Saving Miss Oliver's

by Stephen Davenport

  And on Francis’s part, he couldn’t see the legitimacy of his spiritual hunger anymore—though it was just as legitimate as it always was. Not after this summer’s chain of events he couldn’t, for all he could see was the farce of his Western adventure: the Porta Potties, Mendoza’s bungling, Bullington’s greasy infallibility, his own sacrilegious delirium in the sweat house. That and the embarrassing fact that he’d been running away from his responsibilities. And so, right there and then, he declared to himself that he was through with all that. All spiritual questing from then on was going to be in tune with Peggy’s, he told himself, forgetting that he had tried that for years and had always been hungry.

  And he would return to his responsibilities, his legitimate role at the head’s right hand. On this, at least, he was on solid ground. For there was a school to save. And he was the senior teacher.

  The first step was to show up tomorrow night at the San Francisco recruiting event. So what if he was not wanted? Fred Kindler, mere upstart, had no right to keep him away.

  LATE IN THE afternoon of the next day, Francis walked down the hill to where his yellow Chevy was parked, opened the trunk, pulled out his suitcase, extricated his gray flannels, his tweed sports coat, his blue button-down shirt and striped tie. He put them on in the shade of an oak tree, and now he was in uniform again. Then he got in the car and combed his hair in the rearview mirror. Francis started to drive.

  Catherine Jackson, class of 1956 (the first year of the reign of Marjorie Boyd) was the hostess of the event. Francis got to her big Victorian in Pacific Heights too early. He wanted to arrive after most of the guests had assembled so he could enter unobtrusively and take a seat in the back after Kindler had begun to talk. Less of a scene that way. Then, after the talk, he would mingle with the guests and say the things about his beloved school that brought the families in. He didn’t even think about what he’d say to Kindler and Peggy after the meeting was over.

  To kill time, he drove the several blocks to Divisadero to find a place to park. Then he sat in the car, listening to the news. George Bush was giving a news conference. Usually whenever Bush said anything, Francis talked back to the radio or TV screen, loudly explaining all the ways he was sure the president was wrong; but tonight he was so keyed up he barely listened. At eight-fifteen he got out of the car and started to walk. From high up on Divisadero hill, he could see the water in the bay shading to purple in the sunset. The air was cold and sharp. In this, one the most beautiful cities in the world, Francis was hungry for the smell of his New England woods, the sight of his river.

  Fifteen minutes later, he climbed the steps, crossed the porch, and stopped at the door. For an instant he thought he’d turn around; he’d never gone anywhere he was not wanted before. Then he pushed on the heavy door, and now he was standing in the foyer and to his left through the opening to the living room he saw the backs of about eighteen people, three of whom, he noticed immediately, were teenage girls. Some of the guests were sitting on sofas, some in folding chairs, and Fred Kindler was standing there facing them. Fred saw him first as he tried to tiptoe in. Their eyes met and held. Kindler stopped talking.

  And everyone turned around to see who was coming in the door.

  In the front row, Gail and Nan and Peggy turned too. At first, all he could see was Peggy. Her face was lit with relief. “Hello,” she mouthed to him, and Fred Kindler smiled and said aloud, disguising his surprise, “Here’s Mr. Plummer, everybody, our senior teacher. I’m so glad he’s here.”

  All the alumnae and parents of present students knew Francis, of course. They stood up to greet him, so that only the three families who were being recruited remained in their seats; and in the back row of folding chairs nearest him, Marcia Bradford, whom he’d known since she entered the school twenty-one years ago and whose daughter, Mary, was Eudora’s kinesthetic furniture student, reached for his hands and held them while her husband slapped his shoulders. “Why, it’s Francis Plummer,” she loudly exclaimed. “My favorite teacher! It’s so good to see you!”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Francis said to the room, speaking the truth and stepping gently back from the Bradfords. This glaring entrance was exactly what he didn’t want.

