Jane Austen in Scarsdale

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  “OK, OK, I’ll do what I can.” Vince was always inspired by Anne’s pep talks—until he got another call from an irate parent, who usually argued better (or at least yelled louder) than she did, which put him back to square one. “Just be sure to be there to back me up tomorrow. By the way, do you like sesame or poppy seed bagels?”

  “Sesame,” said Anne.

  Vince made a note for Gwendolen, popped an antacid into his mouth, and waded back into the swamp of Fenimore’s tardiness policy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BEN WAS STANDING INSIDE THE MAIN OFFICE WHEN SHE ARRIVED AT school the next day. She could see through the glass door of Vince’s office that he was leaning forward to take in what Gwendolen was saying, and the posture reminded her of what a good listener he had always been. She had once been the one he listened to most, before she had been exiled—or had exiled herself—from the charmed space of his attention. Now, watching as he listened to Gwendolen, she felt the stab of being on the outside looking in.

  She hesitated for a moment before opening the door to the office. When she did, he turned and held her eyes for a moment. She moved toward him and they shook hands, her line of vision meeting his directly as he arranged his body into the slight slouch that she remembered, which brought him closer to her height.

  As she gained her bearings, she could see that his sister stood next to him, dressed this time in a bright blue-and-white striped pants suit that gave her the look of a high-end prison guard. If Pauline Cutler did not have the most elegant taste, she did have a zestful sense of color and style. She was smiling broadly, and Anne was struck by the neediness beneath her effusive manner.

  “Hello again,” said Pauline as she shook Anne’s hand. “You’re a doll to meet with us like this. I thought we could wait until Jonathan was more settled, but Bennie wouldn’t hear of it. He likes to stay on top of things.” She patted Ben’s arm affectionately. “Of course, he’s a genius,” she noted proudly. “He was tested when he was a little boy and his IQ was off the chart. Jonathan takes after him. I want them both to join that group, what’s it called?—MENSA—where they get together and talk about the things geniuses talk about.”

  Anne laughed, relieved that Pauline was doing such an excellent job of embarrassing Ben that she didn’t have to think about her own embarrassment. “As I recall, Ben was always very bright,” she agreed. “And obviously he’s turned his intelligence to good use in his business.”

  “You can say that again!” exclaimed Pauline, pleased to expound on what was obviously a favorite subject. “Everyone knows Cutler’s Guides to Culture. I don’t think I’m telling a secret when I say it’s made us rich. Did you know that one of those magazines named Bennie one of the world’s one hundred most eligible bachelors? The calls he got! That was before he met Kirsten.”

  Ben flinched slightly, but Pauline continued on, happily oblivious: “I always thought he was a good catch, but, needless to say, I’m prejudiced, being his sister.”

  Ben interrupted here: “Pauline, we didn’t come here for you to extol my virtues.”

  “But I like to!” protested Pauline. “I haven’t had the best luck with men,” she confided to Anne, “so I’m glad Bennie is my brother. Otherwise, I’d think they were all rotten.”

  “Pauline!” said Ben somewhat sharply. “Why don’t you see if Dr. Flockhart has all the papers on Jonathan. Especially the transcript from Copenhagen. Make sure his junior-year grades are there, including the ones from the spring term, when he got the A-plus in English.” Pauline dutifully went over to Vince and began chattering, though it didn’t seem to be about Jonathan’s Copenhagen transcript.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ben, turning to Anne, though not meeting her eyes. “She’s a good sister, but she can get carried away.”

  “It’s nice that she thinks so highly of you,” said Anne quietly. “And that you’ve done so much for her and Jonathan.”

  “They’re my family,” he said, as though this was explanation enough. Then, he cleared his throat and looked at her directly. “I saw your house was on the market. We were talking to real estate brokers in the area, and I couldn’t help but recognize the listing. That house is a family heirloom, isn’t it? Why would you want to sell it?”

  “Why do people ever want to sell family heirlooms?” said Anne dryly.

