The Will of Wisteria

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  “But, Mrs. Gerald . . . ,” the girl whined.

  “I don’t want to hear it, and trust me, you’d rather get it from me than from Mr. McClain. Now go.”

  The girl untied the knot, buttoned her blouse, and slunk out of the office. The woman looked up. “Hey,” she said. “Be with you in a minute.”

  Mary Catherine tried to busy herself reading all the flyers lying neatly on the counter. One laid out the dress code: khakis for all grades; red shirts for sixth grade, blue shirts for seventh, and yellow shirts for eighth. The knotted-shirt girl was a sixth grader.

  The woman went back to tapping on her keyboard. The placard on her desk read, “Myrtle Gerald, Secretary.”

  Mary Catherine waited. Myrtle Gerald didn’t budge. Finally Mary Catherine coughed and said, “Excuse me.”

  “I said, hang on.” She finished her typing, exhaled a heavy sigh, and looked up. “Can I help you? Are you a new student?”

  On any other day Mary Catherine would have loved such a compliment. She had always liked being petite and looking younger than she was. But some of the middle schoolers in the hall and on the side-walk outside towered over her like a pine tree over a peony bush. That wasn’t exactly in her best interest when she needed to be the pine.

  “Uh, no, ma’am. I’m actually here for an appointment. With the principal.”

  “Lord have mercy, I’m so sorry. You must be the new recruit. I’m Myrtle Gerald, Mr. McClain’s secretary. Come right on through here, and we’ll just see what Mr. McClain is doing.” She stood up and opened a half door in the counter, gesturing Mary Catherine to follow her.

  “Mr. McClain,” she said as they rounded the corner of the principal’s office, “this young lady says she has an appointment with you.”

  The man looked up, stood courteously, and smiled. “You must be Mary Catherine Bean. I’m Derrick McClain.” Mary Catherine tried to stifle a gasp. The principal was at least six-three, a power-house of a black man with dreadlocks spreading across his shoulders. He held out a hand twice the size of Mary Catherine’s and shook hers pleasantly yet firmly.

  “Have a seat, Mrs. Bean.” He motioned toward the aged blue leather chair in front of his desk.

  “Please, call me Mary Catherine.”

  The principal settled himself on the edge of his desk. He was neatly dressed in black slacks and an off-white cotton polo shirt. He seemed nice enough, but even seated, he was intimidating.

  “You graduated from Columbia College?”

  “Yes, sir.” She hesitated. “Five years ago.”

  He returned to his chair, and he picked up a pair of tortoise-shell glasses and a manila folder. A shiver ran through Mary Catherine. The last manila folder she had seen caused her to end up here. She hoped this one had better results.

  “I’ve looked at your resumé.”

  “Resumé?” Mary Catherine repeated stupidly.

  Mr. McClain peered at her over the top of his glasses and held up a neatly typed sheet of paper. Nate, she thought. He has gone and typed me up a resumé.

  “You haven’t taught since your student teaching semester,” the principal continued. “Any reason you got your degree and have never used it?”

  “Well, um, I just wasn’t really sure that teaching was what I wanted to pursue.” She shifted in her chair.

  “And what makes you think it is now?”

  She laughed nervously. “I just thought I might want to try it on for size. No time like the present.”

  He removed his glasses and laid them on the desk in front of him. “There is something you need to know, Mary Catherine. I run a tight ship. I expect performance from my teachers and my students. We aren’t into ‘trying things on for size’ around here. We’re about charting the course for the futures of these young men and women. It isn’t an easy job. They come from tough environments and challenging circumstances.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Teaching at this school is not for the weak at heart. It’s for the serious and the diligent. If you’re not serious about this position, then you and I have nothing further to discuss.”

  “You might want to get serious about changing that paint color in the hall, then,” she murmured to herself.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “I understand, sir.” She breathed heavily. “I am serious.”

  “All right.” He patted both hands on the top of his desk. “Then let’s get back to your resumé.”

