Good Riddance

by Elinor Lipman

  I said, without any affect or feeling, “Okay, she was stunning.”

  “And young when she started teaching.”

  “We already covered that.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Geneva asked psychiatrically.

  “Nothing. I’m pissed off. I’m only here so you wouldn’t drag my widowed father into this.”

  Whoops. I shouldn’t have brought up my father. Geneva pounced. “Why do you suppose she left the yearbook to you instead of her husband? Were there notes she didn’t want him to see? Or some symbols—those checkmarks and dots I haven’t yet translated—that were in code?” And then to her imagined future audience: “Totally fascinating.”

  “Maybe to you it was. To my father, it was just a hobby of my mother’s. Like her gardening. And his following the UNH Wildcats.”

  “Were they happy?” she asked.

  A not-utterly-truthful “blissfully” flew out of my mouth. Still, I had to expose Geneva as a woman who couldn’t keep her word. “I agreed to be interviewed only if there were no personal questions. And that’s a very personal question.”

  “Bliss-full-y,” she echoed. “I see. Do you need water?”

  By now, I was feeling such a rush of hatred for Geneva that my voice went squeaky. “You’ll live to regret this thing, this stupid soap opera!” And then to anyone listening: “I come from a long line of educators. Before I moved to New York, I was a Montessori teacher! This isn’t right. You never met my mother. You can’t judge a person by the dots and adjectives she writes in a yearbook!”

  To Geneva’s credit, she didn’t cut my final diatribe. She also left in the sound of my chair hitting the floor as I charged out of the booth. “Are you wondering, like I am, why June Winter Maritch’s daughter is so angry?” she mused. Then she repeated her own theory that my mother had a dying wish, unconscious or not, to share the yearbook with the world.

  22

  I Took It Upon Myself

  Of course, I kept listening to the episodes, one per week, airing on Sunday nights. Geneva managed to enlist a woman from our fiftieth reunion table. Geneva added sound effects, pages flipping. “Is this you?” she asked. “I see that your yearbook wish for your future says surgical nurse. Did that happen?”

  “Let me see that,” the woman said. I deduced it was the sharper of the two pep squad members. Barbara? Rosalie? No, Roseanne. Geneva doesn’t use her name. “Now, about Miss Winter—do you know what the selection process was for the yearbook being dedicated to her? Was a vote taken? Was it the whole class or maybe just the yearbook staff?”

  “I didn’t work on the yearbook,” said the woman.

  “What’s your best guess?”

  “Why does it mattah?”

  “It matters because I’m researching every aspect of this puzzle. Was there a relationship between the yearbook staff, possibly an individual, an editor of the yearbook, and Miss Winter?”

  “How the heck would I know?”

  Yay, pep squad member, I thought. And what pathetic preinterviewing Geneva had done, if at all.

  “Let’s move on,” I heard. “Miss Winter, now Mrs. Mah-RICH . . .” Did Geneva just pronounce my last name like that, Mah-RICH? Roseanne doesn’t correct her. The question being asked is whether this classmate can decode the dots and checkmarks that appear next to certain graduates’ pictures. Geneva added, “These symbols are only next to boys’ pictures. Well, they’re seventeen and eighteen. I should call them ‘men.’”

  Next question: “Was there ever gossip swirling around the school about Miss Winter and a student?”

  Now I am going to sue her. She had no scruples, no journalistic ethics. And my big mouth was entirely to blame.

  The know-nothing Roseanne said, “There’s always gossip about teachahs. It doesn’t mean where there’s smoke there’s fiah.”

  “Let’s get back to these symbols. I’m noting that different years have different color pens. But why are some of the dots in pencil? In fact, very faint pencil. Possibly a code?”

  “You’re only showing me a coupla pages. I haven’t looked through the whole thing. I nevah saw this before. I mean, I have my own copy, but I nevah saw Miss Wintah’s.”

  “Do you know this young man?” Geneva asked next. “And please remember that we’re not naming names.”

  Of course, she had to be pointing to Peter Armstrong. The woman said, “Sure. He was our valedictorian. Can I say that? Funny he didn’t write anything.”

