All The Hidden Pieces

by Jillian Thomadsen

  “Thank you,” Greta said. “Really. You don’t know how much it means to me. And to John.”

  J.J. glanced over at Joanne and then his gaze alighted on Greta. “We know how much it means to all of our students, and we’re glad every time we can accept a new student. But…”

  He hesitated and glanced at Joanne again and Greta knew that there was going to be some bad news mixed in with the good. Perhaps J.J. and Joanne had practiced this routine before. Lead with the good news and set the mood for the bad. The lowered voice, the furtive glimpses at each other…even the sun seemed to cower behind a mass of clouds as if to participate in the act.

  “But…” J.J. continued. “The education here is first-rate and we’re able to provide individualized instruction, but there’s a cost to that instruction. With tuition and fees, the all-in cost of attending the school is thirty-five thousand dollars a year.”

  If they expected to her to flinch with shock, she surprised them by continuing to sit there, expressionless. The number so comically, impossibly high that it may as well have been one hundred thousand, or even a made-up number: sixty-five quadrillion dollars! She was a stay-at-home mom who barely managed to stretch Griffin’s monthly payment across thirty days. Yet the school offered need-based financial aid and she was sitting next to the financial aid officer. Certainly the number he spouted wasn’t the actual number.

  “How much will I have to pay if I qualify for financial aid?” she asked.

  “That’s the thing,” J.J. said, shifting in his seat. “We’ve looked at the income tax statements you provided and you don’t qualify.”

  “What?” Greta rang. “How don’t I qualify?” If they expected her to get a job to defray the cost of tuition, she would immediately commence a resume campaign. But Greta had no college degree, let alone a high school diploma. She had no prospects for covering the cost of a thirty-five thousand dollar a year school – not even close, and not even when combined with Tuck’s salary as a paralegal.

  J.J. shifted again and cleared his throat. “Well the financial documents you provided were not only yours but those of your husband…”

  “Ex-husband,” Greta corrected.

  “Ex-husband,” J.J. repeated. “We have a very limited ability to offer financial aid and unfortunately, the assistance goes only to the most needy students. John’s father earns more than the vast majority of our families. We aren’t in a position to offer financial assistance to John at this time.”

  “But Griffin won’t pay for it – any of it,” Greta insisted. “He thinks John needs to work harder, that he’s lazy. Griffin won’t even cover part of it. He’s opposed on principle.”

  As soon as she first heard the words The Jefferson School – as soon as she was told it was a private school -- Greta had been on the phone, trying to get hold of her ex-husband. Griffin at first avoided her calls but eventually relented – if for no other reason than to stop the flood of messages. And once Greta was able to speak to him, she tried every approach she could think of. She promised him she’d work for him as a housekeeper or assistant, she tried to portray it as an investment in his son, she appealed to his sense of loyalty and paternity. Nothing worked. Griffin, quite simply, was not going to fund any part of The Jefferson School. The mutually agreed-upon nominal child support payment was the end of it.

  “Is Griffin involved in John’s life?” J.J. asked.

  “Well, he sees him for one weekend every few months,” Greta said.

  “And does he pay child support?”

  Greta nodded.

  “I don’t know what your relationship is like…what type of agreement you have. But you could look into filing a motion for additional support from your ex-husband if you feel his child support payments are too low.”

  Greta bit her lip and stared down at her hands. J.J. was proposing that she and Griffin find their way back to court – that they rehash every laborious detail that lawyers had painstakingly covered the first time around. He was suggesting that they toss the custody agreement out the window – the one outcome of the original agreement that had brought her peace.

  And who knew what type of judge they would get if they went back at it? The type who sympathized with John’s needs or the type who viewed a fancy private school as an exorbitant and unnecessary expense? She couldn’t take the risk of facing the latter. She knew that her child support payments were a joke; they were a small fraction – a rounding error – of Griffin’s total income and wealth. But the court only needed to find that John was getting an amount sufficient for his lifestyle…and in a twisted, iniquitous logic, it was possible to conclude that The Jefferson School needn’t constitute that lifestyle.

