Barbarians at the PTA

by Stephanie Newman

  “Sounds like you’re saying you’d like to get involved in something more meaningful,” I commented.

  “Well, yeah. People where I live are mostly brain-dead idiots. I love my friends, and some of the other women in town are fun to go out drinking with, but they aren’t really aware of the larger world. I miss helping people.”

  Maureen was deep in thought. “I’d like to go back to work, but all the hospitals and clinics have eliminated part-time positions to cut costs,” she finally said. “And since we can’t afford live-in help, I have to deal until the kids are older.”

  “You sounded happy when you mentioned volunteering.”

  “Yes. Last week, my friends asked me to serve as the cochair of our town’s Newcomer’s Committee. It’s the most important part of the PTA, helping new families assimilate into the community. I’ll be working with Lee DeVry, and that’s a big deal. Have you heard of the family? They’re charitable people, very successful. Their home is magnificent: over 11,000 square feet, on a private lake with two docks, floor-to-ceiling windows and—this blows my mind—no two walls the same size. It was in an architectural magazine, a huge spread. Lee’s husband, Jack, is a financier. He told Bob he’s building a helipad on the property.”

  Lee? That sounded familiar. I thought back. Jess had mentioned her when we met in the classroom.

  Maureen glanced at the clock and continued. “I’ve known Lee since sophomore year; we were in the same sorority. She’s a natural blond with a perfect body, a true southern belle!” Maureen laughed. “All good, unless you piss her off. One time she blackballed a cheerleader who went after her boyfriend. It got ugly.” She paused, furrowing her brow. “I forgot why I got onto this. Oh, right, the Newcomer’s Committee. Like I said, I’m glad to be working with Lee. She’s, like, the most popular woman in town. Our daughters are best friends, and our families are really close.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I said.

  Her phone buzzed and she took it out of her purse. “Lee is in the city and wants to meet up. My speech therapy friends will have to wait.” She glanced at the clock. “Okay. I see it’s that time.”

  I always found it interesting when patients told me it was time to end. I knew that for Maureen, this probably had to do with wanting to know when she should rein in her feelings. She had a lot of self-control, and valued her ability to compose herself.

  I also found it interesting that Maureen was going to make her speech therapy pals wait until after she got together with Lee. I had a nagging feeling that maybe my patient wasn’t the Eleanor Roosevelt she made herself out to be.

  She stood up. “Almost forgot to mention, I googled because I was going to leave a message, and saw that you also have an office in Mayfair. If you’re new to town, it’s my job to welcome you on behalf of the Newcomer’s Committee. But I can’t show you around. Obviously that would be weird.”

  Obviously. I was sweating as she stood up and walked to the door. This boundary stuff was going to be tougher than I realized.

  “Maybe we should switch it up, meet in Westchester next time. I’ll call you about that. Either way, see you next week.” She turned and threw me a parting grin, and I was struck by how pretty she was, by the friendliness in her smile. It wasn’t hard to see why Maureen had so many friends, and why she was head of her town’s welcoming committee.

  After she left, I grabbed a sip of water and glanced out the window onto the busy city street. Maureen, official town greeter and soup kitchen volunteer, was standing next to her car, ripping up a summons and shoving it into her purse. She’d parked in a handicapped spot. Perhaps we would talk about that next hour.

  This session had me thinking about Maureen and other women who felt hamstrung by the maternal role. So many seemed to be struggling to understand who they were now that their kids were a little older and they had more time on their hands. It was the moms whose primary source of identity was derived through parenting that struggled the most.

  I was pleased when my phone pinged. It was Sharon, one of the women I’d met in the classroom, inviting me to get together: “Would love to meet up. Next couple of weeks, crazy, but after that?” “Sure! Love to,” I responded, and we signed off.

  Rachel and I began to settle into a routine. We had breakfast together and I dropped her off and headed to work, leaving pick-up to Alva, our sitter since Rachel’s birth. The two of them were close. Knowing what it was like to feel the void of loss, I was thrilled when Alva agreed to work in Westchester.