  “That’s all right, I’ve finished,” Kindler said. But he really hadn’t. He had a few more things to say—that now he couldn’t say because it would be too awkward to start again.

  And anyway, nobody was even looking at him anymore.

  “Mr. Plummer, give us your thoughts. Come on up here and tell us what you think makes this school so special,” Fred urged, forcing himself to smile. What else could he do in front of all these people? He was wary, thinking of how little Nan trusted this guy and remembering Cleveland, Sharon Maynard’s treachery, and the woman in the red dress. Just the same, Plummer was here, he must have come to help, Fred told himself and glanced at his teammates. Gail was frowning. Nan looked worried. But Peggy was smiling at Francis. She wants her husband to come up front and stand beside me, Fred thought. So maybe it’s going to be all right. He beckoned to Francis.

  “No. Really, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Francis insisted.

  But that’s just what you did! Fred thought. You came in late and made a showy entrance. He felt small for even thinking this way. Just the same, he’d never do what Plummer had just done if it were the other way around. He beckoned again. Peggy nodded across the chairs to Francis, urging him.

  “Come on, Clark, talk to us!” Marcia Bradford said.

  “All right, I’ll just say a few words from here,” Francis said, relenting—he knew how churlish it would appear for him to keep on refusing. But he was not about to go up front and be even more obtrusive. And besides, he wasn’t going to stand beside Kindler and help the man pretend he was glad to see him. When he had to be forced to invite him!

  But Francis’s attempt not to draw attention to himself had the opposite effect. All the guests turned completely around in their chairs to face him. Some, in the folding chairs, even turned the chairs themselves around. Now all their backs were to Fred. He might as well not have been in the room. Nan watched Gail’s face. Do you see what I see? she wanted to ask her. He’s sucking the power right out of the room and to himself, the egotistical little bastard! He’s cutting your husband’s legs right out from under him.

  Francis was only going to say a few things because he felt like the bull in a china shop. He roved his eyes around the room, thinking what to say. He looked at each of the three potential students. Affluenza, he thought, the symptoms printed on their faces—entitlement warring with the unacknowledged hunger to have their desires resisted—and started to talk directly to them as if they were the only ones in the room. “I’d think carefully before I signed up for Miss Oliver’s School for Girls,” he started. “You need to be sure that’s what you really want to do. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.” And then he told them why: “Because there’s never enough time at Miss Oliver’s School for Girls.

  “Something in the air of Oliver’s demands that limits be pushed. It’s just the way we are, it’s a crazy kind of place. When you write a paper for an Oliver teacher, you’ll always get it back, it won’t be good enough, you’ll always do it again. Are you ready for that? If you think you’re weak in math or science, don’t worry: We’ll pile on the math and science until you know you aren’t. Same with history. Same with art. Nobody gets enough sleep at Miss Oliver’s School for Girls.” He went on like this, much longer than he had intended, strewing hyperbole to make his point. He never showed them the top of the mountain he was inviting them to climb, only how hard the climb. That was what grabbed these kids’ attention, focused their minds, changed what they want. If they had needed to see something else about the school he loved, he would have shown them that.

  He knew only great teachers could bore into someone else’s mind like this—only they have that kind of power. Maybe that’s why teachers were paid so little: What they earn has more power than money. />
  When he stopped, there was silence. And then there was applause and Fred Kindler announced that the formal part of the evening was over—for anything more would be anticlimax—and the guests got up from their seats, and the next thing Francis knew was that at least ten of the guests were moving to him. They surrounded him, virtually backing him against the wall, thanking him for his talk, telling him stories about when they were in school, asking questions, and Marcia Bradford was hugging him. Over her shoulder he saw Fred and Gail talking with exactly one guest. The three potential students were gathered around Nan and Peggy. Francis extricated himself as soon as he could, pretending to be dying for a glass of white wine, moved to the table that served as a bar, poured himself a glass, and then, as soon as he saw that Nan and the three girls had drifted away from her, he moved to Peggy and stood beside her. He sensed her body stiffening. “Hello,” he said under his breath.

