Cheating Lessons: A Novel

by Nan Willard Cappo

“You should see the PBS video,” Bernadette said without thinking.

  “Video?” Ms. K. asked with fresh horror. “You’re watching movies?”

  “To remind us.” Bernadette tried not to sound defensive. They hadn’t broken any laws. “You’ve seen our assignment sheets, Ms. K. How could we read all that in one month?”

  “Does Frank Malory know?

  He had to. Bernadette looked into Ms. K.’s troubled eyes. “I didn’t tell him.”

  “It wasn’t his idea?”

  “Oh, no. It was ours.”

  Ms. Kestenberg heaved a sigh of relief. “I knew he wouldn’t condone this. Not the way he respects learning.” She dropped Tom Jones in the wastebasket, then lifted a fat volume from the table and began to ascend her ladder. The public schools Accreditation Committee was due soon, and the library would come under scrutiny.

  “Hand me volume three, would you please?”

  Bernadette got out of her chair and handed up volume three. “You know what I think, Ms. K.?”

  “Yes, I do. You think I should be happy your team is reading anything at all and not out spray-painting filth on the principal’s car.” Ms. K. climbed higher. The ladder creaked. “You didn’t hear about that? No, never mind what they wrote. Volume four, please.”

  Bernadette hoisted up volume four. Ms. K. stretched to place it on the highest shelf. The ladder tilted to the left. “I like to think the Wizards are different, Bernadette. They’re studying literature, works of—AAAHHHHHH!”

  She gave a wild whoop and clutched the ladder in a death grip, her red mouth a perfect circle of distress. Bernadette tried to pull the ladder back to the center but it was like trying to snatch the license plate off a speeding car: Ms. K. soared along the Reference shelf like a large and terrified canary.

  The floor shook.

  “Oh, God.” Bernadette dropped to her knees. Every student in the place rushed over. “Ms. K.? Ms. K.? Are you all right?”

  On the carpet the librarian looked small, curled in a ball and cradling one wrist. She opened an agonized eye. “Help me up, Bernadette.”

  The emergency room was packed.

  “An ambulance would have seen that median strip,” Bernadette insisted.

  “I told you, it’s all right. I was already in pain.” Under her smooth layer of foundation Ms. K. was an interesting shade of whitish-green, with lines of strain showing around her puckered mouth.

  Bernadette looked at the clock on the ER wall. Two-forty-five. They’d been here one hour.

  “More ibuprofen?” she asked. “My mom says you can take four before you damage your kidneys.”

  “I’m fine, Bernadette.”

  But anyone could see that she wasn’t.

  Finally the clerk called Ms. K.’s name. A nurse ushered them into an examination cubicle. Ms. K. asked Bernadette to stay and she could not very well refuse, though she’d rather have read the scribbled-in Highlights for Children in the waiting room.

  A young man came in. His white coat said DR. PAI, but he didn’t look much older than Anthony. Bernadette hoped that meant he was especially brilliant.

  He manipulated the wrist, now swollen to twice its normal size. “Does this hurt?” He pressed on the bone.

  “YES,” Ms. K. roared. “It hurts like hell because it’s broken.”

  “I believe you are correct.” Dr. Pai quickly withdrew his hand. “But still, we will require X rays.”

  Another nurse produced a wheel chair, and Bernadette jogged behind it to Radiology. In the hallway Ms. K.’s head lolled back against the chair. So much for feeling fine, Bernadette thought miserably. Suddenly Ms. K. jerked herself upright. “The cat!”

  “What cat?” Bernadette glanced around. She saw lab technicians, empty gurneys, acres of linoleum—but no cat.

  “Frank’s cat. I’m supposed to take care of it while he’s out of town. It makes noise if it’s left alone too long.” Ms. K. stroked her wrist, puffed up now like a python with a pig in it. “Oh, dear. I don’t think I’ll be driving for a while.”

  “Out of town?” Bernadette yelped. “What about the Classics Bowl?” A passing nurse glanced at her.

  “Shhh. He’ll be back Sunday,” Ms. K. said. “I’m sure it has to do with Gene.”

  This was carrying grief too far, in Bernadette’s opinion. Out of town! What if he crashed his car, or missed his plane? What about the Wizards?

  Ms. K. was watching her. Ms. K. thought she was much kinder than she actually was. Bernadette liked that in Ms. K.