  After thirty minutes of questions he finally stood up and gave her an odd, penetrating look. “I’ve got two other interviews today, but there’s something about you I can’t quite identify. I have the feeling you need to be here.”

  Mary Catherine couldn’t tell if this was a compliment or not. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Would you like to see the classroom before you leave?”

  An actual classroom had never crossed her mind. “Yes, that would be nice.”

  He walked her to the door. “Let’s go see where young lives are shaped for the future.”

  They made their way out into the hall, now crowded with jostling students. “Stop running, Terrance,” Mr. McClain said as a group of young boys came hurtling toward them. They slowed immediately. “And what’s that in your hand?”

  Terrance’s black eyes peered up at the principal. “It’s, um, a magazine, Mr. McClain.”

  Mr. McClain took it and studied the scantily clad woman on the cover. “Are you supposed to have magazines like this in my school?”

  “Uh, no, sir. I don’t believe we are, sir, but actually it’s not mine.” He shrugged and started toward the trash can near the door.

  “Hold on, Terrance,” Mr. McClain said. He extended a huge hand. “We wouldn’t want any of your classmates finding that, would we?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then hand it over. I’ll dispose of it.”

  The young man gave a meek nod and surrendered the magazine. “Sorry about that, Mr. McClain.”

  “Now get on to your classes. And, Robert, you need to tuck your shirt in pronto.”

  Robert followed Terrance, scurrying and tucking as he went.

  Mary Catherine accompanied the principal past a brightly painted cafeteria and down a long drab corridor. The mint green tiled floors allowed every sound to reverberate through the halls.

  “Sarah Jarvis left us because she gave birth to twins over the summer,” Mr. McClain explained as they proceeded down the hall. “She had been with us for six years but needed some time with her little ones. Ms. Bordeaux might have told you we had someone else lined up, but her husband died suddenly and unexpectedly. So sad.” He turned the corner into a classroom.

  Mary Catherine surveyed the room. Sterile gray walls. Gray lockers. White dry-erase board. Black metal teacher’s desk. Royal blue desk chairs lined up in five rows of five.

  She hated royal blue.

  “Do all your rooms look like this?” Mary Catherine asked.

  “Well, our teachers have the freedom to make the rooms their own.”

  “How much their own?”

  “As much as they like.”

  “No limits?”

  “There are always limits, Mrs. Bean. This is a school.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Who can learn without artwork and culture and color and, well, just plain ambience?”

  Mr. McClain gave her a perceptive glance. “As I said, Mrs. Bean, you do whatever you like with this room—assuming you end up being chosen for the job.”

  He grinned broadly at her. Her heart lifted—not much, but just a little. Enough to set her redecorating glands pumping.

  And for now, that was sufficient.

  chapter twelve

  This is where you will spend your day, Dr. Wilcott.” Dr. Nadu pointed to the conference table in front of them. Three enormous stacks of files lay on the table, neatly aligned in front of the center chair. “These are the current cases that we are dealing with. I think it will be beneficial if you familiarize your
self with all of them. You’d be wise to write down any questions you have, as many of these may be, shall we say, outside of your area of daily familiarity. I’ll be back to check on you this evening.”

  Jeffrey stood dejectedly in the center of the room. Nadu’s reference to “this evening” was all too familiar. All doctors kept ridiculous hours . . . until eventually they no longer felt ridiculous. Unfortunately for him, Gretchen left at five, and he hadn’t arranged an evening sitter for Matthew. He’d call Helen. She was too old to have anything else to do anyway, and she had always had a fondness for Matthew.

  Jeffrey hadn’t been under anyone’s authority since the day he finished his residency. To be ordered to go through case files made Jeffrey’s skin sting as if a case of the shingles were setting in.

  A young man in a white lab coat poked his head through the doorway. “Could I get you a cup of coffee or anything, Doctor?”

