I picked up my jacket and pulled it on. “What will you do now?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” After a moment his expression brightened. “You’re not the only family I have, you know. Maybe I’ll talk to Aunt Peg.”
That would go over well, I thought, but didn’t voice the opinion aloud. As things turned out, I should have given him the money. It would have been easier than his next request.
Two
Howard Academy was founded in 1928 by Joshua A. Howard, an enterprising gentleman of the early twentieth century who made a fortune in shipping, munitions and, it was rumored, bootlegging. Joshua, however, discovered rather too late in life that he might have been happier had he devoted half as much time to his wife and his children as he had to making money. Neither of his two sons had the brains to manage the empire he’d built; and his four daughters, all of whom had received the traditional education afforded to young females of the time, were vastly disinterested. Having accrued more money than he could ever hope to spend, and arriving at the unfortunate realization that his descendants could not be counted on to manage the fortune wisely, Joshua turned to philanthropy.
Aided by his spinster sister, Honoria Howard, he had founded Howard Academy, whose lofty aim was “to form the ideals and educate the minds of the young ladies and gentlemen who will shape America’s future.” Joshua chose as his setting what was then twenty acres of prime farmland, and was now a multimillion dollar enclave just north of downtown Greenwich. Howard Academy had taught the sons and daughters of senators, ambassadors, titans of industry, and at least two presidential candidates. Its alumnae and alumni had marched forth bravely into a world of power and privilege that was waiting to receive them.
With the passage of time, however, Howard Academy, which had once blithely assumed it would have its pick of Fairfield County’s best and brightest students, began to feel the heat of competition. The academy was now one of several private schools in Greenwich, all offering a superior education and all vying for the same children and the same limited endowment dollars. Not only that, but the administration had slowly come to realize that the rarefied atmosphere of white, upper class entitlement they’d prided themselves on was neither as desirable nor as politically correct as it once had been. Accordingly, some changes were in order.
Seeking a more culturally and economically diverse student body, Howard Academy hadn’t needed to look far to find a pool of qualified candidates. What they had needed to do for the first time in the school’s history, was hold a scholarship drive. As the twentieth century drew to a close, minority enrollment at Howard was nearly twenty percent. Student aid was also at an all-time high.
The school’s administration would have denied it, of course, but with an eye firmly fixed on the bottom line, Howard Academy now found itself with a strong incentive to admit students who might not reach the school’s high academic standards but whose parents were capable of paying full tuition. And if those parents were the generous sort, the kind likely to have checkbooks open and pens at the ready when the annual fund raising drive came around, it was said that admission could be virtually guaranteed.
Course material too rigorous for Junior? Curriculum too varied? That’s where I came in.
For the last half dozen years, I’d been happily employed as a special education teacher for the Stamford public school system. I liked the job and I loved the kids. Still, it was hard to be a working mother and a single parent. I needed more time to spend with my son, and more money wouldn’t have been all bad, either.
When I’d heard over the summer that Howard Academy was interviewing for the position of on-campus tutor, I spruced up my resume and sent it in. The idea was a lark, and nothing more. Aware of the school’s hallowed reputation and penchant for maintaining its ideals, I hadn’t thought I’d stand a chance. And then, with nothing to lose, I’d walked in and aced the interview.
Now, as of early September when the fall semester began, I was Howard Academy’s newest teacher. Ms. Travis. My first minor skirmish with the authorities had taken place over that quasi-feminist form of address. Apparently, I was the first woman teacher in the history of the school who wasn’t comfortable being pigeonholed as either a traditional Miss or Mrs.
I’d had to point out that miss was hardly appropriate since I was the mother of a six-year-old son, and what sort of example would that set for Howard Academy’s impressionable youth? As for Mrs., that was out, too. I wasn’t married and had no intention of maintaining a charade that implied otherwise.
Russell Hanover II, the school’s headmaster, had given in gracefully once I’d explained my position. Flexibility didn’t seem to be a strong suit of his, but as leader of one of Greenwich’s toniest private schools, he had beautiful manners. No doubt his mother had taught him at an early age that ladies were to be humored when it came to their preferred mode of address. How else to explain that the office staff, none of whom was younger than fifty, was collectively referred to as “the girls”?
Fortunately, at almost nine o’clock on a weekday morning, the traffic was moving briskly on North Street when I got off the Merritt Parkway and headed south toward downtown Greenwich. My new Volvo station wagon, a gift from ex-husband Bob to make up for four years of missing child support payments, clung to the bumps and curves in the road like a burr in a Collie’s tail.
Usually I like to go slowly and enjoy the view. With its landscaped lawns, imposing manor houses, and two-hundred-year-old stone walls, Greenwich is beautiful in any season of the year, and especially so in the fall when the weather is crisp and the leaves are shot through with vivid streaks of color. Today, there wasn’t time to look at anything but the clock.
Like many of the homes in the area, Howard Academy is set back from the road. The driveway is flanked by a pair of stone pillars. A small, discreet sign, gold lettering on a hunter-green background, announces that you’ve reached your destination.
