In short, Eleanor Greenbaum elicited one predominant response in those she dealt with: extreme irritation. This was not a point in her favor under normal circumstances, but for Anne, at this moment, it had the virtue of driving Ben Cutler from her mind.
“It’s regarding the computer programming course that Jeremy took freshman year,” continued Mrs. Greenbaum as she settled herself primly in the chair in front of Anne’s desk. “I’m told that they made it an honors course this year, which, if I may say so, is a change long overdue. Jeremy only got an A— in that course, which means that it was very challenging.”
“Needless to say,” said Anne.
“Therefore,” said Mrs. Greenbaum, gaining momentum, “I believe the change to honors status should be retroactive.” (In the world of Eleanor Greenbaum every change should be retroactive if it could benefit her child; if it would be less than beneficial, then, of course, her child should be grandfathered into the previous policy.)
“Making the change retroactive would pose logistical problems,” explained Anne. “Besides, when a course is changed to an honors course, the syllabus changes.”
“But not in this case,” announced Mrs. Greenbaum triumphantly. “I have the syllabus from this year and from last year right here.” She reached into her large purse, rummaged among the packages of Jeremy’s tube socks, and extracted two photocopied sheets, which she waved in front of Anne’s nose. “As you can see, they’re exactly the same.”
There was no point questioning the evidence. No one was more versed in the minutiae of the Fenimore curriculum and related matters than Eleanor Greenbaum. This included her knowledge of the number of sick days Mr. Fenster had taken last year (seventeen) and the difference between the grade point average of Ilene Gupta and Aaron Finklestein, the two aspiring valedictorians (.02). Besides, Anne knew that Mr. Simonides, who taught computer programming, was incorrigibly lazy. He had probably not altered the syllabus in his ten years of teaching, and wasn’t about to do so just because the curriculum committee had turned his course into an honors course. “It’s computer programming, for godsakes,” he liked to say, “not nuclear physics. Gimme a break.”
“You can ask the curriculum committee to take it up,” Anne suggested in a reasonable tone.
“That wouldn’t be practical,” Mrs. Greenbaum responded quickly, as though she had anticipated this suggestion. “It took them two years to drop Caroline’s gym grade after her disability was diagnosed.” (Caroline’s severely flat feet had, after much lobbying, been deemed a disability that exempted her from gym—allowing her to take another AP course and raise her GPA accordingly.) “Jeremy may graduate before they reach a decision.”
“Oh well,” said Anne. “Jeremy has excellent grades. The difference in his GPA would be negligible.”
“I beg to differ,” said Mrs. Greenbaum emphatically. “An A— in an on-level course will murder his GPA.”
“I think it would take more than an A— in an on-level course to murder Jeremy’s GPA,” said Anne, driven to mild sarcasm.
“Every fraction of a point counts,” insisted Mrs. Greenbaum.
“I understand your concern,” said Anne, taking another tack. It was no use arguing with Mrs. Greenbaum on what it meant to murder a GPA; for Eleanor Greenbaum, murder was a very relative thing. “But to change the weight of a grade, one must go through established channels.” There was something about Eleanor Greenbaum that drove people to speak like officials in a totalitarian state.
“But that won’t help Jeremy’s GPA,” Mrs. Greenbaum persisted.
“I don’t think Jeremy’s GPA needs help,” said Anne. “But if you like, you could contact the school board.”
“I already did. They said I had to go through the curriculum committee.”
“Then I’m afraid that settles it.”
“It most certainly does not!” declared Mrs. Greenbaum with sudden stridency. There was a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde aspect to Eleanor Greenbaum that Anne had seen before. Last year, Mr. Hyde had lobbied fiercely for Caroline’s flat feet; now, here he was again, making an appearance on behalf of Jeremy’s GPA. The idea of her son losing even the slightest boost to his GPA had transformed the woman from a meek supplicant into a fierce advocate. “Jeremy deserves that fraction of a point!” Mrs. Greenbaum protested shrilly. “He worked for it. It is his right!”
“That may be true,” said Anne, “but sometimes the system doesn’t quite cooperate. Life, as Jimmy Carter once said, isn’t fair.”
