“Did Teague put something in someone’s drink?”
“I heard he did, but I didn’t see him do it.”
“Was it one of the teenagers who interned here last semester?”
“Oui,” he said. “And I heard there was more than one. Teague also has friends who are not concerned with consent. That’s downright villainous, if you ask me. Très mauvais!”
“Do you know their names?”
“Oh, no, Miss Claire,” he said. “That is not Jean Claude’s scene. Je suis inoffensif. I prefer my paramours legal and consensual. If they are over eighteen, straight, and curious, and it takes a few drinks to release their inhibitions, then I’m all about satisfying their curiosity. But I’m not interested in molesting anyone who is unconscious. Mais non!”
“I’m glad to hear it. Do you know which underage kids were involved?”
“You are très, très furieux about this, n'êtes-vous pas?” he said. “Are you investigating for the college or something?”
“No, just nosy.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it; I’d hate to get busted for talking about it. Dieu nous en garde.”
“I can’t believe Teague and his friends are getting away with it.”
“C'est la vie,” he said. “If your parents have enough money and powerful connections, you can get away with anything here.”
As soon as Jean Claude left, Claire texted Maggie to ask her to inform Scott about Teague and his deplorable friends. If Rose Hill’s chief of police knew about it, maybe they wouldn’t get away with it.
Claire was trying to muster up the energy to leave her nice, quiet office and go home. She kept thinking, ‘I need to go,’ but she kept sitting there, doodling on her notebook to-do page. She had tried to limit her list to ten things, but now the list was so long, and there was so much to do, that she felt completely paralyzed.
Her phone rang. She saw it was Maggie and ignored it. A text followed. She turned off her phone and then put it in her handbag. Whatever Maggie wanted, whatever anyone wanted, it would have to wait. She was at the end of her proverbial rope.
She felt like Gulliver, tethered to the ground, a human mountain on which people had built houses and businesses. She dared not make any move lest the houses crumble and the people perish, but she desperately wanted to shrug them all off, run into the sea, and swim away.
But where would she go?
Back to her old life, as servant to the whims of an aging (by Hollywood standards) film star desperate to remain relevant?
Or into the arms of her estranged Scottish lover, who would entertain her merrily until the next professional opportunity beckoned?
Or somewhere no one knew her, where she could be a hairdresser, a bartender, or a lounge singer.
That last one amused her. On her note pad she created a set list and considered costuming and hair possibilities. Big hair, absolutely. Lots of sequins, without a doubt.
She found she didn’t care about abandoning her students; she wouldn’t mind leaving them behind. They’d be fine.
But she would be the bad daughter, the one who abandoned her mother in her hour of need. She’d be the bad girlfriend, the one who broke a good man’s heart for selfish reasons. She’d be a despised family member, the one who ran away rather than face up to life’s challenges with courage and compassion.
And she’d lose all respect for herself.
There was that.
Claire wearily got to her feet, found her shoes, and gathered her things. She had places to go and things to do, and people were counting on her; people who mattered to her.
Out in the hallway, she ran into a woman, almost knocking her over.
“I’m so sorry,” Claire said.
“Quite all right,” the woman said. “I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going. I was thinking about Wordsworth, actually: What we need is not the will to believe, but the wish to find out. It makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does,” Claire said, and introduced herself.
“How lucky! I was coming to see you,” the woman said. “I’m Agatha Mappe. This semester I’m teaching Creative Writing, British Poets, and Shakespearean Sonnets. Your cousin Maggie is in my sonnets class. She’s quite, quite … Amazonian, isn’t she? I adore her titian tresses. Wodehouse wrote, ‘Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.’ That’s Jeeves speaking, of course. She’s really delightful, your cousin, and so interested in learning. It’s wonderful to teach an adult for a change.”
Agatha had long, wild, gray hair that flowed in all directions from a messy topknot. She wore a sagging, long, hand-knit wool sweater over a baggy linen tunic, and the hem of her voluminous ankle length skirt was partially undone. She wore clogs with colorful socks. Her dangly beaded earrings grazed her shoulder and tinkled like tiny bells.
She smelled of patchouli and pot, just like Maggie said she did, and there was no escaping it.
“I’m so glad I was able to catch you,” Agatha said. “I’m having a small dinner party next week, just a few professors and teaching assistants, plus your cousin, and I was hoping you’d join us. My roommate is an excellent cook, and there will be plenty of wine.”
“I’m sorry I can’t come,” Claire said. “My father is having a health crisis right now, and I have to be at home in the evenings until we get through it.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” Agatha said. “I was so hoping to get to know you better.”
“I’d like that,” Claire said.
“Really?” Agatha said. “You’re not just saying that to be polite?”
“No, I’d like to get to know everyone here better,” Claire said. “I just have to be present for this family thing, however long it takes.”
“I’m not terribly good at making friends,” Agatha said. “I always seem to say the wrong thing or, at least, I find out later it was the wrong thing. Not terribly good with social cues, my roommate says.”
“It’s a difficult time,” Claire said. “We all have to be more conscious of what we say and do.”