  “Can we have eggs today?” Rachel was asking. We’d make it to school, but if we didn’t leave in the next few minutes, I’d have trouble getting into the city on time.

  “Sure,” I said, glancing at my watch. “You’ll need a big meal to get through school and unpack all of the cartons in your room.”

  She stomped upstairs. “It isn’t fair! I should be allowed to keep my room the way I want.”

  I cracked the eggs, thinking that being a mother was hands down more difficult than seeing clients.

  As we were getting ready to leave, I walked past the powder room and noticed a small puddle where water was leaking. The place was in disrepair with antiquated plumbing and loose tiles everywhere. A team of construction workers would barely make a dent, and I had no idea how to stop a toilet from running over or fix a sink. Where was my old super when I needed him? I imagined calling him in an emergency; maybe he would come over for a repair, or if it snowed. Come to think of it, I still hadn’t purchased a shovel. Better get on that before I wound up trapped in a huge drift.

  Rachel gulped down her breakfast and we drove to school. She accepted my apology for being short-tempered, and promised to start on the boxes later that day. Through the rearview mirror I took in her fitted V-neck, cropped jeans, and the Adidas sneakers she’d lobbied for—the ones all the Mayfair girls were wearing. For the majority of the ride she stared down at her phone, fingers moving across the screen. I asked how everything was going.

  “It’s fine. Everyone’s nice. I like the teacher.” I’d hoped for more, but knew better than to probe. Once we arrived, she barely waited until I’d stopped the car before opening her door and catapulting out, knees bent, like a parachute jumper. “Bye.” Her departure told me everything I needed to know: The classroom and peer group were fine.

  Since we’d gotten through drop-off ahead of schedule, I parked and headed for the Starbucks by the station platform. The place was packed, a magnet for commuters from several towns over. Inching my way in, I noticed that it reeked of too-potent coffee beans and vibrated like crazy whenever a train approached. Spending time there was like supping at the base of a live volcano.

  There were a few women, including Jess, at a small café table across the room from the counter. While queuing up, I looked over a few times and tried to wave, but Jess was deep in conversation.

  After my cappuccino was paid for, I grabbed it and squeezed through the crowd, stopping at her table to say hello. She and her friends were in yoga clothes, sipping hot drinks and laughing. “Hi,” I smiled. “How’s everything?”

  “Good,” she nodded, as I glanced around at the group and smiled. One of the women was telling a story. The others were focusing on her and didn’t meet my eye.

  “Just thought I’d say ‘Good morning.’ I’m on my way to work.” Jess waved briefly before turning back to the others.

  I made my way toward the door, wondering whether it had been a mistake to go over. She hadn’t introduced me to her friends, but wouldn’t it have been rude for me to leave without saying hello? There was a catch in my chest. Something was wrong.

  A fast search of my pockets told me I’d misplaced my cell phone. Pivoting quickly, I failed to notice the tall, dark-haired guy who’d been resting against the wall, coffee in one hand, Kindle in the other. I bumped into him, tipping his cup and spilling dark liquid onto the floor.

  “Excuse me,” I said at exactly the same moment he apologized.

  “Good reflexes. Did
I burn you?” He was smiling.

  I shook my head. “My fault. I’m sorry I spilled your coffee.”

  A train rumbled its approach. “No worries.” My pulse quickened as he held my gaze for several moments until a buzzing sound—my phone!—pulled my attention toward my purse. I dragged my eyes away and dug around as a surge of commuters moved en masse toward the doorway. When I looked up, the cute guy had vanished.

  Too bad, but he was probably married.

  Four

  A Visit

  I was straining pasta over the sink—not exactly groundbreaking from a culinary standpoint, but it would have to do—when Rachel burst in from soccer practice. She was muddy, red-cheeked, and full of news. “Collette’s coming over tomorrow. We’re going to do homework together. Can she stay for dinner?”

  “Of course.” I motioned for Rachel to take her cleats off and leave them by the door.

