two hands like a scale. “To balance all that . . .,” he dropped his left palm, “. . . against a few sentences in an adolescent girl’s notebook . . .,” he lifted his right palm.
Rosen asked, “Why don’t you?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Why don’t you let us see Mr. Bixby’s personnel file? Perhaps among all those accolades, we might find something that might help to substantiate Nina’s diary.”
“What do you mean?”
“A parent’s letter of complaint or an official reprimand. I’m sure you know the term ‘negligent retention.’ If he’s done something like this before, and you’ve kept him on, the school would be held liable.”
From the corner of his eye, Rosen watched Bixby. The teacher appeared unconcerned, but his knuckles, gripping the armrests, slowly whitened.
“Dear me, no,” Dr. Winslow said.
Lucila demanded, “Why can’t you show us his file?”
“Mr. Bixby’s file is . . . uh . . . personal. Even if I was so inclined, I’d have no right to do so. I’m sure Mr. Rosen, as an attorney, understands my position.”
Leaning forward, Rosen said, “The only thing I understand at the moment is that this man Bixby may have molested Nina Melendez, and possibly my daughter as well.”
“But surely you understand that we must respect Mr. Bixby’s privacy, his individual rights.”
“I don’t give a damn about Mr. Bixby’s rights. All I’m interested in is protecting my daughter.”
“That’s right,” Lucila agreed.
She continued arguing for access to Bixby’s file, which the principal politely but firmly refused. Rosen stopped listening, going over the words he’d just said. For the first time in his life, he sounded like a prosecutor.
A familiar voice caught his attention; Bess was finally speaking. “I love my daughter as much as any parent, and if there were the slightest doubt in my mind, I’d be in complete agreement with Mrs. Melendez. But I’ve known Martin Bixby for many years. We’ve team-taught on a number of occasions and worked together on several drama productions. From what I’ve observed, his behavior with faculty and students has always been above reproach.”
; Rosen stared at her; she sounded just like Winslow. The principal smiled and, as if on cue, Kate Ellsworth continued where Bess had left off.
“I must agree with Mrs. Gold.” She looked at Nina’s mother. “Esther, I know this is awkward because I’m your employer, but I speak to you as one mother to another. My older daughter Megan was in several productions with Mr. Bixby, and there was never the slightest hint of impropriety. I grew up here, attended Arbor Shore High School more years ago than I care to remember, and know most of the families in the community. No one has ever had anything but praise for Mr. Bixby.”
Esther’s face tightened as her sister-in-law translated what Kate Ellsworth had said. Then she shook her head hard.
“I know my daughter. She’s a good girl. I don’t let her run around with boys. She don’t lie. You read the words she put in her diary. You say maybe . . . that she . . .” Frustrated with her English, Mrs. Melendez rattled off several sentences in Spanish, which Lucila translated.
“My sister-in-law says that Nina would never make up something like that. If she wrote it in her diary, then it’s true. Esther believes it’s true, no matter what anybody says.” Leveling her gaze at Martin Bixby, Lucila added, “I believe it’s true too.”
Esther Melendez nodded at the teacher. “Let him talk. Let him say what he did.”
Dr. Winslow began, “Mr. Bixby has already assured me—,” but stopped when the teacher cleared his throat.
Hands clasped together, Bixby gazed at Mrs. Melendez. “Dear lady, I give you my word that I’ve done nothing improper with your daughter or any child in this school. I have no idea why Nina wrote what she did.” He shrugged. “She is a very imaginative child.”
Esther Melendez almost spat, “Mentiroso!”
“Pardon me?”
“Liar!”
There was a long silence, broken finally by Dr. Winslow’s fingers drumming on the table. Sighing softly, he glanced at his watch.
“Mrs. Melendez, I was hoping that we could . . . uh . . . reassure you on this matter. As Mrs. Ellsworth said, Arbor Shore is more than just a community. It’s a family. The Learys, for example—Kate Ellsworth’s family—go back three or four generations. We know each other, we know our children, and we know our teachers. Perhaps if you’d lived in the community a bit longer, you’d understand—”
Lucila rose to her feet. “We understand. Your lily-white community is looking out for itself. Because my niece is a little brown girl, the daughter of a servant, you don’t give a damn.”
“No, no,” Dr. Winslow protested. “It’s completely irrelevant that your niece is Mexican.”
“We’re Dominican.” She shook her head sadly. “That’s what we all are to you, us brown people, just Mexicans who do your lawns and take care of your babies so you can go play tennis. Kate, what if your daughter had written in her diary the same things Nina had? Would you be so sure of your friend Bixby’s innocence?”
Mrs. Ellsworth replied, “I suppose I might feel as you and Esther do. But I know Martin Bixby.”
“Yes, like a member of the family.”
The principal once again looked at his watch. “I’ve another meeting due to start here any minute. I don’t think there’s really . . . uh . . . anything more to say. As a courtesy to Mrs. Melendez, I will interview Nina again on Monday. If necessary, we can talk further. Thank you both for bringing this to my attention.”
He stood and, stepping behind them, opened the door. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
Lucila stared into his eyes and, as his face turned the color of peeled shrimp, said, “Don’t think Esther and I will let this go away. We’ll get a lawyer if we have to. Whatever it takes—sue the school board, go to the newspapers—we’ll do. Just so you understand.”
