Early Decision

by Lacy Crawford

  She was grateful to Mitchell for following closely up the stairs, the first sweeping flight and then the second, smaller set, to the little study under the eaves. The vacant house was creepy. She thought of the gun cabinet in the hall. She imagined terrible things, in quick, fleeting glimpses, like flipping through a book of options for her own demise: surprised burglar, disgruntled ex-gardener, straight-up ax murderer. Enough light made it through the two dormer windows that she could spot the two pages of cruelly rewritten essay, Hunter’s formatted paragraphs covered over in his father’s hand like the work of some uptight, private-equity graffiti artist. Anne grabbed it and fled back down the stairs to the kitchen, which was still lit through the wall of French doors. She flipped out her phone and dialed Hunter.

  Gerald Pfaff answered. “I hope this means you’re there,” he said, instead of Hello.

  “In the kitchen, in fact,” she said.

  “Well, thank heavens. Good. Christopher’s just in the hot tub. I’ll have him ring you when he gets out.”

  “Sure.” Though she didn’t wish to spend one moment more in that house. She snapped her fingers to summon Mitchell, who was snuffling round Rommel’s enormous bed.

  “Lucky thing you were free,” added Mr. Pfaff, the closest he could come to gratitude. “So typical of the kid to forget the most important bit.” He eased his voice lower, as though in confession. “I keep thinking he’ll outgrow it, but I fear it’s just part of his makeup. Going to make for a tough life, I tell you.”

  “Oh, I think he’ll do just fine,” she said. She agreed, of course, that it might well be a tough life. Just for completely different reasons.

  He heard her insincerity. “Ah, well,” he said, resigned, as though there were nothing to be done about the boy. Amherst really must have been a cruel blow. Now the man was suffering a complete failure of imagination. He couldn’t think there might be any other future for his son, or any value in traits other than servitude and solicitation. “Bye, now.”

  Anne heard him sign off and looked around his kitchen. The empty expanses of marble were as blank as an operating theater, washed in the flat light of the late afternoon. One framed photograph of Hunter as a little boy stood alone on the countertop. Over it the nest of bright copper pots hung low, like the autumnal foliage of a dying domesticity. It would have taken five children to make this a home, Anne thought, feeling the house sprawl around her. Or six or seven. She wished Hunter had had a sibling. Someone to help him face his father and laugh with him about his mother’s frantic ministrations. In the picture he looked impossibly young, freckle-cheeked. He held up a toy boat to the photographer. The camera had caught him looking proud of something he loved.

  She studied the two crumpled pages on the table. The light had faded further, but she was half afraid to get up and find switches. It was almost dark when from behind her came a loud click, followed by a reddish glow. She gasped and turned around. Mitchell trotted a few paces ahead of her into the hall, facing the vast living room. There they discovered the family Christmas tree looming, all lit up on its vacation timer. Anne approached through two sofa bays. The tree stood in a dry bowl, bronzing to its tips and covered with giant colored bulbs. Presumably so potential intruders would think the Pfaffs weren’t out of town. The lights shone off the empty furniture, the lacquered wood picking up rich reflections of color, rainbows on the armoire.

  Suddenly Anne was even more spooked, and she hurried with Mitchell back into the kitchen to find the overheads. The room came ablaze. She went to the fridge and opened it. There was a comforting clink. Many condiments in little glass jars, and a row of bottled beer. She took one. There was an opener right where she expected it in the utility drawer to the right of the sink. She selected a crystal goblet from the glass-fronted cabinet, which had its own internal lights. No Whirly Popper here, to be sure. Or Fun Size Snickers. Just easily forgotten bottles of Chimay ringing like jingle bells in the Sub-Zero’s door. A stack of mail in a corner yielded nothing to read, so Anne pulled out some cookbooks and sat back down to wait. Mitchell settled in Rommel’s memory-foam bed and let out a deep sigh.

  She had almost finished a second beer—it was New Year’s Eve, after all—when Hunter finally called. Her phone made her jump. The drinks, and the recipes, had caused her to forget that the house was probably bristling with escaped felons. Now she was shivery again, and she wanted to get the hell home.