  “Let me know what you want to eat, and I’ll ask Alva to get the ingredients.” I was glad our sitter had agreed to do more of the housework and cooking now that Rachel was older and needed less in the way of childcare.

  My daughter was nodding along, vigorously. “Something fun, like tacos?” she said, bending down to begin the process of untying. “Can Collette and I make popcorn and watch The Voice?”

  “Sure.” After seeing that kid in action, bossing everyone around in the classroom, laughing at the red-haired girl, even giving me a dirty look, I wasn’t a fan. But I controlled my impulse to comment. Rachel had the right to choose her own friends.

  The following day after work, I walked in as Alva was leaving. We said a quick hello as I set my car keys and purse down, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a container of orange juice. I’d just finished pouring a glass and shoving the carton in the compartment inside the door, when Alva raced over.

  “My refrigerator,” she laughed, grabbing the container and moving it to the top shelf as she debriefed me. “Rachie is having fun,” she said, buttoning her sweater. “I’m glad she has a friend. They were chatting up a storm today! They’re in her room now.”

  I said goodbye to Alva and tiptoed upstairs to peek into the bedroom. The girls sat side-by-side on the bed, putting on lip-gloss, taking selfies, and joking around. Rachel’s laughter sounded pressured; more like a strange cackle than the giggle I was used to.

  “Don’t post that.” I heard Collette say. “Delete it.”

  Rachel nodded, her face red.

  I tiptoed down the hall and headed downstairs to empty the dishwasher. Julie called, and I filled her in on the new school and Rachel’s classroom.

  “You know, Vic,” she said, “things may work out for you after all.”

  We laughed as I took in the meaning of her comment. Instead of being the woman who was humiliated at the altar, maybe I was poised to live a comfortable and happy life with my daughter. Dare to dream.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Rachel hasn’t talked about our aunt or Colin. I’m not sure how to help her process her grief and all the other changes.”

  “You know what to do. Follow her lead. And why don’t you try to have a little fun for a change? Take a risk; you’re too tightly coiled.”

  She knew me well. “What do you suggest?” I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder as I reshelved the previous night’s dinner plates.

  “What about bungee jumping?”

  “Ha. Ha.” After a brief silence, Julie spoke more gently. “Rachel will be fine. Let’s work on you. Have you met any women you might want to hang out with, potential friends?”

  “There was one mom, Sharon, who seemed nice. She reminded me of Sam. Remember Zoe’s mother?”

  “That’s your friend who went back to work, right?” she asked at the precise moment there was a large clatter and some screaming on her end of the line, followed by a noise that sounded like a slap: “Work sounds good.” Julie’s tone was dry. “Maeve grabbed a container of paint and dropped it on the dog, who is now a hideous shade of magenta. Carly hit her on the back, and Maeve is crying, so I have to go.”

  “You know you’re not allowed to paint in here—” was the last thing I heard before the call cut off. It was hard enough keeping up with a preteen; I had no idea how Julie managed two on one.

  It was time for Rachel’s favorite show. I called up to the girls, who informed me they’d watch on their laptops. Why would I think they’d come downstairs and hang out with me? Growing up I’d sat in the living room and viewed my parents’ or aunt’s selections. I shook my head, contemplating the end of family time.

  As I was surfing channels, I heard the sound of gravel in the driveway and peeked out the living room window. An army-size SUV pulled up and its driver alighted. He rounded the car and opened a rear door, and in the headlight beams, I spotted a woman walking up the path. Even if Collette hadn’t been over, I’d have known instantly it was Lee, the PTA president I’d heard so much about. Just as everyone said, she had arresting blue eyes and perfect cheekbones.

  Staring at her toned physique, I was pretty sure she was the woman in tennis clothes that everyone had cleared a path for that first morning in the lobby of the school. She hadn’t seen me, but her daughter had.

  I opened the door. “Haiii. You must be Victoria.” She eyed me up and down, “Look at you, tiny little thing; Jess said you were adorable,” before charging past. “May ah come in? Ah’ve just been dying to see your place. My mother’s parents had a home like this, down South.”