The school itself sits on a wooded hilltop, one of the highest sites around. On a clear day it’s possible to see the Long Island Sound if you know just where to look. And if not, as any visitor quickly finds out, Russell Hanover will be delighted to show you.
Honoria Howard had envisioned her students doing their lessons in a milieu that was much like home, and on first approach, the building she’d commissioned for her school looked much like a grand turn-of-the-century stone mansion. It wasn’t until the driveway dipped and turned that the newer wing to the rear became visible. Added in the sixties, it was a soaring spectacle of glass and concrete complete with its own astronomy tower.
Kindergarten through fourth grade were housed in the original building, fifth through eighth in the new wing. There were large classrooms, plenty of amenities, and a low student-to-teacher ratio. I had to give Honoria credit. Seventy years later, her vision of what could be was still an educator’s dream.
I drove around the building to the teachers’ parking lot in the back. A spot was open near the cafeteria door. From there, it was just a short walk down the main hallway to my classroom in the new wing.
Classrooms in the original building were a model of old world charm. There were ten-foot ceilings, intricate molding, and working fireplaces. By contrast, those in the new wing featured recessed lighting, cable hookup, and central air. I’ve been a teacher for long enough to choose function over beauty any day.
Most mornings I stop at the teachers’ lounge on my way in and pick up a cup of coffee. Today I just ran. Even so, I wasn’t the first to arrive in my classroom. Spencer Holbrook, my nine o’clock student, was sitting atop one of the two round tables in the room. His eyes were closed, his legs swinging back and forth, his butt bouncing rhythmically in time to a song only he could hear.
As I closed the door behind me, he opened his eyes. In his uniform of navy-blue pleated pants, white button-down oxford cloth shirt, and rep tie, Spencer was a typical Howard Academy sixth grader. Eleven going on forty, with attitude to spare.
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He lifted his left arm lazily and checked the diving watch on his wrist. “You’re late.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I pulled off my blazer and threw it over the back of my chair. My purse went into a desk drawer.
“Big night last night?” His gaze roamed over me, searching eagerly for telltale signs of debauchery.
“I wish. Pesky brother this morning. Why didn’t you start working while you were waiting?”
Spencer shrugged. “Why should I?”
“Because you want better grades?” I suggested. A firm hand on his shoulder encouraged him to hop down from the tabletop.
“You want me to get better grades. I think I’m doing okay.”
“On the contrary, your grades are immaterial to me. I don’t have to take your report card home and show it to my parents.”
“I don’t have to, either.” Spencer smirked. “It comes in the mail. Goes straight to Big J’s office. His secretary’s the one who has to deal with it.”
Big J was Spencer’s father, James Holbrook. That was the only way I’d ever heard Spencer refer to him. I’d been tempted to inquire whether he called his mother Big Mama, but in keeping with the school’s tradition of genteel behavior, I hadn’t quite dared.
I pulled out two chairs and we both sat down. In my folder was a math test Spencer had taken earlier in the week. His math teacher, Leanne Honeywell, had given it to me the day before. I pulled it out.
“Have you seen this?”
Spencer glanced down, then nodded. His dark brown hair, which looked as though it had been neither combed nor cut in recent memory, fell down over his eyes. I resisted a maternal urge to brush it back.
“What’d you think of your grade?” The D slashed in red above his name was damning evidence of his feeble grasp of fractions.
“I guess it’s not too good.”
“You guess?”
I lifted the test and flipped through the pages. There were more red x’s and blank spots than there were correct answers. From what I could see, a grade of D had been generous.
Spencer shrugged again. He took a pencil out of his pocket and began to twirl it between his fingers like a baton.
“You care to tell me what happened?”
“Nothing happened. I just blew the test, that’s all.”
“I can see that. What I’m wondering is why. Miss Honeywell says you got off to a great start in math this year. Your homework’s been neat and on time. It shows a real understanding of the concepts. This test should have been a breeze for you.”
“Well, it wasn’t, okay?” Spencer’s voice rose. Quickly he lowered it to a more moderate tone. “I guess I got confused about a few things.”
I took out some fresh paper. “Why don’t we go over the test together? You show me where you got confused, and I’ll explain what you should have done.”
I sent him on his way at ten o’clock, a little wiser in the ways of fractions, and hopefully a little closer to realizing that good grades wouldn’t automatically come his way because his father was a powerhouse in the telecommunications business. Like many of the kids on my roster, Spencer was of average or better intelligence, with perhaps a slight tendency toward learning problems. Though the students I tutored were having trouble keeping up with their regular course load, they weren’t, by and large, learning disabled.
What they lacked was motivation, or self-esteem, or sometimes basic organizational skills. With children who’d been given so much, it was often difficult to make them understand that knowledge was something they would have to work to attain.
I arranged; I explained; I pushed; I prodded. When all else failed, I played the role of cheerleader. I wouldn’t have traded my job for anything.
Two weeks passed without another word from Frank. To tell the truth, I’d pretty much forgotten about his latest venture. My brother’s not above bailing out when times get tough. For all I knew, he might have gone back to reading the want ads.
Between the new job, taking care of Davey, and a dog show for Faith coming up on the weekend, there was plenty to keep me busy. I had twenty students from a variety of grades in the tutoring program, so my schedule was full. Just to keep things interesting, it also varied from day to day.
