by Ada Madison
“Thank you kindly, ladies. You’re always thinking of me,” Woody said. He tipped an imaginary hat and pushed his barrel at a slightly faster pace toward the lounge.
“He’s still trying to make it up to you,” I said, when Woody was out of earshot.
“Two years later,” Fran said, pocketing the key chain. “I forgave him a long time ago.”
No one expected Woody ever to forgive himself, however, for inadvertently tossing important papers from Fran’s office into the trash. She’d stacked a set of research notes on the floor on top of a broken three-ring binder. The arrangement looked so battered and messy that Woody had assumed it was all trash and hauled it away.
Poor Woody had been so distressed over the matter that he’d had our copy center make up two signs, “TRASH” and “NOT TRASH,” and handed them out to every Franklin Hall faculty member. We laughed at the gesture at first, but the signs had come in handy more than once.
Fran and I had arrived at the intersection of the building’s two corridors, resigned to the office work that awaited.
“Today should count for double overtime for us,” I added.
“As if it matters to our paychecks,” Fran said. She let out a sigh. “At least we got the degrees handed out without incident.”
“And made a little dent in the food.” My priorities were showing.
“And we won’t have to deal with the mayor for another year,” Fran said.
We parted ways. “That’s the good news,” I said.
The town of Henley, incorporated in 1775, liked to think of itself as the Cambridge of southern Massachusetts, part of the rich tradition of academic hubs in the Commonwealth.
As such, about a two-block area around the campus in all directions was populated with coffee shops, pizza parlors, and small bookstores, plus an array of boutiques, some of which were affordable for the average college student, some not. I’d noticed that since the advent of male students to the Henley campus this year, several stores had added more athletic equipment and small electronics to their inventories. With parents in town, I expected business in all of the shops would be booming this weekend.
Unlike Harvard Square, however, or MIT, we had little choice in the way of grown-up restaurants. The Inn at Henley boasted the nicest table linens, the classiest music, and the most expensive entrées. The ones I’d tried had been worth the price. Tonight the place was packed with college faculty, graduates, and their families. I was glad Fran had been smart enough to book two long tables weeks ago, a job that technically was mine as department chair. Fran was also smart enough to know I wouldn’t think of it in time. Again, I chalked it up to her highly developed skills as a mother, grandmother, and household organizer.
“I love the charming nautical theme,” Nicole’s mother, Nannette, said, as we settled in our places. From her oohs and aahs at the fish nets hanging from the ceiling and the large tanks of live fish at the entry, I gathered that her family was new to the Inn.
The Johnsons, who were natives of Henley, were one of those matching-initials families, including Nicholas (Dad) and twelve-year-old Nathan. I was sure they wore matching colorful shirts when they vacationed in Hawaii. Or even on Cape Cod. Even as I thought this, I realized the Johnsons’ situation didn’t allow for many vacations. Nicole, the first in her family to graduate from college, had been on a financial-aid package that included work study in various offices on campus.
“Cool sharks,” Nathan said, as we looked over the menu. Everyone seemed relieved when he pointed not to the live fish tank, but to the oil paintings along one wall. The three other N. Johnsons agreed.
I’d sometimes wondered what my parents would have named a second child. Would my math teacher father have prevailed again and added another famous mathematician to the family? My patron was eighteenth-century mathematician Sophie Saint Germain. Thus my complex set of initials: S.S.G.K. No monogrammed towels for me. I envisioned a brother called Isaac Newton Knowles, with the nickname Ink. Just as well he never materialized.
At tables next to our two at the Inn of Henley were Judith Donohue, head of biology, with her majors, and on the other side, Robert Michaels, chemistry chair, with his. The table for physics, the fourth and smallest department represented in Ben Franklin Hall, was far across the room, making it inaccessible for the cross-table talk that was prevalent at gatherings like this.
