Whenever he interviews for positions, Rollie scours resumes in search of skills that might benefit as many of his kids as possible. He likes to hire staff who can play instruments and sports. He likes to hire those who appreciate and partake in the arts: dancing, painting, acting, sculpting, playing the goddamn oboe. This all apparently comes in handy when you’re trying to fill the hours with a bunch of kids who either want to sleep their lives away or swallow a box of poison to end them.
“He seemed well-liked,” he says, leading me past the gymnasium. “Good teacher, good dorm staff. Got solid evaluations.”
As he talks about this Dimitri character, I take notice of the gym, which is where I’ll be staying. The building has a small second floor apartment with a kitchenette and pull-out sofa. It was once used as a storage space, but the Old Man had it converted so he could occasionally offer parents a place to spend the night. It has its own entrance in the way of a long, narrow staircase in the rear.
Rollie sent me a text a couple of weeks ago that read, “We’ve avoided talking about the living arrangement. You’re welcome to stay with me, but I’ll understand if you need your own space.” My response was as tactful as I could manage: “I don’t want to put you out. The gym apt. will work fine.” This arrangement might be the lesser of two evils, but I’m uncertain. I’m not thrilled about being so close in proximity to the students, as the gymnasium is in plain view of every girls dormitory, but living under the same roof as my father is the brashest acknowledgement of my failures that I can imagine.
We continue our walk, crossing Wildwood Road, which is lifeless at the moment, and make our way along the north side of campus. We pass Rollie’s place, which he points to, mentioning how he had the basement finished into living space. Admitting its absurdity - after all, he has the entire three bedroom house to himself - he laughs and tells me he’s created a haven for those looking for a little grown-up reprieve. Replete with a card table, jukebox, and mini-bar, the Old Man says many good times have already been had there. His staff, he tells me, work hard and deserve a good time without always having to leave campus.
“Don’t think I fool myself into believing that my little card games are the only adult fun being had on this campus. I know what else is going on, and they’re entitled to it all with the way they work.”
He stops to pick up a soda can from off the ground.
“I pride myself on my ability to judge character,” he tells me. “And you sure as hell need to know how to do that when you’re running a business. I’d say my track record speaks for itself. But this time I was duped.”
“We’re talking about this Dimitri guy?”
He doesn’t answer. Crinkling his forehead, he turns to me. Looking at my watch again, I ask about breakfast.
“We’re fine. It starts at 7:00.”
I follow his lead to the staff entrance of the Homer House. A converted Cape that has been eviscerated and made to accommodate up to ten students, it’s one of the school’s larger dormitories. Each dorm has two or three bedrooms, a common room, a large bathroom, and two small, fully equipped staff apartments.
The Old Man pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door before ushering me into the faculty apartment. It’s barely five-hundred square feet. The kitchen, just off the entrance, has dated yellow appliances and white countertops with an outbreak of some gold speckled pattern that resembles measles. The cabinets are stained a dark chocolate finish, and the linoleum floor, though sparkling in its yellow and green octagonal patterns, could be some giant 1970’s board game.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, trying to recall my memory of this place from when I saw it as a kid.
Rollie leads me through the apartment. Aside from the kitchen, there’s a tiny bedroom with a futon and nightstand, an office or living room with a teal loveseat and an old TV atop a cheap, black wooden stand, and a bathroom, which is top to bottom in an off-white subway tile. The place will never win any awards, but it’s clean and well-kept. It’s also empty. Besides the furniture, there are no personal effects. Nothing hangs on the walls except a blank bulletin board above a small writing desk.
“Do you have any idea how long I deliberate over the hiring of my staff?”
“I do not.”
“Sometimes it takes me a few weeks just to respond to a resume. I know the world moves quicker than this, and I know I run the risk of losing some good people with my pussyfooting around.”
“I suppose you would.”
“And I’m a man who trusts his instincts.”
“I know you are.”
“But sometimes they go to sleep on you.”
“I know they do.”
He turns and walks into the kitchen where he sets the soda can he’s been holding on the countertop. I watch him from the living room. He strokes his beard and lifts his glasses from his nose to check the lenses. Then he launches into something. Ethics and ethical theories. Hedonism. Plato and absolutism. Evil. And finally, the good, which, he mentions, is Plato’s wording. And it’s on this he focuses.
