So I did nothing except walk the three blocks to my bank and deposit the check as fast as the ATM could take it. I chose print receipt not just for security but for show-and-tell, to say, Not only am I going for the Select and Silver cable programming, but I might even buy a flat-screen TV! I was sketching that whole high-fiving, glasses-clinking scene when, back in my building’s lobby, I spotted a fur-coated Geneva. Usually, I ducked into the mailroom to avoid her, but today I was feeling up to the task.
“You’re looking pleased with yourself,” she said as we watched the elevator readout descend to L.
Was that any way to greet a neighbor? I didn’t think so. I said only, “Life is good.”
“Ditto,” she said.
To engage or not to engage? I waited until we were in the elevator before asking, “Anything new with the documentary?”
“Which one?”
Oh, really—which documentary of the many you’ve been juggling? I said, “I forget. Either The Sorrow and the Pity or the one about my mother’s Pickering, New Hampshire, yearbook.”
“The latter. It’s moving forward. In fact, it’s on the front burner.”
What would that mean in the Geneva world of sketchy, underachieving work? “How so?”
“I’ve been talking to your mother’s students.”
“In person? On the phone?”
The familiar thud of the elevator meant we’d reached our floor. “Do you want to hear more?” Geneva asked.
Without waiting for an answer, she followed me to my apartment. I looked at my watch. Five minutes to 4. “Tea?” I asked.
“Well, that’s a surprise.”
I knew what she meant: a surprise to see a show of hospitality from hostile me. Without removing her coat, she took a seat in the living room while I put water on to boil. When I returned, she was on her phone, holding up a finger to ward off an interruption. How rude was that, silencing the host? Back in the kitchen, I entertained myself by rereading the letter that had accompanied my check, posted on my refrigerator until my dad’s next visit.
“Okay!” I heard.
I didn’t join her. “You’re free now? Because I’d hate to interrupt.”
“Do you have green tea?” she asked.
Back in her presence, having grabbed a dented box of generic supermarket tea bags, I asked, “No. This okay?”
She shrugged.
I asked in more neighborly fashion what she was learning from my mother’s students.
“It’s still being tallied,” she said.
Tallied? I asked if that meant she’d taken some kind of count? Or a poll?
“I sent a questionnaire.”
“About what?”
Her nonanswer: “I had it printed up at FedEx for the ones who don’t do email.”
I asked if I could see a copy. She twisted her mouth this way and that as she frown-scrolled through attachments, then handed me her phone. I read:
Did you know Mrs. June Winter Maritch? Yes ___ No ___
If so, in what capacity? Teacher ___ Advisor ___ Other ___
On a scale of 1 to 5, how well did you know her? 1 2 3 4 5
Did she sign your yearbook? Yes ___ No ___
If so, please quote what she wrote: _____________________
Do you still have your copy of The Monadnockian?
Yes ___ No ___
If inscribed, would you be willing to lend it to Gal Friday Films? Yes ___ No ___
You are Male ___ Female ___
Which of these reunions did you personally attend:
(Circle all that apply) 5th, 10th, 15th, 20th, 25th, 30th, 35th, 40th, 45th, 50th
If you did attend, did you see Mrs. Maritch or speak to her?
Yes ___ No ___ (note which reunion) _______
If yes, please describe your exchange(s)_________________________________________________________________
Do you have any photos of her teaching ___ coaching ___chaperoning ___ dancing ___drinking ___ other ___
Did you ever hear rumors regarding her personal life?
(Even if just student gossip) Yes ___ No ___
If so, please describe: _______________________________
Other impressions: _________________________________________________________________________________
Do you recall her husband attending reunions with her?
Rarely ___ Always ___ Never ___ I don’t know ___
Did you meet her daughter, Daphne Maritch, at the November reunion? Yes ___ No ___
If so, can you briefly describe that encounter?________________________________________________________________________________________________
Did you attend Mrs. Maritch’s funeral? Yes ___ No ___
If you have other memories, comments, or observations, feel free to attach an additional sheet. Please provide your name, email, daytime, evening, and cell phone numbers. Thanks!
Geneva Wisenkorn, Gal Friday Films
Good thing I wasn’t holding mugs of hot water when I read this. I managed to ask if she’d distributed the questionnaire yet.
“Why?”
“Because I hate it! Asking for rumors and gossip? You don’t think that’s leading the witness?”
Geneva sighed at my obvious filmmaking naïveté. She said her work had a point of view. And a POV didn’t just appear without digging.
“You didn’t think to run these questions by me first?”
“This is basic research. This is how I find people to interview and ultimately film. And there’s a script that needs to be written. It isn’t all camerawork.”
I went back to the kitchen and made tea for one—me. And while it was steeping, I had an idea of how to frustrate, annoy, and torment Geneva in her quest for what was behind my mother’s overinvestment in a mildewed Monadnockian. I’d tell her outright that my mother had been having an affair for decades. I might even modify “affair” with “torrid.” But not until I uttered the phrase “off-the-record,” driving that home since Geneva was anything but a real journalist. She couldn’t use it! My reasoning: By swearing her to secrecy, I was handcuffing her. In the confines of my kitchen, it seemed logical: It was better to hand her the juicy missing link up front, accompanied by a gag order, than have her snooping around, reading between the lines of the questionnaire’s answers.
