by Cook, Claire
"Was it something I said?" John asked when he was out of earshot.
"Basically," I said, "in front of my father, if the Irish didn't discover it, invent it—"
"Or do it first," Carol said.
"Or do it better," Christine said.
"Then," Michael said, "your best bet is to talk about something else."
We watched my father join a priest wearing long black robes over short L. L. Bean rubber boots. The town's sole bagpiper, who, along with the step dancers and the barbershop sextet, could be counted on to make an appearance at pretty much every town event, followed them. Priest, Grand Marshall, and bagpiper stopped at my father's shiny new sea green Mini Cooper, parked just to the side of the bandstand, while the bagpiper played his last mournful notes. Then the priest, who in my lapsed Catholic state I couldn't reliably identify, though I was fairly sure he was either Father McDermott or Father O'Callaghan, sprinkled some holy water on the hood while he mumbled a blessing to our father's car.
"Wait," John said. "Isn't this supposed to be for boats?"
"We used to have a boat," Christine said.
Michael sighed. "God, I loved that boat."
"Every time he'd hit another boat, our mother would paint a notch on it," my brother Johnny said. "She started on the port side, worked her way around the bow, and—"
"And when she finally ran out of room," Carol said, "when the entire boat was covered with notches, she said, 'That's it, Billy. Your boating days are officially over.'"
"Aww," I said. "You sound just like her."
There was a moment of silence as we all felt our mother's presence. Even though she'd been gone now for more years than I wanted to count, she was still the force that held us together. Maeve whimpered and reached out her arms to Carol, and Dennis handed her over.
His Mini Cooper fully blessed, my father and the priest walked ceremoniously toward the water, serenaded by the bagpiper as he followed. The crowd fell into step behind them. The rest of my family and John and I took a shortcut and squeezed in behind Ian and Trevor at the railing overlooking the inner harbor.
My father and the priest walked down the rickety wooden ramp, steep with low tide, and climbed into an old lobster boat at the far edge of the floating dock.
"Don't let him get behind the wheel!" my brother Johnny yelled. The crowd burst into laughter. My father shook his fist up at us. The crowd laughed harder.
Fortunately, the lobster boat stayed tied to the dock. My father and the priest moved to the port side, the starboard side rocking upward from their weight. A long line of boats, a parade in every shape and size and condition—cabin cruisers and sailboats and Boston Whalers and rowboats and old Irish mossing boats—inched its way forward. And one by one, the priest sprinkled holy water on each boat and mouthed a prayer while my father touched the brim of his white and gold Coast Guard Auxiliary cap and saluted.
"Way to go, Grandpa," Ian, or maybe it was Trevor, yelled. The crowd laughed again.
I leaned into John Anderson.
"So, this is fun," he said. "I should have borrowed a boat. It's a long row from Boston to Marshbury, but probably only a day or two. If I started training—"
"Let's get out of here," I whispered. "If we hurry, we can make it to my place, hide the cars in the garage and barricade the doors before anybody misses us."
John's arm tightened around my waist. "What about Michael?" he whispered.
"He drove. What about Horatio?"
"He drove, too," John said as I slid one finger behind the waistband of his jeans.
"Ha," I said.
He pulled me closer. "Horatio has got to be in puppy heaven playing with all those other dogs at puppy play care. I'd say I've got a good couple hours. Minimum."
"Okay," I whispered. "On the count of three, we start walking casually toward your car. Do not make eye contact. Do not say goodbye. If anybody says anything to us, pretend you don't hear."
He nodded.
"Ready?"
He reached for my hand.
"One . . .two . . .."
Carol pushed her way between us.
"What," I said.
She jerked her head to the side. "Don't look now."
We looked. On one of the sea glass-studded walkways that edged the parking lot, Phoebe, wearing heels and dressed more for a date than the Blessing of the Fleet, was standing way too close to a guy who looked, well, like a date.
"Oh, shit, " I said.
Christine, holding my niece Sydney, who was two months younger than Maeve, pushed in next to Carol. "Don't look."
