It was an impressive record by any standard, especially for a smaller public school like Fenimore. Vince said it was the best year ever, “a real home run.”
But there were also disappointments. Along with Jonathan Cutler and Jodi Fields, there was Sandra Newman, deferred from Georgetown, and Kyra Pearlstein rejected from Bowdoin (Kyra’s case, it must be said, was hardly dire, given the number of backup applications she had ready to go out). There were also about two dozen other students who had hoped for an early acceptance but were not greeted by the animated mascot or flashing coat of arms when they logged on to the desired college Web site. As a result, Chanukah and Christmas were gloomy affairs in many homes, and even the Hermes handbag and the new video iPod could not stanch the tears.
When school finally resumed after New Year’s, the first convulsions of misery had subsided and been replaced by the more subtle pain that comes of suffering the triumphalism of successful peers and the mournful looks of disappointed parents. This period could be the hardest—the one most likely to leave the teenager open to high-risk behavior, not to mention a greater than usual tendency to oversleep first period and tell Fenster to go f- himself.
Anne had hit on staging what she called “Consolation Workshops” for students who had been deferred or rejected from their first-choice schools. The idea had come to her as a practical remedy to ease the pain of their disappointment, which, she knew, could be particularly acute when parents shared in the disappointment and were continually rubbing salt in the wound.
The workshops turned out to be a great success. It was actually quite uplifting to sit in on these sessions and hear students express outrage on one another’s behalf.
“Tara, you are so awesome, I think Yale was, like, retarded to defer you!”
“Stanford should kiss your ass!”
“I don’t think Princeton was right for you anyway You’re way too cool to go to that jock, tight-ass, Abercrombie school. Not to mention that it’s in New Jersey.”
During one of these sessions, Jonathan Cutler wandered in, looked around curiously, but showed no inclination to take part.
“Are you feeling a little down?” asked Anne.
“Not really,” said Jonathan. “I wasn’t that gung ho about Columbia. But my uncle was, and he’s a pretty good guy. I thought
maybe I could pick up some tips on how to make him feel better.
“I don’t think you need to stay on his account,” Anne counseled, touched by his concern, but seeing in it a typical example of what psychologists call “parentification.” “I’m sure he’ll get over his disappointment on his own.”
At one point during the workshops, a reporter from The New York Times showed up, alerted to the story by Vince, always on the lookout for a good PR opportunity. The reporter was so taken with the proceedings that she put herself forward as a case study: She had suffered the pain of being rejected from Brown, and now look at what she was—a hot-shot Times reporter! She proceeded to interview Sandra Newman and Jodi Fields, for whom being in the Times more than made up for not getting in early to their first-choice schools. They especially liked the photo session with the Times photographer, who snapped about a hundred pictures of them in front of their lockers in their Smith Brothers and Juicy cut-off T-shirts. “We’ll probably use only one,” said the photographer, “but we like to take a lot, just in case.” Sandra and Jodi knew that he just liked taking pictures of their exposed torsos.
It was also during this period that news arrived that Karl Kingsley, Fenimore’s AP chemistry teacher, had won a National Teacher Award. The ceremony would be held the following month in Washington, D.C., where the Secretary of Education would bestow the honor.
“Who’s the Secretary of Education, anyway?” asked Vince. Anne didn’t know but happened to pass Felicia Desiderio in the hall, who did.
Euphoric, Vince sent a quick fax to the Newsforum for the next issue. This meant another large plaque for his office, not to mention a slew of stories in the national and regional press. Kinglsey, meanwhile, showed himself to be truly deserving by worrying about missing the unit on oxidation during his time in Washington.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
ANNE HAD DROPPED BY THE SCARSDALE HOUSE SEVERAL TIMES AFTER she had spoken to Ben about Jonathan’s deferral from Columbia. Things seemed always to be in a state of confusion and hectic activity. Workmen were busy tearing down and putting up walls, and a steady stream of temporary employees were coming and going, doing research and typing for the guides. Anne rarely encountered Ben during these visits. On the few occasions when she did, he would mumble a few words, then duck upstairs to where he had set up his office until the renovation was completed.