  “So hit me,” he said.

  Still sensing all the imagined violence around her, with a little bravado from the beer, Anne felt ready to fight. She’d never lived in a house like this, thank God, and she never would. But she needed to make something happen. It was not like her little apartment was going to work forever. Her little life.

  She stared at his essay and said, “Hunter, I can’t find it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not here. I’ve looked.” Her words were slow and clear, demonstrative, a tipping of the hand.

  After a moment he said, “Oh.”

  “Must’ve got lost in transit. Maybe at the airport. Didn’t you work on it there?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” he said. “I did.”

  “I guess you’ll just have to apply with what you’ve got.”

  “Yeah.”

  In the background she heard his father beginning to grow concerned.

  “Dad, it’s not there,” said Hunter.

  “Tell him I’ve looked everywhere. Tell him I’m so sorry.”

  She heard Mr. Pfaff yelling. “Tell her to rewrite it, then! Here, give me the phone.”

  He crowded the line. “That’s impossible! We’ve just got to have that!”

  Anne sipped her beer. His beer. The glass was almost empty, but the crystal was so wonderfully heavy it was as though it were full. She set it down gently as an egg and reminded Mr. Pfaff, “Or he could just submit his applications now with the essay we had polished. It’s quite strong.”

  “The one about compasses and ponies?” She could hear the spit cracking between his teeth.

  “Well, I don’t know what to say, then. I’m so sorry. I have to get back to the city, I’m afraid.”

  “This is your job,” he said.

  “I’ve done my job, Mr. Pfaff. And Hunter has done his.”

  “The hell he has. Those applications are not complete.”

  “I think they are. I have to get back to the city now, Mr. Pfaff. Could I talk to Hunter again?”

  “I think you’ve had quite enough to do with my son,” he answered her, and hung up. In retaliation, she switched off her phone.

  She stayed long enough to wash and dry the crystal and replace it on the shelf. The ruined essay pages she folded into a tight square and tucked in her jeans. Empty bottles clinking in one fist, she flipped off the lights and found her way to the door by the jangling glow of the gasping Christmas tree.

  PARKING WAS A complete bitch. Had she thought about it, she might have said no altogether to Mrs. Pfaff’s ridiculous request.

  Still it was sort of fun to have passed the time up there, and now another terrible New Year’s Eve was in full swing, which meant it was almost over. It was a freezing half mile home from the parallel spot she finally found. Perfect, though: Mitchell would be sorted for the night. She had popcorn to whirl and she was already two beers in. She thought she’d tape Gideon Pfaff’s essay to the front of her refrigerator, just for fun.

  In the same spirit of defiance she took the main stairs with Mitchell and his manky paws. It was a shame April was nowhere to be found.

  But as she climbed, the thrill of her mini-revolution faded and she realized that she was taking a risk on behalf of Hunter, which wasn’t fair. It was one thing to challenge his father’s imperiousness, but another if doing so put college in the balance. There was a decent chance the kid wouldn’t pull it together and get his applications in. He might be flummoxed by her lie and just pleased enough by her collusion to sink himself. She’d best get inside and call him.


  She reached the landing only to find William Kantor sitting there, by her door.

  “Sorry, I tried to call,” he said. He held up a bottle of wine with a ribbon tied at its neck. “This is for you.”

  “You brought me wine?”

  He stood. “I can’t buy wine. Someone just left it here. Can I come in?”

  “Um, sure?” She was not at all sure. She did not invite students to her apartment. Too small, too intimate, too inappropriate. “What time is it?” she asked, just to make the point.

  “Nine-something.”

  He was very close behind her, like a small child. She unbolted her door and flipped on a light. William surveyed her space. She regretted the open bathroom door and the clutter of lotions on her counter. Books piled on her coffee table and on the floor. A tuft of dog hair scooted along the baseboard. She closed the door to stop the draft.