We looked again. "Carol already told us," I said.
"Of course she did," Christine said. Christine was the youngest and the thinnest of the three sisters, with a good job, a nice husband, and three perfect kids. But the one thing she aspired to more than anything else was to find out something, just once, before Carol did. "So, what do we do?"
Carol switched Maeve to her other hip. "Okay, I'll grab Lainie and Annie and meet you at Michael's car. Sarah, you grab Michael and the dog and take them the long way around so they don't see you-know-who. And Christine, you make the rounds and let everybody else know that we're all meeting up at Sarah's."
"What about me?" John asked.
Our eyes met and held. Visions of foreplay, and sex, and afterplay—long and leisurely and completely family-less—flashed before me. And disappeared in an instant.
Carol gave John a pat on one cheek. "Just follow the pack, Jack. Just follow the pack."
Chapter
Three
The sky was baby blue on Bayberry Preschool graduation day, with just a few wisps of cotton candy clouds to keep it from being boring. I took a moment to thank my lucky stars that inclement weather hadn't moved the ceremonies indoors. Outdoor graduations were so much more visually evocative and memorable. Not to mention the fact that there was nothing worse than being squished into a tiny gym where the pungent odor of a younger sibling's poorly timed soiled diaper had nowhere to escape.
I finished putting on my makeup at the final traffic light, then barreled up the hill in my trusty Honda and pulled into the teachers' parking area. I hit the ground running, then slowed it down to a more dignified jog.
Kate Stone, my boss, pushed back the sleeve of her dressiest batik tunic and gave her chunky watch a passive-aggressive check. "It's helpful, Sarah," she said, "when the chair of the graduation committee actually arrives in time for graduation."
I decided it was not in my best interests to point out that graduation didn't start for another thirty-two minutes, so technically I was meeting my responsibility and then some. And furthermore, just wait, because if they gave out Emmys for graduations, this year's would be a real contender.
Instead I smiled and breezed past her and out to the play field, a long, flat expanse of manicured grass tucked behind the school on the highest point of the property. It even had distant views of the ocean if you stood on your tiptoes and jumped. White folding chairs had been set up in perfect rows with a single aisle down the center. The rest of the committee and I had tied white bows on the back of each one before we'd headed out yesterday. I stopped to give a bow a little tweak and move it back to the center of the chair.
Lorna and Gloria, two of my favorite teachers at Bayberry and the other two-thirds of the graduation committee, looked up from putting rolled, ribbon-wrapped programs on the chairs. June, my assistant, paused while arranging baby's breath in a vase on the podium long enough to give me a glittery smile. Even though she was still far too pretty, she'd grown on me during the school year. I'd almost want to hang out with her except that it might get in the way of my ability to boss her around.
"Sorry I'm late," I said as I grabbed a handful of programs from Lorna. "First my brother's dog snored all night and then—"
"Whatever," Lorna said. "Two more hours until another year bites the dust. My beach chair is waiting for me."
Gloria shook her head. "Assuming you survive three days of staff meetings and team b
uilding first, honey."
"Jesus," Lorna said, "you don't think she's going to make us do trust falls again, do you? I'd rather hurl myself backward off a cliff than into the arms of a bunch of teachers." Kate Stone was known for making our final student-less days of the year a living hell.
"Doubtful," Gloria said. "I think dropping the art teacher last year wiped that one off the agenda." She walked over to get a better look at June's arrangement. Then she broke off a piece of baby's breath and tucked it behind one of June's ears. June thanked her with an angelic smile.
Lorna stopped to scratch her back with one of the rolled programs. "It was her own damn fault. I mean, come on, you don't fall on three, you count to three and then you fall."
I took a moment to fluff my hair and straighten my purple wrap dress, which I'd bought because I thought it might play up my brown eyes and dark hair. And make my skin look more intentionally pale instead of just plain washed out. And double as a date dress once I got Michael squared away. I had to admit it was a lot for a dress to live up to.