“My roommate says I lack an internal editor,” Agatha said. “I always seem to be putting my foot in it, or saying the thing that ought not to be said just exactly at the worst time. I can’t seem to help it. If it were a good thing, you’d call it a gift.”
“All you can do is apologize,” Claire said, and before Agatha could respond she changed the subject, asking, “How well did you know Professor Richmond?”
“Frightfully awful, what happened,” Agatha said. “I didn’t know Alan very well. His passion was Shakespeare, as is mine. I have friends in the British theater world, you know, and I was eager to find out if we had mutual acquaintances, but he was always so very busy, being dean and all. He just never had the time to talk.”
“He was a friend of mine,” Claire said. “But it turns out I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”
“But you would like to be friends with me?” Agatha said. “Someone as young and pretty as you must have lots of friends.”
“A few good ones,” Claire said. “That’s all anyone needs.”
“Well, I’d like to be friends with you,” Agatha said. “Your cousin says you have had the most interesting life; I’d like to hear all about it. You seem like the type of person who makes other people feel good, and I would like to have more of that around me.”
“Thank you,” Claire said. “That’s a lovely thing to say.”
“Well, I mean it,” Agatha said. “I’m so looking forward to us becoming closely acquainted. It means a lot to me.”
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Agatha,” Claire said. “I really do need to go now.”
“Oh, of course you do,” Agatha said. “Stupid me; you probably said you were in a hurry and I just blathered on like I do. So sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” Claire said. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Oh, good,” Agatha said. “I’d really like that. Seems too good to be true, really. Th
ank you, Claire. See you soon.”
Agatha tottered off, humming to herself, and Claire took a deep breath.
There were certainly some odd characters about this place.
Claire was walking down Rose Hill Avenue, trying to remember where she had parked her car. It was scary to her that she couldn’t remember. She kept thinking she’d come upon it, but she was halfway home before she remembered she’d walked to work.
She was passing the Rodefeffer Realty office when she heard someone call her name. She turned and was disappointed to see her ex-husband, Pip, crossing the road, followed by his four little girls. He didn’t look back to see if they made it all right, didn’t seem to be conscious of any need to care, and the littlest one, Pixie, had to hurry on her little legs to try to keep up with the other three. Luckily, the driver of the car that turned down Pine Mountain Road saw the small child, and slowed to a stop until she was safely across.
‘How do they survive?’ Claire asked herself.
“Claire,” he called out, and then came to stand in front of her. “So glad I caught you; I need a favor.”
“No,” Claire said. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”
“C’mon, Claire,” he said. “I’m in a real jam and I need your help.”
The little girls caught up and encircled their father. Pixie pulled on his pant leg, begging to be picked up. He ignored her.
“Nope,” Claire said, conscious that the girls were hearing every word. “My dad’s not doing well and I need to get home.”
“It’s an emergency, Claire,” Pip said. “I’ve got a job interview down at the Mountain Laurel Depot in five minutes, and I don’t have anyone to watch the girls.”
Claire looked down at their sweet little faces and waivered.
Pip saw it, and pounced.
“Thanks, Claire. It’ll take a half hour, tops, and I really appreciate it.”
He bounded off before Claire could reply, or protest, or even blink. She looked down at the girls, with their dirty faces, dirty knees, dirty feet and hands, wearing sleeveless summer dresses and sandals in sixty degree weather.
Pixie held her arms up.
“Up,” she pleaded.
Claire hoisted her up and could smell her diaper, which desperately needed to be changed. She looked around, wondering what in the world she was going to do with this gang for half an hour.
“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s all hold hands while we cross the road.”
Bluebell took her hand and the other two linked hands behind her. Claire looked both ways before she led them across the street. She took them around the corner to the drugstore, where she purchased diapers and baby wipes. Pixie was fussy and couldn’t settle, so Claire also bought a pacifier.
“Granny Frieda says Pixie’s too big for a passie,” Tiger Lily said.
“Well, I say anything that makes Pixie happy is a good thing,” Claire said. “And I’m in charge right now.”
She bought coloring books, crayons, and sparkly hair bows for each child.
She took them to the bakery, where she planned to ply them with carbohydrates while she kept a close eye on the café, lest Pip escape.
She changed Pixie’s diaper in the bakery restroom.
She combed the other little girls’ hair and looked for nits while she did so. Seeing none, she fastened their hair bows and took their pictures with her phone.
She cleaned all their hands and faces with baby wipes, and then ordered them milk and whole grain muffins even though they begged for donuts and cookies.
“You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit,” Claire told them.
They looked up at her, wide-eyed and impressed.
It was something her Aunt Bonnie used to say, and, miraculously, it worked.
Claire washed the pacifier and held it up to the lips of the cross toddler. Pixie latched onto it like a white-knuckled-sober alcoholic downing a shot of bourbon. The toddler closed her eyes and sucked until her frown disappeared and her body relaxed.
“Now,” Claire said to the other three, having settled them in a booth with their snacks. “What’s going on at Granny Frieda’s house?”
An hour later, Claire spotted Pip walking up Pine Mountain Road.