  “I see.” Ben nodded. She felt him looking at her more closely, perhaps trying to discern signs of poverty. It was ironic that the tables had turned so completely. She had once been the privileged one, with the expensive education and the opportunity to travel. He had had nothing, except his curiosity about life—and the confidence that he would one day gratify that curiosity.

  The day after she returned from Italy, she had gone back to the travel agency, trying not to admit how much she was looking forward to seeing him again. Just as she had hoped, he had been sitting behind the desk as if waiting for her.

  “Tell me all about your trip,” he said. “Every detail. Make it so I can see what you saw.” And she had spent the rest of the afternoon telling him everything she could remember—and then, many more afternoons and evenings and mornings after that, telling him everything else.

  He couldn’t possibly know, she thought, as she stood opposite him now in Vince’s office, how much of her he possessed. Even though it had been thirteen years since she had seen him, she had never spoken as frankly, never been so fully herself, with anyone since.

  They stood a few seconds without speaking until they were interrupted by Gwendolen, who brought out a tray of bagels and cream cheese and rolled over the coffee urn; then she proceeded to prepare coffees according to their specifications. “Black with lots of sugar,” said Ben. But Anne had remembered before he said it—as she remembered so much else about him that she had no business remembering.

  Vince and Pauline had now crossed the room to join them. “I was telling your sister that my wife and I love your Cultural Guides,” said Vince, shaking Ben’s hand vigorously. “We used London Theater: A Cornucopia during our trip to England last year. Really helped us out—especially the after-theater snack section.”

  “Thanks.” Ben laughed. “But you should really thank Pauline and Jonathan for that. They did most of the sampling. I was never much of an expert on food, though our travels at least raised my consciousness beyond peanut butter and jelly.”

  Anne wondered if this was spoken for her benefit. “You come from culinary royalty,” he used to say. “You’ve grown up on those fancy Jewish meals. In my house, we were satisfied with peanut butter and jelly, spaghetti, and an occasional meat loaf.” Anne had responded that Jewish meals were not generally associated with royalty but that she saw his point. Winnie cooked with a regal respect for the savory potential of a good brisket or chicken stock. She had the time and, in former days, the help to make the classic Jewish dishes to perfection, and they had not been the least of the attractions for the many illustrious visitors who used to frequent the Mazur home. Ben’s sorry knowledge of food had been emblematic of all the advantages she had had that he didn’t. Was he trying to say that he now had them too? But his words brought other thoughts to mind—images of meals prepared on the hot plate in his studio apartment in Queens and of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches slapped hastily together—pathetic attempts at nourishment, she called them, that became part of the climate of their desire. She could see the room in her mind’s eye, shabby and crammed with books, delightful because it was his. She looked at him quickly, wondering if the image had occurred to him, but his eyes were fixed on Vince. No doubt his words had meant nothing but what they said. If the past lived in his memory, it consisted of scenes that rankled and that he preferred not to dwell on.

  “It’s great to have your nephew on board for his senior year,” Vince continued expansively. “I’m sure he’s going be a great addition to the Fenimore team.”

  “I don’t know,” worried Pauline. “Jonathan isn’t into teams. I couldn’t even get him to play soccer in B
razil, and it’s practically all they do there. He isn’t outgoing like me; he’s more into books like Ben. But Bennie was always so good with people.”

  “Not really,” muttered Ben.

  “You were,” insisted Pauline. “You weren’t wild the way I was, but you always had lots of friends. Everyone loved you. But Jonathan doesn’t have many friends. Of course, we’ve moved around a lot. Not that I’m complaining. It was an education, traveling around the world. And Ben’s been like a father to Jonathan. Better than a father.”

  Ben intervened here, obviously concerned that Pauline was about to embark on more embarrassing praise. “We’ve traveled a good deal,” he asserted, “and it’s probably taken its toll on the boy.”

  Gwendolen clucked softly and muttered, “A child needs a settled home,” under her breath.

