Jeffrey Hopgood looked at the list and handed it back. “None of these schools would be up to our standards,” he noted curtly.
“Perhaps you could take a look and discuss them with Trevor,” said Anne, offering the list to Mrs. Hopgood. The fact that her husband had rejected it placed her in the difficult position of overriding his judgment. She paused for a moment, then slipped the list furtively into her purse.
“It’s important that your son have a say in where he goes to college,” Anne explained. She knew that most kids weren’t likely to employ the best criteria in making their decisions; they chose schools based on the friendliness of the tour guide, the weather on the day they visited, and the kinds of snacks available in the student union. But she didn’t think it really mattered how they chose, so long as they felt they had. The idea of free will was as fundamental to the development of the adolescent psyche as it was to the health of the species.
“I’ll arrange to meet with Trevor tomorrow,” she continued. “We’ll see if we can figure out some of his preferences. Sometimes a child has tastes that a parent may be unaware of: an interest in art or drama, for example”—Jeffrey Hopgood rolled his eyes—“or a desire for more variety among his peers.” Mrs. Hopgood sighed softly, as though such variety would be pleasing to her. “And sometimes they’ll speak more freely with a guidance counselor, a relative stranger, than with their parents, whom, as you might expect, they don’t want to disappoint.”
“Trevor never gave a damn about disappointing us!” Mr. Hopgood’s irritable tone was not unmixed with sadness.
“You’d be surprised at how much he may care about your opinion,” noted Anne. “As I said, I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“You can talk to him all you want,” snapped Jeffrey Hop-good, who had returned to his earlier pugnacity, “Curtis is going to start working with Trevor on his Williams application this weekend.”
“Curtis?”
“Curtis Fink of Fink and Fisk Educational Consultants, the firm we retained to advise us on the college admissions process. He’ll probably be calling in the next week to meet with you.”
“I don’t know if I have time in my schedule to meet with individual consultants,” Anne responded doubtfully. She wondered if the school had a policy on this.
“We’ll see about that,” said Hopgood, as though he knew something she didn’t.
Anne turned again to the cipher that was Mrs. Hopgood. “Please look over the list of additional schools,” she reiterated. “My sense is that Trevor might be happier in a less competitive environment. And we could always talk another time,” she added, sensing a maternal current in Mrs. Hopgood that might be tapped in the absence of her husband. “I know that Mr. Hopgood is a busy man, so that in the morning, if you’re free and want to chat, I’d be glad to meet with you individually.”
“I can’t see how you’d have time for my wife and no time for Curtis Fink,” observed Jeffrey Hopgood suspiciously.
Anne did not respond, and Hopgood, sensing a strategic maneuver meant to exclude him (which indeed was the case), rose angrily and strode from the room. Mrs. Hopgood sighed and followed her husband out the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
“DR. FLOCKHART WANTS TO SEE YOU,” CINDY ANNOUNCED OVER the guidance intercom once the Hopgoods had decamped. “He sounded kind of tense.”
This was no surprise. Dealing with Westchester parents would make the Dalai Lama tense. During his days playing college football, Vince Flockhart had never flinched at having his bones crushed by a three-hundred-pound defensive back, yet he appeared genuinely alarmed when a ninety-pound woman in a jumpsuit descended on him to complain that her daughter had been overlooked in debate class (“Just because Carly had laryngitis didn’t mean she didn’t have worthwhile things to say!”). At such moments, Vince wondered why he had bothered to earn his Ed.D, and whether the modest salary increase and the kowtowing of parents (when they weren’t screaming at him) were worth the aggravation. Fortunately, a talk with Vivian Flockhart about the expense of clothing and nourishing the four young Flockharts, followed by an hour on the rowing machine in his basement, was usually enough to make him feel better.
As Anne approached the main office now, she caught sight of Vince monitoring the front hall, an activity that he performed on a regular basis in order to keep track, literally as well as figuratively, of the Fenimore student body. It was indeed amazing what you could see if you just stood in the hall and let the river of adolescent humanity swirl by. Vince had spent the last half hour sending girls whose cutoffs exposed much of their butt cheeks and boys whose pants were around their knees to Mr. Tortoni, the assistant principal, for dressing down (or, as it were, dressing up).