I returned to the living room. “I’ve given this serious thought, and I’ve decided to tell you something that is key.”
“About?”
“My mother. It would explain everything.”
Geneva visibly perked up. “Should I get my camera?”
“No. Because what I’m about to tell you is off-the-record. As I’ve explained before, it means you cannot repeat it, quote it, and—most important—you can’t put it in the documentary, should that ever get off the ground.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“This better be good,” she said.
“This is strictly off-the-record. Do I have your word?”
“Yes! I get it! For Chrissake, just say it.”
“It’s come to light that my mother and one of her students—”
“Girl or boy?”
“Boy. But what difference does that make if you can never use it?”
“I bet it’s the one who was at our table, the senator.”
“Do you understand that none of that matters, not that I’m confirming a single thing, because it’s off-the-freaking-record?”
“Can’t I be interested? Is that against the law, too?”
I hadn’t yet told her anything. It was then that I came to my senses. I could not tell her something juicy on the theory that she’d drop the whole project if her hands were tied. So I said, “Oh, it’s nothing. It was about me.”
“But you were going to tell me something about your mother and one of her students.”
“Well, it was about her, but now I realize it was nothing, a stupid little story about”—What did I have? Oh, right, the Josh and Jason O’Rourk
e caper—“a set of identical twins in two different English classes, and she found out that the one who had the test in the earlier class took it all over again in his brother’s afternoon class!”
“That was it? Then why that buildup about off-the-record, never use, never film, never think about it?”
“I was babbling. I have nothing. Nada. Your questionnaire isn’t going to produce one juicy thing.”
“Even if it doesn’t, I have the yearbook. And I picked up a vibe at the reunion.”
“What kind of vibe? From whom?”
She said too smartly, “Oh, how about a former male student?”
Had my voice sounded strained? It must have. I tried reverse psychology in the form of “This is going to be the most boring biopic ever filmed.”
How was that working? If I thought that had deflated her, I was wrong. Just the opposite. What I heard was “You’re an open book. Your mouth is saying ‘most boring biopic ever,’ but your face is saying ‘I’m terrified.’”
“No, it’s not! You never met my mother! She was a stick-in-the-mud! She might’ve had a yearbook thing, but she certainly did not cross a line with any students if that’s what your questionnaire is trying to root out. I’m sure she didn’t even cross any lines with my father before they married! They had to be role models. They had to be discreet. They—”
“Trusted each other?”
“Of course. They taught together. They had two kids together. They were together until she died.”
“I met him, don’t forget.”
What was that smug smile for? “You had Thanksgiving dinner with him.”
“And all the eligible ladies—which was everybody, now that I think about it—were making a play for him.”
“Was that his fault? And even if he went out on a date with one of them, he was entitled.”
“New widower and all?”
“It was over a year since my mother died! Plus, I don’t like this line of questioning. My father is the dearest man. And a true gentleman. I can’t believe you’re implying that he did something wrong. You know what I think? I think you’re finally facing the truth: that all you have is a story with no payoff about a New Hampshire English teacher with a yearbook fixation.”
Did she just wink at the end of my tirade?
“Before this . . .” she began.
“What? Before what?”
“Before this, you struck me as a logical person. Someone who thinks before she speaks.”
I huffed that I always thought before I spoke.
“Daphne,” she said, sounding weary and charitable. “I’ve distributed the questionnaire. If anyone sends it back, hinting at some kind of hanky-panky, I’m off and running. There’s my story. I’d be quoting that person on deep background, not you. And maybe you don’t know the whole story. You’re the daughter. But I can find someone who’s been waiting decades to squeal.”
I said no, no, no, she wouldn’t. “People in New Hampshire would never speak ill of the dead.”
Who was I trying to convince, Geneva or myself?
19
Suddenly There Are Girlfriends
I had to send Peter Armstrong a thank-you note, didn’t I? More than a week had passed since the check for $5,000 had arrived. I’d been mulling over how to express my gratitude without sounding effusive or daughterly due to the grudge I was holding for his arresting my father.
Finally, I wrote, “I’ve received and cashed your first check, which was most welcome and generous. Thank you. Sincerely, Daphne.”
So why did it come back with “Return to Sender” scrawled in purple felt-tip pen? The envelope had been opened and taped shut. Inside, attached to my note, was a Post-it rudely demanding, “Oh, really? ‘FIRST check?’ Who are you?”
Who the hell are you? I might ask. Did Armstrong have a gatekeeper/secretary/girlfriend/boyfriend/live-in accountant who opened and passed judgment on his private correspondence?
This was hate mail, I decided. I found his business card and called his direct line. After dozens of rings went nowhere, he picked up with a brusque “Armstrong!”
“It’s Daphne,” I said, then plunged in with “I wrote you a thank-you note—thank you, by the way, for the check—but the note was returned in a manner I’d describe as crazy.”
“Wait,” he said. “Start over.”
