Halt at X: A North of Boston Novel

by Sally Ann Sims

  But something is happening inside me. A suspension of judgment? I don’t know, I feel like I’m disintegrating, and I wait to see what happens next. I had an interview about my meditation practice with the abbot. At the end, he couldn’t stop himself from asking me about investment advice for the organization that runs the monastery. I found a big gap in my brain when I tried to scroll up that kind of information. He seemed almost pleased that I had nothing to suggest. I told him I would get back to him. I haven’t used that phrase for weeks.

  Next week we start work to refurbish an old dairy barn to be a new dormitory. Brother Endless Mind is all fired up about the next retreat — he loves leading Dharma discussions in his own rather Socratic way. Brother Shining Heart has all but taken over the kitchen and can chop a carrot into forty different shapes. I’m losing weight and may have to ask you to send care packages. I’ve been caught twice sneaking into town for Italian grinders.

  How are you? How are you really? How’s that mare of yours, the one who was lucky enough to be dropped practically at your doorstep? I know it’s an archaic form of communication akin to stone tablets, but write me a letter if you get a free half-hour sometime this semester. Believe it or not I don’t spend much time on the laptop — although many of the monks here use them — and greatly lessened my addiction to e-mail.

  With much love from-

  Your brother, the man formerly known as Peter

  Lucinda smiled as she folded the letter and slipped it back into her coat pocket. Peter’s generosity was amazing, she thought. He’s willing to chuck everything and start all over. She looked at the mare, so is she. But what about me?

  Lucinda looked up at the sound of a wheelbarrow rolling toward her. It was Thea Gimball come to work in the barn as Tori had arranged. She’s a tad thin, Lucinda thought, but has the sinewy strength that horse tending builds. Four colored elastic band bracelets encircled Thea’s wrist, symbols of her multiple empathies with the world’s ills. Her light brown hair, straw straight, was pulled back in a ponytail.

  “I didn’t hear you come in. How’re things?” Lucinda said.

  “Had to get off campus, and home is a bitch,” she said, parking the wheelbarrow outside the stall and lifting a lead line off a nearby hook. “It’s so much nicer here.”

  Thea clipped the lead to the mare’s halter, and Lucinda led the mare out into the paddock. When she returned Thea was picking horse poop out of cedar shavings with a pitchfork and tossing it into the wheelbarrow. Catcher stretched himself out along the edge of the lower half of the Dutch door. Tears, which she ignored, were dropping off Thea’s chin and jaw.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Lucinda asked.

  “Nothing,” Thea said. She wiped her cheek on her arm, as if wiping off mosquitoes or some other annoyance.

  Lucinda watched her turn the shavings over and carefully lift up the urine-soaked spots.

  “How are classes?”

  “They’re cool,” Thea said and turned her back to the door to clean the rest of the stall. Lucinda watched her back. She’d just let silence pass. Finally, Thea stopped pitching shavings. Her shoulders sagged and she slunk over to the Dutch door.

  “My dad’s divorcing my mom. They’re constantly trashing each other. It’s so impossible. I — ”

  “Oh, Thea. I’m sorry. That just sucks.”

  “I can’t stay with Mom much longer, she drives me crazy. And Dad’s moving away.”

  “I’m sure we can figure something out. You have to stay in school.”

  Thea looked at Lucinda. Lucinda saw that look often, how starved the students were for someone to listen, to just stand there listening without already planning what to say back to them.

  “No matter what happens I’m determined to go to vet school. But I can’t live with my mom. She’s so negative. She thinks I’m crazy wanting to be a vet.”

  Lucinda watched Thea. A freshman. If Lucinda hadn’t lost Willow in her first trimester she would be almost Thea’s age. The second time Lucinda miscarried, early on a winter morning in the bathtub when Bart was away on a job, she’d learned never to name a baby before its birth. She’d shivered and hiccupped as the last of the blood swirled down the drain, feeling like something vital got sucked away before she could grab it. Then her grieving moans echoed off the tiles, while snow landed noiselessly on the windowsill outside. There would be no more pregnancies.

