The Mentor

by Sebastian Stuart

  “There’s lots left, Portia, lots.”

  It must be the New York air pollution that’s making tears well up in Portia’s eyes. Mercifully, a cab pulls up. The doorman holds open the door and just as Portia is about to climb inside, she turns.

  “And, Charles?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be nice to that girl.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Through the rear window, Charles sees Portia defiantly light up a cigarette. Woe be to that driver if he asks her to put it out. Then the cab disappears into the New York traffic.

  30

  Anne is walking down Sixth Avenue toward Le Bernardin to have lunch with her mother. It’s a cool sunny day and the air is deliciously dry. She’s decided to have the baby. If Farnsworth is the father, so be it. The child will still be hers. And if her marriage to Charles falls apart she won’t be alone. She’ll have Eliza, or Luke. She pulls her phone out of her purse.

  “Kayla.”

  “Anne.”

  “I’m sorry I hung up on you.”

  “No big deal. What’s up?”

  “I’m going to have the baby.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Anne, that’s sensational.”

  “You’re going to be a godmother.”

  “Whatever the hell that is.”

  “Think expensive presents, savings bonds, that kind of thing.”

  “I’m going to come to New York and throw you a huge garish shower. We’ll invite all sorts of celebs, get lots of press. You can start a new catalog called Kids at Home.”

  “It’s already being prototyped.”

  “It’s a bitch being best friends with a genius.”

  “Don’t I know it. I’m on my way to have lunch with Mom, tell her the news.”

  “Oh, God, she’s going to be so thrilled her face-lifts will crack. Even rich right-wingers love grandchildren. Makes them feel almost human. How’s Charles taking impending fatherhood?”

  “Haven’t told him yet. Tonight.”

  Anne walks into the cool confines of Le Bernardin. Suddenly she’s famished, longing for something rich and slightly ghastly, like a baked stuffed lobster. The maitre d’ is expecting her and escorts her to the choice front table where her mother is sitting. There’s a man sitting with her, his back to Anne.

  “Darling, there you are!” Frances exclaims.

  The man turns. It’s John Farnsworth. Anne feels her mouth go dry, her stomach hollow out. She puts a hand on the back of a chair to steady herself.

  “Anne, how splendid to see you,” Farnsworth says, standing and bowing slightly, a gentleman of the old school.

  The maitre d’ pulls out Anne’s chair and she sits.

  “Anne, you look pale.”

  “I’m fine, Mother. Hello, John.”

  “I’m on my way out, I just popped over to flirt with your mother,” Farnsworth says. “Of course she’s much too young for me.”

  Frances laughs at the cheap flattery. She looks exquisite in a Barbara Sinatra-ish kind of way, her skin tight and luminous, her golden hair sweeping down to frame her face. She’s wearing a beige wool suit with pink velvet trim-a southern Californian’s idea of autumn style. She lays a hand on one of Anne’s.

  “It’s so good to see you. How are you? Busy as a mad bee, no doubt. My daughter the superstar.”

  A waiter appears. Anne would love a martini but orders herbal tea. Farnsworth orders Scotch, and Frances carrot juice spiked with a shot of vodka.

  “My yoga teacher approves of vodka,” she announces.

  “We won’t bore your mother with business talk, Anne.”

  “Oh, go ahead, my husband does it all the time,” Frances says. She and Farnsworth laugh.

  Anne has a hard time looking at him, at that jowly red face. She gets a whiff of his bay rum and it brings back a flood of memories-that bay rum curdling into sweat and lust and sour breath. She wants to pick up her knife and jab it into his eyeball.

  “She’s quite a gal, this daughter of yours,” Farnsworth says. He places a moist heavy hand on one of Anne’s. She pulls hers away and opens her napkin.

  “I’m so proud of her. You know that, don’t you, darling?”

  “Thank you. I think I get a lot of my drive from you.”

  “And your beauty,” Farnsworth adds.

  “Isn’t he awful?” Frances says to Anne.

  “Awful.”