When he saw Anne, he looked relieved and ushered her into his private office, directing her to one of the large armchairs that were arranged in coffee-klatch fashion in the corner. The armchairs, like the rocking chairs in the guidance waiting room, had been installed with the intention of soothing distraught parents, though their calming effect was probably offset by the head-spinning decor of the office. Every nook and cranny of this space was festooned with the diverse emblems of Fenimore achievement. There were trophies for athletic meets, math, and chess team championships, and framed certificates for debate, public speaking, and community service. Amid this welter of accolades, the most notable was a large plaque inscribed “Blue Ribbon Award for Educational Excellence,” a much-coveted prize that Vince had wrestled to the ground last year. All mention of the school, even the most pedestrian, was now qualified by reference to this award, as in: “Fenimore High School, Blue Ribbon School of Westchester County, will be closed today due to inclement weather.” The plaque occupied the place of honor over Vince’s desk, where parents could gaze at it during awkward moments in the discussion of their children’s latest foray into delinquency
“We’re in up to our necks with this college thing this year.” Vince sighed heavily now, as he dropped into the chair opposite Anne. “I have three parents already on my case about getting their kids into Middlebury, Colby, and Georgetown. I know you want Felicia Desiderio to go to Georgetown, but she’s got no parental muscle behind her, and I’d say we need to weigh our options here. I don’t see why you couldn’t write two strong letters, with a little extra maybe for the Newmans, since Georgetown has a habit of taking only one a year from Fenimore.”
“Vince, please,” said Anne with exasperation, “I’m not about to undercut Felicia, who has a genuine interest in government and deserves to go to Georgetown far more than Sandra Newman.”
“But the Newmans are big,” whined Vince. “Newman Developers built all the houses on the west side of town—the ones that Vivian and I can’t afford. The Newmans have some gripe about Sandra’s junior year with Fenster, and if we don’t give her a strong letter, we could be seeing a lawsuit that would up tax dollars, defeat the referendum, and totally destroy the arts program.” (Why was it that it was always the arts program, never the athletic program, that was in jeopardy?) Vince’s imagination of the far-flung consequences of any given action were not as far-fetched as they might seem; the domino effect was alive and well at Fenimore, where pissing off a powerful parent could indeed have woeful repercussions.
But Anne always argued that giving in to such forces, however threatening, must be avoided at all costs. “I don’t care how big the Newmans are,” she declared now, “I’m not going to write a stronger reference letter for Sandra Newman than for Felicia Desiderio—and that’s final!”
Looking at Anne’s face, Vince knew enough to back down. “OK, OK, whatever you say.” He waved his hand and moved on to the next item on his agenda. “We also have this new kid coming in that you’ll want to have a look at.” He flipped open a folder and glanced down at it. “The boy’s name is Cutler. Family has lots of money. You know those travel books, Cutler’s Guides to Culture?”
Anne had turned pale, and Vince stopped speaking and looked at her with concern. “Are you OK?”
She swallowed. “Just some indigestion.”
Vince nodded. “Did you have the chopped sirloin for lunch? I don’t think it agreed with me either. Of course, three parents were in complaining about Fenster. . . .” He trailed off, obviously unsure as to whether his bellyache had been caused by toxic hamburger or toxic parents.
Anne was glad to have Vince rattle on and give her a moment to get her bearings. She had mentioned Ben Cutler’s name only an hour ago, and the memories had flooded back. Now, to have news that his son was enrolling at Fenimore. She was engulfed by a wave of intense feeling.
“The mother’s been in to see me already.” Vince returned to the topic. “Single mom. Works for her brother.”
“Her brother?” Anne caught her breath.
Vince paused, glancing again at the folder. “Ben Cutler. Very involved in the kid’s education. He’s listed here as a legal guardian along with the mom.”