  “I could get the cat for you,” she offered now. “I’ll pick it up and take it to your house.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful. You know, Bernadette, I think I’ll take some of that ibuprofen now.”

  Ms. K. gave her Mr. Malory’s address, which she pretended to need, and his apartment key, which she really did. Assuring Ms. K. she’d be back as soon as she got the cat, Bernadette set off on her second errand of mercy that day.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It would have made a cat laugh.

  —J. R. Planché, The Queen of the Frogs

  Bernadette found the Creighton Arms with the ease of one who’d spied on it a dozen times. Fearlessly she parked Ms. K’s boat of a Buick in the spot reserved for 207-A.

  In the tiny lobby her sense of adventure suffered a setback. Sunlight winked off a shiny brass plate: NO PETS ALLOWED.

  Oh, if that wasn’t Mr. Malory all over. How was she supposed to sneak a cat past every picture window in the place, including no doubt the landlord’s? Adrenaline pumped through her at the idea of outwitting invisible eyes.

  She got back in the car and cruised the complex until she found a rear entrance. She parked in front of a smelly Dumpster and prayed it wasn’t trash day.

  Someone had propped open the building’s back door with a chunk of wood. Yowling echoed through the second-floor hall as though an angry baby had dropped its pacifier. “It’s that Malory brat again, Harry,” the neighbors probably said. “Damned if it doesn’t sound just like a cat.”

  207-A. She unlocked the door, slipped inside, and then shut the door quickly behind her, throwing the dead bolt for good measure. A furry weight struck her in the knee. The yowling—much louder in here—switched to low throated purring as the cat rubbed itself along a human leg. Bernadette could swear she saw surprise in the greenish-gray eyes that stared up at her.

  “Oh, you big, sweet baby! I won’t hurt you.” She knelt down and put out a hand to be sniffed.

  The cat’s ears were outlined in dark brown fur that contrasted dramatically with the cream-colored rest of it. Its tail was enormous, long and bushy, and waved around like a weathervane. “You pretty thing, you,” Bernadette crooned, scratching behind its ears. Those eyes reminded her of something. Where had she seen—oh. Mr. Malory’s cat had clear, questioning eyes like its owner.

  She started to pick it up, but it spit at her and shot away.

  “All right, play hard to get.” She stood up. “I’ll just look around.” Ms. K. probably hadn’t even gone into X ray yet.

  So this was the holy of holies.

  The centered throw pillows on the sofa, the neatly labeled folders on the desk hutch, the hint of Pine-Sol—all evoked the immaculate interior of the Porsche. Had it only been his academic credentials, or had Spic ‘n’ Span recognized the obsession of a kindred spirit when she’d hired Frank Malory?

  Bernadette tiptoed across the carpet with Sheba a shadow behind her. The sense of adventure that had gripped her the moment she’d stepped into Ms. K.’s car grew stronger. Even the new, distracted Nadine would squeal when she heard Bernadette had seen Mr. Malory’s sofa. Not that she was snooping; she was observing.

  On the stereo rack an answering machine blinked its red light. She wouldn’t dream of playing it. That would be snooping. He expected Ms. K. here, didn’t he? She wouldn’t do anything Ms. K. wouldn’t do.

  A louvered closet door just off the kitchen gave more testimony to a cleaning fetish. It held a ti
ny stacked washer and dryer, ironing board and iron, broom, dustpan, and a Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner.

  Sheba grew bored and went to sun herself on the cat perch hooked onto the front windowsill. Bernadette eyed the sturdy wooden shelf. Surely that was deliberate flaunting?

  Ah, well. She wasn’t the judgmental type. Meanwhile, Ms. K. would certainly check out the kitchen.

  Mr. Malory apparently survived on Rice-A-Roni, Royal Treat tea biscuits, and coffee. Bernadette used the dish cloth to open the freezer door so as not to leave fingerprints. Inside was a split-personality collection of Budget Gourmet dinners, Häagen-Dazs ice cream, and generic orange juice. Generic orange juice! For a man who could recite entire sonnets from memory! Life was not fair.

  Still, envy pierced her. What joy to eat whatever you wanted, with no one to nag you to eat more, or slower, or sooner than you felt like. What freedom.

  Would Ms. K. poke around anywhere else? She might have to use the bathroom, Bernadette decided. No one could object to that.