  “Nice place,” he said. “Cozy.”

  “That’s one word.”

  “A great block, though.”

  “Yeah, that’s why. My parents thought it would be safe.”

  “My parents would think the same way.”

  “Do they know you’re here?” She took off her coat and gestured to the love seat, hoping he’d sit—he’d be more manageable if he weren’t standing there, surveying.

  “They know I’m out. Who’s the wine from? Mr. Waverly?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her, and for a moment she thrilled to the possibility. She read the tag: Happy New Year! from the Baldwins, 1B. Complete with a picture. Very kind.

  “No,” she said, and left it at that. She suspected that whatever had driven William to her apartment, she still needed to be Martin Waverly’s other half to earn the boy’s revelation. And their breakup was none of his business, besides. “When’s your curfew?”

  “Not really an issue.”

  “You don’t have one? Special night?”

  “Right.” He peered into the kitchen, a dark galley between the front room and the back door, which led to the fire escape and the yellowed alley beyond. She half thought he expected someone else to be there.

  “William, what’s up? Did something happen? Some admissions thing?”

  “Just out walking,” he lied, wandering now to her bookcase. He passed his thumb along the spines. She’d have rather he fingered the dresses in her closet—those, she wore and put away. The books were unfinished business. The ones she’d read even more than the ones from her orals lists, still shrink-wrapped from the press. The ones she’d adored, most of all.

  She was distracted by how thin William was—his pants belted so tightly at the waist they puckered all along his back and hung from there with no interference clear to his shoes, which, Anne was surprised to note, were sneakers. Very hip, suede sneakers, but still sneakers.

  “That why you put on your sneaks?” she asked.

  He turned to her, and then down to his feet. He shook his head no. But when he returned his eyes to her, they were wider than before and seemed uncertain at the far corners, as though his words were gathering there rather than in his throat, and just as it occurred to her that he might cry, she said gently, “William, what’s going on?”

  He opened his mouth. The phone rang, sharply, her landline. William looked away. “No, go ahead,” he told her, raising a loose hand to her desk.

  “Oh, thank heavens,” she said out loud, relieved that the Pfaffs would be calling so she could at least sort out Hunter’s little gamble. The person on the other end of the line heard this rather than hello, and was confused. Also ticked off.

  “I’m sorry, hello? Is this Anne? I need to speak with Anne. It’s Margaret Blanchard.”

  Anne was surprised to realize that she was not terribly surprised.

  “Speaking.”

  She waved a deliberate hand at William to suggest he sit, making a point of gritting her teeth and baring them: it might be a while.

  “Gosh, am I sorry to have to make this call twice,” said Margaret Blanchard, sounding not at all sorry. In fact, she sounded very much the way Mitchell looked when he spotted a cat: muscled and keen, his most primal self. “Anne,” she said again, drawing out the consonant. “Anne.” She paused once more before continuing: “I’ve just read Sadie’s essay, the one I assume you’re all ready to send in tomorrow, or tonight, who knows, and I have some very deep concerns about some of the things that are said in it. Very. Deep.”

  “Okay,” said Anne carefully. “And you’ve only just seen it? Just now?”

  “Sorry, dear,” she answered coldly. “I have a rather full docket, as you may imagine, if you can imagine that, and I haven’t had a chance until now. But here I am, now, on New Year’s Eve, and I’ve had to send Gideon on to our party alone while I address this.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Anne, about the party. “What’s the problem?”

  “First of all, I have to say that I hardly think it’s Sadie’s best work. Gid and I have seen her pieces from creative writing class, and she is much more talented than this. I really think you’ve not helped her to reach her potential at all.”

  Because she always asked to read several examples of a student’s work, Anne had seen those very same pieces, and so she knew that Sadie’s final essay for Duke was by far the most coherent, sophisticated, thoughtful bit of prose she had produced. And of course she had tuned her ear to the sound of Sadie’s voice at its most fluent, so she could best recognize the ideas that came from her heart and help her to develop those. She knew what made Sadie most proud, and what had made other people make her think she should be proud. But the question of achievement wasn’t Margaret Blanchard’s point, and in any case they both knew it to be irrelevant in the case of Duke admissions, so Anne waited.