Anne’s felt a weight lift. Of course. She had broken with Ben thirteen years ago, hardly enough time for him to have a son in high school. She remembered there had been a wild older sister who had run off to California.
“They’ve lived all over the world, working on those travel guides,” Vince continued, “but they wanted to settle here for the boy’s senior year. We’re still waiting for the transcripts from Copenhagen, but I have a feeling he’s bright but uneven. Which may cause a problem. It seems the uncle is set on the kid going to Columbia for some reason.”
For some reason—Anne had gone to Columbia. Was it her influence that made him want his nephew to go there?
“Did you mention my name?” she asked softly.
Vince shook his head. “But I told him we had a first-rate guidance department that really cared about the students and worked hard to get them into colleges that were right for them. That’s what I’m supposed to say, isn’t it?”
Anne nodded and braced herself before asking the next question. “Does this uncle have a family of his own?”
“No clue.” Vince shrugged. “But he’s as rich as Croesus, which means he probably does—or maybe an ex or two and a hot girlfriend.” Vince, tied inextricably to Vivian Flockhart and the four young Flockharts, was prone to extravagant fantasies involving less encumbered lifestyles. “Unless, of course, he’s gay,” he noted pragmatically.
“He’s not.” Anne spoke without thinking.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she said, flustered.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Vince peered at her, concerned.
“I’m fine,” said Anne, trying to regain her composure. “It might be what I had for lunch—or the Hopgoods this afternoon.”
“Double whammy” Vince nodded sympathetically, then turned back to the folder in his hand. “Anyway, we’ll probably want to see the mother and uncle at some point after we review the kid’s transcripts—give them a sense of what to expect, if they’re being unrealistic about Columbia. I just hope this Culter fellow isn’t one of those pushy rich guys who feels entitled to anything they want. And I sure hope the Newmans are going to be reasonable about Georgetown.” Vince heaved a sigh and reached for his antacids. “Jeez,” he muttered, “I hate this time of year!”
CHAPTER SIX
ANNE HURRIED BACK DOWN THE HALL, DUCKING PAST CINDY AND closing the door to her office behind her. Her throat was dry, and her hands were shaking. She sat down behind her desk and tried to calm herself. The prospect of seeing Ben Cutler again had affected her more than seemed reasonable. Thirteen years should have blunted any sense of anxiety or excitement, yet it had done nothing of the sort. Not for her. For Ben, she supposed, there would only be indifference or, more likely, aversion to the prospect of seeing her again. The rupture had been her decision and had been effected with a high-handedness that could only have left him feeling bitter and angry toward herself and her family.
She turned to her computer and typed “Benjamin Cutler” into Google. She had done this years ago, at which time she had found, among the clutter about other Benjamin Cutlers, an article that began: “Queens native Benjamin Cutler has parlayed his interest in the literary portrayal of far-off places into Cutler’s Guides to Culture, a series aimed at the culturally enlightened traveler. A literate, well-written alternative to the standard travel guide.” The picture accompanying the article had been of a tall man with unruly hair standing next to a Hindu shrine with a copy of the Bhagavad-GJtd. It was unmistakably Ben, and Anne had stared at it for a long time, trying to make out the expression of the eyes. Were they still as angry and sad as they had been when she had last seen him? The article itself had haunted her— bringing home her mistake regarding his prospects and, perhaps more painfully, showing him to be very far away—conclusively lost to her. She had been depressed for months afterward, and a desire not to reawaken such feelings had kept her from Googling him again.
Now, hearing that he had returned to the area, she hardly stopped to think as she typed his name into the search engine. This time a long list appeared on the screen. There were numerous accolades: “Benjamin Cutler receives commendation from Australian aborigines”; “Benjamin Cutler applauded by Pakistani Restaurateurs”; “Benjamin Cutler receives award from French embassy for Unstereotypical Rendering of French Culture,” as well as references to articles about his guides: “Cutlers Guides Names Top Ten Museum Restaurants—Whitney in a Snit”; “Cutler’s Guides Offers Tips on Motivating Couch-Potato Tourists”; “Cutler’s Guides Announces New Travel Trend: Luxury Backpacking,” etc. There were even some fairly arcane academic pieces carrying his name: “Travel and the Jolt of the New” (paper delivered at the Conference on the Esthetics of Travel, the City University Graduate Center); “The Figure in the Carpet in Henry James’s Travel Writing (The Henry James Journal), and “Was Ruskin Right About Work?” (Studies in Nineteenth-Century Nonaction Prose).