On one occasion, she came across Kirsten reprimanding a sheepish-looking temp who had failed to proofread a description of New Year’s Eve celebrations in Reykjavik.
“For goodness’ sakes, this paragraph on the bonfires is absolutely crucial to any trip to Iceland, and it’s a mess,” fumed Kirsten. “There are five typos and two dangling modifiers! Don’t you even know your own language? Your job is to proofread, not file your nails and talk on the phone with your boyfriend. I’m sick to death of your shoddy American work habits!” She had looked up at the end of this tirade and, seeing Anne, had turned red and hurried away.
“They’re on deadline for the Iceland guide,” explained Winnie when Anne told her what had happened. Her grandmother had assumed the haughty air of knowing everything that was going on and of being an invaluable resource to everyone. Many of the temps had, in fact, become dependent on her wide-ranging knowledge, using her in lieu of a dictionary and an atlas. “Yesterday, I had to define ‘sectarian,’ ‘dissolute,’ and ‘peregrination,’” she said proudly, “and I had to give one poor child a geography lesson; she thought Majorca was in India.”
Sometimes Anne found Winnie sitting in a chair that had been arranged for her in the kitchen, supervising the preparation of the evening meal.
“Your grandmother is teaching me all her recipes,” explained Pauline happily, “and I really have lost weight.” She smoothed her hips, which to Anne did not look appreciably smaller.
In addition to all this, Winnie had been helping Jonathan research colleges that would suit his interests. “Vassar is a possibility,” she told Anne, “though it’s hard for me to think of the place with men. My friend Phyllis went there. She studied art history and then married Bernie Zucker. I always wondered about their art history department after that.
“But there are so many options,” she continued blithely in her new role as college counselor. “At the moment, I think we’re leaning toward St. John’s, the Great Books college in Maryland. Did you know that they read the Greeks during the freshman year? A knowledge of Aristotle, I always say, is indispensable to an educated person.”
Anne didn’t recall Winnie’s always saying this, but she did think St. John’s would be a good choice for Jonathan. She had included it on the list she had given Ben, but had assumed he wanted his nephew to go to a more high-profile school.
“But what does Ben think?” she asked now.
“What do you mean?” responded Winnie with surprise. “What does Benjamin have to do with it? It’s the boy’s life, not his.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
IT WAS FEBRUARY, THE VAST SIBERIA OF THE SCHOOL YEAR, WHEN the weather was raw and school had moved into a numbing routine. In February some of the seniors had given up on all semblance of work. They slept in class or spent class time passing notes about the whereabouts of the beer party that weekend. Their parents, now resigned to whatever outcome was in store, had gone into hibernation; some had actually flown off to St. Thomas or St. Croix for this purpose (thereby leaving their liquor cabinets unattended). Even Eleanor Greenbaum ceased to show up with her tube socks.
Yet it was also during this period that the juniors and their parents began to gear up for the college application process. Some had already embarked on the prerequisite college tour—
that whirlwind of campus visits at which carefully selected guides, all of whom looked like they had been plucked out of Calvin Klein or Abercrombie ads, said the same thing: “X is an awesome college and everything is way better than high school.” For the students, the stress of keeping the colleges straight (they all seemed pretty much the same, especially if it was raining) was compounded by the presence of their parents asking continual, annoying questions: “Is there Lactaid in the cafeteria?” “What kind of campus security do you have?” “How many doctors are on duty at the health service?” Having one’s mother ask such a question was enough to make a kid want to hide under the nicely upholstered chair in the recently refurbished recruitment hall.
