The Admissions

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  Now that she had the floor, Nora realized she couldn’t say any of the things she wanted to say. Which were, in no particular order: God, would you help Maya’s reading. God, would you help Angela’s Harvard application. God, would you help that snarky little intern have some misfortune befall her. God, would you help Cecily find something else she loves to replace the Irish dance hole. God, would you make sure people eat this turkey because it’s organic and grass-fed and free-range and all of the other good things a turkey can be and it cost eighty-three dollars before tax and besides that I have no idea what I’m going to do with the leftovers.

  This was not what prayer was supposed to be, of course. You were supposed to pray for the poor and the hungry and the sick and the dying and all of the other unfortunate people roaming the earth. You were supposed to pray for people trapped in hospices or South American mines or prison camps in the Middle East. You were not supposed to use up all of your prayers trying to keep your little healthy and fortunate family in the cocoon of health and fortune into which they’d happily been born. Bad girl, Nora, she thought. Selfish and bad. You deserve nothing.

  So she went instead for brevity. Lord, thank you for the lovely meal you have given us and the opportunity to be together with family and friends on this holiday, and Lord, help those less fortunate, amen.

  “Amen,” said everyone together, and Nora was so happy about that that she said it again, louder, evangelist-style: Amen.

  CHAPTER 40

  ARTHUR

  It was five o’clock on the Friday after Thanksgiving. A quiet day, of course, but Arthur went in anyway. You never knew when something might happen. Grace came in for two hours and then slunk out.

  Arthur was starving. After Grace’s departure, the office was empty. Only Arthur remained—Arthur, and the ghost of Jimmy Wainwright, Arthur’s business partner for so many years. The Jacob Marley to Arthur’s Scrooge, though Arthur and Jimmy were nice men, charitable men, men who contributed to the community and would never say an unkind or judgmental word about the poor. Linda dragged Arthur to the American Conservatory Theater’s production of A Christmas Carol at the Geary each December, and Arthur always felt a tear or two develop in his eyes during the first act, when poor old Ebenezer worked alone in his office. You weren’t supposed to feel sympathy for Scrooge in the first act, Arthur knew this, but he allowed himself the exquisitely painful luxury of it anyway. It had been ten years since Jimmy died and Arthur missed him like crazy. He couldn’t bear to remove his name from the business, and so he kept it there, as homage, faithfully, the way a hunter might display in his lodge a photo of a beloved and expired coonhound.

  Tonight it would fall to Arthur to turn off the lights and lock the door. Two years ago, right before bringing Nora Hawthorne back on, Sutton and Wainwright had combined its original office space with the vacant office next door—a failed cupcake bakery—and renovated the office, adding exposed brick where there was none, and brushed metal signs with the firm’s name printed in a sophisticated-but-not-overly-trendy font, and a table with a top-of-the-line cappuccino machine.

  Wow, he was really, really hungry. He felt a sudden and intense pang of nostalgia for the way Linda had cooked when they first met, six hundred and fifty-two years ago: spaghetti carbonara, rich with bacon fat and cream. Beef Wellington. Bourbon shrimp flambé. Linda had been an energetic and bold cook, not afraid of sauces or cream or butter. Especially butter. She’d try anything. She’d eat anything, drink anything, go anywhere. She was up for whatever.

  Linda and Arthur Sutton spoke of baby Dawn only once a year, on her birthday, the fourth of December, and the rest of the year they said nothing. People who hadn’t known them then didn’t know about it. No need; Arthur Sutton didn’t want anybody’s pity. Life was hard on everybody, in one way or another. Who didn’t carry a little heartbreak around with them, tucked away somewhere? All things considered, he was fortunate. He had his marriage, which he treasured above and beyond everything else in the world. He still worshipped his wife’s body, all these years later, and making love to her, as he did often, and gratefully, still felt like the elegant magic it had been the very first time. He had his work, which he also treasured. He was a lucky, lucky man, living in the Bay Area, in a gorgeous home purchased three decades ago and renovated into urban perfection. He felt only occasional yearnings for Connecticut, where he had grown up, for his parents, long since passed away, for his old faithful golden retriever, for the playing fields at Brunswick School, where he’d come of age as a day student.