The number and range of references were impressive— impressive but not surprising, Anne thought. Ben Cutler had been an impressive person before he had accomplished anything, and she ought to have had the courage and imagination to realize that he would succeed.
Though she knew it would make her feel worse, she took out her compact and scanned her face in the little mirror. She had always been fair, but with a healthy glow—“apple-cheeked,” Ben had once said admiringly. But her complexion was pale now and, with the shock she had had, appeared ashen. She looked down at her body. Had it changed so much in thirteen years? Her weight had not changed—if anything she weighed less, but it was the thinness that comes with forgetting to eat or having no one to eat with. It was not the same body that Ben had known. At thirty-four, she was not the person she had been at twenty-one.
It was 2:45, and she realized that if she left school now, she could be at her grandmother’s in time to watch General Hospital. Winnie was a great fan of the soap opera and liked nothing better than to talk about whether this one would end up with that one. (“Of course they’ll fall in love,” she always concluded, “but it won’t last.”) What Anne wanted more than anything else right now was to sit next to Winnie and let the soap opera, with its artificial turmoil, distract her from the real turmoil inside her head.
But leaving in time for General Hospital was apparently not in the cards. Cindy buzzed. “It’s Mrs. Greenbaum,” she announced in a bored voice. “She says she absolutely needs to see you.”
Anne was used to Mrs. Greenbaum’s “absolutely needing” to see her. If Jen Forsythe was a “guidance groupie,” Eleanor Greenbaum was a “helicopter parent”—so-called because she hovered above her progeny ready to make a rapid, vertical landing at the slightest provocation. Only to be in the vicinity of Mrs. Greenbaum was to feel the sharp blades of a propeller whipping close to your face.
Eleanor Greenbaum was the mother of Jeremy Greenbaum, a sophomore, and the recently graduated Caroline Greenbaum. One might have thought that having learned the system with Caroline (and having shoehorned the girl into Johns Hopkins), Mrs. Greenbaum wou
ld be more relaxed about Jeremy. This, unfortunately, was not the case. It was the classic scenario of the more you knew the less you felt you knew—but unlike Socrates, for whom greater knowledge brought humility and wisdom, Eleanor Greenbaum became neither humble nor wise. Instead, she became, if possible, more pushy and anxious.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” said Mrs. Greenbaum in a meek tone that Anne knew masked a fierce tenacity of purpose. Despite having been told numerous times to make an appointment in advance, Eleanor Greenbaum insisted on showing up between errands (buying Jeremy tube socks seemed to be the principal one), voicing the clearly rhetorical hope that she was not intruding. “I had a small issue I wanted to discuss,” she explained. “It will only take a few minutes.”
Eleanor Greenbaum’s few minutes invariably lasted an hour, destroying all possibility that Anne could get away in time for General Hospital. But, then, Eleanor Greenbaum was a General Hospital in herself. It was amazing the amount of drama she could stir up around the most seemingly inconsequential elements of high-school life. She had, for example, spearheaded a write-in campaign on the need for more bulletin board space in the halls (“How else can our children learn about special activities and enrichment programs?”) and had staged a “Take Back the School Year” vigil when a teachers’ committee had proposed shortening the academic calendar by half a day for an in-service workshop (“Our students must not be cheated of their right to a full and complete education!”). Members of the school board were known to have changed their phone numbers for the sole purpose of avoiding calls from Eleanor Greenbaum. And there had even been the case of a teacher with a long and illustrious career who, when he learned he would have a Greenbaum child in his class, had decided to cut his losses and take early retirement.
Jane Austen in Scarsdale Page 4