The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield

by Kathy Cooperman

  Danny went on, “We’ll need massive cash reserves so we can pivot quickly from the US market.”

  Maggie nodded and furrowed her brow to convey her sage-like understanding. She said, “Yes, pivoting can be difficult.” She pictured a model whipping about on a runway. That couldn’t be right either. “So, uh, did you manage to raise enough funds?”

  “Yes.” Danny heaved a satisfied breath of relief, and Maggie pretended not to notice what a pretty sight his well-muscled chest made during that process. “And now that we’ve got enough in the bank, I can focus on what really matters: product development. I’ll be down here a lot.”

  “Oh really?” Maggie tried not to sound personally interested in this fact.

  “Yes. I like to get into the trenches. I’m very hands-on.” Danny winked as he said this.

  Catching this bit of ham-fisted sexual innuendo, Maggie felt flustered. She was hopelessly rusty at flirting. She felt like squeaking, “Oilcan.” Instead, she just managed, “Well, good for you.”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I filled our HQ with so much of my own stuff. When I spend serious time somewhere, I like to make it homey.”

  Maggie said, “Ahh, so the fridge is yours? The Pac-Man game too?”

  “Yup. I think work should be fun, don’t you?”

  Maggie said primly, “So long as fun doesn’t get in the way.” As she said this, she winced inwardly at her own prudishness.

  “So tell me, what do you do for fun, Maggie?”

  Maggie sensed the trap in this. The truth—reading books, binge-watching Netflix, eating chocolates—would seem lame and spinstery. So she went the other way: “Whoring and drinking, same as everyone else.”

  Danny’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I’m glad to hear you’re so well rounded.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She said this stiffly, but felt an absurd pride bloom inside her. If she’d had a tail, it would have been wagging.

  A fifth-grade teacher—Mrs. Brandl—ruined the moment. As she passed, she gave Maggie a warm hello, pointedly ignoring Danny. When Mrs. Brandl disappeared through the cafeteria doors, he commented, “Ouf, that was cold. She doesn’t like me, does she?”

  Maggie said, “Well, you did cost her the spice trade.”

  “What?”

  “When you, I mean Edutek, upped the testing quota to twenty minutes a day, that took a huge bite out of class time. All the teachers had to make deep cuts to their lesson plans. And Mrs. Brandl lost her unit on the spice trade.”

  Danny asked, “Was it any good?”

  “Not good, it was brilliant. A truly inventive lesson plan on the medieval spice trade—it taught kids about geography, history, and economic theory. One of the highlights of their year.”

  Danny shrugged. “Oh well. I’m sure the other teachers—”

  Maggie cut him off. “The other teachers lost great stuff too. They can’t cover all the material required by state testing, blow twenty minutes a day on Edutek’s stuff, and do creative projects with the kids.”

  “Can’t they just tweak their schedules? Move a few things around?” Danny grinned down at her smugly, no doubt assuming Edutek’s sexy product research was far more important than the teachers’ glamour-free classwork. He probably thought the school’s curriculum was glutted with macaroni art and circle time.

  Maddened by this bit of condescension, Maggie huffed, “No, I’m afraid they can’t just move a few things around. Our teachers don’t just ‘wing it’ in the classroom. Every day—every minute—has to be planned out so we can cover the state’s curriculum. Don’t let the sunny posters and warm smiles fool you, every classroom in this building is a well-oiled machine, a . . .” At that moment, Maggie felt a tap on her shoulder.

  She turned to find an out-of-breath Diane, who said, “They need you in Room 12. Right away.” Room 12 was Jeannie Pacer’s first-grade classroom.

  Maggie asked, “What’s happened?”

  “Jeannie put Connor Bellman in the corner for a time-out. He got hold of a cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.”

  “What?!”

  Diane went on, “Connor said he was being tortured. The cops are on their way.”

  Maggie put a hand on her forehead for a moment. Christ, she needed a chocolate, a vat of chocolate. She turned to make her excuses to Danny. And plainly amused, he told her, “Sounds like one of your well-oiled machines broke down.”

  Maggie nodded with what she hoped was brisk efficiency. “Ah yes. Right.” Then, she walk-ran down the corridor after Diane, fully aware of Danny’s gaze on her every step of the way.

