by Sarah S.
“I was stuck in meetings until nine that night,” he answered. By this time, they were getting out of the car, walking up Geoff’s driveway. “What was I supposed to do? Not work?”
“Why can’t you be kinder to Charles?” Sylvie blurted out. “You know how sensitive he is.”
“Sylvie …” James raised his hands in protest. “Jesus.”
They had reached the door by then. Melinda took their coats just as she had today. As soon as they got away from the throng of guests, Sylvie picked up on the thread of the fight. “Why don’t you care about Charles?” she hissed. “Why don’t you ever try?”
“Of course I try,” James answered tightly. And then after a moment’s thought, “Maybe he doesn’t see it. Maybe you don’t see it. It’s like everyone’s minds were made up about me and him a long time ago.”
Sylvie stepped back. “How can you turn this around and make it his fault? How can you act so blameless about everything?”
James’s eyes narrowed, obviously sensing what was coming next. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Don’t turn this into an argument about that.”
“How can I not?” she cried. The faceless woman, tall and sophisticated, the kind that wore bold, modern jewelry, pulsed in Sylvie’s mind, suddenly present. “How can I not make everything an argument about that?”
James’s gaze fell to the ring on Sylvie’s right hand. That’s why, his look said. “I’m so tired, Sylvie,” he whimpered. “I don’t want to be here.”
She turned away from him, hurt. Never in a million years did she imagine this would happen to her. Other people, yes. Her mother, yes. But her mother deserved it. Why had James turned to this woman years ago? Because of their rift over the kids? From resentment over Sylvie’s unquenchable respect for her grandfather? To get back at the Bates-McAllisters because they didn’t give him a job? But how could he still be angry about that? He had succeeded in his own right. He had achieved without her family’s help. Wasn’t that better?
A hand touched her arm now, and Sylvie turned. Martha Wittig, her fellow board member, was putting the last of a canape into her mouth, delicately wiping her chin. “Long time no see,” she joked. She kissed Sylvie on both cheeks. “Did you see their new painting yet?”
Sylvie blinked, feeling light-headed, her emotions whipping around too fast. “No,” she murmured.
Martha looped her arm through Sylvie’s and guided her to the left. “Melinda’s birthday was just a ruse to get us all here and show the thing off, don’t you think?” She led her into the grand living room, which had not one, but two fireplaces. “It’s not my taste, of course. And have you noticed how thin Melinda looks? It’s not very becoming. Do you think it’s because of all the financial trouble they’re in? I hear they’re short-selling their Florida house.”
Sylvie murmured a noncommittal answer and followed Martha to the enormous canvas that Geoff and his wife had bought at a Sotheby’s auction a few weeks ago. The painting was dark and muddy, completely unremarkable, but the throng of people in front of it oohed and ahhed as though they were amazed. Sylvie wondered if, once they were safe in their own cars, they would cut it to pieces, wondering aloud why on earth Geoff had paid so much money for something so ugly.
“Oh, Sylvie!” Martha cried. “Here’s someone I want to introduce you to!”
She brought forward a small man with a salt-and-pepper beard and barely any hair on the top of his head. The man was shorter than Sylvie, with the compact physique of a man that cycled the roads near her house, the kind that wore tight spandex shirts and pants and always rode in a pack. He wore pleasant, round glasses and a dark red cashmere sweater instead of a jacket.
“This is Michael Tayson,” Martha trilled. “Michael, this is Sylvie Bates-McAllister.”
Sylvie’s body went limp.
“Nice to meet you,” the man said, sticking out his hand. His handshake was almost bone crushing. Everything was moving too fast.
“Ah,” Sylvie finally managed to say. “I-I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I apologize for not being at the board meeting,” Michael said, finally drawing his hand away. “My son had the flu, and my wife was on call. She’s a neurosurgeon.”
Sylvie nodded dumbly. A rushing sound was growing louder and louder in her ears.
“But it’s good to finally meet you in person,” Michael Tayson added. “I’ve heard a lot of nice things about you.”
“Uh-huh.” Sylvie couldn’t quite control her mouth. Michael’s steadiness was unnerving. It seemed as though he knew a delicious secret, perhaps something about Christian Givens and Scott. It also seemed as if he was gazing straight into Sylvie and decoding her motives. He probably knew she’d sought out Warren Givens. He probably even knew what she suspected about Scott’s guilt.
“How was the board meeting?” he asked.
“Great,” she managed to answer. “We always get a lot of work done.”
“Good,” Michael Tayson said. “Glad to hear it.”
She looked behind him. Martha had drifted into the other room. The only other people left in the study besides the two of them were a couple Sylvie didn’t know, standing very close to the art, talking among themselves. A shiver rocketed through her body. All the other sounds of the party melted away. Her heart chugged at her temples.
“How did it go?” she blurted. “Scott’s meeting with the teachers today. I haven’t heard from him. I haven’t heard from anyone.”
Michael Tayson’s smile wilted only a fraction. “I don’t think …”
“I mean, I’m not concerned, of course. I always thought it was a crazy rumor. But … still. Was everything all right?”
“Well, I wasn’t part of the meeting. The teachers are formulating an opinion and will report to me in a few days.”