  “Really, where did they live?” I asked as she raced into the foyer, ignoring me. “Mah stars! This place is huge.”

  “Please come into the kitchen. I have some iced tea or Perrier.”

  Lee followed me, scanning the joint like she was looking to buy. She didn’t miss anything, not a crack in the ceiling or a chipped tile. I handed her a glass and an old joke: “Maid’s day off. And the construction staff has gone fishing.” She looked confused. “There’s so much I want to do around here, it’s . . . well . . . .”

  Her eyes came to rest on the sink. I’d wrapped a thick ribbon of gray duct tape over the faucet to patch a leaky gap. She stared at my makeshift repair, and then turned back to me. “You just need the right crew and interior designer, honey. Let me ask Jack, mah husband, for names of contractors.”

  Lee and her friends were so wealthy; I didn’t want the contact info for her designer or crew. With the rent of two offices and Alva’s salary, I could barely pay the hefty real estate taxes, let alone renovate.

  I pushed aside my insecurities and smiled. “That’s nice of you. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

  “Sure.”

  For the next ten minutes, Lee ooh’d and aah’d about square footage and antique beams, mentioning as we climbed the stairs, that she’d designed her home and built it “from the studs up.” She surveyed my room and the master bath, and I became acutely aware of several loose tiles and a drip. Lee told me she’d spent nearly a month selecting faucets and hardware.

  Now we were passing the bedrooms. She waved at the girls while I walked on. Hearing giggling, I relaxed a bit; Rachel was having a good time. We were finally at the end of the hallway and began descending the stairs, where mercifully, our tour concluded where it had begun, in the front hallway. I asked if she would like another Perrier, or wanted to sit down in the living room. “I’m sorry I can’t; I have got to run. Collette! Come on!” The younger DeVry appeared at the top of the landing. “Let’s go, sugar. Say thank you.”

  “Thank you,” Collette parroted, as she advanced down the staircase in this moment’s jeans and sequined high tops, Rachel following on her heels. When they’d reached the bottom of the landing, Collette looked at me and whispered to her mother. Lee raised her brow and glanced over. I focused on my daughter. She’d shed her favorite fleece hoodie in favor of fitted clothing, and now seemed to prefer hanging around on Instachat to riding her bike. As I was contemplating these changes, Lee moved to where I’d been standing and kissed each of m
y cheeks before leaving with her daughter.

  Rachel glanced at her phone as the door closed behind them. “Lexi just texted. There’s a basketball interest meeting next Wednesday night. Her mom’s driving; can I go?”

  “Sure!”

  “Guess what else! Collette and I made a joint Instachat account.” She grinned and held out her phone so I could see.

  “That’s great, honey,” I said, hoping that new friendship wasn’t a bad idea.

  Jess and her friend Audrey followed up on the ladies’ night. As members of the Newcomer’s Committee, it was their job to reach out to Mayfair’s recent arrivals. The plan was for us to meet the following Tuesday at the Mexican place by the harbor.

  I was parking in front of the restaurant, when Jess pinged that she and Audrey had already been seated and Lee would be joining us. I glanced down at my jeans and white cotton blouse. Hopefully I’d dressed properly. It was supposed to be a casual evening.

  As soon as I opened the door, I spotted them on the opposite end of the room. While Jess was small and blond, Audrey was tall and dark. A huge red chili pepper was suspended from above, and swayed in time with the piped-in mariachi band. The place was nearly empty.

  Jess wore leggings, a fitted T-shirt and ballet flats; Audrey had gone for a black trapeze dress and yin-yang pendant. They’d chosen to sit on the same side of the banquette. As I slid in across the table and started introducing myself to Audrey, her phone began to ring. “Babysitter,” she mouthed to Jess, shaking her head as the caller spoke: “So what? That’s just too bad.” She ended the call and caught Jess’s eye: “Jagger refuses to shower. I’ve about had it with that kid.” Jess pointed to the menu. “Who’d order a mole? Sounds disgusting.” They laughed and read through the rest of the entrées together.