  13

  CONNOR

  By the time Maggie made it to Room 12, chaos had descended. A stony-faced police officer stood by the doorway, listening as Jeannie Pacer explained how this was “just a big misunderstanding.” As always, the sixtysomething Brooklyn refugee spoke eloquently, totally unaware of how her accent and appearance undermined her credibility. Her long, flowy skirt, Indian print top, and oversize dangling earrings made her look like a geriatric hippie. And her long gray hair—piled messily atop her head—only heightened this impression. Worst of all were the three dark-red scratches on her left cheek.

  Credibility hinges on context, and this policeman did not realize that in Jeannie’s context, her school, she was a great figure. He had no way of knowing that the scratches on her cheek, like dozens before them, had been inflicted by Jeannie’s aging pet cat, not by her students. He didn’t know that—despite Jeannie’s loosey-goosey, flower child sartorial style—she was a strict disciplinarian, demanding hard work and excellent manners from her human charges. It was only Jeannie’s cat that remained untamed.

  Over the years, parents of Jeannie’s students had giggled over the incongruity of a feline abuse victim urging them to “establish firm boundaries” with their children. But still, Jeannie had the parents’ respect. In one year, she turned their cute six-year-olds into still-cute-but-fiercely-competent students. The kids went from scratching out their ABCs to writing poetry—odes to recess and screeds against bedtime. They went from counting on their fingers to doing sums in their heads. They had to or they couldn’t bluff in Jeannie’s many card games. Her classroom sometimes resembled the high-stakes room at the Bellagio. Jeannie wasn’t all business. She gave kids “wiggle breaks” and wore costumes to get their imaginations going, but she planned every moment of her class’s day—except for the moments created by Connor Bellman.

  Now, as Jeannie spoke, she kept her liver-spotted hands planted on little Connor’s freckly shoulders so as to restrain him and highlight his outlaw status. Meanwhile, the children—inspired by the cop’s holstered weapon—ran about the classroom, firing imaginary guns.

  Maggie introduced herself to the policeman, said a demure “excuse me,” and then entered the classroom with Diane in tow. Maggie wolf-whistled, and the children froze. She growled, “To your desks, now.” The children scrambled to their seats. They folded their hands on their desks and looked sweetly up at Maggie in a pantomime of innocence. She eyed them for a moment, long enough to allow any residual cheekiness to subside. “Children, I am going to step outside into the hallway with your teacher to speak with this policeman. While I am gone, Mrs. Porter will take charge of this classroom. And every single one of you will behave perfectly for her. Do you understand?”

  The children chorused, “Yes, Mrs. Mayfield.”

  Maggie nodded. “Good.”

  As Maggie shut the door behind her, she heard Diane begin, “All right, time to show me what you got. Who here can tell me the five most dangerous sharks known to man?”

  Maggie crossed over to the policeman, saying, “Officer, I am so sorry about all this.”

  Connor asked Jeannie, “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Jeannie shook her head. “No, Connor.” She hazarded a grin, telling the policeman, “We talked about civil rights last week.”

  Connor volunteered, “Mrs. Pacer says I have a right not to inseminate myself. It’s in the Constipation
.”

  Coloring, Jeannie corrected him. “The Constitution, Connor. And you have a right against incrimination, not . . . Oy, never mind.”

  The cop folded his brawny arms across his chest, still glowering. Connor was not striking the proper tone of contrition.

  No doubt sensing the cop’s displeasure, Jeannie took a knee so she could look Connor in the eye. She explained, “Connor, you owe Officer Nelson here an apology. Do you know why?”

  Connor mumbled, “’Cause it’s wrong to call 9-1-1?”

  Jeannie nodded, “It is wrong to call 9-1-1 if it’s not an emergency. It makes police waste time when they should be . . .”

  “Fighting evildoers?!” Connor’s eyes widened. He looked up at the policeman with unabashed awe, and the cop’s stern expression softened a bit.

  Jeannie went on, “Yes, and policemen can’t put, um, evildoers in jail if they get distracted by . . .” Jeannie paused, asking, “Do you know what ‘distracted’ means?”

  “You bet I do!” said Connor. “My mom calls me that all the time.” This drew a flicker of a smile from the cop.