Winslow’s lips trembled, but Rosen didn’t wait to hear the principal’s reply. He hurried into the hallway after Bess.
“Wait a minute!”
She held up a hand. “Not now. I’ve got a ton of kids to see after school.”
“Don’t you think your daughter’s a little more important?”
“Don’t start, Nate.”
“You heard all that doublespeak from your principal—‘we will . . . uh . . . look into it.’ He wants to bury the whole mess, and you were shoveling right along with him.”
“What do you want from me?”
The bell rang. On either side of the hallway, doors sprang open, and students dashed out as if it were the running of the bulls. Bess drew him against the wall. Inhaling her perfume, he forgot for a moment why he was angry with her.
She lowered her voice. “Watch what you say. These kids pick up gossip like radar.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That’s why Winslow wanted you at the meeting. He knew you’d stand up for Bixby, because Bixby’s part of the school, and the school’s part of Arbor Shore.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He used you to get at Esther Melendez. Sarah is her daughter’s best friend, so if you defended Bixby . . .,” he tapped his heart, “. . . one mother to another, she might buy it. You can’t afford to rock the boat with a case involving child molesting in Arbor Shore. Afraid of what your ‘goyim’ neighbors might think.”
“Damn you!” She pulled a necklace from under her blouse to reveal a golden Star of David. “It wasn’t me who ran away from my faith.”
No, it wasn’t, and so what more could he say? As he turned to go, she touched his sleeve.
“I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that you don’t understand how things work here. If I thought for a moment Bix was involved in anything like that, do you honestly think I’d stand by and do nothing? My God, Nate, what kind of a mother do you think I am?”
He rubbed his eyes, then shrugged.
“I do believe Martin Bixby—I’ve known him for a long time. But if it is true, you won’t get anywhere by pushing these people. They’ll just stonewall, especially if it’s someone they only see as a cleaning lady. This weekend I want us to sit down with Sarah, Nina, and the two Melendez women. Maybe we can get at the truth that way. I’m also going to talk to Linda Agee, Sarah’s counselor. She might be of some help. You can come along, that is, if you can stop being a lawyer for five minutes.”
“All right, we’ll try it your way for now, but I’m not going to let this be buried. Not until I know for sure.”
She was about to say something but caught herself. “I’ve got to get to my room. I’ll call you later.”
Bess took a few steps, then turned. Rosen felt that she wanted to come back, but again changing her mind, she hurried down the hallway and around a corner. After taking a long drink from a water fountain, he walked the other way toward the exit.
Arms crossed, Lucila Melendez leaned against a stairway near the double doors. As they ran outside, several boys did a double-take as they saw her; one even stumbled down the front steps.
When she told Rosen, “I was waiting for you,” another group snickered behind him.
She stood very erect, like a model, and her crossed arms seemed as much a way of keeping him distant as it was a sign of her impatience.
“Where’s your sister-in-law?”
“She went home. She wants to be there for Nina. So what do you think about this Bixby guy?”
Despite Bess’s warning, he said, “‘Mentiroso.’”
Lucila nodded. “You’re the only one at the meeting who gave us any help. Even your wife—”
“My ex-wife.” Rosen nodded at her sweatshirt. “Fund a Child’s Education—that’s a wonderful organization, and a terrific logo.” In the corner of the design were the initials L.M. “Winslow mentioned you’re an artist. Did you do that?”
She stifled a smile. “Uh huh.”
“I knew there was something familiar about the girl’s silhouette. It’s Nina.”
“Who better to represent a beautiful, innocent child. So, are you going to help us?”
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Students clustered in threes and fours throughout the entranceway and outside on the steps.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
Rosen had been so worried about Sarah he hadn’t realized how beautiful the day was. Feathery clouds wisped across a powder blue sky, and he inhaled the fragrance of white blossoms hanging heavy as Christmas ornaments from trees along the sidewalk. He liked being out on such a day, and he liked walking with someone as beautiful as Lucila Melendez. Liked the sidelong glances of envy the teenage boys gave him. Liked her hair falling down to the middle of her back instead of in a French braid. Should he tell her how much he liked it?
“Are you going to help us?” she repeated.
“You and your sister-in-law handled things pretty well yourselves.”
“Esther was terrified sitting with those people. It was only fighting for her daughter that made her strong. She needs help.”
“She has you.”
“She needs a lawyer. If it’s a fee you’re worried about, I can pay.”
Rosen said, “It’s not the fee.”
“If you’re afraid of those people—”
“No.”
She looked him up and down. “I didn’t think so. Maybe it’s your ex-wife. She wouldn’t like you mixing in this.” When he hesitated, Lucila smiled. She had dimples just like Nina. “Here’s my car.”
A Lexus and a BMW appeared to lean away from the old monkey-brown Chevy station wagon parked between them, as if its rust were communicable. Its back seat had been turned down, and the entire rear of the wagon was filled with paint cans, easels, canvases, and other art supplies.
Rosen opened the door for her. “You didn’t lock it, and in this neighborhood!”
He liked the sound of her laughter. Slipping into the driver’s seat, she tossed her head like a proud horse and smoothed back her hair. Ripping a piece from a cardboard flap, she wrote her phone number.
“Here. If you decide to help us, give me a call. It was nice meeting you, Mr. . . .?”
“Rosen. Nate Rosen.”
“You said that just like the guy does in those James Bond movies. Well, maybe I’ll be seeing you. Bye.”