  “I think that’s true.” Ben nodded, catching the remark. “When I was his age, I was dying to get out of Queens. But there are advantages to staying in one place—even Queens.” He half-met Anne’s eyes. “We’re hoping that college will help him develop more confidence and a greater sense of belonging. I’m planning to stay in this area for a while, and Pauline and I were thinking that Columbia, being in the city and with an excellent curriculum and lively campus life, would be just what was called for—” He stopped, perhaps realizing that he sounded like a college brochure.

  Anne picked up the thread. “Jonathan seems like a serious student, at least in some areas,” she noted gently. “But given the fact that you’ve moved around so much, you might consider a smaller college in a less hectic environment.”

  “His math and science grades aren’t the strongest,” Vince piped in.

  “We think Columbia would help fill in some of his gaps,” Ben persisted.

  “It might,” acknowledged Anne. “But maybe you shouldn’t view him as having gaps. Why don’t you concentrate on his strengths. There are many colleges that might take advantage of those.”

  Vince jumped in here: “Bennington, say, or Bard.” “Artsy schools,” said Ben with irritation. “And what’s wrong with artsy?”

  “I want Jonathan to get a solid education, not fritter away four years playing the zither.”

  The remark surprised Anne. She would not have thought that Ben Cutler, at least the Ben Cutler she had known, would be so dismissive. But, then, she also knew it was common for people to be less tolerant of interests and ideas that had once defined them, especially if they had been betrayed in some way by their former selves.

  They looked at each other a moment and she felt he knew what she was thinking. “I admit that I want Jonathan at Columbia,” he said in a milder tone, “but I also realize he might not get in and that he might be happy—happier even—elsewhere. He’s a sensitive boy—-quiet, inclined to isolate himself, which isn’t surprising, given that he’s lived in places where he didn’t speak the language. It would be hard on any kid, and he’s never complained outright, which I see as a sign of his character. He also has an intellectual intensity and a capacity for concentration that’s rare, I think, in someone his age.”

  “He sounds like an unusual boy.” Anne was struck by the thoroughness of Ben’s analysis and by the affection and concern reflected in it.

  “I want Jonathan to have all the advantages I’m in a position to give him,” he continued soberly. “I’ve watched him grow up, and though I’m not his father, Pauline knows I love him like one and want only the best for him.”

  “Ben’s been more than a father to Jonathan,” Pauline repeated, looking gratefully at her brother.

  “Well, we’ll see,” said Vince, who had limited patience for the psychodramas of Westchester families, a fact that probably saved him from being completely suffocated by them. “Let’s start by taking a look at the transcripts and making sure everything’s in order. These European schools can be sloppy, so we want to double-check.” With this high-handed pronouncement (the irony of which did not escape Anne, given Fenimore’s GPA fiasco several years ago), Vince ushered Ben and Pauline into his private sanctum, leaving Anne in the outer office with Gwendolen.

  “Now, there’s a good man,” Gwendolen asserted knowingly, after Ben had left the room. “Not many men would foot the bill for a nephew, no less take that kind of interest. You don’t see many like that, I can tell you. And he has nice eyes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ART WILEY WAS WAITING FOR ANNE WHEN SHE RETURNED TO HER office after her meeting with the Cutlers. Art was the director, CEO, and sole instructor of the Wiley Way, an SAT review service. Fall was prime SAT review season, when underclassmen were limbering up to take the tests for the first time, and when upperclassmen still clung to the dream of lifting their scores by an additional 150 points.

  SAT test-taking had spawned an enormous supporting industry in Westchester County. There were shelves of study guides (options in bookstores had proliferated in the manner of panty hose in drugstores), legions of tutors (mostly out-of-work Ph.D.s), and enrichment courses (summer programs for “gifted and talented youth,” not to mention more expensive sojourns at the London School of Economics and the Sorbonne). Stanley Kaplan and the Princeton Review had multiple franchises in the area, and everywhere you looked there was a boutique course “tailored to the special needs of your special child.” In Art Wiley’s case, “boutique” might not seem like the right word for the raucous sessions held in the basement of his ramshackle split-level in New Rochelle—but many members of the Westchester community swore by them, as evidenced by the Mercedes and Lexuses lined up in front of his house every evening.