  Their drinks arrive. Anne inhales the soothing aroma of her chamomile tea.

  “News flash-I snagged Jay Leno for our hospital benefit,” Frances announces. “Terribly nice man. Absolute professional. We’re going to raise two million or I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

  “That’s terrific, Mother.”

  “I probably should have gone into business myself. But back in my salad days, women just didn’t.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t like business, Frances. You’re far too cultured. Business is brutal. Isn’t it, Anne?”

  “It certainly can be.”

  “We cover it with a veneer of civility, but it’s really the law of the jungle out there.”

  “Well, here’s to the veneer,” Frances says, lifting her drink and taking a long swallow. “God, I adore carrot juice.”

  Anne feels as if she’s stepped outside herself and is watching the scene from a remove. The muffled clink of dinnerware and chatter of the other diners becomes a surreal buzz. Her limbs begin to tingle. She puts her hands around her teacup for warmth.

  “Anne, has John told you that he and Marnie have endowed a gallery at the Museum of Fine Arts up in Boston? It’s terribly exciting. The dedication ceremony is in March. Dwight and I are going,” Frances says.

  “How is your wife?” Anne asks.

  “Marnie? She’s fine. Up to her ears as usual.”

  “That’s good news. Last time I saw you she was ill.”

  “Oh, that. Turned out to just be a forty-eight-hour flu.”

  Sour bile bubbles up at the back of Anne’s throat. “Will you excuse me?” she says quickly. She stands and forces herself to take measured steps as she crosses the restaurant. In the ladies’ room, she leans over the toilet and retches out a thin stream of watery brown fluid. She sits down and waits for the dizziness to pass. Her mouth tastes rancid. She hastily gets a cup of water, rinses out her mouth and spits into the sink, then takes a long drink. With her mouth open she draws deep, steadying breaths. Finally she feels halfway human. She pulls her phone out of her purse.

  “Dr. Arnold’s office.”

  “This is Anne Turner, may I speak to Dr. Arnold please, it’s an emergency.”

  As she waits for the doctor to come on the line, Anne presses a palm against the cool marble of the sink.

  “Judith Arnold, Anne.”

  “I’d like to schedule an abortion. As soon as possible.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. I just want to get this over with.”

  “You’re at approximately how many weeks?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Then we don’t have much time.” There’s a pause and then Dr. Arnold says, “How’s Friday at eleven?”

  “Good.”

  “See you then. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I’ll be a lot better after Friday.”

  When Anne returns to the table, Farnsworth is standing with his hands on the back of his chair.

  “I’m off. It was a pleasure seeing you both. Anne, let’s have lunch next week.”

  “I’ll call you,” Anne says.

  “And, Frances, if you ever want to make a little mischief…”

  “Oh, be gone, you terrible man,” Frances says with a big smile.

  Anne sits down and looks at her perfect little salad, which she can’t possibly eat.

  “I swear John Farnsworth and your stepfather are cloned from the same DNA,” Frances says, taking a bite of her salad. �
�Superb salad. Anne, what is the matter with you? I know-Charles’s book. Well, darling, that’s what you get for marrying a man in the arts. Live by reviews, die by reviews. Now what’s the big news you were going to tell me?”

  Anne takes a drink of water.

  “Oh, that. Just that the Home website is up. It looks great. Sales are strong.”

  “Why, of course they are. Oh, look, it’s Sadie Post.” An L.A. X-ray approaches the table in a shimmery white pants suit no self-respecting New Yorker would be caught dead in, even before Labor Day. “You naughty girl, you didn’t tell me you were going to be in New York. You know my celebrity daughter, don’t you?”

  “Mother, I didn’t realize how late it was. I’m not going to have time for lunch.”

  “Then you’ll join us,” Sadie says to Frances.

  As she walks out into the reviving air Anne has only one thing on her mind-revenge. She takes her phone from her purse and calls Kayla.