  But sometimes, looking at Nora Hawthorne’s daughters, and at Nora herself (though of course Arthur wasn’t quite old enough to be Nora’s father), he imagined what could have been, and the sense of melancholy he felt for Dawn was nearly enough to undo him. Cecily in particular: there was a joy about her, a vivacity, that he knew Dawn would have had. Linda sensed this too, he was sure of this, though again they never spoke of it. Every Christmas, approximately one week after A Christmas Carol, Linda took Nora and her three girls to see The Nutcracker at the Opera House. After, they had hot chocolate at Tosca Cafe. It was one of the highlights of Linda’s year, and they had carried on with the tradition even during Nora’s hiatus from the job.

  Arthur looked through the snack basket next to the cappuccino machine. Grace faithfully filled the basket each day before leaving, which was good, but she purchased the snacks on the advice of Linda, which was bad. Everything was all-natural, gluten free, sugar free, soy free. Taste free!

  Because of Linda’s latest cleanse, Arthur had no hope of a good meal at home. Linda had expunged from the house all grains and dairy, and she had relegated to the locked wine room anything remotely alcoholic. Thank goodness for Nora’s Thanksgiving meal the day before. Though Nora had been acting a little mercurial, had she not? It wasn’t just Nora, actually—the whole Hawthorne family had seemed a little off, not quite their usual sunny selves.

  A complicated business, family life.

  Not that he would know.

  Arthur wanted a thick steak, a baked potato with butter, and a good Scotch followed by a glass of Cabernet. He wondered if he could get a seat at the bar at Alexander’s without a reservation. Worth a shot? Maybe. He was putting on his coat—the fall evenings were downright chilly now—when the office phone rang. He hesitated. He could taste the steak already, the Scotch, the Cab. But: five o’clock on the Friday after Thanksgiving. That wasn’t a typical time for the office phone to ring. It could be important.

  “Sutton and Wainwright,” he said. Scrooge and Marley.

  “Arthur! Sally Bentley. I was hoping to reach Nora.”

  Arthur said, “Sally!” with more enthusiasm than he felt. “Hello there. Nora’s off for the day from the office. Did you try her cell?”

  “No, I didn’t try her cell.” Sally sounded as though she’d rushed to answer the phone, even though she was the one who had called. “But I wanted to catch up with her, about the Watkins listing. I know she must be feeling…ah, how shall I say it? Frustrated? Disappointed? Maybe a teensy bit envious?”

  “Envious?” said Arthur. Why would Nora be feeling envious about the Watkins listing? Arthur waited, thought about the baked potato. Butter. And sour cream. It wouldn’t kill him to have both, this—

  “Oh, Arthur,” said Sally regretfully. “I thought for sure you knew, about the listing. That Lawrence canceled with you all, and is listing with me. I’m so sorry, Arthur. I just hate to be the bearer of unwelcome tidings.”

  Arthur experienced several undesirable sensations all at once: cold and hot, fury and indignation, a curious suctioning feeling in his gut that he recalled feeling only once before, when he and Linda did a wine tasting in Napa followed by a balloon ride (you were supposed to do it the other way around).

  It was ruined now: the seat at the bar at Alexander’s, the Scotch. Even the goddamn sour cream was ruined. He had never lost a listing to Sally Bentley. She might have represented volume, but Sutton and Wainwright represent
ed class. Look at the exposed brick in the office, look at the cappuccino machine!

  “And I hate to kick a person when they’re down, Arthur.”

  “Who’s down?” said Arthur. “I’m not down. I couldn’t be more up.” In fact he was starting to feel a little bit down.

  “Why, about what happened at the Millers’ house, of course. Over on Sycamore. Last week.”

  Millers, Millers. Rang a bell, yes, Nora’s listing, some time ago. Sycamore. Yes. Slightly difficult buyers, but nothing Nora couldn’t handle. She’d handled them beautifully, in fact. With grace and aplomb, typical of Nora. It was coming back to him now. The Millers on Sycamore. Beautiful home.