By March, juniors were frantically pursuing school activities that they had never been interested in before. A posse of cheerleaders suddenly turned up at the Environmental Club, announcing a pressing desire to save the ozone—though why they had waited until March of their junior year to save it was not clear. Poems written in the third grade were suddenly being submitted to the literary magazine, and the volleyball team doubled in size—everybody assumed that volleyball was easy (having played it at the beach when they were ten), and thereby a shortcut to a varsity letter. Teachers were plied with gifts of Go-diva chocolate, and complaints about Fenster spiked into the double digits as grade-grubbing grew rampant.
Anne knew that spring was in the air when she received the following four e-mails in quick succession one morning:
Hi! This is to inform you that we have decided to move to Mamaroneck for Steven’s senior year. Steven has exhausted all the AP course offerings at Fenimore, and is eager to take the AP geography course offered in Mamaroneck to further boost his GPA. With apologies in advance for any inconvenience, Dr. Jessica Collins and Dr. William Faber (parents of Steven Collins-Faber)
To: Ms. Ehrlich, Head of Guidance cc: Vince Flockhart, Principal; Sandy Stevens, Softball Coach; Flora Feld-stein, Director, Fenimore Community Service Center It has come to our attention that our daughter Cara’s softball practice during spring term will conflict with her volunteer service at the battered women’s shelter. Would the school kindly arrange to have the battered women eat an hour later so that Cara will not have to miss softball? Thank you for your cooperation, Jerry and Sally Saperstein Dear Ms. Ehrlich, I know that Kathleen’s smuggling of vodka in ginger ale bottles during the track meet in upstate New York last week was an infringement of school policy. However, I feel that the one-week suspension and enforced community service at the battered women’s shelter are excessive. I will be obliged to initiate legal action against Mr. Babinsky, the track coach, as well as unmask other offenders (i.e., the entire track team) should the school insist on enforcing this unreasonable penalty. Best regards, Myron S. Cornfield, J.D. (Kathleen’s dad)
Hi again, We have decided not to move to Mamaroneck after all (re: above e-mail). Upon consideration, we realize that Jeffrey might not excel in AP geography, due to his color blindness and consequent map-reading disability. Please excuse any inconvenience if you have already forwarded his transcripts, scores, and other paperwork. We will call this afternoon to discuss our decision further. With apologies, after the fact, for any inconvenience, Drs. Collins and Faber
The rest of the day would now have to be spent discussing with Jerry and Sally Saperstein the distance between the battered woman’s shelter and the softball field, listening to Drs. Collins and Faber explain why Jeffrey could distinguish between purple and red but not purple and green, and convincing Myron S. Cornfield, J.D, that it might not be a good idea either to implicate the track team if he wanted Kathleen to have any friends, or to sue Mr. Babinsky, the track coach, if he wanted Kathleen to be recruited by any of the top schools (where Babinsky, she hinted, had friends).
If such parental demands and complaints weren’t enough, Anne also had to deal with the perpetual smaller crises of high-school life: lost homework assignments, humiliations in gym class, personality conflicts with teachers, and broken hearts. The last of these was by no means the least important in Anne’s view. Almost every day found some sixteen-year-old in the throes of despair, using up Kleenex in her office and needing to be reassured that her heart would mend and some new and improved candidate would soon appear on the horizon. Anne was expert at giving these assurances, though nothing in her own experience had borne them out.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
ONE FRIDAY EVENING IN MARCH, ANNE WAS SITTING IN HER apartment, trying to relax. She felt exhausted after her week at work, though nothing unusual had happened. Besides the standard appointments and paperwork, there had been the conventional run of traumatic events: a student with a bad haircut who hid in the bathroom for three periods; another, who broke out in hives during a pop quiz; a third, who brought sexual harassment charges against another student but dropped them when he asked her out on a date—and so on.
Now, as she tried to unwind, she took out the yellow pad with the draft of the singles ad she had begun three months earlier. She had told herself that deciding on the qualities of a soul mate was not a trivial task, and it was important not to rush it. The problem was that she had so little to show for her efforts. She glanced down at the page, which despite a good deal of crossing out and adding on, now consisted of a mere nineteen words:
Single female, 34, seeks male soul mate. Must have a sense of humor, like children, hooks, conversation, and travel.