  Art was a large unkempt man in baggy jeans and a misbut-toned shirt. He slouched into Anne’s office this morning with a stack of flyers for the Wiley Way.

  “As lovely as ever,” said Art, kissing Anne’s hand. It was his habit to pay elaborate court to her, comfortable in the knowledge that his affection would remain unreciprocated. Art Wiley was the kind of guy who would never seriously contemplate a relationship with anyone, since it might require him to get up before noon and take a bath more than once a week.

  “Thank you, you’re looking well yourself, Art,” said Anne, trying for the flip tone she generally took with him, though her voice sounded strained to her own ears—she was still recovering from her encounter with Ben Cutler. “What’s new in SAT prep at the Wiley Way?” she asked quickly.

  “Well, I’ve got a new course in the pipeline on crafting the SAT essay,” Art announced proudly, pointing a rather dirty fingernail at an item on the Wiley Way flyer. “That was a real curve ball they threw us when they added the writing section. No matter how much I drilled the kids in the five-paragraph essay, most of them just sat and stared at the paper—that deer in the headlights sort of thing. Let’s face it, these kids don’t think in the narrow, plodding way that the guys who make up these tests have in mind. Ask them to come up with something creative—say, cementing a golf cart in the middle of the school courtyard or removing the doors from the faculty bathroom stalls in the middle of the night—and they can manage it, no problem, even if it involves high-level calculations that might challenge a seasoned engineer. But a twenty-five-minute extemporaneous essay on some topic of no interest whatsoever? Forget about it. So I was stumped there for a while. But I’m glad to say I’ve finally figured the thing out. With my method, even the dyslexics and the serious cases of ADD can score above the eightieth percentile on the essay.”

  “Really?” said Anne. She never ceased to be intrigued by Art’s abilities to beat the test. “What’s your secret?”

  “The key,” said Art, “is in the prep. You have them decide what they’re going to write about ahead of time. Maybe even draft the essay and memorize it.”

  “But how can they do that? They don’t know the question,” protested Anne.

  “True.” Art nodded. “But that doesn’t matter. You teach them to make the essay answer the question. Simple rhetorical technique: goes back to the Disputatio of Aquinas. Read the language theorists—Ch
omsky, Peirce, Wittgenstein. Watch celebrity interviews, political debates. It’s tried and true.”

  “Can you give me an example?” prompted Anne.

  “Sure. Let’s say the kid prepares an essay: ‘Why I Love My Dog.’ We review the general run of possible questions: meaning of life, gender roles, democratic process—all the big topics—and teach them to transition ‘Why I Love My Dog’ into the response. Ideally, of course, you’d want something more complex than ‘Why I Love My Dog,’ but some of these kids can’t do much better than that, so you work with what they have. With my method, even the ones that don’t have a dog and have to go with why they love video games can do respectably on the sample. The rest of the time we spend on grammar and sentence structure. That’s my secret ammo. Most of these kids were so busy ‘finding their voice’ with those freewriting exercises in grade school they never learned how to use a comma—they just sort of sprinkle the thing around like some sort of all-purpose seasoning. Let me tell you—correct use of the comma goes a long way with some of these test graders.”

  Anne nodded. Art had none of the slimy polish of Curtis Fink, but he did hold a B.A. in philosophy from Swarthmore, a Ph.D. in physics from MIT, and had worked for a short, unhappy period for the defense department, surefire credentials for deconstructing the SATs. He often took the test as many as six times a year and spent hundreds of hours tabulating results, which he kept in rows of loose-leaf binders above his bed.

  The courses themselves were conducted by Art in the manner of a progressive nursery school. Fifteen or twenty kids would sit in lawn chairs in his basement, eating Cheez-Its and drinking Dr. Brown’s celery tonic (pretty much what Art Wiley subsisted on), while he expounded on the major components of SAT-taking, which he divided into five principal categories: