“I’m here,” he said. “No way I’m going away.”
“I thought that’s what you’d say.” Alan was smiling now.
“If there comes a reason I should quit, I’ll recognize it,” Fred said.
But Alan paid no attention to that remark. Instead he was making plans. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he announced. “Executive committee meeting tomorrow. Noon sharp. We’ll hold it at Milton Perkins’s club, as usual, and he can buy us lunch, as usual. I’ll call each of them tonight and tell them to be there, no matter what.”
“You going to tell them what it’s about?”
“Nope. Why ruin their sleep? They’ll find out when you tell them, and we’ll go from there.”
“Yeah,” said Fred, managing a grin, “why ruin their sleep.”
Alan was standing now, shaking Fred’s hand. “We’ll be all right,” he said. “We’ve got the right guy at the helm.” Then he was out the door.
BY THE TIME Fred arrived at the head’s house he realized he had had a booming headache for hours. He went through the house to the back, where he knew that Gail would be gardening in the evening’s softening light.
“Hi,” she said, getting up from her kneeling to greet him. She took her gardening gloves off and reached a hand to him.
He kissed her cheek.
“How was your day?” she said.
“Don’t ask,” he said.
THREE
When Francis called Peggy from just east of the Mississippi River the day after Fred Kindler’s first day in office, she didn’t even ask where he was. He’d called to tell her how excited he was to be at the huge river, how much he wished she were with him so they could see it together, but she started right off before Francis hardly said a word. “He’s already here!” she exclaimed. “He showed up yesterday. What do you think about that?”
“Who?” Francis asked. “Who’s already there?”—as if he didn’t know.
Peggy left a freighted silence. Then, wearily: “Come on, Francis. You know who,” and now Francis wished he had traveled faster instead of spending four whole days at his college reunion in Ohio, two more at a friend’s house in Indiana, and then a whole week in Chicago easing his conscience at a math teachers’ conference. It didn’t occur to him that maybe he’d been keeping himself on a short leash by stopping so often so he could turn around and go back to the school before it was too late. Nor did it occur to him that the reason for his taking his school clothes with him, his blue button-down shirt, striped tie, sports coat, and slacks, wasn’t just the college reunion or the dinner at the end of the math conference; it was that these were his uniform, his identity. Instead, he thought that if he had escaped across the big divide of the Mississippi right away, he’d now be much further into the West and he wouldn’t care where Fred Kindler was. He’d have room to breathe.
“Marjorie left early,” he heard Peggy say. “She cleared out.”
“Oh,” he said. “So soon?” Then he realized he was not surprised. That was exactly what Marjorie would do.
But Peggy wasn’t talking about Marjorie now; she was talking about the new guy. “Two whole weeks before he even needed to be here!” she said. He knew what she left unsaid for him to think about: The new headmaster shows up early for his responsibilities—while you run away from yours. But that’s not what he was thinking about. What filled his brain instead was the picture of Fred Kindler actually ensconced in Marjorie’s office, enthroned behind her desk, surrounded by the pictures her students made for her. The wrongness of the fit, its impropriety, astounded him. It was Marjorie’s office!
“Well, what do you think of that?” Peggy asked again.
“Maybe he can’t read a calendar,” he said.
“Very funny, Francis.”
“I didn’t call you up to talk about him!”
“Oh, you didn’t?” Peggy mocked. “All right, then. So forget about it.”
He let a long silence go by, desperate for a way to rescue them from this. “Peg,” he finally begged, “let’s not fight.”
That’s right, she thought, let’s not.
“How are you, Peg?”
I’m confused, she wanted to say, and I’m scared we’ve lost each other, but she was too angry to plead for sympathy. “I’m okay,” she told him.
“Only okay, Peg?”
She shrugged her shoulders as if he were there to see. There was a long silence, while he waited for her to speak. “Where are you?” she finally asked.
“Just east of the Mississippi.”
“That’s nice,” she said, failing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. But she really did think it was nice that he was seeing the country and wished she were seeing it with him. And then it dawned on her that neither of them ever considered her joining him. The reasons for his trip were too foreign to her for that.
“All right, Peg,” he sighed, hearing only the sarcasm. “I’ll call you later.”
“All right.”
“I miss you, Peg.”
“I miss you too,” she admitted, “but if you were here we wouldn’t have to miss each other.”
Neither of them could think of what else to say. Francis hung up first and walked back to his old yellow Chevy, and started to drive again. In Denver, he would pick up Lila Smythe, next year’s president of the student council, and give her a ride the rest of the way to California. Lila, one of Francis’s and Peggy’s favorite students, lived in the dorm they parented, and though Francis had been delighted when she decided to join the dig, he now regretted his promise. She’d want to talk to him, as faculty advisor to the student council, about the council’s agenda for the coming year. He was much too preoccupied for that.
And Peggy lingered by the phone, willing Francis to call again. She’d speak more gently this time, she told herself. But he didn’t call, and now she knew he was on the other side of the Mississippi, much farther away from her than he’d ever been. She’d never been in that part of the country and could only see it in her imagination as endless, empty space. And her husband was lost in it.