  Sheba followed her like a conscientious realtor. The pine scent was stronger in the bathroom, clearly to cover up any trace of the litter box next to the sink. The sight of the box reminded Sheba of a pressing need, and Bernadette wrinkled her nose as the cat scratched daintily.

  Two toothbrushes in a holder (his spare toothbrush was pink, how funny), a hygienic stack of paper cups, Ivory soap, sadly worn green towels. Nothing here worth reporting. The shower curtain concealed store-brand shampoo sitting next to a fancy salon conditioner. This unexpected vanity in Mr. Malory touched her, though Bernadette felt he really ought to save his money—this stuff didn’t tame his wiry hair one bit.

  She was out in the hall when a flash of color made her step back inside and swing the bathroom door away from the wall. On a hook hung a filmy, ribbony nightgown. A matching robe. And a navy blue brassiere.

  Bernadette gaped, especially at the last item. Her own bras were optional affairs in white cotton. Drab, sturdy mules compared with this Pegasus of a garment. She reached out and fingered the fabric. Sheer, fine lace trimmed satin cups of an illicit softness. Size 34B. A phrase swam up out of memory. “ . . . a college professor who models lingerie part time.” Who said that—oh, that had been Lori, inventing a suitable match for Mr. Malory. Bernadette’s heartbeat checked again. Could these belong to—? Sanity returned. Lori Besh hadn’t bought a 34B since sixth grade.

  Her arm dropped. Mortification roiled her stomach like turned milk as the pink toothbrush, the fancy conditioner, and expensive ice cream took on new significance. She had fantasized romantic encounters with Mr. Malory. But those fantasies, shrouded in mist like the time shifts in Brigadoon, always faded out in a kiss prompted by a shared passion for the Western canon. She’d never dreamed of underwear.

  Her skin burned from pictures she couldn’t dismiss. She walked back into the living room and forgot for a moment why she was there. The cat padded past her and leaped onto the window perch.

  “All right, so his sister’s in town,” Bernadette told it. “Or some cousin of Gene’s.” There would be matching panties, silken . . . “Probably too poor to get a hotel room.” That was not the bra of a poor person. “Staying on the fold-out couch. She’d need something dark under mourning, it only makes sense . . .”

  A cream-colored paw stifled a yawn—or was it a snicker?

  “I bet he’s at the airport right now—what is your problem?” Sheba was clawing at the picture window, uttering frantic baby-in-distress yowls.

  Bernadette checked her watch. Four-fifteen—probably the time Mr. Malory normally came home. She had read stories about animals with amazingly accurate internal clocks.

  She glanced out the front window.

  And screamed.

  The Porsche was in its parking slot. Below her the lobby door slammed, and familiar footsteps mounted the stairs two at a time.

  She’d snooped in his bathroom. Felt someone’s bra. Bernadette’s cast-iron excuse for being in Mr. Malory’s apartment became criminal trespassing.

  Outside, a floorboard creaked. She lunged for the broom closet, slipped inside, and eased the door closed. By squinting between the slats she had a clear view from the window on her right to the stereo stand against the left wall.

  A key turned in the lock, and the front dead bolt released with a crack. Frank Malory came in, tossed his key ring and books on the couch, and began to unbutton his shirt.

  Oh dear God. Bernadette’s heart skittered like a pneumatic drill. He stood at the desk in profile to her, undoing each button with a leisureliness that was pure torture. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  She couldn’t stand it—she looked. The gray shirt hung open to reveal the undershirt beneath, but apparently he’d thought twice about stripping in front of the window. He was rummaging around on the desktop and talking to Sheba as though resuming a long-running conversation.

  “Ah, here they are.” He put a small manila envelope into his back pocket. “A smart kitty would have made sure I had these this morning. What good are you?” The cat gave a happy meow and rubbed against his pant leg.

  Keep talking, Bernadette prayed. Keep moving around, keep making noise. She couldn’t budge. If she backed up one inch, the ironing board would knock against the wall. A thought paralyzed her. What if he’d come back to put on a clean shirt? A shirt that needed ironing?

  “Sheba, you never said we had a message,” Mr. Malory said reproachfully. The click of the answering machine was followed by the whir of a tape rewinding.

  “Frank, it’s me,” a woman’s voice began. “I missed you at school, so in case you’re stopping home I wanted to tell you I’m running way behind.”