Formulating an opinion? What was there to formulate? Scott had gone in and confessed to something horrible, or he’d shrugged and said he knew nothing. They’d found something on him, or they’d absolved him. Did that really require several days of formulating?
“You don’t even know if the hazing was happening,” Sylvie whispered.
“There were bruises on his body,” Michael Tayson stated.
“There were?”
He nodded. “And cuts.”
She felt as though someone had punched her. “Where?”
“I don’t know. I just heard that there were.”
“What is the father saying?” she exclaimed. Her heart was beating inhumanly fast. “The boy’s father? What does he think?”
Michael Tayson looked alarmed. The question surprised Sylvie, too. “Does the father believe there was hazing?” Her voice rose higher and higher.
“I can’t …” He sighed, defeated, and looked toward the large windows that opened out to Geoff’s big backyard. “I’m not really sure this is the place to talk about it, Mrs. Bates-McAllister. Maybe we should meet in my office in a few days, when the opinion comes in. This just doesn’t seem the right …”
“Whatever you know, just say it,” Sylvie insisted. “I want to know what’s going on. This has been terrible for me.”
Michael Tayson’s hands formed a steeple. “Look. I don’t know anything about the father. I don’t know what happened in the meeting. I’ve turned this over to an independent third party for just these reasons, because I’m too close to it, because the board is too close to it. What I do know is that some of your colleagues on the board are quite concerned. They’re afraid this is going to blow up into something much bigger, and they want to eradicate themselves from it as much as they can.”
A lock of hair fell in Sylvie’s eyes, but she was too stunned to brush it away. “The board members know? How?”
He pursed his lips and looked down. He had told them.
“But you … you said you wouldn’t say anything,” she whispered.
“It’s their right to know. And I said I’d keep the board members out of the meeting with your son and the teachers. I never said anythin
g about keeping it from them entirely.”
She ran her hand down the length of her face. Her skin felt numb. “Why haven’t they said anything to me about it?”
“They are trying to be discreet, I guess.”
The way they’d sat around the meeting the other day, acting oblivious to all of it. The way Martha had sifted through Christian’s interests, as if she didn’t already know plenty about him. The way they’d patted her hand when she said stop, acting sympathetic and sensitive. It was crueler than if they had come right out and told her what they’d heard and that they felt uncomfortable. And the insidious way Martha fed her to Michael Tayson just now! Had they been planning an intervention all along?
“Well!” she blurted.
Michael Tayson cleared his throat. “I told you, this isn’t the best place to talk about this. But they’ve come to me with their concerns. They’re all worried about this—how this could make the school look, especially since Scott is your son. We have it contained, but like I said, if the autopsy comes back conclusive, if someone else confirms the story about the hazing, if the father takes this to lawyers or to the press, whatever—well, we may need to make some preemptive changes. You want to protect the school’s reputation, don’t you? This is the school your grandfather re-founded, for God’s sake.”
“What are you getting at?” she cried.
He stroked his tie. “Your friends would never ask this of you. I’m sure they’ll stand by you. But they also defer to me, to do what’s best for the school. No one would vote you out, of course, but …”
Sylvie laughed. “Are you suggesting I resign?”
A muscle in his cheek twitched.
Sylvie let out a small, ragged breath. “Oh.” She pressed her hands together. It felt like she had no nerve endings on her palms—she couldn’t feel anything. “Oh. Well.”
He shifted his weight, inspecting her carefully. His nostrils flared in and out slowly, calmly. “They’re willing to give you a settlement. Your family has been such a part of the school, and they want you to know what you mean to us.”
Sylvie widened her eyes. “You’re going to pay me to leave?”
“Unless, of course, you find a way to resolve this yourself.”
“Resolve this myself? How do you expect me to do that?”
He leaned back on his heels. “From what I hear, that’s how Swithin works. Plenty of unsavory things are done on behalf of the school’s reputation. This isn’t the first time your family has had … issues. This isn’t the first time we’ve had to do a bit of reconnaissance on some assaults on your family’s character.”
She looked away. Your grandfather wasn’t the messiah you think he was, she heard her mother say. She wanted to smack Michael Tayson. She wanted to take his glasses off his squashed little face and smash them between her palms. “So people said things about my grandfather,” she spat through her teeth. “What you forget is what he did for Swithin. It wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. Nothing would be here—certainly not you. You wouldn’t have a job.”
Tayson cleared his throat. His cheeks bulged slightly, as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant. “No. I wasn’t talking about that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your husband,” he stated, uncertainly. “And … well, the things people said about the girl.”
She stared at him. The girl. In the other room someone let out a raucous laugh.
Michael Tayson paled. He placed a palm on his chest. “Oh dear, the board said you were aware of it. They said you knew that they struggled to keep it hushed up. It was a while ago, after all.”
Sylvie pressed her hands to the side of her face. “Of course I’m aware,” she sputtered, for she could never give him the satisfaction of knowing something she didn’t. Her mind scrambled for footing where there was none. What had the board kept from her? What didn’t she know? Who was the girl?
