"I'll give you a wake-up call tomorrow," he told me as he continued to eat. "Ami will say she'll do it and you shouldn't worry, but she won't."
"Thank you."
"I'll admit that taking you in was all her idea, but once I agree to do something, I do it right," he continued. Then he leaned toward me to whisper, "This food is good, but it's just as good at Billy's Hideaway and half the price. You'll learn. You'll see what's really important," he promised.
Everyone's trying to teach me something, I thought. Everyone wants to be right about what is most important in life. I just hoped I wouldn't come between Ami and Wade or cause some new troubles. Then Mrs. Cukor would be the one who was really right about me. I would have brought the evil eye into the Emerson home after all. I did have some dark curse attached to my very being.
After Ami returned, and our souffle was served, she wanted us to go into the bar and listen to the trio, but Wade told her she should take me home to get a good night's rest.
"She's starting a new school. It's not easy, And."
"Oh, it's not hard either. An hour or so longer won't matter."
"The bar's no place for her," he emphasized.
She raised her eyes to the ceiling and then stood up abruptly.
"Come along, Cinderella. Wade thinks my car will turn into a pumpkin any moment."
She started away, miffed. I looked at Wade, who was staring down at the table.
What had brought these two people together? I wondered. What did they like about each other? For Wade, beauty was apparently not enough, and as far as Ami was concerned, Wade was uninteresting. Were they different once? Had something changed them? Perhaps this was the way most married people behaved after a while. What did I really know about husbands and wives, families?
"I'll be right home, myself," Wade said as I came around the table.
Ami was already waiting at the restaurant entrance, pouting. I hurried after her. Most of the patrons were already gone, but the bar was filled and the music was loud. People were laughing and drinking. Ami looked at the scene longingly. I almost thought I should suggest Wade take me home and she stay, but she stepped out of the restaurant quickly and ordered her car.
"I really enjoyed everything. Thank you," I said, hoping to help her to feel better.
"What did I tell you?" she asked, spinning on me. "He didn't even comment about my hair."
She raised her anus.
That's right. That was odd, I thought. Why didn't he?
"Maybe he's seen you in the wig before."
"Of course he's seen me in it before, many times before, but that's not the point. Men," she said, and started for the car when it was brought up to us. She tipped the valet, and we got in and drove off.
Suddenly, she laughed.
"It's all right," she said. "I'm really not upset. I just wanted him to think I was."
"Why?"
"That way he'll be nicer to me. Always let them think you're mad at them, even if you have no reason to be. It puts them on the defensive, and there is no better place for a man to be put than on the defensive," she lectured. "By the way, that goes for boys your age as well. It makes no difference. As I told you, all men are boys," she said. Then, under her breath, she added, "In one way or the other."
When we arrived at the house, she insisted we go into the living room and have what she called an after-dinner cordial.
"You have to know about these things, Celeste," she said. "You'll be invited to rich peoples' homes now. Their children have been brought up exposed to elegant, expensive things, have traveled to all sorts of exotic and beautiful places. You should know about the good life, appreciate what you can have, will have.
"I don't want any of them to know you're an orphan, a girl who lived in orphanages most of her life," she added firmly as she poured a black liquor into what she called brandy glasses.
"How am I to prevent them from knowing?"
"Simple," she said. "We'll tell them a different story."
She gave me the drink and sat across from me. I looked at the glass.
"Go on, try it," she said.
I did. I thought it tasted like licorice. Actually, I enjoyed it.
"It's Opal Nera, black sambuca," she said. "Now then, who are you, and why are you here?"
She sat back, thinking. I sipped more of my drink and sat staring at her.
"Okay. You're my niece, understand: Your parents are in a nasty, nasty divorce. Most of those snobs will understand and appreciate that," she told me. "Half of them come from divorced parents. I volunteered to take you in for the remainder of the year so you would have a more stable environment. Now where do you come from?"
She sipped her drink and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair.
"Can't be from the South. You have no accent. We have to be careful. These kids have influential relatives everywhere. Where have you been?"
"Nowhere," I replied.
"Where was that farm of yours?"
"It's in the Catskills."
"Okay. What's your father do?"
"What about a pharmacist?" I suggested. Maybe it was the alcohol, the food, the excitement of the whole evening, but I was suddenly enjoying this.
"Pharmacist? No, that's not wealthy enough, unless he owned a chain of stores. Let's keep it a little vague. He's an international entrepreneur, and he's away from home so much, and that's why the marriage failed. Your mother might have had a lover. Yes, she has a lover and you knew it and it was painful for you because even though your father is away so much, you love him and feel sorry for him. However, he might have lovers, too. In Europe. Perfect. If anyone asks anything specific, you get sad and say you can't talk about it. It's all still so raw and painful. Oh, this is terrific," she said.
I laughed and finished my sambuca.
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"I'll teach you everything about good wine, good whiskey. You'll have eaten in fancy restaurants, so we'll talk about food. And we'll eat in good restaurants, frequently, so you'll know what I mean. This is going to be so much fun!" she cried.