  Jeannie said, “Yes, great. Anyways, if you call 9-1-1 when you don’t actually need the police, they get distracted. They can’t get their jobs done, and . . . uh . . .” Jeannie faltered.

  Connor blurted, “Evildoers might go free?” The boy finally seemed to realize his error.

  Jeannie nodded.

  Connor looked up at Officer Nelson, asking, “Did any bad guys go free ’cause I called you?” The boy’s lower lip started to tremble. “I didn’t mean for . . .” A tear slid down his cheek.

  Officer Nelson said quickly, “Just don’t do it again. All right, kid?”

  Connor nodded and sniffed back a tear. “Yes, sir.”

  Maggie thanked the cop, and he left. Jeannie gently wiped Connor’s tears away with the end of her billowy shirtsleeve. “There, there, sweetie. No harm done. It was just a mistake, an oopsy, a little fall. And what does your Batman movie say about falling?”

  “What?” asked Connor.

  Jeannie took his face in her hands, so she could look straight into his eyes. “Batman says we fall so we can ‘learn to pick ourselves up.’ You see, even Batman falls sometimes, but he learns from it. Okay?”

  Connor nodded solemnly. And Maggie was touched. She wondered how many times Jeannie’d rewatched superhero movies—mining them for nuggets like the one she’d just recited.

  Now Jeannie rose from her crouch with some effort, her knees creaking indiscreetly. So it was Maggie’s turn to kneel down next to the boy. “Why did you call the police, Connor?”

  Connor wiped tears away with his sleeve. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just, I did some bad stuff and then . . .”

  Maggie asked, “What bad stuff?”

  He looked down, saying quietly, “I broke Melissa’s diorama.” Then his head whipped up, and he practically yelled, “I didn’t mean to do it! It was a accident!” Like most kids, Connor confessed softly but made excuses in stereo.

  Maggie blew her bangs out of her eyes. “Okay, so then what?”

  Connor went on, “Mrs. Pacer stuck me in time-out. And I started thinking about Superman, how when he was captured once, he called for help. I needed help too. So I borrowed Mrs. Pacer’s phone and . . .”

  “I see,” said Maggie. “Connor, I think it’s best if you come back to the office with me. Go into the classroom now and—quietly—gather your things. All right?”

  Connor nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Mayfield.” The boy slipped into the classroom, leaving Maggie alone with Jeannie.

  Jeannie folded her arms against her chest. “Maggie, you know what I’m going to say on this one.”

  Maggie guessed: “Medication?”

  Jeannie nodded. Fashion sense was not the only hippie-ish thing about her—she believed in ‘just saying yes’ to drugs whenever possible. She’d crop-dust the school with Ritalin if she could. She told Maggie, “That boy’s a peach. But he can’t sit still. And I’m not talking about minor fidgeting. This is beyond.” In Jeannie’s Brooklyn accent, “beyond” had four syllables (“be-yaw-un-da”). “It’s ADD, plain and simple.”

  Maggie winced. “C’mon, Jeannie. He’s only six. It’s early to make a diagnosis, don’t you think?”

  Jeannie bristled. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s unfair to my other students for me to spend half my time racing after—”

  Connor reemerged into the hallway, and Jeannie immediately fell silent. Her voice suddenly gentle, she asked, “Do you have everything you need, honey?”

  Connor answered, “Yes, Mrs. Pacer, but . . .”

  “But what?” asked Jeannie.

  “Can you tell Melissa I’m sorry?”

  Jeannie nodded. “Yes, Connor. I’ll do that. But maybe you should make a card for her or something. Draw some daffodils. She likes daffodils.”

  Connor nodded eagerly—grateful to be given some tangible way to atone. As Jeannie returned to her classroom, Maggie extended her hand to the boy. “Come with me.”

  Connor put his small hand in hers, and Maggie began the long walk back to her office.

  14

  MAGGIE’S DAYMARE

  The condemned man lies helpless as a doctor inserts an IV into his arm. The doctor works with care so as not to cause any unnecessary discomfort, oblivious to the incongruity of this small kindness. An elderly priest stands in the corner speed-reading the last rites. Once the doctor finishes, the warden asks the prisoner if he has any last words. Turning his head so that he can see the witnesses seated behind the glass, the freckly, blue-eyed prisoner says, “I’m sorry for the bad stuff I did today, and all the other days. So now, it’s up, up, and away.” Someone flicks a switch, and poison flows into the man’s veins.