  Jeffrey looked through him. “Yeah, sure, coffee. That would be nice.”

  The young man stared at him. “You okay, sir?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  But he wasn’t okay. Just last night he had his own office. Today he was in the middle of a stranger’s office. Looking at a stranger’s files. About to walk in a stranger’s world. For a year. His loathing for his father began to rise like bile in the back of his throat, followed closely by anger at both Elizabeth and Jennifer.

  He took off his suit jacket and slipped on a white coat, but it couldn’t cover up his rage. He cursed his father under his breath.

  This entire thing was simply absurd. What kind of father reached up from the grave and uprooted his children’s entire lives?

  The young man returned with the coffee, and Jeffrey reached for the top folder off the first stack. The picture on the front page caused him to recoil: a gaping hole the size of a plum in the middle of a patient’s cheek. Not exactly how he wanted to start the day.

  The hole was caused from a desmoplastic melanoma—something Jeffrey had only seen on one patient that had come through his office. He had referred the patient elsewhere.

  He returned his attention to the file. Apparently a surgeon in another state had botched the reconstructive job, and Dr. Nadu was working on repairing the cumulative damage. It was a deep and invasive wound, and considering the change from the original pictures to the most recent, the transformation Nadu had already accomplished was extraordinary.

  As he sipped his coffee, Jeffrey studied every aspect of the patient’s chart in front of him. By the time he closed it and reached for the next one, he knew more about desmoplastic melanoma than he had ever bothered learning in school or his own practice.

  “Dr. Wilcott?”

  Jeffrey lifted his head to see Dr. Nadu standing in the doorway.

  He hadn’t even heard the man come in.

  “Have you been sitting there all day?”

  Jeffrey rubbed the back of his neck and stretched. “Yes.”

  “Did you get some lunch, I hope?” Dr. Nadu asked as he came around to the other side of the table and pulled out a chair.

  “Yeah. That young resident checked in on me a couple of times and grabbed me a sandwich.”

  Dr. Nadu raised his eyebrows. “So you never left this room?”

  “I went to the men’s room twice. Does that count?” Jeffrey put his head in his hands and laughed. “No, Dr. Nadu, I never left this room. But I didn’t get through all of these charts.” He pointed to the charts that remained—three-fourths of them.

  “I would have been surprised if you had.” Nadu chuckled. “Those files will take you a week.”

  Jeffrey kept quiet. Surely this man didn’t intend to keep a surgeon of his caliber holed up in a room looking at grotesque pictures for a solid week.

  “What did you think of what you saw?”

  Jeffrey paused, trying to process the mountain of information he had collected. “I think you have a lot to remember.”

  “Is that all?”

  Jeffrey hadn’t the faintest idea what Nadu was after, or how to respond. “Yeah, I guess for today that’s all.”

  Dr. Nadu nodded. “Very well. I trust you will discover more as you spend the rest of the week finishing the remaining charts.” He stood to leave.

  “You aren’t serious, are you? You expect me to spend an entire week doing nothing but looking at charts?” Jeffrey glared at Dr. Nadu. “I’m a very experienced surgeon, you know.”

  “What we do is about more than surgery, Dr. Wilcott. It is about people. Now go get some rest, and return in the morning. I will be making rounds with my surgical residents and interns tomorrow, so I will not be here, but you already have your task. Have a nice evening.” He closed the door behind him.

  Furious and exhausted, Jeffrey jerked his suit coat off the coat rack and muttered imprecations at both his father and Dr. Nadu. The nerve of Nadu, treating him like some green intern! And the nerve of his father, acting as if he were a rebellious child who needed to be taught a lesson!

  Anger surged within him like a wave, threatening to overwhelm him. Then a terrible thought occurred to him, and he panicked. What time was it?

  He glanced at his watch. Seven thirty. He had forgotten to call Helen! How had he forgotten to call Helen? And where in the world was Matthew?