We heard footsteps in the hallway.
Wade paused in the doorway and looked in at us. I put my glass down quickly.
"What are you doing, Ami? You were supposed to come home so she could get a good night's rest."
"We have to unwind, Wade. Women like us just don't hop into bed, close our eyes, and drift into Never-Never Land." She turned to me. "Wade falls asleep in seconds!'
"Not always," he said in a dark tone.
Ami's smile faded.
"All right. We'll go to bed, Daddy,`" agreed, put down her glass, and stood.
I did too, and we started out of the room. Wade stepped aside. I glanced at him quickly. He raised his closed right hand to his ear to indicate he would make my wake-up call. Ami and I headed up the stairway.
"Of course he's right, I suppose," she admitted. "What are you going to wear tomorrow?"
"I don't know. I hadn't thought about it."
"Wear the blue skirt and the blouse we got at Femme Fatale. You have that blue cardigan sweater. It's smart. Oh, and wear the dress watch, too. Here," she added, pulling a gold band filled with diamonds off her left hand. "Wear this too. You have to look the part you're playing."
I hesitated, and she grabbed my hand and put the ring on me. It fit well.
"Tomorrow, we conquer new worlds," she declared, hugged and kissed me, and went into her bedroom.
I remember thinking I must be more like Wade. Almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was asleep. I did wake up in the middle of the night, but I thought I was still asleep and dream.ing. I heard what sounded again like Ami's muffled sobbing. I listened, and then it stopped. I was just too tired to get up and see if anyone was out there. In seconds I was back to sleep and didn't wake until my phone rang and I heard Wade say, "I knew she would oversleep and not call you. It's time to get up and dressed. I'll be taking you to school and enrolling you," he added.
/>
"Thank you," I said.
I lay there for a moment or two, trying to make sense out of the night, the dreams, and then got up.
When I opened my bedroom door to go downstairs to breakfast, I found a small head of garlic tied to the handle.
This time, I left it there.
8 A New School
.
"She will be full of apologies later," Wade told me after we got into his car and started for the Dickinson School. "Of course, she'll also tell you it wasn't that serious to miss your first day. You could have enrolled just as well later in the day or the next day. Schedules, rules, appointments, were never that important to Ami. I'm afraid her parents were what are euphemistically called permissive parents these days. She was practically on her own from the day she could walk and talk.
"She doesn't mean to be hurtful, however. And I am trying to change her, get her to be more responsible. I wouldn't admit it to her," he added, smiling at me, "but I actually enjoy the way she handles some of my and my father's more conceited acquaintances. She has a lot more courage than I do when it comes to things like that.
"Anyway, I'm sure you'll like the teachers at this school. A student like you will be a breath of fresh air to them, believe me. Just don't pick up any of the bad habits littering the hallways, lockers, and girls' bathrooms. Everyone has bad habits. Rich kids simply have more money to spend on them."
"Did you attend a private school?" I asked him, assuming he was giving me the benefit of his own experiences.
"Me?" He laughed. "No, my father believed a school was a school was a school. What difference did it make where you attended? 'One and one is two in any school in the country, Wade,' he was fond of saying. My family could easily have afforded to send me to a private school," he added with some bitterness running through his voice. "I was always a good student, so he thought it didn't matter, but the truth is, I would have gotten a better education. My teachers were too occupied with discipline problems. The one good thing about private school is they can throw you out more easily. Whenever there is money involved, even permissive parents suddenly take more interest.
"I was accepted to Harvard Business, but my father made me attend a far less expensive institution in Albany. 'You're going to end up working for me anyway,' he would tell me. 'What difference does it make what's written on your diploma?' My mother was on my side, but by then she was sickly, and I didn't want to cause any more havoc around her."
He looked at me and smiled.
"I know. Here I am describing how difficult my life was, and there you are probably wishing you had my opportunities."
I didn't want to say, No, never--I don't envy you at all. I thought it would hurt his feelings if I said such a thing, so I simply smiled back.
"So you do remember a lot of your early life, living on that farm?"
"Remarkably, yes," I said.
"One of these days I'd like to hear about it. I read stuff, of course, and to be honest, I thought you would be quite different from the way you are, having been brought up in a world full of mysticism and superstition. To her credit, I suppose, Ami never had any reservations about you. From what I see so far, she might be smarter than I am."
"Thank you," I said. I hesitated, but since he had made reference to mysticism and superstition, I asked about Mrs. Cukor.
"Other people might not keep her on so long with her so-called peculiarities," I commented.
"Probably not, but she's very protective of the Emersons. She was truly a second mother to me at times, and Dad believes she brings him good luck. Keeps the evil stuff away," he added. "He's more into that sort of thing than you'd think, and Mrs. Cukor has ways of convincing him she's protecting us all."
"I know exactly what you mean."
"Yes. Ami told me what she put under your pillow."
"Today I found a piece of garlic on my door handle," I said. I didn't tell him I had left it there after I had found it.
"I'll talk to her, but she'll do things like that from time to time. Just ignore it if you can, unless she starts putting garlic in your makeup," he added, and we both laughed. "There it is," he said, nodding.