  “Funny why?”

  “Because he was a big shot in the class. And I’m positive he came to the reunions.”

  “How odd then. Don’t you find that odd?”

  “The whole thing’s odd. Who writes all ovah a yearbook that’s not your own? I’m trying to remembah if she had the thing tucked under her ahm when she came to the reunions? If not, she went straight home and wrote this stuff down.”

  “Look closer. Not next to his picture but above it. Tell me what you see.”

  “A phone numbah. That was our exchange: ELwood, then five numbahs.”

  Geneva let that marinate in case the presence of a phone number didn’t register as out-and-out adultery. “I can tell you this: No other graduate got a phone number above, below, next to his picture,” she continued. “What do you suppose it meant?”

  “Why don’t you ask him,” said Roseanne.

  Except for the occasional polite exchange of emails acknowledging receipt of my quarterly checks, I didn’t stay in any kind of daughterly touch with Armstrong. Besides my own confusion as to what we were to each other, I wanted to respect my father’s Armstrong aversion. But I thought I should warn the former class valedictorian by email that Geneva, who’d big-footed her way to his reunion, would surely be inviting him to appear on her podcast.

  “She did say she was going to do something with our class, as I recall,” he wrote back.

  That was too neutral, too calm. So, without sugarcoating what was surely ahead, I replied, “She’s portraying my mother as a floozy who preyed on her male students.”

  Was that not attention-getting enough? When there was no answer, I wrote again two days later asking if he’d gotten my most recent email, the one containing the word “floozy.”

  “Received and noted,” he answered. “I won’t go on the show or whatever it is. Take care, Peter”—a kiss-off I attributed to his busy job, law practice, and my clinically cold correspondence up to now.

  Next was episode three, not featuring an unnamed valedictorian, nor classmates of his, nor members of my family, which had been another worry. But the innuendo continued with the introduction of a woman, an alleged substitute teacher at Pickering High School, who claimed to be a workplace bosom buddy of my mother’s.

  Wait. What was I hearing? What did she just allege? I was scribbling furiously on a notepad, which was how I listened, ready for slander. The bosom buddy had the nerve to say that she and the young June Winter sneaked “off campus” for a sushi lunch—impossible because no one was eating raw fish in Pickering for another few decades. Nor did they chaperone field trips together to the Boston Museum of Science because Pickering High School field trips were always to Canobie Lake Park the last week of school.

  And then this: “Every single boy had a crush on June. She was very attractive, and believe me, she used it.”

  She used it? And every single boy had a crush on her? Talk about hyperbole. Wouldn’t I know this alleged bosom buddy?

  “But harmless crushes, right?” Geneva asked her.

  “How would she know?” I yelled at my phone.

  “You’ll have to ask those boys,” said this anonymous bigmouth. “In those days, we didn’t have the rules that are in place now.”

  “Rules?”

  “Pretty basic: no sexual contact between students and teachers, ever.”

  I texted Geneva furiously: WHO IS THE WOMAN WHO SAYS SHE WAS A SUB @ PHS?

  I DON’T DIVULGE MY SOURCES, she wrote back.

  Next, I called her, du
mped into voice mail. Do I spell out how furious I am or save everything for a courtroom? “It’s Daphne; call me” was all I said.

  After an irked sleep, I strode to her door in the morning, rapped first with the ineffectual knocker, then with what might be considered a pounding.

  “Whahh the hell?” I heard from within.

  “It’s Daphne. I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  Seriously? “Your horrible podcast! Who’s that woman who says she was a sub at the high school?”

  “Jesus Christ. I thought someone was going to say the building was on fire. It’s gonna have to wait. What time is it?”

  It was a few minutes past eight. “It’s eight-thirty,” I yelled back. “I have a job interview at nine and I might be gone all day.”

  “What kind of interview takes all day?”

  “That’s beside the point. I meant this can’t wait.”

  “Hold on. I’m naked. Let me get some clothes on.”

  A neighbor I’d never seen before, to the right of Geneva’s apartment, a skinny tattooed man with earrings up and down his lobes, opened his door shirtless. “People are sleeping, for fuck’s sake.”