  Trying to get more child support from the judge was an option available to Greta, but she just couldn’t take the chance and risk losing John. Her only hope was to change the decisions of those whose minds were already thoroughly made up: J.J. Schwartz – who seemed certain that she could extract a higher payment from her ex-husband if she tried, and Griffin himself, who felt that his son should just work a little harder.

  ***

  Colt Bundy was sitting on the front steps of 12 Avery when Greta pulled into the driveway. She tried to hide her shock as she made her way out of the car. She couldn’t even remember having given Colt Bundy her home address – although surely there’d been a credit card billing form or maybe a signed check that listed the information.

  Colt looked not exactly pleased with himself – but relaxed, casual as he watched her get out of the car. His white cotton shirt clung a little bit tighter to his biceps than she’d noticed before; his lips had a light sheen of moisture as he smiled.

  “Good to see you again,” he said brightly.

  “Hi” Greta said, and shook his hand. She was still smarting from her meeting at the Jefferson School and suddenly she became aware of how alone she was at that moment. John was still at school. Tuck didn’t get off of work for another few hours. And her neighbor, Mary Miller – a woman whose sole purpose seemed to be to lurk and loiter – was nowhere in sight.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” Colt said. “So I figured I would stop by and chat with you, rather than give you an impersonal phone call.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Greta said. She watched him shift his weight from foot to foot while his eyes assessed her – practically acting out his desire to be invited inside the house – but that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, Greta leaned against her car and folded her hands across her chest. She knew she was being uncharacteristically aloof but she was in no mood to be her usual gregarious self. First she’d had to contend with her meeting at The Jefferson School – an ever-tantalizing option that had turned into a mirage – and now she had to deal with a surprise visitor whose intentions were vague.

  She let a few quiet moments pass and then Colt finally cleared his throat and spoke. “Well, I wanted to let you know the result of our latest search – your ex-husband’s silent partner.”

  “Oh right! Is it Steven Vance?”

  Colt shook his head. “No, I wasn’t able to uncover any kind of relationship between Steven Vance and Griffin.”

  “I see.” Greta said, both surprised and disappointed at the same time. She hadn’t spoken to Vance in years, but still, he was a known entity. Greta knew that she could find and speak to him if she ever needed to. Had he been Griffin’s silent partner, Greta would have had the ear of someone in his inner circle. Instead, someone she didn’t know and had never heard of was most likely Griffin’s partner – someone who would justifiably never open the door to her.

  Colt then took a step closer and smiled. He had probably interpreted her silence as an opening – a hole in the conversation inviting him to overcome his hesitance. “Greta…” he began, in a voice that was both deep and hopeful, a careful enunciation that lengthened the cadence of her name.

  Then the rest just spilled out – a streaming flurry of words, perhaps once carefully choreographed. “Greta, I’ve been m
eaning to say something for awhile now. I think you’re beautiful. I’ve always thought you were. And now that your divorce and custody arrangement are finalized, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me sometime.”

  Greta smiled back. In a way, his nervousness was endearing. Colt had the muscular outer shell of a comic book hero. He always seemed charming – the disposition of a salesman. It was sweet to witness a vulnerable side as well – even if she had no interest in pursuing him.

  “Thanks Colt,” Greta said. “I’m flattered, but I’m already seeing someone.”

  “Oh, okay, I get it. No problems then.” Colt backed away a few steps and tapped a few sheets of folded paper against his palm. “Well, here you go then. It’s my findings, as well as a final bill. Stay in touch.”

  He walked across the street, stepped into his car, gunned the engine and shot up Avery Place – well over the speed limit for their quiet residential street.