  “Me” sounded slightly breathless, self-assured, with a non-Michigan inflection that made Bernadette think of ivy-covered walls in New England towns. Me sounded—pretty. “I had to fax some last-minute stuff to NCS. If you get this, come straight to my office, I’ve got my things here.” A low laugh, and the confident voice turned arch. “Including a few you’ve never seen. Bye now.”

  Bernadette writhed. She’d seen a few of them.

  “A bit of luck, that,” she heard. Then the rapid punching in of a phone number known by heart. “Dr. Fontaine, please.” A pause. Sounds of plastic CD boxes being restacked. “Gena? Frank.”

  Gena?

  “You’re not the only one running behind. I forgot the tickets, believe it or not. But those opening acts go on for hours. Look for me in, oh, forty-five minutes, with luck and no police.” He listened a moment, then laughed. “Yes, me too.” The receiver clicked into place.

  Footsteps sounded down the hall. A bang right behind her, like a doorknob hitting a wall, nearly made her yell. Her closet shared a wall with the bathroom.

  She considered sneaking away. Then realized he’d left the bathroom door open. He would hear her.

  She wiggled her toes inside her shoes while her English teacher answered nature’s call for what seemed like an eternity. It didn’t matter. She could stand it. Nothing was too awful, as long as he didn’t catch her.

  Her thoughts whirled around like moths trapped in the closet. NCS? Gena. Gene. Strange. Maybe Gena was Gene’s twin sister. She certainly wasn’t Mr. Malory’s. Though she hadn’t sounded very mournful. Nor did “opening acts” suggest any funeral rites Bernadette had ever heard of.

  At last water surged through a pipe two inches from her head. Beside her came an insistent beep, beep, beep. Her digital watch glowed: four-thirty, time for Jeopardy! She fumbled for the alarm off button while sweat broke out on her forehead. A few seconds sooner . . .

  On the other side of the wall a medicine cabinet clicked open. A bottle was unscrewed, screwed closed again, the cabinet banged shut. She heard the distant clink of hangers on a rod, then a sliding sound as though he was pulling the closet doors closed.

  Her own door rattled before her face as though someone was trying it, and her heart jerked in a painful spasm. An ankle-high shadow bumped against the louvers, then
purred.

  Brisk steps rounded the corner from the hall. “Get away from that cupboard, now, and give us a kiss.” Twelve inches from her legs, Mr. Malory scooped his cat up in his arms.

  The almond spice scent of fresh Intrigue drifted through the door. “A very nice lady will be by—heavens, any minute now—to give you a little holiday. I told her you’re a good kitty, so don’t make me out a liar.” He leaned over the back of the couch to pick up his keys. “Bloody hell!” he said. Sheba hit the carpet with a plop and mewed in outrage.

  Mr. Malory straightened up with the fat red binder in his hands and a relieved look on his face. “Talk about in flagrante delicto. Now where can we hide this?”

  Bernadette tilted her head to see better. Eight months in his class had exposed her to the more basic Latin phrases. Talk about caught in what act? Why did he have to hide his Bowl papers?

  He crossed over to the desk. Whistling under his breath, he took down a large blue binder. “I can’t see Lucy peeking in Car Repairs, can you, puss? Recipes, now, that would be a different matter.” He chuckled as he slid the red binder inside the blue one, and replaced them both on the hutch.

  In the dark, Bernadette glowered.

  He picked Sheba up and turned to scan the room. Two pairs of greenish-gray eyes stared straight at her, then slid past. Evidently satisfied, he picked up his keys, tossed the cat onto the sofa, and whipped the door shut behind him. The dead bolt sprang into its socket.

  He was gone.

  Bernadette counted to fifteen. Then to fifteen again. Not until she heard the muted roar of an engine did she push open the door.

  The underarms of her good spring jacket were soaked. If he hadn’t spritzed on aftershave, he’d have smelled her panic.

  “Thank you, God, thank you, thank you, thank you.” She tottered to the desk chair and collapsed. Sheba jumped up and kneaded her lap with soft, insistent paws.

  “You!” Bernadette said. “You’re a fine friend. If you could talk you’d have ratted me out in a second. Thanks a bunch.”

  She ran her hands over the soft cream fur. The steady throb of the warm, living motor gradually calmed her own breathing to normal.