“I don’t see what Jimmy Carter has to do with it!” exclaimed Mrs. Greenbaum, from whom any attempt at lightness was bound to ricochet. “I won’t stand for my child being cheated. If necessary, I’ll sue to obtain justice for Jeremy.”
There it was—the inevitable terminus. Whenever a parent, used to getting his or her own way, reached a seemingly insurmountable roadblock, there was always the final threat of legal action. Lawsuits against the district had risen by 36 percent in the past eight years as applying to college had become an increasingly frenzied and trauma-ridden process. One notorious case had hinged on the faulty calculation of a GPA: An honors English course that was supposed to be worth an additional .5 on one student’s transcript had not been properly weighted, with the result that the final grade point average had been off by a fraction of a point—a fact that the parents maintained had kept their child out of Dartmouth, “the school on which [as the mother soulfully put it] she had set her heart.” The case had been settled out of court for six figures, and the guidance counselor responsible for the miscalculation had been let go. From what Anne heard, he was finding it difficult to land a job; the blot on his record seemed to be viewed as comparable to a conviction for child abuse. For Eleanor Greenbaum, it might, given her earlier reference to this crime, be equivalent to murder.
Anne found the parental lawsuit to be a particularly egregious form of bullying. She could foresee a time when schools would suffer under the same fear that doctors currently did—and teachers would have to take out malpractice insurance (social studies teachers would probably pay higher rates than math teachers in the way gynecologists paid more than dermatologists). It was the sort of thing she felt she should oppose at all costs.
“I hope it won’t come to a lawsuit,” she said in an even tone. “Personally, I would advise against it. It might antagonize some of the people you might rely on to write Jeremy’s letters of recommendation.” She said this while looking Eleanor Greenbaum squarely in the eye.
There was a moment of silence as Mrs. Greenbaum weighed her options. “I wouldn’t want to do that,” she finally said, coming down on the side of the reference letters and returning to her former Dr. Jekyll—like tone. “Jeremy likes everyone so much.” She looked at Anne unctuously “Especially you.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“I’ll speak to the curriculum committee and cross my fingers that they’ll work quickly.” She crossed her fingers by way of illustration, and Anne, feeling she was expected to show support, did the same. “Thanks so much for squeezing me in,” said Mrs. Greenbaum.
“My pleasure,” said Anne.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LIBERATED FROM ELEANOR GREENBAUM, ANNE PROCEEDED TO clear her desk, locking all stray papers in the filing cabinet and in the padlocked bottom drawer of her desk. Security precautions had been issued by Vince last year after he saw a movie in which a bunch of kids broke into a guidance office and changed their transcripts. Vince took all movie renderings of high-school life seriously and was especially sensitive to portrayals of boob-like principals, whom he suspected he resembled.
Having completed the lockdown, Anne was about to walk out the door when the phone rang. Cindy had bolted at 3:01 exactly, so she picked up.
“Hey, it’s Carlotta,” said a haughty voice on the other end. Carlotta Dupre worked for Anne’s sister, Allegra, at The Widening Gyre, a poetry magazine of allegedly great critical reputation but very small readership. Carlotta was currently subletting Anne’s a
partment in the city while Anne was staying in Westchester to care for her grandmother after a minor stroke.
Carlotta was a unique specimen: She combined considerable physical beauty and extreme intellectual pretension. The result: a truly insufferable personality. Carlotta’s mother had been a Spanish movie actress, who had suffered a fatal fall several years ago when running down a steep marble staircase in stiletto heels in front of a large film crew. Her father was a French intellectual—a respected job description in France, though not necessarily an income-producing one. As a result of her pedigree, Carlotta had cultivated the ability to sponge regally off others.
“There’s a dearth of hot water,” Carlotta announced now. “I simply can’t tolerate a cold shower.” Anne had an image of Carlotta melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West upon contact with cold water.
“Call the super,” said Anne in exasperation. Carlotta was continually telephoning her to complain about minor problems with the apartment—a “dearth of hot water” (not surprising given that Carlotta took very long showers, some alone, some with guests) or a roach in the kitchen (also not surprising, given that she was prone to leave unwrapped chocolate babkas on the counter).