We faculty encouraged and relied on talking among people at different tables, since it was always a little stressful to be around students’ families. The crosstalk kept us from serious discussion of any one topic at a single table. Otherwise, there was too much potential for pushing parents’ buttons. We had only the students’ interpretation of the religious or political persuasion their parents adhered to and how tightly they adhered. Graduation and similar celebratory dinners, therefore, were never the relaxing events they were designed to be.
I was surprised that Kira and her parents joined us as planned, after the awkward incident at the Franklin Hall party. The animosity between Kira and her friends who’d bad-mouthed the mayor seemed to have been forgotten, and they were back to their usual chummy young selves.
The presence of the other majors and their parents helped the situation. The girls from four or five neighboring tables gossiped about who wore what, if anything, under her gown and what the guys might wear in a few years. Not exactly conversation worthy of young women with Bachelor of Arts degrees, but peaceful at least. And there was no talk of any “thing” between Kira and the mayor. I was ready to believe Fran was losing her touch on the reading-people front. Surely not every public official was guilty of preying on attractive young volunteers.
Having Nathan, a preteen, fish-and-chips boy at our table helped the conversation, since there were always the politically neutral Xboxes, soccer games, new apps, and 3-D movies to chat about. Nathan thought I’d be interested in his latest game, involving simple algebraic equations that had to be solved in order to gain access to a box where there was a key to another box, where there was another equation, another key, and so on. Not especially thrilling for me, but I was pleased that it was math-and not war-related, and we all got through the main meal without any plates of food being thrown to the floor.
I’d been sneaking text messages to Bruce once in a while throughout the day, keeping my boyfriend up to speed on the various dramatic moments. I refrained from phoning him on days like today when he came off a twelve-hour shift at Henley Airfield and slept on and off. He wasn’t due back at MAstar—Massachusetts Shock, Trauma, and Air Rescue—the company he piloted for, until nine tomorrow night, barring a national or even a citywide emergency.
“No food spilled,” I’d thumbed, winding my way back from a visit to the restroom with stops at the physics and sociology tables.
“Fun time?” Bruce texted.
“U bet,” I thumbed. “Ur up?”
“Up. Miss U.”
“Me 2.”
Chris Sizemore reached out to take my hand in greeting as I approached the art history table. Several of the majors had been creative with their mortarboards and wore them now. I admired a Van Gogh–like sunflower on one and a Monet-ish blue cathedral on another.
“Loved that scholarly speech, didn’t you?” Chris asked, rolling her baby blues. “Aren’t you glad we hired the mayor?” she added.
Too bad she couldn’t simply enjoy her students’ cleverness. I chose to smile and pretend temporary deafness. “Can’t hear you. Too noisy in here,” I said, cupping my ear.
Chris’s brother, Monty, was also in the group. Having no business graduates yet in the new program, he’d apparently adopted his sister’s majors today. As an adjunct, Monty had no vote on faculty issues, but he’d had an opinion anyway, one that matched his sister’s. He waved at me and shouted, “Follow your dream,” which I recognized as a phrase the mayor had used two or three times in his address. I felt another pang of sympathy for the mayor, having to deal with controversy on all sides, from Superintendent Col
lins to businessman Monty Sizemore and his sister, and who knew what in between.
I let their comments float alone on the air and gave the Sizemores big waves as I went on my way. I breathed in the aroma of the many chunks of lobster rolled in buttery toast, an Inn specialty. I hoped the brother and sister combo behind me wasn’t ruining the dinner for the graduates with their sore-loser grudges.
I got back to my table just as things were about to take a turn for the worse there. Apparently, someone had unthinkingly asked young Nathan how school was going, and his father had stepped in to respond.
“Don’t get me started,” the highly volatile Nicholas Johnson warned, but then started anyway. “Nathan goes to Zeeman Academy.”
“Dad?” Nathan said in a soft, pleading voice, and everyone knew what he was asking.
I’d never had Nathan in class at Zeeman, but Mr. Johnson wasn’t interested in what I was doing there, anyway. He went on, on his own track.