The first of the families had begun to arrive, the kids running around like mini maniacs while the parents ignored them, as if just stepping on school property meant they were off duty and the teachers were on.
I caught a cap-and-gown-clad Jenny Browning, mid-leap in an attempt to pull one of the graduation decorations off a tree, by the hand. Wordlessly, I walked her over to her mother, pretending I thought she'd been looking for her. Last week, once the younger half-day students had gone home, the full day graduates-to-be had painted paper plates and drawn faces on them. They'd glued on construction paper curls, and topped each one with a construction paper graduation cap embellished with a tassel of yellow yarn. Lorna, Gloria and I had collected the paper plate graduates from the other classrooms. After getting an all clear from the weather channel yesterday, we'd stapled them to the trees that lined the walkway up to the field.
"Ms. Hurlihy, how do I look?" Austin Connor yelled behind me. I turned just in time to see him trip on his white graduation gown, catch himself, trip again and fall. His dad, Bob Connor, the parent I shouldn't have slept with, scooped him up before I got there. The two of us brushed at Austin's grass stains.
"You look great, Austin," I said.
"Likewise," he said.
"Thank you," I said.
The field filled with families, some taking the day off to celebrate, some clearly dressed to race right back to the office. Big boy dress pants and shoes poked out from underneath the boys' white gowns, and their graduation caps perched on some seriously gelled hair. The girls' hair was curled or braided elaborately, a few caps anchored with a crisscross of bobby pins, shiny patent leather shoes sparkling in the sunlight. Even though I'd been teaching long enough to know the drill by heart, my eyes teared up as I thought of how much they'd all grown.
Bob Connor and I looked at each other over Austin's head and smiled. I didn't feel a single jolt of electricity. Maybe I'd grown, too.
Kate Stone walked up to the podium, tapped the microphone, checked her watch again. Everyone immediately started filing to the little white chairs. I didn't have to like her to see my boss had that magic.
As rehearsed, the rising kindergarteners stood in front of the two rows of empty chairs, facing the audience. They looked like a cross between angels and miniature college students.
A baby screamed.
"No comments from the peanut gallery," Austin Connor yelled.
"Shh," Amanda McAlpine said.
"You're not the boss of him," Jack Kaplan said.
"I'm the boss of all of you," Jenny Browning said.
"Let's get this show on the road," Lorna whispered. Gloria stepped up and blew her pitch pipe. Lorna and I walked down the aisle away from the podium until we were standing behind the seated families. We turned to face the kids. Then we bent our elbows and started circling our arms like The Temptations.
The kids mimicked our moves and sang their first number to the tune of "I've Been Workin' on The Railroad."
I'll be going to Kindergarten
Next year all year long
I'll be going to kindergarten
Because now I'm big and strong
Bayberry Preschool
Was the best
But now I'm ready
For all the rest
I'll be going to kindergarten
Next year all year long
As rehearsed, we each put one hand on our hip and turned the other hand up like a spout. Lorna and I started rocking back and forth and the kids followed. Gloria blew her pitch pipe again and the graduates went into their next number, to the tune of "I'm a Little Teapot."
I'm a Little Graduate
Aren't you proud
I know my numbers
And can yell them out loud
I can tie both my shoes
And know which words to use
(And not to use!)
I'm a little graduate
Aren't you proud
By the time they finished "Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off to Kindergarten We Go," swinging their arms and skipping adorably in place, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. The kids turned around and landed on the empty front row chairs without a hitch. Kate Stone began reading the list of graduates, saying something charming and specific about each one and shaking each little hand. Then Gloria handed out diplomas and high fives to the sound of thunderous applause.
"We're almost there," Lorna whispered. "First round is on me. Nothing says summer like a pomegranate martini."
"We are so going to get a raise for this next part," I whispered back.
Due to carbon footprint and choking seabird issues, Bayberry Preschool no longer allowed its graduates to release a flock of white balloons as the grand finale. So part of the job of the graduation committee was to find a replacement that was both high drama and politically correct. Blowing bubbles and scattering flower petals had achieved only moderate success. Burying a time capsule had turned into a disaster when one of the kids started a rumor that the bad children would be buried along with it.