  Lucinda pulled herself back from all that was not to be. “You will be a terrific vet,” she said. Thea smiled weakly and smoothed the shavings to an even depth in the stall, banking them slightly against the walls.

  Lucinda fed Catcher dry food while pondering Thea’s problem. Other people’s problems are always so much easier to solve than your own. She imagined a quick conference with Tori would do the trick, or at least start the ball rolling.

  When Lucinda left for Thornbury Crossing, Thea sat in the director’s chair in the tack room, hunched over a zoology textbook lying open on the armrest, Catcher wedged between her lap and the book.

  * * * * *

  “Grab a seat. Sorry about the takeout,” Honor Emerson said, neatening the paper piles on her desk. “I have an appointment here later, and I can’t break away for too long.”

  Lucinda had arrived at the law offices of Emerson & Bittle at six. Honor, a fifth generation lawyer on Cape Tilton, had, after a stint teaching law, set up a practice specializing in estate planning. Her partner, Joshua Bittle, practiced family law. Between the two of them, they were connected via social web to just about everyone on Cape Tilton.

  “No problem, Honor,” said Lucinda, checking out the food containers. “Here is even better than a restaurant, actually, for what we need to discuss.” Lucinda claimed a spot near the end of the mahogany conference table closest to Honor’s desk.

  Honor opened containers of garden salad and Italian dressing, clam chowder, spaghetti with white clam sauce. She placed a paper plate of thin slices of Italian bread with square pats of butter next to the spaghetti.

  Lucinda could adapt to almost any eating or drinking arrangement after almost two decades in the profession. It was unfortunate, Lucinda thought, that the meeting with Michaela had turned into a power-outage martini party. The martinis always flowed at the Weld mansion on weekend nights — which included Friday afternoon — when Pat was home. She’d have Michaela to herself the next time they met, which would be on campus. There was a constant weighing of the proper locale when wooing donors.

  “I’m all ears,” Honor said, spooning up chowder after she floated a school of oyster crackers on top.

  “Well, we got some great interviewees to fill the major gift officer slots. Not easy given all the schools people have to choose from in this half of the state.”

  Honor smiled. “I know. Half the time we’re poaching from each other. And potential Board members too. By the way, I have someone coming later who I think will be a great addition to our Board. He made a bundle in Mumbai, just moved here, and wants to do big things for education. His niece is a junior engineering major.”

  Honor was comfortable in her role as Chair of the Board of P-H, but not complacent, always looking for fresh blood to meet new challenges. The soul of your Board chair, thought Lucinda, is key. Chairs can so easily devolve along paths that spell disaster for fundraising efforts — self-serving, bored, cynical, grandiose, too nice — the possibilities are endless. Lucinda admired Honor’s vision, flexibility, and grit.

  “Sounds good, especially with the university designation coming up. There will be many more opportunities to increase our international reach and diversify the campus even more,” Lucinda said.

  “You don’t have to play our tagline for me,” Honor said grinning. “Enough making nice! What do you really want to tell me?” Honor’s steady gaze followed Lucinda’s expressions closely. “I know you well enough to know you didn’t come here to discuss potential new hires and Board recruitment. You want to take things off-line?”

  “Well, it’s F
rank and the campaigns.”

  Honor finished her chowder and dug into the salad.

  “Ah, Frank. What’s he up to now?”

  “Well, it’s extremely awkward for me, actually,” Lucinda said. “Since I report to him and not the Board. But I’ve tried to set up meetings with him, which he evades, and my biggest concerns go… ” Lucinda paused, searching for a diplomatic word.

  “Unheeded?” Honor offered. “Ignored, contradicted?”

  “All three.”

  “The Board is watching Frank closely,” Honor said. “We knew his approach would be a big change from Ben’s style. Except for leaving Development alone, we’ve given him totally free rein. For now. Cliff thinks Frank’s just the shot-in-the-arm to get the kind of attention P-H needs to raise the bar on academics and bring in new partnerships. Which of course is what Frank said he was interested in doing during the selection process, but… ” She stopped to take a bite of cucumber, and Lucinda jumped in.