  She didn’t turn to him, stared straight ahead.

  “Hello,” he said again. She still didn’t answer. He saw Kindler glance at them from the other side of the room, then look away. “Hey,” he murmured to Peggy, “this is a recruiting session, isn’t it? Well, I recruited.” He pointed with his chin to where, on the other side of the room, Nan was handing folders to each of the three girls. “That’s the application packet,” he said. “How much you want to bet they sign up?”

  “We’ll talk later,” she said, and moved away.

  He started to follow, putting his hand out to hers to hold her back. Then he changed his mind and let her go, watching her as she moved across the room to where Gail and Nan were talking to some parents.

  A few minutes later, the guests began to leave. Fred Kindler and Catherine Jackson stood at the front door to say goodbye. Nan, Gail, Peggy, and Francis stayed in the living room. Soon most of the guests were gone, but the conversation drifted in through the open door from the front porch where people were lingering. Just as the last guest went out the door, Francis heard an angry voice. It was clearly Mr. Bradford’s, Marcia’s husband, Mary’s father, and it was loud enough to for everyone inside the house to hear: “Why didn’t they make him the head, Francis Plummer, for Christ’s sake, can anybody answer that?”

  After a little moment, Fred moved from the foyer where he’d been standing with Catherine by the door, toward the living room. He stopped in the archway and looked right at Francis Plummer.

  “Look,” Francis began. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t,” Fred cut him off. It was true; he could see what had happened. The guy had gifts, that’s all. Just the same, Fred was furious.

  Francis tried again. “Really, I came to help.”

  “Fine. Thanks,” Fred said. He was not going to talk about it. Not in front of all these people. Maybe never. Gail moved across the room and stood beside him.

  “I think you people could use a drink,” Catherine offered. “How about it? Anyone want to join me?” She moved toward the bar.

  “Thanks, but we have to get back to the airport,” Nan said.

  They all moved toward the front door now where Catherine stood saying goodbye. Then out on the porch, Fred turned to Peggy. “Goodbye, Peg. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gave her a hug. “Thanks for all you do,” he added. “You’re wonderful.” Then he turned to Plummer and shook his hand. “I’m glad you came,” he said, and forced himself to add, “We probably will enroll those three girls. It was your speech that did it.” What else could he do in this situation but hide his resentment and blossoming mistrust and be gracious? He knew he’d be hearing that Bradford person asking his question over and over, probably for the rest of his life.

  “We all did it, not just me,” Francis said, and Kindler gave him a look of contempt and Francis understood that Kindler knew he was lying—because it was his speech that had nailed those kids—and now he felt his own anger rising. Everyone was blaming this on him! Learn how to make your own fucking speeches, he wanted to say. He kept his gaze on Kindler’s eyes. Maybe the guy would read his mind. Then Gail and Nan hugged Peggy too, and nodded coldly to Francis, and Gail put her hand through her husband’s crooked arm, and the three walked down the steps, leaving Peggy and Francis alone on the porch.

  “So,” he said, “you’re staying.”

  Peggy sighed. “I made a reservation at the Hilton. I changed my flight to tomorrow morning.”

  “Good.” That’s all he was going to say. He was wary. It was her move. When Peggy didn’t respond, he said, “Wait here, I’ll bring the car around so you don’t have to carry your bag.” He went down the steps and headed for Divisadero.

  “I wouldn’t have if I’d known what you were going to do,” she murmured. He pretended he didn’t hear.

  ON THE WAY to the hotel they kept their distance, hardly talked at all. Francis was sure that when he was alone with her in their hotel she would admit she understood that what had happened at Catherine’s house was the farthest thing in the world from what he’d intended. And he would confess that, yes, maybe whether or not he approved of the new headmaster he should have stayed home to help him. I’m through with all that, he was going to say. I’m going to put that quest aside, beat those feelings down, and rush home as soon as the dig is over at the end of the week, do my job. My head’s on straight again, he was going to promise her. And there’s a school to save.