  “Loretta didn’t call you? I thought for sure she’d call you. You know I’ve known Loretta forever, it’s just that I never got along with her husband—long story, Arthur, pretty hilarious, remind me and I’ll tell you sometime. Really just a big misunderstanding. In fact, that’s why they approached your office and not mine when they were looking to buy. Which was a blow to me, of course. I’ve always been in favor of letting bygones be bygones—”

  “What on earth,” said Arthur testily, “are you talking about, Sally?” Forget the potato. Now he just wanted the Scotch, and the Cabernet. Maybe an order of the shichimi fries. His stomach muttered.

  “I’m talking about Nora. At the Millers’ house. You know about this, right? Oh my goodness, Arthur, wait a minute, do you really not know about this? Nora didn’t tell you? Loretta didn’t call you? Well, they haven’t been back from Maui for more than three or four days but I thought for sure she’d call you immediately.”

  Arthur listened. His stomach dropped down, then down again, into a place he hadn’t known it could go. He was no longer hungry and he wasn’t thirsty; he didn’t want the Scotch nor the Cabernet nor the shichimi fries.

  Well, maybe the Scotch.

  Definitely the Scotch.

  CHAPTER 41

  STATE LANDMARK REPORT

  By Cecily Hawthorne

  Mrs. Whitney’s 4th Grade Class

  The Golden Gate Bridge is one of California’s most famous landmarks. It is also one of the most famous bridges in the world. It opened to cars on May 28, 1937. The day before people were allowed to walk across it. There was a line of people waiting to cross by 6 a.m. that day. There were 18,000 people in the line. One man walked across the Bridge and back again on stilts the first day it was open! His name was Florentine Calegeri, and he was really good on stilts.

  The Golden Gate is not golden. Many visitors to San Francisco think it is going to be and are surprised. The Bridge got its name because it goes over the Golden Gate Strait. The strait was named by a person in the United States Army in 1846.

  Eleven men died building the Golden Gate Bridge. 96 men died building the Hoover Dam, which opened one year earlier, in 1936. So that is an interesting number. You would think a lot more people might die building such a big bridge. Ten of the men died in one single accident on the bridge when it was almost done. Everybody who worked on the bridge had to wear a safety belt and a hard hat. There was a safety net put under the bridge during the building and that saved 19 men. The net allowed the men to work faster than they would have because they were not afraid of falling and dying, which I would be if I worked on that bridge. The ten men who died were all on a piece that fell through the net. That must have been really scary.

  The Golden Gate Bridge is a Suspension Bridge. The Golden Gate is not the longest suspension bridge in the world. But it used to be. Now it is ninth. The longest one is in Japan and other long ones are in China, Hong Kong, Denmark, and New York.

  You can still walk or drive across the bridge. I have done it and it is fun. It is 1.7 miles long. It can be tiring if you have to walk back across. A good idea is to have someone pick you up at the other end. Some of the things that are not allowed on the bridge are electric scooters, roller blades, roller skates, and dogs unless they are service dogs. Also you can’t bring a wheelbarrow, not that you really would want to! You also cannot scatter ashes from the Bridge. You aren’t allowed to drop or throw anything at all. If you do you will get in big trouble.

  The Golden Gate Bridge is one of the most popular suicide destinations in the world! But lots of people are saved every year by Bridge Patrol or by regular people who happen to be on the bridge. So that’s good. Sometimes people jump from the bridge and survive, but not very often. Usually if you jump you die. Bridge Patrol officers use patrol cars, bicycles, and motorized scooters to go back and forth across the bridge and to try to stop people from jumping.

  The chief engineer of the bridge was Joseph Strauss. He died in Los Angeles almost exactly one year after the bridge was done. There was also another man that had a lot to do with the design of the bridge but he had a big fight with Joseph Strauss so Joseph Strauss got all of the credit. The other man finally got credit in 2007.

  There are 600,000 rivets in each tower. A rivet is a pin or bolt that holds together two pieces of metal. The Golden Gate Bridge did not get damaged in the famous earthquake in 1989. The Bay Bridge did. That’s a different bridge that goes to Oakland.