  I repeated that it was the wholly decent hour of eight-thirty. “The city’s awake. It’s full of people rushing off to work.”

  “Is that so? I go to work at five and get home at three if I’m lucky. And that’s three freaking a.m.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I guess that’s why we never met. I’m Daph—” But he’d slammed the door just as a bathrobed Geneva was opening hers. “You never heard of having a conversation by phone?” she asked.

  I didn’t say that I wanted to see her face-to-face, to catch her in a lie, to read her unprincipled mind. To sucker punch her if words failed me. I said, “You don’t answer my calls.”

  “Is this how you dress for a job interview?”

  I said it was at a Montessori school, so dowdy was fine.

  “You’d do this full-time? What about your chocolate thing?”

  “Don’t change the subject. The woman in episode three? Where did you find her?”

  She retreated but didn’t close the door on me. I followed her into her electric-lime-green kitchen, where she put a pod into a coffee machine without asking me if I’d like a cup.

  “That woman who said every boy was in love with my mother? First of all, that’s ridiculous. If she and my mom were bosom buddies, I’d know her. Did you check her employment records—”

  “What for? The episode has already aired. It’s out there in the universe.” Geneva’s hands made otherworldly circles in the air.

  “You don’t seem very worried that she might not be who she claimed to be.”

  “Want a cup? It makes tea, too.”

  “Who the hell is she?”

  Was that a sigh of annoyance over me being me again, resisting and challenging at every turn? Or was it capitulation? “I probably have it in an email, but I don’t have time to find it now.”

  “Why? If you do a search, you’ll find it pronto.”

  “I meant you don’t have time to wait for me to do a search. And how do I search when I don’t remember her name? Plus, I think she had one of those cute email addresses—like her cat’s name. And you have a job interview”—she checked the microwave clock—“in less than an hour. Casual or not, I’d change into something more professional.”

  “Okay. But I want a name. I think she could be an imposter.”

  Shouldn’t she say something like, “I can assure you that I double-check every source”? But there was no reassurance, no pushback. She merely raised her cup in a half-hearted toast, as if she’d, of course, be complying with my request.

  I changed into a skirt and sweater because I actually did have an interview at a Montessori school, an opening created when a pregnant teacher’s ob-gyn prescribed bed rest. Even with my new, unearned, male-sourced income, or maybe because of it, I felt that life above the poverty line was suddenly within my grasp. I wanted a paycheck again; I wanted enough to shop at Whole Foods, to hail the occasional taxi, to save some money, and eat in a restaurant not just when my father was treating. Why had I waited this long? It was time to admit I occasionally missed sitting in a circle with toddlers who wrapped their arms around my legs in wild enthusiasm over not much: my little clients dispensing unconditional love; my own little peeing and pooping clients; my New Leash on Life.

  After the interview I was observed, which in Montessori terms meant pretty much my observing the little bees at work, using, then putting away the tools I knew by heart. I was well practiced in guiding, consulting, hanging back, and speaking calmly. The Manhattan children were better dressed and more racially diverse than the Pickering three- and four-year-olds, but otherwise it was all so familiar. I was told by the head teacher they’d decide soon, surely by the end of the week, but when I returned home, my phone was ringing. I’d been hired. They’d reached my old supervisor in Pickering. My new chocolate-making skills were a bonus—well, not the sugar or the allergens or the double boiler, but knowing my way around a kitchen. Skill building!

  I texted Jeremy, who had encouraged me to apply on the basis of my leaving the apartment and getting out in the world.

  GREAT NEWS, he texted back. WE NEED TO CELEBRATE. YOU FREE FOR DINNER?

  I said yes. His place?

  NO, OUT. IN STYLE. ANY PREFERENCE?

  Joking, I named the swanky place, impossible to book, where I’d last lunched with my deceased ex-mother-in-law. Adding, JUST KIDDING. ANYWHERE.

  He texted me a half hour later. PUBLICIST GOOD FOR SOMETHING. SEE YOU THERE, 7:30.