  Fifteen minutes later, alone with her in their hotel room, he started by trying for a hug.

  “I’m tired,” she said. She put her hand on his chest, holding him off, then stepped back from him.

  “It’s only eleven o’clock.”

  “It’s two o’clock my time, and I got up at six.”

  He turned his back, went to the mirror over the bureau, and started to take off his tie. “What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Give a lousy talk? Bore ’em to death?”

  “Don’t be funny, Francis.”

  “What then?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What, Peggy?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t have it, Peg,” he said. He knew he shouldn’t—especially right after making up his mind to help the guy—but he felt the hurt of her pushing him away, and now he wanted to hurt. “Is that why you don’t want to talk about it? Maybe your hero’s the wrong guy for the job.”

  That got her. She came up behind him. He could see her face in the mirror, to the right of his. “How would you know?” she asked. “You’ve talked with him for exactly ten minutes at a cocktail party, for goodness sake!”

  “Yeah, the first two minutes were enough.”

  “Just before you made an ass of yourself by insulting Milton Perkins.”

  “I wasn’t making an ass of myself, Peg. I’m supposed to insult him. He’s a Republican! That’s what they’re for.”

  “And then you run away and come sauntering back a month later, and barge right in the middle of his speech and make him look bad.”

  “Yeah. It was so easy I couldn’t resist.”

  He watched her face in the mirror. She stared back over his shoulder. He thought he saw her expression slide from anger to contempt—and then to sadness.

  “Make all the jokes you want,” she said. “He’s worth six of you!”

  “Oh, he is? Then marry him!”

  “You bastard!” She crossed to her suitcase, got her pajamas and her kit with her toothbrush in it, and went into the bathroom and shut the door. When she came out, she got into bed. He got ready in the bathroom too, then came out and got in the other side. They lay miles apart, listening to each other breathe, each waiting for the other to take the words back. They wouldn’t hurt so much if they were true. Neither of them spoke, and finally they fell asleep. Early in the morning, when Peggy left for the airport and Francis left for Mount Alma, they barely said goodbye and didn’t touch each other.

  Four days later at noon, when there was only one afternoon remaining to Mendoza’s allotted time and it became ab
solute that the dig would fail, Lila looked Francis steadily in the eye, not trying very hard to hide her disillusionment, and told him she wouldn’t be going home with him, she’d go by air instead, and he pretended he really did believe she wanted to get home in a hurry. The next morning the bulldozers came, and Francis started his long ride home, alone.

  SIX

  Francis was on Route 80, zooming eastward. Still in California, he already felt the homeward end of the long cement, a string on which he was gladly nowhere, here and there at the same time. He drove on and on, planning not to stop. Climbed the Sierra, cranked the windows shut, turned on the air conditioning so he couldn’t smell the world. He was in a tunnel shooting home.

  But when he came down the steep eastern slope where the evening light washed the Nevada desert, he gave up because he couldn’t resist what was outside his car any longer. He opened the window, killed the air conditioning, swam in the rushing air—and got off Route 80 west of Winnemucca onto a thin, pocked, blacktop road so he could be closer to the land.

  The road followed the shape of the earth, up rounded brown hills and down, while the sky grew red then faded to the deepest blue then died, and through the windshield he could see the stars. The space between him and the bright pinpricks in the black and this space on the solid were the same.

  Francis stopped the car, got out into the caressing night, walked down the side bank. When he looked back over his shoulder, nervous about getting lost, he saw the car silhouetted above him; so he walked farther away, up over a hill, until when he looked back his car was gone. He sat down on the ground, wrapped in the cooling air, the smells of dry earth, cactus, sage. He heard a scrabbling behind him. Maybe a gopher? Maybe a fox?