  Greta watched him leave, amused by his hasty exodus. She then glanced at the first sheet of paper – a hefty sized bill, but not unanticipated. She shuffled it to the back and looked at the other sheet. In bold black lettering, the paper listed a name and description of Griffin’s silent business partner. The name itself sent a wave of shock through Greta’s body. The other details were superfluous – a street address, a license plate number, a height and weight – all known to her already, based on the name.

  It was such an obvious name too, that once Greta saw it, she wondered why she was so shocked and why she hadn’t pieced it together sooner: Marcia Brock, her ex-mother-in-law. The woman who had initially funded all of Griffin’s ventures. The woman who so vehemently voiced her disapproval when Griffin announced his intentions to marry Greta. The silent witness who sat towards the back of their divorce proceedings and stared at Greta with crystal-blue, unflinching eyes.

  This was who had been silently narrating the milestones in Griffin’s life – the one who controlled his fortune, with final say in all of his business decisions. It was Marcia Brock who controlled all the strings and Marcia who Greta now so urgently and desperately needed to talk to.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  April 3, 2010

  It was a few months after the first phone call, but Marcia was able to find a three-hour respite in her social calendar to allow for a visit. Greta and John drove up on a warm, sunny Saturday – the day before Easter Sunday. When they finally arrived after the seven-hour drive, Greta had to pause and catch her breath before exiting the car.

  Marcia’s home was a Tudor-style ivory stucco masterpiece. There were pillars and columns, gargoyles and carefully carved topiaries. The two-story home backed up against Lake Michigan, and spread out majestically over what must have been a full acre. A gazebo overlooked sandy bluffs to the left of the house, and a stone-flanked path that led to the beach was on the right. Greta stood staring upward, silent, until Marcia appeared and ushered her visitors inside.

  “You’ve been here before Greta; you needn’t gawk like that,” Marcia said, although her tone indicated exhilaration. She loved to be admired, adored and celebrated. She handed John’s and Greta’s jackets to a black-attired butler and led them further inside the house.

  The inside of Marcia Brock’s mansion was no less remarkable than the outside. There were fifteen-foot ceilings, marble floors, antique furnishings, and high slung crystal chandeliers. Marcia led them through the front foyer, the living room and the drawing room – where an enormous Steinway grand piano absorbed sunlight from the corner windows – and opened a door to her large back terrace.

  The three sat down at an umbrella-shaded granite table and gave drink requests to a different butler. To Greta, it felt like she had stepped out of her life and into someone else’s, as though she was part of a television show that swapped realities. She had visited Marcia’s home before – sporadically, when she and Griffin were still together. But each time felt like the first. It amazed her that someone related to her – even if just by marriage – could have so much.

  When the drinks were brought, Marcia took a few sips and folded her hands across her lap. She always looked so put-together, as though she had emerged from the photo clippings of the society pages. On this day, her hair was wrapped in a silk shawl and her white wool dress fitted favorably to her svelte body.

  “Thanks for having us over,” Greta said after swallowing a few sips of ice tea.

  Marcia appeared not to hear her. She motioned for one of the butlers and then jabbed her hand in the direction of the stone path. “I don’t know how many times I tell Garcia to use the orchids from the garden and he goes and gets white hydrangeas!”

  The butler straightened up and looked vaguely in the direction of a floral arrangement dripping over a marble parapet. “My apologies, ma’am. I’ll talk to him,” the butler said. And then he was gone, leaving the three of them alone on the terrace.

  Marcia turned her attention to her grandson. “John, you haven’t said a word to me yet today. Not one word. Did the cat bite your tongue?”

  John shrugged and shifted in his seat.

  “Is he mute?” Marcia asked.

  “No, he’s not mute,” Greta said. “John, say something. You haven’t seen Grandmother in awhile. Tell her about…”

  Greta stopped and tried to think of one topic that John could safely mention to his grandmother. Sports were out of the question, as was the hip-hop dance class that she’d enrolled him in. He went for one class and mostly sat on the sideline the whole time, feigning an upset stomach and the promise of eternal embarrassment. She’d tried to get him to take music classes – drums, piano, voice – but he swore he couldn’t hold a tune and that reading music was as hard for him as reading English. And school was definitely not a topic for discussion. John was as lost as ever in the sixth grade, with few friends and no ability to keep up with the classwork.