I summarized: A note I’d sent him came back defaced—rudely and anonymously.
I’d expected shock and outrage, but his question was lawyerly. “You wrote me an actual letter on paper, and then what happened?”
I quoted my own innocent dispatch and the uncalled-for counterattack.
“Go on.”
Go on? That much wasn’t offensive enough? “Who opens your mail and writes in purple?” I asked.
“I have to take this call. Can you hold?”
I waited. Just before giving up, I heard, “That would be Bonnie.”
“Just now? Calling you?”
“No. The person who mistakenly returned your note.”
“And who is Bonnie?”
“My partner.”
“What kind of partner?”
“I think you can guess.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Correct.”
“Is she a secret girlfriend?”
No answer.
“A live-in girlfriend?”
“No—”
“Yet she intercepts your mail?”
“Force of habit.”
“Force of whose habit? Isn’t opening other people’s mail against the law?”
“Not in this case.” Then, reverently: “Bonnie was my office manager at the firm.”
“Is that why this is hush-hush?”
More silence.
“Is she married?”
“Not anymore.”
“Kids?”
“Two.”
“How old?”
“Ten and thirteen? Something like that.”
“And Bonnie herself is how old?”
“Daphne. I don’t think you realize that you’re giving me the third degree as if . . . Oh, never mind.”
As if I were a real daughter who’d earned the right to interrogate and judge. I knew the answer anyway: Bonnie was young. And nuts. I tried to imbue my next question with a modicum of concern, a more psychiatric “Is she a stable person?”
“There’s a vote happening downstairs. Let me get back to you.”
“You should tell her she made a terrible first impression.”
“Clearly.”
“And inform her why you’re sending me quarterly checks.”
“Gotta run. I’ll get back to you if there’s anything satisfactory to report.”
“She’s trouble,” I told the dial tone.
Speaking of girlfriends who suddenly materialize, Kathi the piano teacher sent me an email dinner invitation with the subject line, “From Sammi’s mom.” Three upcoming dates were proposed. I chose the middle one, Thursday of the following week, asking what I could bring. She wrote back: “I’ve heard about your culinary talents from your greatest fan! Would it be rude to ask you to bring one of your famous desserts?”
Famous where? Never mind. I said yes, happy to do that. Was she allergic to nuts?
No. She was not. I deduced from a heart emoji that she loved them.
A good guest does her homework. I suggested to my dad that we get together for a pre-dinner-party briefing. I chose a Swedish film at the Paris Theatre about a curmudgeonly suicidal widower who is rescued, literally and figuratively, by a lovely young Iranian neighbor. Waiting in the theater lobby for the earlier show to empty, he said in the direction of two smiling older ladies, “This is my daughter. Aren’t I lucky that she wants to see a movie with her old man?” Adorable, the women’s expressions seemed to say. Once seated, I said, “That could work for you.”
“How so?”
“They’ll assume you’re seeing a movie with me because there isn’t a wife or girlfriend in the pictur
e.”
“Not on the market,” he said, shushing me with a finger to his lips.
“Because of Kathi?”
“It seems so.”
On the walk home, under too much scaffolding, past skyscrapers under construction on West Fifty-seventh, I brought up my own social life, thinking it would encourage him to mine a similar vein. “You remember Jeremy—across-the-hall neighbor? It’s a nice thing. And you can’t beat it for convenience.”
“And that’s okay with you? Just convenience?”
“A little more than that. I’m having fun. And he’s good company. Isn’t that what we’re all looking for?”
“If you say so.”
We reached Ninth Avenue. I told him that here on this corner, come spring, there would be a farmers’ market Wednesdays and Saturdays. No bargains, but he’d like it. Then, in as airy and neutral a voice as I thought was needed, I asked whose idea it was to invite me to dinner.
“Kathi suggested it, which I thought was very nice, especially since she isn’t much of a cook. But who in New York City is? So many restaurants. I’ve heard people say they eat out every night or get food delivered. A woman in my building told me that it’s cheaper to go out than to cook at home.”
I said I didn’t know how eating in restaurants could be cheaper, especially with a glass or two of wine.
“Well, by the time you buy a package of chicken, or a couple of lamb chops, a bag of onions, potatoes, a stick or two of butter; or have you noticed that every hunk of cheese costs seven dollars? And maybe a carton of eggs, a green pepper—”
“Dad—I get it.”
“Look around”—he gestured to an empanada take-out joint as we passed it—“a world of cheap food. I mean when you think about Chinese places in Pickering, just that one on Highland.”
He sounded so contented, so enthusiastic. I said, “Yup. And the miracle of delivery.”
“Even my dry cleaning gets delivered!”
“I bet your clients say, ‘And I don’t even have to walk my own dog!’”
That made him beam, effectively granting me permission to return to the subject of number one client, Kathi. I asked if their friendship had gone beyond sherry and tea.
“We’ve had a couple of dinners, and we went to a chamber-music concert at Alice Tully Hall. I think I told you she’s a pianist. Did you know you can go to rehearsals of the Philharmonic for hardly anything?”
Good Riddance Page 11