PEGGY LOOKED AT her watch. It was ten-thirty in the morning, and she had a meeting with Fred Kindler at quarter to eleven. She wanted to get there a little early because he’d told her that he had to leave at eleven-fifteen for a meeting downtown at noon. She was worried about how he’d react when, on only his second day in office, she would tell him about a problem that was going to make the budget crisis even worse. So she left the phone, stepped out of her house and across the thick green lawns of the campus toward the administration building. In the distance, at the campus edge, she saw the river gleaming in the sun.
The first thing she noticed about Fred Kindler’s office was the big clock on the wall behind his desk, an imitation of a Mickey Mouse wristwatch, complete with huge leather wrist straps that reached from ceiling to floor. It hadn’t been there yesterday when she glanced through the door. She smiled, getting his message right away, and wondered if Eudora Easter had had a hand in this. Maybe people would start getting to places on time now.
He smiled too, an easy greeting, and stepped from behind his desk with that ducklike, toes-out gait she knew she would never have noticed if Francis hadn’t pointed it out to her. When Kindler put out his hand to shake hers, she realized again how formal and old-fashioned he seemed. They sat down in front of his desk, facing each other.
“How’s Francis’s trip going?” Fred asked her.
“He’ll be in California by the end of the week.”
“I hope he’s having a great time.”
“I hope so too,” she said before she had time to think what this remark might reveal. She saw him look away from her for just an instant and knew that he was not hiding his surprise—there was no dissimulation in that not-very-handsome face—but being kind. Whatever else he is, he is a good person, she decided. One of the things she was proud of was her ability to size people up.
Fred wasn’t sure whether it was surprise flas
hing across her face as Peggy’s eyes met his and stayed longer than most people’s—maybe that’s why he already liked her so much—or whether she was about to ask him a question. If so, he knew what the question would be: are you considering allowing boys into this school? He wished she would ask it. He guessed she was the kind of person he could think aloud in front of.
But he knew that of course she wouldn’t ask. Not yet. She was too kind to ask so early. That she’d just admitted a hint of trouble between herself and Francis gave him a rush of sadness for her—and anxiety for himself. I need your husband too, he wanted to say. He’s the senior teacher. The most gifted on the faculty. Teaches both math and English beautifully. That makes him powerful. If he’s against me, I’m dead.
“We need more air conditioning in the Pequot Indian area,” he heard Peggy say. “We had a consultant tell us that the displays would deteriorate.”
“How much?”
“It’s a lot. The estimate’s for fifteen thousand.” If he said yes, then she knew he understood how important the display was; it would mean he “got” Miss Oliver’s School for Girls—and Francis would be wrong.
“Fifteen thousand!” Fred exclaimed; then to himself: What the heck. What’s another fifteen thousand to a deficit like ours?
“I know it’s not in the budget,” Peggy said. “It’s a lot to ask.”
He made a little motion with his hand in front of his face as if to brush her comment away. “When we get the budget to where it should be, you won’t have to ask.”
“Won’t have to ask?”
“Department heads’ll have their own budgets. They’ll have discretion,” he explained, discovering how easy it was for him to share his ideas with her. He wished he could tell her about the emergency meeting with the board’s executive committee that would start in just over an hour, where he was going to drop the bomb about the budget. He’d get her advice.
“Really? Discretion?” Peggy was surprised. “We always went to Marjorie for—”
“Well, anyway,” he interrupted, “you’ve got it. Fifteen thousand.”
“Really?” she said. “Wonderful!”
He saw relief flooding her face, felt her eyes on his. Then a worried frown.
“Where will we get the money?” she asked.
“I have no idea, but I do know what’s indispensable and what is not.”
Peggy sat very still, taking his comment in. See, Francis, you’re wrong, she thought while it dawned on her how different this was from her meetings with Marjorie, how tired she’d grown of sitting side by side with her headmistress on a sofa, having her arm patted every time Marjorie made a point. For that’s how it had always gone: Marjorie making the point, not the other way around. And now Peggy realized she had something else to say, she was going to make a point—because she knew he’d listen. “Just one more thing,” she said. “I know you’re busy.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Don’t you bring it up. You’ll get crucified if you do. Let the board do it.”
“It?” he said. “You’re being mysterious.”
“No, I’m not. You know what I’m talking about. If we have to let boys in here, let it be the board’s decision. Fight it. Even if you think it’s right. Fight it anyway. For a while at least. Otherwise—”
“I’ve thought about that,” he said, hearing again Melissa Andersen’s Don’t you fucking dare. “Still, it doesn’t quite feel right.”
“Of course it doesn’t. Do it anyway!”
“You’re a smart lady,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” she replied, standing up. He rose too and reached to shake her hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, realizing she’d just done what Francis should be here to do: give advice. Show where the land mines were.
“Thanks,” he said, tempted now to put his other hand out too, take her hands in both of his. But that was too forward; he hardly knew her.
RIGHT AFTER PEGGY left, Fred made the call to Mavis Ericksen that he’d been dreading.