  31

  As Charles’s Jaguar approaches the Newark Airport exit, Anne is taking a mental inventory of what she’s packed for her overnight trip to Chicago: jogging shoes for her run by the lake, a suit for her tour of a South Side textile factory she’s thinking of contracting, a dress for dinner, slacks and a shirt for the flight home. Usually these quick mental scans reassure her. Not this time.

  Anne looks out the window at the airport approach road lined with squat, graceless buildings. Suddenly the world seems a bleak, senseless place. Dread sweeps over her. The day after tomorrow she’ll have the abortion.

  She looks over at Charles. The other night, in the middle of a conversation, he forgot what they were talking about. She reaches over and touches his forearm. “I hate to be going away right now.”

  “It’s only overnight.”

  “Overnight can be a long time.”

  “Anne, don’t worry,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road.

  “I can’t help it.”

  “What about the pregnancy?”

  “It may just be that stress has been throwing off my period. You know how that sometimes happens to me.”

  Charles pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Oh, shit, give me one,” Anne says.

  Charles hands her the pack and she lights one. He doesn’t.

  The cigarette tastes hot and acrid, but she keeps smoking it. “I don’t understand why you fired Nina.”

  “Let’s face it, Anne, she wasn’t delivering.”

  “But she’s a friend.”

  “I know she is. And I hope she can remain one.”

  “Would you mind if I called her?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. Look, Anne, it wasn’t easy for me. I think a fallow period would be best.”

  “I don’t know if I can just let her go like that.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Anne, the woman is losing her touch. And I’m not going to let friendship or anything else stand in my way.”

  There it is again, that tone in his voice, that harsh, heartbreaking tone. It scares Anne.

  “Your work’s going well, that’s the most important thing,” she says, almost to herself.

  Charles pulls up in front of the terminal, they get out, and he retrieves Anne’s bag from the trunk.

  “You can still surprise me, Charles.”

  “I hope the trip is a success.”

  Anne throws her arms around his neck and kisses him, long and hard, not wanting to let go.

  “I’ll call you tonight,” Charles says.

  “I love you.”

  Anne picks up her bag and walks to the terminal doors. She turns and smiles at Charles. He smiles back and waves. She walks into the terminal and then turns for one last look. The car is gone…

  As Charles pulls away from the terminal he reaches for his car phone and punches in Emma’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Listen, Emma, I’ve got some appointments today, let’s take the day off. Don’t bother coming in.”

  “But what will I do with myself?”

  “I hope you’ll write.” Charles smiles-she’s at a loss without him.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll call you tonight. I’ll try to make it down there so we can get a little work done.”

  Charles listens to Miles Davis as he drives across Pennsylvania, propelled by his need to understand Emma, to discover what it is in her past that she guards so warily. He looked up Munsonville in his atlas and there it sat, surrounded by other small towns, black dots connected by red lines on a green background. It was there, in that western Pennsylvania town, that her life-and their book-began, and he needs to see it in three dimensions, to smell it, hear it, feel it, to find Emma’s place in it.

  It’s afternoon when he exits the turnpike. The countryside is bleak-low hills littered with mobile homes and sagging barns. As he approaches Munsonville, the scene grows bleaker still, the small houses close together, aluminum-sided, painted dreary shades of light green or dark brown; the children playing in the ratty front yards look ill-kept and furtive, suspicious of life already. In the center of town, the houses give way to nineteenth-century brick buildings. The only businesses that seem able to survive on the beat, forsaken streets are bars and pizza parlors. Some of the empty storefronts have droopy For Rent signs taped to their windows; others just sit there, hollow and abandoned. A very pregnant girl wearing a dirty Palm Springs sweatshirt slowly pushes a young boy in a stroller.

  Charles finds the palpable air of decay evocative, almost romantic. He thinks of Emma walking these streets, wonders which house she grew up in, wonders where her mother lives. Emma said she’d remarried. What’s the stepfather like?

  Munsonville High is set on a rise just outside of town, an imposing American Gothic edifice built in a more optimistic time. The hallways have that deserted, slightly eerie after-school feeling. Charles walks past posters warning of HIV transmission and the dangers of cigarettes, past a cabinet filled with dusty trophies, until he comes to a frosted-glass door that reads: Guidance Office. He knocks.