When she looked at Michael there was a sickening smile on his face. He knew she didn’t know. He knew every inch of her ignorance.
People swam past, their smiles craggy and warped. A woman’s perfume smelled like sewage to Sylvie. Sylvie fought to remain on her feet. The girl. She was waiting for Michael Tayson to relax and touch her arm and tell her that, “Jesus, Mrs. Bates-McAllister, I’m kidding. I’m kidding about all of it, about Scott, about the hazing, about you having to leave. They would never do that to you, it’s you, your family is practically royalty, this has nothing to do with you, and it’s not even true, anyway. And goodness, the thing with the girl—I’m sorry. There was never a girl. It was a joke, but a mean one. Maybe too mean.”
It was coming, wasn’t it? It was coming. It had to be.
But Michael Tayson didn’t move. His lips were still small, his forehead was still creased, his face was still so serious. Sylvie’s throat felt stuffed with cotton. She thought of the pictures her grandfather had showed her of the school after the fire, the black scaffolding, the pile of rubble that remained. Please don’t let me go, Sylvie had imagined the school crying out, its face crumbling away. Please help me.
Michael Tayson’s eyes were now full of pity. “I really didn’t want to talk about this here. I didn’t want to ruin this night. But you should know what they’re saying. You would probably have the same concerns if you were in their position, don’t you think?” He patted her arm. “Maybe we won’t even have to face any of this. Let’s hope it just … goes away. We’re all on your side, Sylvie.”
Sylvie. How fast the power could shift. He hadn’t even asked, May I call you Sylvie, Mrs. Bates-McAllister? He just went ahead and called her whatever he wanted.
It took every ounce of self-control to smile. She took a deep breath and reached for her cocktail, which she’d set on a small table next to the new painting. Three-quarters of the drink was left; it burned her throat going down. She wanted more; her stomach felt like a vast, bottomless bowl.
Michael Tayson watched her, his eyes wide. He was looking at her in that wary way all men looked at unpredictable, emotional women. The same way her father looked at her mother before she said something brash and irrational, the same way James looked at Sylvie in this very house the night before he died, saying, Don’t turn this into an argument about that.
The girl. It had been a girl? A teacher? A student? The word meant too many things.
Tayson’s ice clinked in his empty glass. If it were her grandfather standing here in Sylvie’s place, Sylvie knew just what he would do. Even if someone had just told him all this, he’d take his guest’s glass and say, Can I refresh that for you? In her grandfather’s world, etiquette won the day. Manners were worth their weight in gold.
But Sylvie wasn’t her grandfather. She set her empty glass on the sideboard where it would leave a watermark. Then she turned around abruptly and walked out without even saying good-bye.
………………………………………………………… fifteen
Tuesday morning dawned misty and warm. There were geese on Charles’s back lawn, a whole flock of them. He walked around every room of the house, looking at their furniture.
He gazed across the street at the silent, identical houses. He noted the property line between his house and his neighbor’s, so clearly defined by a crisp line of cut grass on their side, a scruffy tuft of longer grass on theirs. Then he got into his car.
His heart beat uncomfortably in his throat the whole drive down the turnpike. The seat belt cut into his chest. When he got to the exit, he nearly drove into a lane of oncoming traffic.
He arrived at the Back to the Land site too early, so he pulled into a gas station to kill some time. He went in, bought a cup of coffee, and used the bathroom, shaking out the nerves in his hands. He walked outside again and leaned against his car’s hood, looking around. It was just farmland out here. The day was still, sober—a sickly gray. A crow cawed from a tree, a piece of loose metal fence flapped. Across the street was another gas station, much older, all the pumps va
cant. A string of frayed, faded flags hung from the eaves of the little mini-mart, probably to once announce a grand opening. After a few moments of staring, Charles’s body felt shaky. It was the coffee; probably the wrong thing for him right now. He swirled it in the cup, feeling the liquid slosh back and forth against the sides, and then threw it into a trash can.
The turn to Back to the Land was a pitted gravel road. After about a mile, he came upon a log cabin. It was the visitor’s lodge—he knew from all the pamphlets he’d looked through. Residents lived much farther inside the woods, secluded from the highway.
His was the only car in the lot, but there was a light on inside the cabin. Charles wondered how the person inside had gotten here. Had he or she walked? Bronwyn was supposed to meet him here, too; would she also walk? He gazed into the thick woods. The ground looked soggy and half frozen. The only things he could see in the distance were more trees.
The little beep of his car alarm activating was jarring in the stillness. He crunched up the crude gravel path and knocked on the door. “It’s open,” a woman called. Charles’s heart thudded. When he opened the door, he saw a large, older woman at a desk, staring at a computer screen. A phone sat next to her, a fax machine next to that. A fluorescent light shone above her head. Off in the cabin’s corner was a bathroom, the door slightly propped open.
Charles breathed out. It was a relief to see technology, as if he’d been away from it for years.
The woman looked up at him. She had short gray hair, downslanted gray eyes, and a straight mouth. “Hi?”
“I’m from Fischer Editorial,” Charles said. “We’re producing your promotional materials. I’m supposed to meet someone here for an interview. Bronwyn … Pembroke. But I’m early.”