On Wednesdays I got out of school around the same time Davey did, so I swung by Hunting Ridge on my way home and picked him up. When I reached the elementary school, the buses were loading. Davey was waiting for me at the curb near the front door. His best friend, Joey Brickman, was with him.
The two of them were swinging their backpacks and shoving each other playfully. Any minute they were bound to fall off the curb and into traffic. I’m a mother, so that’s the way my mind works.
I slid the Volvo into an empty spot and tooted the horn lightly. Davey looked up and waved when he saw me. Both boys shouldered their packs and scrambled in my direction. Joey was pug nosed, freckle faced, and built like a linebacker-to-be. When he threw himself into the backseat, the car shuddered from the impact.
Davey was smaller and more slightly built, but what he lacked in heft, he made up for in speed. He moved with his father’s grace, and also had the same heavily lashed, chocolate brown eyes. Today they wore a serious expression as he climbed into the car and shut the door.
“Seat belts,” I said, although the boys hardly needed a reminder. They were already reaching around to get the straps in place before I’d even put the car in gear. “Everything okay? You two have a good day at school?”
“It was awesome!” cried Joey. “I lost a tooth. Wanna see?”
I looked in the rearview mirror, thinking he’d show me the tooth. Instead Joey was angling his head upward, mouth agape, pudgy finger pointing at an empty space.
“Pretty impressive. Aren’t you a little young to be losing teeth?”
“That’s what the teacher said,” Joey said proudly. “I’m the first in the whole class.”
I glanced back at Davey, who had yet to say a word. “How about you, champ? How was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? That’s all?”
“It isn’t fair.” Davey pushed out his lower lip in a pout. “I wiggled all my teeth and none of them are even loose. I want the tooth fairy to come to our house, too.”
“It’s so cool!” said Joey. “She’s going to take my tooth and leave me money instead.”
Davey crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the car window.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Your turn will come.”
“But I want my turn now.”
That’s my boy. He has many wonderful attributes, but patience isn’t one of them.
I switched on my blinker and turned up our road. Our house is a small, snug Cape; one of many that all look pretty much the same in a neighborhood that was built in the fifties. The homes have small yards, mature plantings, and streets that are quiet enough for children to ride their bikes. Considering the price of real estate in Fairfield County, I could have done a lot worse.
Joey’s family lives at the end of the street. His father’s a lawyer in Greenwich and his mother stays home with his two-year-old sister, Carly. Alice Brickman and I have been friends since the boys were small.
I pulled into the driveway, and Davey and Joey spilled out of the car. Faith, whose internal clock is more accurate than my Timex, was waiting just inside the front door. I could hear her excited yips as I fit the key to the lock. When the door swung open, she was dancing on her hind legs to greet us.
Problems forgotten, Davey gathered Faith into his arms and gave her a hug. His face disappeared into the thick ruff of her mane coat. Standing upright, the Poodle was taller than he was. Hopping together, they managed an awkward dance of greeting around the front hall.
“Sheesh,” said Joey. “She’s only a dog.”
“She is not.” Davey shook his head, and Faith’s ear wraps flapped around him. “She’s the best dog in the whole world.”
Joey was not impressed. “Big deal.
What have you got to eat?”
The three of them headed for the kitchen. Davey knew how to unlock the back door and let Faith out into the fenced yard. The milk, glasses, and shortbread cookies were on shelves low enough for them to reach. Confident that they could fend for themselves, at least for a few minutes, I headed upstairs to change my clothes.
A few weeks earlier, at Aunt Peg’s suggestion, I’d started roadworking Faith. It’s not easy being beautiful, even if you’re a dog, and especially if you’re a Standard Poodle whose grandfather won the group at Westminster and whose breeder has plans for you to finish your championship. Sixty years old and more autocratic than ever, Aunt Peg has a way of always getting what she wants. Certainly I’ve never figured out how to turn her down. Which was why Faith and I were now running two miles around the neighborhood several times a week.
The steady, rhythmic jog was developing Faith’s muscle and building up her hindquarter. As a nice bonus, it had also knocked a couple of pounds off of me. So far, my biggest problem had been finding the time to fit jogging into my schedule.
Luckily, Alice seems to think that having two six-year-old boys entertain each other is easier than having one at home by himself, and she’d volunteered to watch Davey while I ran. As soon as I was suited up in sweatpants, T-shirt, and trusty sneakers, I walked both boys down to her house and dropped them off.
Though I’ve heard of something called a runner’s high, I had yet to experience it. For me, jogging was hard work. Not so Faith, who completed the entire distance with head up and tail wagging. I guess that’s the difference between four legs and two. We stopped and picked up Davey on the way back, then walked the length of the street to cool down.
Davey was chattering on about a new board game Joey had just gotten, and I was thinking of a nice hot shower, when we let ourselves in the door. My answering machine is on the kitchen counter, and its message light was blinking. I pressed the button, then picked up Faith’s bowl and refilled it with fresh water while I waited for the tape to rewind.
Watchdog Page 2