Anne had tried to explain that such things as “a dearth of hot water” were par for the course in New York City apartments. Perhaps it was different in Paris and Barcelona, where Carlotta had also lived (or rather squatted). There was nothing she, Anne, could do. But Carlotta seemed to think otherwise.
“You could call the super,” she countered. “If I call, he might think I was here, like, illegally, and that could be really bad news for you. This real-estate lawyer at Paul, Weiss—who wanted to get in my pants but who was just too nasty to think about—said that your subletting to me might violate the rent code and could result in your eviction.”
“It’s kind of you to worry about my eviction,” said Anne. “Meanwhile, may I remind you that you owe me two months’ rent?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Carlotta brusquely. “I just need some hot water.”
“Well, maybe the hot water is waiting for you to pay the rent,” observed Anne.
“Seriously,” continued Carlotta, unamused, “I have to take a shower. I promised to drop by the French consulate tonight.
The anti-globalization people will all be there, and they might be interested in my anagram poems—the ones that spell out ‘American Fascist State’ if you read the first letter vertically in the style of Verlaine. Or maybe someone from Lagerfeld will consider hiring me for the next Chanel show.” Only Carlotta could put political poetry and high fashion modeling in an either/or combination.
“I’m sorry, Carlotta,” said Anne, “but I just don’t have time to call the super right now. I’ve got to get to Scarsdale to check on my grandmother. I suggest you take a cold shower. It will perk up your nipples, which might help with the modeling gig—if not the Fascist America poems. Meanwhile, I really need the rent.”
Carlotta was silent for a moment, letting the remark pass. She often said that in France, where she spent her formative years, it was vulgar to talk about money—a statement that translated into its also being vulgar to pay debts. “I must say this isn’t what I had in mind,” she finally said in a miffed tone. “Allegra said your place was sweet—but then Allegra is so busy with the journal and with Zack, I can’t say I blame her for exaggerating.”
Anne hung up without responding. She was annoyed with Carlotta for her smug posturing but, on a deeper level, she was annoyed with her sister. Anne had thought she was immune to Allegra’s ability to exploit and manipulate, but obviously she still had “more work to do on this issue,” as Marcy put it. Why else had she agreed (in violation of her lease) to sublet her one-bedroom, rent-controlled apartment in Murray Hill to her sister’s protégée, a preening ingrate, while Allegra lived in spacious luxury uptown? Couldn’t Allegra have found room for Carlotta in her apartment?
But then her sister had perfected, even more than the insufferable Carlotta, a profound and unshakable sense of entitlement. She had, following her graduation from college, moved into the immense Upper West Side apartment that had belonged to the Ehrlich family for generations, then proceeded to assign each room a function that had somehow become immutable. There was her own bedroom, decorated in a minimalist white on white, “like a nun’s chamber,” as she liked to say—ignoring the fact that she shared it with her boyfriend (though perhaps he slept on the floor); there was the living room, done in Duchess of Windsor style (lots of chintz, used as if in quotation marks), where she held her literary soirees; and there were two bedrooms renovated as studies—one for Allegra and one for her boyfriend (a role currently occupied by Zack Zimmerman, a stylishly angry literary critic who contributed to many unknown online journals).
The fourth bedroom was reserved for their father when he chose to spend the night in the city. Elihu Ehrlich and his older daughter were close, both having an abiding contempt for anyone who was not themselves. Elihu’s bedroom was in the Ralph Lauren “English country gentleman living in Manhattan” style. There was lots of dark furniture, mohair throws, and tartan comforters, with an adjoining bathroom, renovated to Elihu’s specifications with a state-of-the-art pulsating multi-jet shower.
As arranged, there was no room in this spacious four-bedroom apartment for Carlotta Dupre. Indeed, there was no room in it for Anne Ehrlich, who, technically speaking, had as much right to it as Allegra, since it had belonged to the family, according to the complex provisions of Elihu’s great-grandfather’s estate. But Anne had no interest in staking that claim. She was content to occupy the modest one-bedroom apartment in Murray Hill, acquired when she had worked in the city years ago. Its small size had never bothered her until now, when the question of where her grandmother would live after the Scarsdale house was sold weighed on her mind.