Pixie was asleep in her arms and the other three were coloring in their books.
“Oy! You!” she hissed at Pip from the bakery doorway.
He ambled across, entered the bakery, and didn’t even glance at the girls.
“I didn’t get it,” he said, wearing the gloomy, pouty look that Claire knew so well.
“Why?” she asked.
“Didn’t pass the stupid drug test,” he said.
“Oh, Pip,” Claire said.
“Don’t start on me,” Pip said. “I feel bad enough.”
“No, Pip, I think the problem is you never do feel bad enough. Not bad enough to stop smoking pot long enough to pass a drug test.”
“It’s so stupid,” he said. “Everyone smokes pot nowadays. If they would legalize it here, I wouldn’t have this problem. Stupid state government. It’s not fair. Hey, can I have a donut?”
“You can have whatever you want as long as you pay for it.”
“I’m broke,” he said. “Just a donut, Claire. It wouldn’t kill you to be kind to me for once.”
“You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit,” Tiger Lily said.
“Not you, too,” Pip said.
Claire handed him the sleeping toddler and went to the front counter. She knew the woman behind the counter, and handed her a twenty.
“Give them whatever they want until they’ve spent this,” she said. “No matter what he tells you, don’t give him anything on credit or any cash out of the register. I will not pay for anything else or pay back any money you give him.”
She went back to the table, and even though he scooted over to give her room to sit, she stayed standing.
“It was nice to see you all,” she said to the girls.
“Don’t leave yet,” Pip said. “Sit down with us for a while.”
“No, but thank you,” Claire said. “They’re great kids, Pip, and you need to step up your fathering game. It’s cold enough now they need socks and shoes that cover their feet and long sleeves or a sweater.
“You need to get some diaper rash cream for Pixie and then change her diaper more often.
“Daisy has green snot; you need to take her in to see Doc Machalvie first thing in the morning, before it gets worse and they all catch it. If you can’t afford to pay he’ll let you make payments.
“Tiger Lily says they haven’t been to school yet. You need to get them registered and make sure their vaccinations are up to date.
“Daisy says Frieda smokes in the same room with them; you need to put a stop to that, pronto, before they all get sick.
“Bluebell says you don’t make them wear seatbelts; if I see them in a car with you not buckled up in their car seats I will call Scott and have him arrest you for child endangerment.”
“Jeez, Claire,” he said. “Gimme a break.”
“Tiger Lily and I made a list of all the things they need, and all the changes you need to make in order for them to be healthy and safe.”
Tiger Lily held up a piece of paper.
“She has memorized my phone number …”
Tiger Lily recited it from memory.
“If you screw up, she will call me and I will immediately call Children’s Protective Services.”
Pip’s face had turned deep red and he turned it away from Claire.
“Ignore me all you want, but they told me all about what it’s like at Granny Frieda’s house, and I’m not going to stand by and let you get away with it.”
Pip refused to look at her.
“All right,” Claire said to the girls. “This has been a very productive meeting and I think we all understand each other. Am I right?”
The three older girls nodded.
“You all take care, and let me know if thi
ngs don’t get better.”
Claire petted Pixie’s gossamer blonde hair and then kissed each of the older girls on the tops of their heads.
“And wash their hair, Pip; it’s ridiculous to let it get this bad.”
The girls all chimed, “Bye, Claire,” as she left the bakery.
Arriving at her parents’ home to find a police car parked outside wasn’t alarming to Claire, as her father had been chief of police for Rose Hill for many years before he retired, and still had friends in several divisions of law enforcement. It wasn’t until she got inside that she realized there was anything to worry about.
Her mother was sitting on the sofa in the living room, her face in her hands, weeping. Next to her, with a protective arm around her, sat Maggie, with a facial expression like thunder. Maggie’s husband, Scott, current chief of police in Rose Hill, was squatted down next to Ian’s recliner, earnestly speaking to him in a low voice.
Claire’s father was rocking back and forth, keening.
“What’s going on?” Claire asked. “Mom?”
Claire’s mother didn’t even look up. Scott glanced at her briefly, but her father didn’t pause in his wailing. Maggie just shook her head.
Claire’s Aunt Bonnie came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel, wearing the senior version of the same look Maggie had on her face. She gestured to Claire to come with her back into the kitchen. Claire’s Uncle Ian was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. His eyes were swollen as if he had been crying.
“What in the hell is going on?” Claire asked.
“Come here,” Bonnie said.
She drew Claire into a big hug and then pinched her as she let go.
“Ow!” Claire said.
“Watch your language,” Bonnie said in a loud whisper. “Your father has finally lost his marbles, and something needs to be done before he kills your mother.”
“What happened?” Claire asked, as she rubbed the sore spot where her aunt had pinched her.
“Near as I can tell, Ian wouldn’t let your mother leave the house to come to work, claiming she was going to meet her boyfriend or some crazy nonsense. Fitz couldn’t talk any sense into him, and your father got violent with him, claimed your mother was having an affair with him. When she didn’t show up to work, I sent Maggie to check on her and she had to call Scott. I hope to heaven there are no guns in this house.”
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