“Hello, this is Mavis.” Her voice was cheerful.
“Good morning, Mavis, this is Fred Kindler.” Silence.
“How are you this morning?” he tried.
She still didn’t answer, and it came to him that maybe she thought his question was sarcastic, as if to ask, Are you still crying? “I called to follow through on our conversation about Ms. Saffire,” he said.
“I’ve been waiting,” she said, making it clear she didn’t like to wait.
Yes, for only twenty-four hours, Fred thought. “Earlier this morning I talked to Dorothy Strang—”
“I don’t care what Dorothy—”
“Ms. Saffire reports to Dorothy Strang,” he said. “Dorothy evaluated Ms. Saffire last November near the end of her first year as having done quite well. Like everyone else, she’s been given some goals and will be evaluated again this November.” Fred didn’t tell Mavis that one of the goals assigned to Joan Saffire was learning how to handle certain kinds of people, and that when he had asked Dorothy, “What kind of people?” she had whispered, “Assholes,” and then got red in the face and started to giggle. And then admitted that she shouldn’t have sent a beginner to see Aldous Enright. She would have gone herself, but she was on vacation.
“November!” Mavis’s voice was quivering. “It’s only July!”
“Yes. November. It’s an annual evaluation.” There was another seemingly endless silence. Fred felt sweat running down the inside of his shirt. “You and I need to talk,” he said. Maybe if he took her to lunch and they got to know each other, she would understand why it was important that the board not intrude on the head’s domain. “Let’s make an appointment,” he began. Then he heard her hanging up.
How much safer he would be if Joan Saffire were incompetent and he could fire her, he thought—and immediately regretted the thought.
AN HOUR AND a half later in a private dining room of the River Club in Downtown Hartford, Alan Travelers got right to the point. “Our new headmaster’s had a very busy first day,” he told the executive committee. “Among other accomplishments, he discovered that we have a larger deficit than we thought we did.” Impeccable in his blue suit, Travelers was standing at the head of the table. His tone sounded surprisingly cheerful to Fred.
“Yeah?” Milton Perkins growled. “So what else is new?”
“You’re about to learn,” Travelers said. “I think it’ll get your attention.” He sat down.
“Oh?” Perkins said. “How much?”
“Six hundred and seventy-five thousand.”
Perkins sat back in his chair as if he’d been shoved in the chest. He stared at Travelers. Then he turned to Fred. “Tell me I didn’t hear that right.”
“You heard it right,” Fred said, and from their frames along the oak-paneled wall opposite the tall windows overlooking the river, an array of nineteenth-century patriarchs, masters of New England thrift, looked sternly down at the room.
Fred handed out the papers he had prepared and proceeded to explain the difference between Carl Vincent’s figures and his own, going slowly, line by line. While he talked, no one touched the raw oysters that Perkins, who has lived at the River Club ever since his wife had died five years earlier, had ordered for the lunch, and when he finished, the members continued to stare down at their papers. They couldn’t bring themselves to look at each other. Perkins got up from the table, went to one of the windows, and stared at the river, his back to everybody.
“So much for the bad news,” Alan said dismissively, breaking the silence. He knew he needed to get these people past their disappointment and, worse, their humiliation at having been so gulled by Vincent’s numbers. “There’s good news too. We’ve got a head who before he does anything else—on his very first day!—gets us to the truth. That’s huge.”
“Yes,” said beautiful alumna Sonja McGarvey. “Finally some reality around here!” She turned to Fred, sent him a grateful—maybe even an
admiring—look. She had black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and her lipstick was very red. Only ten years out, Sonja was already rich. Marjorie had often pointed to her derring-do, entrepreneuring in software, as proof of the empowering effect of single-sex education on women, and Fred was already planning to ask her for the lead gift from the board this year.
“Exactly!” Alan said. He had to admit, he liked this challenge, since it gave him something to sink his teeth into, put some spice in his life. He’d won battles like this before. “We’ll just go faster,” he urged. “We’ll just rebuild the enrollment in two years instead of four. We’ve got the right head finally. We’ll just do it!”
But now Sonja McGarvey was shaking her head in disagreement. She leaned forward across the table toward Travelers, pent up, waiting to speak.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we’re going to do!” Travelers went on. “Revise the plan and move on.”
“That’s unrealistic,” McGarvey snapped. “It’s a pipe dream.”
All eyes came off Travelers and moved to McGarvey, then back to Travelers, who was obviously surprised. He was not used to being contradicted, especially by a woman who was not yet thirty. He started to say something, but from the window, Perkins beat him to it.
“So it’s unrealistic,” Perkins said. His back was still to the group, and he was still staring out the window, as if he were addressing the river. “When you don’t have a choice, who cares?”
“What’s he been smoking?” McGarvey asked the group. And when Perkins turned to face her, she asked him, “Can I have some too?”
Perkins left the window and, taking his seat again, leaned to McGarvey across the polished mahogany. “You could be right,” he growled. “Bean counters are every once in a century. But maybe you aren’t. Maybe we’ll pull something out of a hat.” He was grinning now, egging her on.
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