  The truth was, there was nothing that Greta could think of that would light a spark within John. He had no apparent hobbies or interests that captured his attention. Greta hoped that perhaps – at age eleven -- they were at rock bottom of prepubescent moroseness and disinterest. Perhaps Marcia would see just how dour her grandson was and insist on helping.

  “Can I go inside and watch TV?” John asked.

  “I have something for you, John,” Marcia said. She stood up and the first butler appeared. She whispered something in his ear and he left the room, returning a few minutes later with a drawing.

  The drawing looked as though it had been sketched onto paper-sized card stock. To Greta, it was an opalescent landscape – tall green hemlocks that surrounded a farmhouse, bright red brick and yellow stalks.

  “Did you draw this? With colored pencils?” Greta asked, and Marcia nodded.

  “It looks wonderful,” Greta said. “I love the different colors.”

  She appraised it just as she would have a work of art from John – only in this instance she was hoping that her acclaim would rub off on him and he would compliment the drawing as well. John had a way of demonstrating not only lack of decorum but also a frank evaluation of someone’s work.

  John looked down and Greta could see his eyeballs moving across the paper, while the rest of his face remained frozen. After a moment or two, he said, “Hey, there’s hidden numbers! I see a five and a seven, and then two more nines. Hey, it’s my birthday numbers – May seventh! I solved the puzzle!”

  Greta stood up and walked around the table until she was behind John, her forearms resting on his shoulders. She studied the drawing more carefully, but to her it just looked like a brightly lit glimpse of rustic America.

  “No, John,” Greta chided politely. “I think Grandmother just drew a nice picture for you.”

  “The boy is right,” Marcia said. “You figured that out rather quickly. And yes, the hidden numbers are your birthday numbers and yes, I did get you a present. It’s a book, and one I think you will love. Alberto can you bring it here.”

  The butler dutifully left
the room while Marcia stayed in her chair, continuing to emit her satisfaction towards her grandson. It was as though she’d finally received evidence of a familial bond, the link that connected her bloodline to her grandson. “Your father used to love these kind of puzzles,” Marcia said. “When he was a child, I couldn’t buy him enough…and he could always find all the hidden pieces. Why, you must have gotten that from him.”

  John nodded but didn’t say anything. Greta leaned forward and examined the picture again. Only with advance notice of what she was going to find did the hidden figures slowly emerge for her. There was the 2, creeping out from behind one of the hemlocks, and the 9, clandestinely fording across a shallow pond.

  Alberto returned with a leather-bound book in his hands, and gave it to Marcia, who immediately pressed it into John’s hands. “Here you go!” Marcia said magnanimously. “It’s Treasure Island – my favorite book – and I bought a copy for you. I first read it when I was your age and I loved it!”

  John opened the book and flipped through the first few pages, then lowered the tome onto the table and repeated. “Can I go inside and watch TV now?”

  From her deep satisfaction with her grandson only a few moments ago, Marcia now looked horrified. “Sure,” she said. “Alberto will take you to one of the spare bedrooms.”

  John followed Alberto out of the room, and when the two women were alone, Marcia directed her expression at Greta.

  “I honestly don’t know what to say!” Marcia said. Her breath was a hot gust on Greta’s skin – a waft of opprobrium for the child’s behavior.

  “He’s in a bad place,” Greta said. “He needs help, Marcia, and I think you may be the only one who can help him.”

  “What does he need?” Marcia demanded. “And don’t say money. Whatever you do, don’t say money. That’s the one rule I gave Griffin when he left my house, ran off and got married. You make it on your own out there, just like I did, just like my husband did. When we needed money, we worked harder; we didn’t bother our family asking for handouts.”