  The maître d’ greeted Jeremy in sycophantic fashion and me not at all. We were led to a table that seemed the opposite of Siberia—in the front of the restaurant by the windows. The place looked different at night, sconces dimmed, votives lit, china gold-rimmed. Jeremy insisted we both order the four-course tasting menu with wine pairings and the Grand Marnier soufflé that required advance notice.

  Settled, napkins unfurled and practically tucked in by our waiter, I looked around. I was glad I’d worn my navy blue silk honeymoon dress, the one I’d chosen anticipating venues such as this one in married life. Did those glances from the next table with accompanying titters mean TV’s Timmy was being recognized?

  “I think those women know you,” I whispered.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I meant . . . I guess . . . I wouldn’t expect patrons at a place like this to be Riverdale fans.”

  He rattled his tall, newly minted menu, and said from behind it, “Clearly, you don’t understand the demographic. These patrons, unlike some people I know, have an adequate channel lineup.”

  “I apologize. You are 100 percent correct and I’m a snob.” I told him I’d upgraded and had been watching the show and finding him a very convincing Timmy. “Not that you’re convincing as a junior in high school. Just that you make Timmy a real person.”

  He smiled. “Did you notice his pals are calling him Tim now?”

  I hadn’t. “On purpose? Or is that just what slips out?”

  “Some of us think he may be getting a girlfriend.”

  What was that follow-up? I was quite sure he’d said, “Like in real life.” He raised his glass of the champagne that came with course number one, which were frilly greens and a lot of paper-thin raw vegetables. “To the fans,” he said, “and their prying eyes.” He meant a newly seated party of women, one of whom was wearing a cardboard crown. They were staring in a way that made me rise to the challenge. I leaned over and kissed Jeremy lightly on the lips, as if we were two self-conscious, modest celebrities mindful of smartphone cameras.

  Have I mentioned that New York City is a small village? I say this after Jeremy’s attention was drawn to an approaching pin-striped stranger whose hair was slicked back like a Trump son’s.

  “Daphne. How nice to see you,” Holden Phillips IV, now tableside, lied. “You’re looking well.”
/>   Although his mother’s funeral had been only a few weeks before, I was startled and unrehearsed. Maybe I was looking well, but was I looking good? The truffle oil that was dressing the frisée had surely dissolved my lipstick.

  I introduced Holden to Jeremy as the man I was married to for five seconds.

  Holden wasn’t sure how to react, which gave me more nerve. “Are you here alone?” I asked, then spotted a fiftyish dreadlocked Caucasian woman at a table for two, intently studying this very interaction. “Is that Julie?”

  “No! I’m here with one of my new partners. Did you hear about the buyout?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  Jeremy was wearing as neutral an expression as an innocent bystander caught between enemy exes could.

  “But still with Julie?” I asked Holden.

  “Since I saw you, like, a week ago? Of course we’re still together.”

  “I forgot to ask if you were dating her while we were married?”

  Was I showing off in front of Jeremy? And did Holden really have to take the high road by ignoring my rude question?

  “I was just trying to do the decent thing, coming over here,” he answered, then nodded with unnecessary dignity before leaving.

  “Well, well,” said Jeremy when the coast was clear. “So that’s Holdy.”

  “I can’t believe he was here!”

  “Isn’t this his mother’s favorite restaurant?”

  Oh, that.

  Jeremy was shaking his head in a way I hoped wasn’t the reevaluation of Daphne—from sexually compatible neighbor to mean girl.

  I knew a cooler conversationalist would move on, but I couldn’t resist asking, “Is he back at the table? And can you tell if he’s whispering about how rude I was?”

  Jeremy glanced over and back. “They’re laughing at something—”

  “Laughing like one of them made a joke or laughing like My ex-wife is here. Do you believe my bad luck?”

  “Hard to tell.”

  I knew such blathering didn’t show me at my best. Thus, I didn’t voice my twin worry: that the first time I ran into Holden socially I’d just kissed a man young enough to wear braces. And on the back of my chair, in case I felt a chill, was a sweater that had been a gift from the coconspirator I used to call my mother-in-law.