Three months of labor and the result was what any single woman, thirty-four, seeking a soul mate, could have come up with in three minutes. It was, quite frankly, pathetic.
But just as she was about to crumple the paper and throw it
away in disgust, a revelation burst upon her. She looked again at what she had written, and saw what she should have seen all along: Bare bones as it was, this was not an ad for a generic man at all. It was an ad for Ben Cutler. He was lurking behind each prosaic word. She had only one soul mate, and she had lost him.
She didn’t know how long she had been brooding over this sorry fact when the phone rang. Her pulse quickened as she recognized Ben’s voice; her first thought was that some mystical force had intervened—that the ad had somehow been channeled to him and he was responding.
But all thoughts of her own situation fled as she caught the gravity in his voice. “You need to come over,” he said simply. “It’s your grandmother.”
When she arrived at the house, he told her that Winnie had resisted going to the hospital and that the doctor, an old friend of the family, had been in to see her. He had said that it was another stroke, a final one, and it was best to let her be.
Anne went upstairs and sat down at the side of the bed. Her grandmother’s eyes were closed; her face, calm. After the last stroke, there had been the predictable distortion of features that had gradually subsided. But now there was no distortion. Winnie’s face was serene. She was wearing a white embroidered nightgown; her mass of gray hair, neatly spread behind her head on the pillow; her hands, with their long, patrician fingers, folded on her chest.
“Gram, it’s me,” said Anne, taking her grandmother’s hand.
Winnie did not open her eyes, but smiled slightly.
“OK, you’re smiling; that’s good. You’ll pull through this one, the way you did the others. So many people need you now. You have to get better.”
Winnie moved her head very slightly from side to side.
“But they do,” Anne insisted. “Pauline is just learning to
cook. And Jonathan is just learning to talk. And Kirsten says you’re the only oasis of sanity—I’m quoting directly here.”
Anne saw her grandmother mouth a word. She leaned closer:
“Benjamin.”
“He needs you too,” she said simply. “And I do, Gram. I need you most.”
Winnie moved her head slightly again. “I do. You’re all I have.”
At this, Winnie smiled slightly again and squeezed her granddaughter’s hand with surprising force. Then, she breathed a
long sigh—a sigh that somehow sounded like an expression of great relief—and Anne knew she was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
IT WAS NOT A LARGE FUNERAL, WINNIE HAVING OUTLIVED ALL OF her contemporaries.
Elihu was there, of course—his natural complacency enhanced by having pocketed a fresh three million from the sale of the house. With this money, he could pay off his old debts and begin to acquire new ones. It was the one activity at which he excelled.
Beside her father stood Allegra, attired in a simple but perfectly fitting black dress and a small hat with a veil. She looked so much the part of the elegant mourner that she might have been in a photo shoot for a funeral, rather than the real thing.
Rachel and Peter were also present. Rachel, largely recovered from her Lyme disease, was leaning on Peter and sobbing continually through the ceremony. It seemed that neither Frost nor Wordsworth had succeeded in consoling her.
Anne stood with Marcy and Rich Fineman. Rich had never met Winnie, but seemed pleased to be present, as if enjoying the novelty of being outside the office in the role of Marcy’s husband. Marcy also seemed pleased, and while she held Anne’s hand throughout the service, she also occasionally touched Rich’s arm, as if confirming the fact that he was there.
Harry and Carlotta had also come, though neither knew Winnie. Their sense of goodwill toward anyone within the circle that had brought them together inclined them to make an appearance. Carlotta spoke cheerfully to Elihu, who appeared to bear no grudge—perhaps he had forgotten that he had once been predisposed in that direction. Elihu’s memory, especially when it came to errors in his own actions, was unusually porous.
Vince, Gus, Cindy, and Daphne were also present, a sign of their respect for Anne. Daphne was wearing a black dashiki and appeared to be meditating during the ceremony. She later told Anne that she had communed with Winnie’s newly liberated spirit.
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