  “Well, I’ve been on this campus a long time. Not as long as your family’s been associated with it, of course.” All senior staff knew Honor’s great-great-great-great grandfather had raised a charter to start the school. His likeness peered in oils out of a dark background over Honor’s shoulder at the Italian food. He had the same engaged brown eyes as his descendant, like he would weigh in on Frank shortly. “And I’m really disturbed by the way our expansion plans are playing out. We’re not expanding and growing. We’re dividing and competing. Frank is promising big, but I don’t see what needs to be done getting done to make it all happen. It’s all schemes and promises.”

  “You can tell me straight what you’re thinking, Lucinda. I had certain reservations about Frank’s candidacy, but he addressed each issue to the satisfaction of the selection committee,” she said, then added, “but not really to me.”

  “What kind of reservations?”

  “I’ll only talk off the record.”

  Lucinda nodded.

  “He mouthed the words in wonderful combinations that we wanted to gobble up. You know — vision, teamwork, new opportunities to grow. Academic excellence, national stage. Blah, blah. All the candidates say those things. Half the time they have no idea what they involve. But Cliff thought Frank was perfect for P-H — that he wed academic economics with street savvy entrepreneurship and managerial might. You see, Cliff always thought Ben ploddy and really wanted to accelerate institutional growth. Which I know Frank can do and is doing. But there was something, I can’t name it, that made me uncomfortable about him during the vetting process.”

  “Like?” Lucinda said, placing spaghetti on a plastic plate. It slid to the right side and she shifted it back, thankful it didn’t spill on the gleaming table.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s that I couldn’t figure out where his motivation was really coming from. Ben, you get what you see. Slow and quirky, but dedicated and hardworking to a fault. Frank, I don’t know.”

  “I think we’re going to find out,” Lucinda said. “It’ll be a disaster if it isn’t for the students, the school — ”

  “We can’t afford to wait until he screws up,” Honor said, irritation seeping into her usually controlled voice. She put her plastic fork down and looked straight into Lucinda’s eyes. “What have you seen? Specifics?”

  “Frank is sabotaging my fundraising efforts at the highest level. He’s not responding to calls and e-mails for situations in which we need his input, except for some of the corporate donors. He’s solicited — and low-balled — a major donor, possibly two, without my input. And he’s angling to put Warren in my job. It’s like he’s jiggering things so we don’t make our goals — the Board-approved goals, mind you — and Warren gets to ride in and save the day after I get fired.”

  Honor said nothing and reached for a slice of bread. After she buttered it, she said, “You think it’s that extreme? Don’t you think it may be just a clash of cultures that needs to be meshed better? He’s probably trying to create ‘profit centers’ like in the business world — he doesn’t quite get that you run the whole fundraising show.”

  A car honked on Granite Street. Honor got up to angle the window blinds so the sun wasn’t in their eyes. “You know,” she continued, “he has the kind of mentality to want to see specific business results in a very quick timeframe.”

  “Has he forgotten the fact that we’re in the education business?” Lucinda said. “Is that why he just potentially screwed us up on a megagift from the Welds? Which you know I’ve been building up to for three years now. And he shouldn’t be treating Warren and me as peers.”

  Lucinda watched Honor take this in. Honor glanced over at her desk, started to stand up, then changed her mind and remained seated.

  “I have to tell you that I’ve been hearing that your affair last winter has prevented a few gifts due this fall,” Honor said, her voice softer now. “I don’t like to mention it, but we might as well lay everything out.”

  “According to whom?” Lucinda asked, fighting to keep her voice level.

  “I’ve gotten some calls. I’m on your side, Lucinda, but you need to know this is coming up. And be prepared to answer for it if you start making accusations at the highest level.”

  “It’s also part of their campaign. Cause scandal, break up my marriage, foil my campaign by moving the goal posts in mid-game. And poach donors.”