  Maggie roused herself and blinked furiously to erase her awful daydream about little Connor Bellman. She pushed aside her paperwork and reached into her desk for a chocolate, but then decided that wouldn’t suffice. She needed the harder stuff. She’d have to go to her dealer. Though four o’clock had come and gone, she found Diane hunched over her desk, working on a flyer for the school rummage sale. Diane looked up and eyed Maggie’s weary face. Then, without a word, Diane reached down and opened her desk’s deep right drawer, revealing a massive cache of candies and cookies.

  Surveying the loot, Maggie asked, “You got an Oompa Loompa in there?”

  Diane deadpanned, “He’s off on Tuesdays.”

  “Got any Girl Scouts?”

  Diane smirked. “Yes, ma’am. I got Samoas, Thin Mints, Trefoils, Tagalongs . . .”

  “I’ll take . . .”

  Diane raised her hand. “I’m not done yet. I also got Do-si-dos and a whole box of Savannah Smiles.”

  Maggie frowned. “You have a serious cookie addiction.”

  Diane feigned indignation. “Don’t judge me! I don’t have any office to hide in. I’m a captive audience to hundreds of Girl Scouts. You can’t imagine that kind of pressure.”

  Maggie nodded solemnly. “Everybody breaks in the end.” Then, taking a seat alongside Diane’s desk, she said, “I’ll take two Thin Mints, please.” Diane retrieved the cookies and handed them over. Maggie took a bite of one and mumbled “thank you” as she chewed. As the chocolate coated her tongue, she knew she’d made the right wrong choice, diet be damned.

  Diane asked, “What’s got you down today?”

  Maggie told Diane about her daymare, featuring little Connor Bellman’s execution. Diane inhaled sharply, then murmured, “It’s a vision.” She crossed herself.

  Maggie bristled. “Why are you crossing yourself? You’re not religious.”

  Diane answered primly, “No, but I always liked that gesture. It’s got oomph. Besides, I figure Jesus wouldn’t mind.”

  Maggie conceded, “He never struck me as a huffy type.”

  Returning to her theme, Diane said, “You have the gift, Maggie.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “Please don’t get started on that Psychic Fr
iends crap.” She took another bite of her cookie.

  Diane countered, “Remember when little Abby Cofner broke her arm? Two seconds before she fell, you told me to check the playground. Some part of your subconscious mind knew that girl was in danger.”

  “No, what I knew was that it had rained and Mrs. Ryerson was too flaky to warn the kids off the jungle gym. Nothing paranormal, just common sense.”

  Diane shook her head. “I could go on all day with examples like that, and we both know it. Face it, Maggie. You’re psychic.”

  Her mouth crammed with cookie, Maggie said, “If I’m psychic, then why didn’t I know about Richard’s indoor sports?”

  Diane shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe you’re not psychic with everyone, maybe you just have psychic links with your students. Or maybe romantic feelings jam up your frequencies.”

  “If that’s true, my frequencies must be crystal clear these days.”

  Diane wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m not so sure about that. You and Homeland looked pretty cozy to me back in that hallway.” Diane called Danny “Homeland” because he was a gorgeous redhead, like the senator-turned-fundamentalist-spy on that TV show.

  Maggie waved this off. “We were not cozy. Just the opposite. We were arguing.”

  In a sexy, throaty voice, Diane asked, “Was it a heated argument?”

  Ignoring this, Maggie pointed to the unfinished drawing on Diane’s desk. “How’s our rummage sale flyer coming along?”

  “Don’t change the subject. Our Homeland boy has real potential.”

  Maggie stiffened. “It would be unprofessional for me to get into a romantic relationship with—”

  Diane balked. “Whoa, honey. You been watching too many of those Zales commercials. Nobody said nothing ’bout a relationship.” Diane wrinkled her nose in distaste at the dreaded R-word. “No, what you need is to get laid properly.”

  Maggie began, “My sex life is none of your . . .” She wavered. It was idiotic to huffily assert boundaries with Diane. For years, the woman had served as Maggie’s living diary.