  The color of the bridge is called international orange. The bridge is always being painted a little bit at a time. The U.S. Navy wanted the bridge to be painted with black and yellow stripes to make it easy to see. But they didn’t get their way.

  The Golden Gate Bridge is one of California’s most famous landmarks. To many people it is what they think of when they think of San Francisco.

  December

  CHAPTER 42

  ANGELA

  It was five o’clock in the evening and Angela was parking (badly) on Fillmore Street. Her mother had wanted to accompany her—embarrassing, but kind of sweet—and now that she was trying to parallel park she sort of wished she’d taken her up on the offer. Angela had many fortes, but parallel parking was not one of them.

  This was Angela’s interview with a Harvard alumnus.

  “I can do this alone!” she insisted.

  See me, the note from Ms. Simmons had said on her extended essay, and she burned with shame, thinking about it. She couldn’t even meet Ms. Simmons’s eyes in class anymore.

  “I won’t come in with you,” her mother said. “I’ll just make sure you make it there safely, and then I’ll leave you to it. I’ll go get a cup of coffee.”

  “I thought you didn’t drink coffee after one in the afternoon.”

  “I’ll get a decaf.”

  Maya, piping up from the living room: “You could have wine.”

  “I don’t drink wine at five o’clock on a Wednesday.”

  “Yes, you do. Sometimes you drink it earlier.”

  “Okay, Maya, that’s enough out of you.”

  Angela wanted to go it alone. She wanted it to be perfect. She dressed carefully, in an outfit she’d chosen from J.Crew earlier in the fall for exactly this purpose—gray toothpick pants, an embroidered tank, and a matching cardigan, all of which she would probably never wear again. Wasn’t her style. She could hand it down to Cecily, except it definitely wasn’t Cecily’s style. Also Cecily was almost as tall as Angela. Maybe one day it would be Maya’s style. Did Maya have a style? Not yet, but she’d get one. Everybody did, eventually.

  Nope, she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t parallel park in the city this close to rush hour. She pulled out of the space—only the nose of the car was in there anyway—and found a garage, forking over thirty-three (?!) of the forty dollars her mother had given her for this very reason.

  Susan Holloway, class of ’76, was a partner at an environmental law firm: Bennett, Collins, Holloway. All of the names seemed very lawyerly. Angela understood only in a general sense what environmental lawyers did; she hoped it didn’t come up. She was ushered from the main lobby, which was decorated with tastefully framed photographs of waterfalls and breaching humpback whales, into Susan Holloway’s office by an assistant with a perfect blond bun and a tasteful suntan. She must, Angela decided, following h
er down a long bright hallway, use one of those doughnut things to get the bun so perfect. Angela had tried to use one before but could never get it right. Cecily was really good at using doughnuts; she used them with her Irish dance wig. Back when she used to wear an Irish dance wig.

  “Okay,” said the assistant, letting air out through a space between her front teeth. “She’ll be with you in just a moment.” Angela sat in the chair the assistant pointed to and braced herself. She pictured Susan Holloway, class of ’76, as tall and sternly Scandinavian, maybe like an Old Norse princess. Watching through the fog while the ships rolled in.

  Deep breath. She dug her fingernails into her palms. She felt like she was waiting for a doctor to examine her.

  “Hello. You must be Angela. Who else would you be!”

  Angela turned, rose. Susan Holloway, class of ’76, turned out to be one of the few adult females over whom Angela towered. It was refreshing. She had tight little dark curls (a crown of curls?) and thin lips that disappeared when she smiled. She looked like a friendly hamster. She looked like the one Cecily had brought home that one weekend.

  Angela cleared her throat, channeled her mother, and said, “It’s so, so nice to meet you, Ms. Holloway. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”

  If it was possible, Susan Holloway smiled harder; the smiling looked almost like physical exertion. A little vein popped out in the center of her forehead.

  “That’s a nice firm handshake you have there, Angela. Who taught you that?”

  “My father.” Angela thought of her father’s giant rancher’s hands, brown and strong. He used to birth calves with those hands. Disgusting, of course, but also fascinating.