“The curriculum has been slowly deteriorating, although Mr. Richardson, our principal, is trying his best to keep things going. Our esteemed mayor will do nothing to help. He challenges everything Mr. Richardson tries to do. The budget is at about sixty percent what the regular schools are getting. Faculty are being let go, and the whole shebang will probably be out of business by the time Natalie’s ready for first grade.”
I hadn’t known about Natalie, the fifth N. Johnson, and marveled at the span of ages in the family, until Nicole clarified. “Natalie’s my cousin. We’re kind of a clan on the western side of town. They talk about the Johnson and Johnson and Johnson company,” she said, with an attempt at a light laugh. The new graduate was clearly trying to move from the topic of charter schools.
I never expected Zeeman Academy, my volunteer project this year, to be a main focus of graduation day. Twice a week, I drove across town, in between my college classes and office hours, and spent an hour or so with middle schoolers. Besides helping their regular teacher, often overburdened with too many students, I led the students in doing puzzles and games I’d developed to show how much fun math can be.
The enterprise provided fun times for me as well. I’d researched educational sites and found myself getting hooked on math games. From simple arithmetic functions to pre-algebra reasoning problems, the games were lively and instructive for the most part. So what if the “rewards” for correct answers involved sound effects, balloons, critters, and spaceships. I harbored the vague notion that one day I’d take on the task of creating more sophisticated games for kids, with more fun math and fewer whistles. When Bruce and Ariana heard me suggest that lately, they both declared sophisticated games an oxymoron. To my dismay, Ariana also challenged fun math as a legitimate phrase.
I’d been aware of tensions between the Zeeman Academy administration and the city officials, but I’d blocked out the details as much as possible.
At dinner now, after Mr. Johnson’s tirade, all eyes had shifted to Kira and her dessert plate. We all seemed to be thinking the same thing: A hot fudge brownie sundae would make quite a mess on the sea blue carpet of the Inn at Henley. I pulled my lemon sorbet closer to me and kept two hands on the plate under the bowl.
“It’s beyond me how that man got into office. Oh, wait, he’s part of the family, with a capital F,” Mr. Johnson said, continuing his rant. “His father, his grandfather, probably eventually his son will—”
“Let’s not get into that now, dear,” Mrs. Johnson interrupted, while Nicole made a visor for her eyes with the palm of her hand.
“You mean you don’t want to talk about how Graves is determined to make his way up the ladder on the backs of our kids?” Mr. Johnson continued.
Mrs. Johnson put her hand on her husband’s arm, a universal signal from one spouse to another, meaning Cool it, Sweetie. Hubby finally got the message and focused on his drink. He retained his sour look, however, making a point that he was not pleased at being cut off. I was glad I wouldn’t be riding home with them this evening.
During the Johnsons’ display, Kira’s parents, the shyest of the group, took long swallows of wine. Kira, bless her, excused herself from the table and headed for the restroom. Nicole and two other new graduates followed her.
And the second party of the day came to an abrupt, awkward end.
After witnessing a few tearful good-byes among the students and participating in more keep-in-touch promises, Fran and I walked out of the restaurant and into a pleasantly chilly night. Fran would be driving me back to campus where Bruce would pick me up. My own car was in the shop downtown having its dashboard warning lights reset to “Don’t stay on all the time.”
“Do you like my new wheels?” Fran asked, as I buckled myself into her shiny minivan. “I bought this to accommodate my grandkids and their teams. There’s a game console in the back.”
“That’s great. You can always use the experience to advise the first student who submits a thesis proposal for the application of mathematics to the mechanics of video games.”
“Do you know someone who wants to take that on?” Fran asked.
“Not yet, but I can almost guarantee that some guy from the freshman class will want to do it in three years.”
“I’ll be deep into retirement and soccer-grandmother duties by then.”
“Nuh-uh.” I couldn’t bear the thought of the department without Fran. “You’d miss days like today.”
Fran blew a raspberry unbecoming a mathematician grandmother, and clearly indicating that she was too young to retire.