Lorna and I walked quickly to the butterfly gazebo, which was really a three-foot-tall net cage with an easy access zipper that we'd stashed out of sight in the shade of a grove of pine trees. For weeks, the graduates-to-be had watched the caterpillars spin silken cocoons and waited for them to gradually emerge as butterflies. Once the butterflies appeared, the kids took turns adding sugar water to tiny cups with eyedroppers and soaking flowers in it to feed them. Thanks to my brilliant timing, the butterflies had been fluttering around their gazebo for a while now, locked and loaded and ready to steal the show.
Gloria picked up her ukulele and began playing "Fly Me to the Moon." She was tall and angular, and her frizzy dark hair coupled with the ukulele made her look like a vastly more attractive and feminine Tiny Tim, who'd made the talk show circuit back in the day.
Lorna and I walked down the aisle, carrying the butterfly gazebo between us, doing a pre-rehearsed hesitation step that had been Gloria's idea. Lorna loved it, but with the ukulele as accompaniment, I thought it made us look like bridesmaids in a peppy Hawaiian destination wedding.
We placed the gazebo in front of the podium. Molly Meehan and Austin Connor, chosen by random drawing, came up and unzipped the mesh cover and opened it wide.
Everybody waited. And waited. Somebody sneezed. A cell phone rang. A baby cried.
"Fly, you stupid butterflies," Austin stage whispered.
"Don't call them stupid, stupid," Molly hissed.
We waited some more.
"Balls," Jack Kaplan said loudly.
"Cheese balls, bouncy balls, squishy balls, Daddy's balls," Jenny Browning chanted.
Gloria played her ukulele louder.
Lorna shot me a look. I reached over and gave the butterfly gazebo a casual shake. And then a bigger one.
A single Painted Lady butterfly emerged, its wings a masterpiece of orange and brown and black and white. It soared skyward over the a
udience.
Everybody oohed and awed.
One by one, the other butterflies followed.
And then they all started dropping like flies.
Chapter
Four
I knew it was bad when we piled into Lorna's car after graduation and she drove us to a pub two towns away. We hadn't planned on bringing June with us, but she was too traumatized to leave alone. She was still sobbing quietly when we found a dark booth way back in a corner of the bar.
I slid in beside her. "Do you think you can knock it off now? Like I don't feel awful enough already."
"Sorry." June pulled a napkin from the metal container on our booth and blew her nose. She was so blond and blue-eyed and young that she even looked beautiful blowing her nose.
She crumpled her napkin and sniffed. "It's just that, even when I close my eyes, I can't stop seeing all the carnage."
"Four pomegranate martinis, ASAP," Lorna yelled to our approaching waiter. "Straight up, easy on the pomegranate, please."
Gloria reached across the table and patted June's hand. "Honey, it's not like they were going to last much longer anyway. Painted lady butterflies only have a life span of between two and four weeks."
June's lower lip trembled adorably. "But we named them. There was Tinkerbelle and Wings and Flutter and Flopsy and Justin Bieber and and . . .."
Lorna shivered and reached for a napkin. "Jesus, I am still finding butterfly guts all over me. Two of them dive-bombed right at me as if they were little suicide pilots. And how about that one who hit Molly Meehan's mother's sunglasses and just kept flapping its wings like it was stuck to a mini windshield—"
"Please stop," I said.
We sat in silence until the drinks arrived. Lorna and Gloria held up their glasses. They opened their mouths at the same time to make a toast, then closed them again and simply drank.
"Crap," I said. "The one thing I thought I was good at was teaching." I took a long slug. A rivulet of pomtini escaped and slid down my chin and landed on my new purple dress. "I held my students' hearts in my hands every day and never once took the responsibility lightly. Preschool matters. The memories the kids take with them will influence every other rung of their educational ladders. Of their lives."