  He fumbled in his coat pocket and dialed his home number as he ran to his car. Much to his relief, his son’s voice answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, Matthew.” Jeffrey tried to slow down his breathing. “You home, son?”

  “Yes, Dad. I’m home.” A pause. “I answered the phone, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yeah, I get your point. Ah, how exactly did . . .”

  “How exactly did I get home after basketball practice because you didn’t come to get me?”

  “Don’t get smart, Matthew.”

  “I called Helen, and she came to get me.”

  “You called Helen? Well, that was good thinking, son. Very wise of you. So, you okay there? I mean by yourself?”

  “Yes, Dad. I’ve already fixed my dinner, taken a shower, done my homework, and now I’m watching television.”

  “None of that trash stuff, I hope?” he said, trying his best to sound like a father.

  “I don’t watch trash, Dad. I watch sports.”

  “Right. Sports. Okay, then. I’ll see you when I get home, and I’ll tuck you in or something.”

  “I’ll be fine, Dad.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you shortly.”

  “Bye.” And the line went dead.

  Jeffrey let out a sigh. He might not be able to do anything right with Dr. Nadu, but at least he had raised a son who knew how to take care of himself.

  Aaron lay stretched out on the sofa in Elizabeth’s office, watching her work. She sat on the floor, her legs tucked underneath her body, her hair poking out from all ends of her ponytail holder. Like a woman obsessed, she sorted through file boxes and made notes on yellow Post-it notes, which she placed on each client’s folder.

  “You’ve got all week,” he said.

  “This is two years’ worth of work, Aaron. It’s going to take longer than a week.”

  The room was filled with the aroma of Chinese food, much less appealing now than it had been when it was delivered an hour ago. Elizabeth hadn’t eaten anything.

  “Did you say that you’re going to the plantation for dinner on Sunday?”

  She slapped a file folder down onto the stack with more violence than was absolutely necessary. “Can we talk of more appealing things? Say, oh, Ainsley Parker, maybe? Even Ainsley would be more appealing.”

  “Why do you hate going there, Lizzy?”

  She leaned back against her desk. “I don’t hate it.”

  “Liar.”

  She opened her eyes and glared at him. “Don’t call me a liar. You sound like Ainsley Parker. I’m not lying. And don’t ask me questions that you know I don’t want to answer. Then you won’t be forced to hear an answer you obviously don’t want to he
ar.”

  “You wouldn’t be defensive if you weren’t lying.”

  “I wouldn’t be defensive if you weren’t calling me a liar.”

  “Your father loved that place, you know. Every part of it. The land, the house, the heritage. He always wanted his children to love it the way he did. But none of you even went out there.”

  “I’m glad he loved it, Aaron. I’m so glad he loved his precious land and his precious house and his precious heritage. Unfortunately, most people I know protect what they love.”

  Aaron thought about pressing further. The hint, the insinuation, was as far as she ever went in articulating her feelings. The last time she came back from the plantation, she withdrew into her own world of isolation and anger for two weeks. He felt that if he could just find the right string and pull it, the knot would unravel, and she might find some healing and restoration.

  Unfortunately, Lizzy never let anyone get close enough to find that string.

  Mary Catherine opened the front door of her home and slipped the leash from Coco’s collar. It was well past eight, and she still hadn’t heard anything from Nate. She and Coco had gone for a stroll up Front Street, where they could listen to the music streaming from the bistros and mingle with the sunburned tourists. Her cell phone was lying on the counter, its message light blinking.

  She picked up the phone.

  “Mrs. Bean, this is Derrick McClain. I wanted you to know that I’m willing to offer you this teaching position. I’ll need you to start on Monday morning. If you could call me back first thing tomorrow, I would appreciate it.”

  Mary Catherine closed the phone and placed it back on the granite countertop. She went into the bedroom and started pulling rolls of fabric from under her bed. She had six days to make draperies and a slipcover for the sofa she wanted to put in the reading nook. The tan chenille would be perfect—