  “Lucinda, you’re going too far,” said Honor, loading spaghetti onto her plate. “I don’t think it’s all that sinister. Frank just needs a few pet projects to keep his ravenous ego fed. You know the type. He’ll want to throw up the odd building — ”

  “You’re not sure, are you? How does the Executive Committee come down on Frank?” Lucinda interrupted, sensing that Honor was trying to convince herself that Frank was harmless. Lucinda inhaled the aroma of garlicky clams, something she’d usually scarf down, but her stomach stung like she’d just swallowed barbed wire.

  “Cliff Plunkett thinks Frank’s the best thing since the landing of the Mayflower,” Honor said, her breezy tone returned. “Raymond is watching him and suspending judgment till Frank’s been here at least a year. June thinks he’s great for PR for the college. ‘Real action man,’” Honor said, imitating June’s breathy enthusiasm.

  “The rest of them do not have any interest in assessing what kind of job Frank’s doing — as is their job — which is why I’m going to replace them on the Executive Committee. We have enough honoraries and socialites and namedroppers on the full Board. We need more grounded visionaries to get everything done without exhausting the five of us who are helping you with the heavy lifting. I intend to address that in board recruitment this year.”

  “What about Don Keegan on finance?”

  “He hasn’t said anything about Frank. Don’s still burnin’ through the initial finance review since joining us, but I suspect I’ll hear if anything’s not kosher.”

  “What if I told you I suspect Frank’s messing with gift restrictions?”

  Lucinda was pleased to see she’d incited a slight widening of Honor’s eyes.

  “I would investigate it tomorrow. Are you ready to say that?” Honor pressed. Lovely Honor, Lucinda thought, ever the lawyer, ever alert to the nuance of wording.

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s a really big deal if you do,” Honor said. Their eyes met. Lucinda would have loved to accuse Frank of financial misappropriations but she had no hard evidence. Yet. She rose and crossed the room to a small couch in the corner away from Honor’s glare. Her phone buzzed, delivering a text message from Tori, Found you a trainer.

  “Well then, I’ll have to line up my ducks first,” said Lucinda, with more confidence than she felt. What was that going to mean?

  “Ok. Then the only thing I can say is, if you’re seeing other men, don’t do it anywhere around here. Personally, I don’t care if you do or not, but given your position you could become ineffective very soon should more of this crap get around, especially if folks know you’r
e lining up ducks against Frank. It’s sexist, I know. No campus, no workplace is free of it.”

  Honor stood up, smiling with lips tight over her teeth. “But my observation has been Democrats have affairs, Republicans go to prostitutes, and it’s all cool until word gets around. More spaghetti?”

  Lucinda felt like she’d been slapped. As the color rose in her face, she turned toward the window. Her stomach had contracted to the size of a Ping-Pong ball, so forget the food. She’d only been able to eat one little oval of bread before her stomach rebelled against the news that her affair was a hot topic bouncing around P-H now, even though Tori had warned her. Lucinda, looking through the blinds for distraction, was startled by a glimpse of Warren’s black BMW crawling by on Granite Street.

  “Lucinda, I am on your side. But some of the trash people are saying about what happened last semester is hard to push away, and we need to focus on the university status and the campaigns.”

  “Do you trust me, Honor?” Lucinda said, turning back to face her. She was thinking it, and it just popped out.

  “Yes, I do. But there are certain things out of my control. I can’t let the college suffer over personality issues. But if what you’re saying about Frank has any basis in fact and you blow the whistle, what you did will soon be forgotten in donors’ and trustees’ minds. I’ll stand by the truth.”

  “I’m not going to get pushed out, Honor. I care about this school a great deal, you know that. And worked hard for it, starting at the bottom. It’s been my life since grad school, even before. Then there’s the students — ”

  “You sound like your father,” Honor said, warmth returning to her voice. “You don’t need to win me over, just line up your ducks.”

  Honor opened the last remaining food container. “Lemon cookie?” she asked.

  Lucinda shook her head.

  “I’m going to miss your father,” Honor said. “I enjoyed his retirement bash. That was brilliant bringing in all those autumnal leaves — labeled in Latin — as decorations.”

  “You know Frank is why he left,” Lucinda said.