Bruce assumed his hunky stance as soon as Fran approached the parking lot near Franklin Hall. He leaned against the front fender of his new black muscle car, his arms folded across his chest, his dark hair rustling in the slight breeze. All he needed to complete the picture was pointy leather boots and a cowboy hat, but instead he wore his usual off-duty khakis and a black polo shirt. I couldn’t see his grin, but I knew it was there, and I loved it.
Ten minutes later, with Fran on her way home, Bruce and I were next in line at Jimmie’s “Not Just Ice Cream,” across from the east side of campus. I almost chose a red velvet cupcake, to go along with the new dessert craze in Henley, but in the end walked out with my usual chocolate-chocolate milk shake.
“No dinner at the Inn?” Bruce asked. He who had dined on granola bars and orange-colored chips all day was satisfied with a waffle cone of butter toffee ice cream.
“The classier the restaurant, the smaller the portions,” I explained.
We strolled the campus, now minus the ugly temporary stage, taking the long way to my office and Bruce’s car, both on the west side. Most of the buildings were dark, with only a smattering of students in each of the three dorms.
I was surprised to see lights on anywhere in the Administration Building, but especially on the ground floor of the faculty offices wing. The humanities profs weren’t lucky enough to have their own building as we in the math and science community did, so their offices were jammed together at the back of Admin. Some dedicated English or history teachers were working late tonight. I doubted they were poring over the fall syllabus. More likely, cramming to get grades done so they could take off and not show up again until Labor Day.
During my early days at Henley, I’d thought it strange that the imposing Administration Building, with its English Collegiate Gothic architecture, faced away from the rest of the campus. I was used to schools where the main building opened onto a quadrangle of sorts. But Henley’s Admin fronted on the busy Henley Boulevard. Once I learned the history of the college, I realized that the only way for the school to grow from that single building a hundred years ago was to plant its newer structures in back. Later a fountain was built a few yards from the rear of Admin, and now it served as the center of campus.
Bruce and I drifted toward the fountain, enjoying Jimmie’s ice cream, ready to take turns sharing “how was your day” stories that didn’t fit into text messages.
“The Bat Phone was quiet until about four this
morning,” Bruce said. “Then this semi on I-495 by Hopedale runs into an SUV coming back from the Cape.” He used his hands, tipping his waffle cone precariously, to mimic a collision that I knew couldn’t have had a happy ending. “This little kid, maybe six years old, was asleep on the backseat. No seat belt.” Bruce uttered a sad grunt. “We flew the boy and his mother to County General. An ambulance took the dad and the semi driver, but…” He shook his head and drew a long breath.
We sat down on one of the curved concrete benches surrounding the fountain. I put my head on his shoulder and rubbed his back for a few quiet minutes.
“Did anyone make it?” I asked.
“The little boy, Ricky, is badly injured, but he’s going to be okay. So’s his mother. But the father, who was driving, is gone. And the semi driver doesn’t have a scratch on him.” He turned and brushed the concern from my face with his hand and a slight, resigned smile. “How about you?” he asked. “How was all the pomp and circumstance?”
“Really?” I asked Bruce, our shorthand for “Do you want me to tell you silly, distracting commencement day stories?”
Outbursts like Kira’s, disputes over petty politics and whatever else was going on in the schools or at the mayor’s campaign headquarters, paled in the light of Bruce’s Bat Phone duties.
“Really,” Bruce said. “Tell me some campus gossip.”
My most upsetting moments today, besides our aborted parties, had come from Elysse Hutchins, a student who was unhappy with her final exam grade and wanted me to reconsider.
I launched into the reasons for my annoyance with Elysse—she’d disputed points I’d taken off her exam for not following instructions on a statistics problem. She’d blasted me in an email after I explained my reasoning for the grade and declined to change it.
“She’s a transfer student and I’ve given her special attention all semester,” I said. I remembered all the times I’d sat in front of the whiteboard with the thin, pixie-haired blond, reviewing math methods long after office hours were over. “I’ve gone out of my way to make up for any gaps caused by the transfer.”