  “More than that, though—which is of course the point of hiring you at all—is this other thing, which is that the essay has this crazy bit about both parents working, when there’s no place for that in a college application. It makes Sadie sound spoiled. Most mothers do work, you know. I don’t know if yours ever did but most do, and it’s just not like Sadie to go on about it. It makes her sound truly very naive and that’s not the case at all.”

  “Sadie thought it relevant that she spent a good deal of time alone as a child. This helped to form her character, her independence. That’s not a bad thing to say, I don’t think.”

  “Well, but it’s simply not true. I mean, she goes on like . . . like she’s Cinderella or something, you know, and that’s just embarrassingly off. The whole thing is just—I don’t know how it got so wrong, but this is not our daughter’s work. So it will be redone.”

  There was a moment when Anne might have responded in kind. She might have told Margaret Blanchard that, in fact, her husband had not wanted the essay to be his daughter’s work at all; that he had already concluded that her work would be insufficient for his reputational needs. And he’d taken Anne to a really nice lunch to make this request, and then high-stepped his way back into some silly formality as though he’d never tried to offer her a job or career counseling or whatever it was he’d dangled before her. But William Kantor by now had settled on the floor beside Mitchell and was rubbing the dog’s ruff. Anne wanted to return to him. Some feeling of guilt was nudging her, and it seemed the longer he stayed in her apartment, the more on the hook she’d be. “Could you read the sentences that trouble you?” she asked Margaret Blanchard. “Perhaps we can address those directly.”

  “Oh, I don’t have it,” said Mrs. Blanchard wearily, not to be bothered. “It’s, you know, the stuff about both of her parents working long hours and being left to brush her teeth alone, all of which is nonsense that must have been put there by someone else, I’m not sure who.”

  “Those sentences are pretty much intact from her first draft,” said Anne, in self-defense.

  “Well, that’s hard to believe.”

  “Believe it.”

  There was a pause.

  “In any case,” continued Mrs. Blanchard, “it makes her s
ound terribly privileged to suggest that all kids don’t have two working parents. I mean, to even have two parents is lucky. That’s just not a healthy view of the world. And it goes without saying, I should mention, that Gideon is appalled.” She paused again, this time so Anne could do the math on the impact of Gideon’s emotional state. She got it, loud and clear: one Cristina Castello, still in limbo. The stakes thus presented, Margaret Blanchard wrapped up: “Look, I’m sending her over now, I’ve given her money for cabs both ways, please see to it that she’s safely back when it’s been fixed. She’s skipping the party, too, I might add. This really must end now. Really.”

  Not until Margaret Blanchard had hung up did Anne realize the power she now had over this woman, who had called, quite simply, to protest the truth in her daughter’s college essay. And not a terribly unkind truth either. The woman was a workaholic, so was her husband, and their two children had been raised by a loving Guatemalan immigrant who saw her own babies only in the nights and on Sundays because that was what it took. And so what? Would this so surprise the Duke admissions office, and especially old what’s-his-name from Choate? But the 489-word looking glass was not what Ms. Blanchard had intended to call down, and she hadn’t thought to think that everyone else could see plain as day, too. So now she was sending Sadie over to have it fixed. On the night before it was due. As though they might rewrite her parenting choices, have her home rocking her baby girl. Reading to her, Anne thought cruelly.

  “So, I have another student coming over,” she told William.

  His eyebrows went up. The usual, slightly insouciant slack had returned to his eyes. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl.”

  “Pity. Latin or Parker?”

  “Latin.”

  “Of course. Do I know her?”

  “Don’t know. Probably.”

  “Name?”

  “Sadie Blanchard.”

  “Hmm!” he said, sitting up taller. “I don’t know her. Everyone knows of her, of course, but I’ve never met her. Supposed to be nice. Has that mother, is that who . . . ?”

  Anne nodded.