Anne didn’t like to dwell on the unfairness of her sister’s usurpation of family property It was one of her strengths that she didn’t fight for things that didn’t matter to her. Still, she knew that this strength was connected to the great failure of her life: not having fought for something that did.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE HOME WHERE ANNE HAD GROWN UP AND WHERE HER GRAND-mother still lived was a large rambling Tudor in the affluent Westchester suburb of Scarsdale. It was an impressive edifice, full of dark wood paneling and oak floors, tall leaded windows, and a multitude of nooks and crannies: pantries and butler closets, maids rooms and sewing rooms. During the early years of Anne’s childhood, there had always been a gaggle of children rushing in and out, houseguests coming and going, and a slew of servants continually changing the sheets. Anne thought of the house during those years as a suburban Jewish version of what Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell might have experienced growing up in their country estate in England. Certainly, her grandmother had been a charming hostess, a highly literate woman, and not without the funds to attract cultural luminaries from the city. Beverly Sills had stopped by for lunch a few times in gratitude for a nice bequest that the Mazur family had given to the Metropolitan Opera; and George Plimpton had been there quite often to thank the family for its generosity to the Paris Review, a journal in which Allegra had published a few early poems.
But that was years ago. Her grandmother had passed control of the property on to her daughter upon her marriage, who had left it, in standard fashion, to her husband, so that, though the house was originally Winnie’s, she now lived in it on sufferance from her son-in-law. Without going so far as to grudge his mother-in-law occupancy, Elihu Ehrlich was not one to feel he owed her anything more. And Anne knew she had no influence with her father. Part of the reason that she maintained her small rent-controlled apartment in the city was because she could pay for it herself and not have to depend on his goodwill—or whatever facsimile of this there was.
She arrived today just as Elihu, who had spent his morning on one of the nearby golf courses, was leaving for the city.
“Hi, Dad,” sa
id Anne as she watched her father, dressed impeccably in a crisp cotton shirt and linen jacket, monogrammed on the breast pocket, saunter across the lawn to his car. “How’s Gram doing today?”
“Afraid I haven’t had a chance to look in,” her father said brightly. It was one of Elihu Ehrlich’s characteristic qualities that he lacked all sense of embarrassment at not doing what a normally thoughtful person would do. “Played nine holes with Paul Faber, retired from pulmonary at Mount Sinai—looks a wreck, poor fellow. I’m back to the city now to do some errands. Must pick up that sports jacket at J. Press that I’m having altered. They promised to do it this week so I’d have it in time for Allegra’s ‘do’ on Saturday. I must say your sister knows how to throw a party. Word has it that John Updike may turn up, which would certainly be a coup, though I must say the man’s complexion might put me off my dinner.”
Anne said nothing. She was used to her father’s self-centered ramblings. Given their financial straits, his purchase of the sports jacket was an outrageous indulgence. But what could she do? The situation was too dire to fight about. They were bankrupt—the fact had come home to her several weeks ago when she had finally seen the extent of the damage. He had left his bank statements lying on his desk and the top drawer open containing the bills, no doubt intending them to be found and somehow taken care of. It was clear from a cursory look at the statements that the large assets were gone. But the greater catastrophe were the bills, some with messages indicating a second or third notice.
Anne had seen no alternative but to sell the Scarsdale house (selling the New York apartment was not an option, since it was subject to complicated restrictive covenants put in place through the prescience of Elihu’s great-grandfather). She had spoken to her father about the sale, and he had shrugged, as he normally did at anything unpleasant or untidy. “If you think it best,” he said lightly. “I spend most of my time with Allegra or at my clubs anyway. The homestead has its sentimental associations, but it’s gotten to be rather a burden of late. One doesn’t want to spend one’s golden years patching a leaking roof. Do what you think necessary, my dear—I leave it all in your capable hands.”
Jane Austen in Scarsdale Page 5