  “Come in.”

  The front room is empty, but a woman is sitting at a desk in one of the four small offices that open off it. She’s reading something in a folder. A sign on her desk identifies her as Claire Eldredge.

  “Ms. Eldredge?”

  “Yes.”

  Charles guesses she’s in her late fifties, large, one of those round-faced women who has probably looked the same since her mid-twenties. She wears her glasses on a chain, a loose gray dress, no makeup. Claire Eldredge’s one vanity appears to be her hair, which is an unnatural brown, styled in a helmet of tight curls.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  “I rarely leave before six. This job just keeps getting harder.” She looks at Charles expectantly.

  “My name is Charles Davis.”

  “The writer.”

  “Yes.”

  If Claire Eldredge is impressed, she does a good job of disguising it.

  “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

  “One of your former students works for me. I’ve become a little concerned about her.”

  “What’s the student’s name?”

  “Emma Bowles.”

  Claire Eldredge’s face grows grave. She leans forward on her elbows.

  “I believe she graduated five or six years ago,” Charles says.

  “Emma never graduated.”

  “She didn’t?”

  Claire Eldredge closes the folder on her desk and puts it aside. She takes a pencil out of a cup and turns it between her fingers.

  “Emma was gifted, but I could never reach her. She was very much a loner.”

  “Can you tell me anything about her family?”

  “The father ran off when Emma was very young. Helen Bowles wasn’t the most stable person to begin with.”

  “Her mother?”

  “Yes. She painted. Or did at one time. Went to art school in Chicago. Fancied herself a bohemian. Dressed outlandish
ly. Hated Munsonville and wasn’t shy about letting people know it. They lived above the hardware store downtown. She drank. Pills, too. The household was chaotic. Emma did all the shopping, cooking. Not that there was much of either. Helen wouldn’t let Emma have a life of her own. Personally, I think she hated her daughter for being bright and talented.”

  “She certainly is talented.”

  “More than once she came to school with bruises. She’d often start to cry for no reason. We did a couple of home visits, but Emma always defended her mother. Afterward everyone said they saw it coming.”

  “Saw what coming, Ms. Eldredge?” Charles asks too quickly.

  Claire Eldredge looks him in the eye. “What exactly are your concerns, Mr. Davis?”

  “Well, I’m not entirely sure. She seems so unhappy, so unstable. I want to know why.”

  “There’s bound to be instability with a history like hers. I’m glad she’s working for you. Give her my best.”

  “Ms. Eldredge?”

  “I’ve said too much already. It’s all in the past. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  32

  Munsonville’s boxy one-story library is drafty and ill lit, smells of floor wax, and has a meager array of current titles displayed on a folding table. It’s staffed by one distracted middle-aged male librarian. Charles sits in a far corner staring at the screen of a microfilm viewer, scrolling through front pages of the Munsonville Daily Press. Hyperalert, focused like radar, he scans past stories of storms and car crashes-and then he stops:

  MUNSONVILLE WOMAN BLUDGEONED TO DEATH DAUGHTER CONFESSES TO CRIME

  Helen Bowles, 36, of 12 West Bridge Street, was murdered early Tuesday morning, according to Sergeant Rupert Markum of the Washington County Sheriff’s Department. At 3:14 A.M., a 911 operator received a call from the victim’s daughter, Emma Bowles, who stated, “I hurt my mother.” Officers Ellen Grady and Karl Werner responded to the call, and when they arrived at the scene they discovered Mrs. Bowles’s body lying on the floor of her daughter’s bedroom. The victim had received multiple blows to the skull from a blunt instrument. A small metal lamp found beside the body was covered with blood. According to Officer Grady, Emma Bowles was sitting on the floor near her mother’s body and said, “I did it.” Officer Grady described Miss Bowles, 15, as “weirdly calm.” She was taken to Juvenile Hall at the Washington County Jail, where she is being held on $100,000 bail.