The Dickinson School was directly ahead on the right. The tan brick one-story building was sprawled over acres of beautiful land, with a large, beautiful fountain in front. The three steps that led up to the en-trance were long and coffee-tinted, with wide pilasters on both sides. There was a flagpole with a flag snap-ping in the breeze. To the right was a parking lot with dozens of late-model cars. Some had just pulled into parking spaces, and students emerged, many moving in slow, reluctant steps toward the side entrance.
"There are only a hundred or so students here, if that many," Wade said. "It's just a high school, grades nine through twelve."
"Really? My class at my public school had nearly eighty students alone."
"Well, this is special. I think the teacher-student ratio is something like nine to one. My father never understood how that sort of situation allows for more personal attention. I suppose it has its pros and cons. If you burp, the whole student body hears about it," he added, laughing.
We pulled into an empty parking space and stepped out.
"Despite its size, or because of it, this really is an impressive school. They don't have much of a basketball team, and they're too small for football, but they do have winning golf and tennis teams."
"I never played either," I said.
"Oh? Well, we have our own tennis court, so I'll break you into the game, not that I'm much of an athlete. My father is actually quite the tennis player, even now. He loves playing against me to prove he hasn't lost his youthful vigor," Wade said as we walked up to the front steps. "I attended a play here once, so I know they have a good drama club. The daughter of a friend was the lead. That was two years ago. She's graduated and attends Vassar. They usually get their graduates into top schools," he said.
He opened the front door. I took a deep breath and stepped into the small but plush school lobby. The gold-tiled floors glimmered as did the three black marble columns. There were dark wood and glass display cases filled with trophies, and paintings of beautiful rustic scenes on all the walls. Etched on the far wall was THE DICKINSON SCHOOL. Underneath that was a bust on a black marble pedestal. Wade quickly pointed out that the bust was of Zachary Dickinson, the founder of the school and its original benefactor. He told me Zachary Dickinson was a businessman who had made a fortune in the furniture industry. When we drew closer and I could look at the bust better, I thought he looked like Bob Hope.
There were two hallways, one on the far left and one on the far right. The one on the left had a plaque indicating that the administrative offices were there. I was quite struck by the silence in the building. Unlike any school I had attended, this seemed deserted. Even when classes were in session at my former high school, there were students moving about, making noises, shouting to each other, going to bathrooms, or simply wandering without permission.
At the beginning of the hallway was a door on the left; a gold plaque beside it read "Central Office." I gazed down the remainder of the hallway. All the classroom doors and other office doors were closed. There was no one in the hallway, and it was just as quiet as it was in the lobby. The walls were clean, without any posters or signs, and the hallway looked as if it had just been washed and polished. A series of tubular neon bulbs down the center of the hallway ceil-ing cast a yellowish white light over the walls and floor.
Before Wade reached for the office doorknob, we heard another door open and some voices echoing up from the rear of the building. Two boys walked in from the parking lot. I could see that one had hair close in color to mine, though in the yellowish light it looked somewhat redder. In fact, for a moment it looked to me like his head was on fire. The other boy had dark hair and was a few inches shorter. They laughed at something, paused to look our way, and then entered a room.
I entered the office after Wade opened the door. Unlike the offices at my ol
d school, this was like stepping into a library. The two women working at their desks behind the counter were speaking softly to each other. Everything was neat and orderly; even the bulletin board on the immediate left had
announcements perfectly pinned in straight, even columns. There was none of the turmoil and frantic activity I was used to seeing in a central school office.
One of the women appeared about sixty, the other more like thirty. They both looked at us, and then the older woman , stayed at her desk while the younger woman approached the counter.
"May I help you?" she asked, and smiled at me.
"I'm Wade Emerson. My wife and I spoke with Mrs. Brentwood about Celeste's enrollment this morning," he said.
It didn't occur to me until then that Ami would have wanted to tell them I was her cousin. After all, she and I had gone through the fabrication of my history just the evening before. But wouldn't the office personnel know the truth anyway? I wondered.
"Oh. Just one moment," the woman said, and returned to her desk to use the phone. She spoke as softly into it as she had been speaking with her associate.
Almost immediately, the principal's office door opened, and Mrs. Brentwood appeared. Dressed in a charcoal skirt suit and white blouse, she looked as elegant and as pretty as she had when I saw her in the restaurant.
"Mr. Emerson, how nice to see you. Please, come in," she said, stepping back.
"Thank you," Wade said. He waited for me to go first.
"Hi," Mrs. Brentwood said, smiling. "You must be Celeste." She offered me her hand.
"Hi," I said, shaking it, and we walked into her office.
If she had seen Ami, me, and Wade at the restaurant the night before, she didn't care to mention it.
"I was under the impression your wife was bringing her around," she told Wade when she noticed Ami wasn't behind us.
"So was I," he said drily. "Actually, this works out well for me. It's on the way to work."
She raised her eyebrows, softened her smile even more, and went behind her desk.
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