“How simple is that?” he asks, spinning the can around on the counter. “The good. Just the name alone: the good. Nothing too lofty. If people can discover what’s good, and this is according to Plato, then they will never act wickedly. The question then becomes how do we define good? A lot of us assume that the world has long ago decided on a definition, right?”
My stomach grumbles.
“Right?” he asks again.
He picks the can off the counter and turns it over in his hand.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at. In fact, I think you lost me back at the Winnebago.”
“He was fucking around with her. A student. An eighteen-year-old student. In here, for Christ’s sake. He was fucking around with her, probably in these rooms.”
“We’re back on Dimitri, right?”
My father tells me the story. The student’s name is Lindsay Lowe. Depression. Anxiety. Some oppositional behaviors. Bright girl, though. Affluent family. Dysfunctional, yet affluent. Brother seems to have his shit together. He goes to Yale and visits her on occasion. Lindsay was a member of the school’s ill-fated and short-lived lacrosse club, where it was discovered - after a series of interviews with the other students on the team - that coach and athlete would engage in steady one-on-one dialogues, heavy with innuendo and suggestive glances. None of it ever had anything to do with lacrosse. The girl, who Rollie describes as pretty and vulnerable, was the perfect target.
“They all are,” he adds. “They’re all looking for the same thing. And they’ll search high and low for anyone who’ll offer it to them. Well, this fucking guy was offering.”
The sound of voices beyond Dimitri Ames’ apartment seems to rise out of nowhere. I hear a voice of authority mention something about vacuuming the carpets before breakfast. It’s the HASERS, who are just beyond these walls, probably trying to fleece their way out of morning chores.
“They would come in here during his prep period - most mornings at about 10:00. He’d be in here, and she’d skip her calculus class and pay him a visit. The rest of the dorm was empty, so they had the place to themselves. When she was confronted about all the cuts, she said she was roaming the campus, thinking, smoking, crying. This went on for almost two months. Two months.”
I can remember through the years the Old Man dealing with a few flirty staffers - mostly males - who either made a remark, an advance, whatever. It wasn’t the norm, but it did happen from time to time. The energy that pervades the Hundred Acre School stems from its commune-like vibe, everyone living and eating together; this hardly negates the underbelly of the place, which are the secrets, fears, and failures lurking in so many shadows and belonging
to adults and children alike. From my vantage point, trust and loyalty among staff and students always seem to be on trial. And more often than not, the outcome is that of a hung jury. Those who work at the HAS do their best to sell themselves, to convince everyone of their pure and altruistic heart. And in a medicated blur, the students won’t think twice about shucking away their old life for a newer one in the arms of whoever can make them feel the steps of some endless, euphoric dance.
“She told us everything. She cooperated. But he was another story. Would you believe he threatened me? That little pissant.”
And though Ames couldn’t be brought up on formal legal charges - the girl’s not a minor, the Old Man points out - a lawsuit is certainly possible. The parents could sue the school, he says in almost a whisper. He adds that the likelihood of that is slim - the girl’s parents are going through an epic divorce and are caught up with that at the moment.
“I had to move a few things around to get his classes covered these past couple of weeks. And Ryan, the other dorm staff - that’s him you just heard out there - well, he’s been working to the bone, nonstop really. But it’s time to find a replacement. Which hasn’t been easy, by the way. I can’t bring myself to take much of a risk right now in hiring just anyone. There’s too much at stake. Too much going on. Too much fucking chaos. These kids are just looking for any excuse to burn and loot. I’ve got the police up my ass - the whole town really. That D’Ambrosio girl was a local princess and they need a scapegoat. Do you see what I’m saying, Grayson? I do for you and you do for me. Hell, it’s English, for Christ’s sake. You were a fucking journalism major. It’s nearly perfect.”
The vacuum starts in the other room. My father is looking at me, waiting for a response. Producing one should be as easy as telling an obnoxious salesman you’re uninterested in their pitch. Or telling some nameless, faceless voice over the phone you’re not only tapped out, but you gave at work, so thanks but no thanks and good luck. But for some reason, the words aren’t that forthcoming.
“C’mon,” I said, which is the only thing that comes to mind.
“Free rent, free food, free utilities. You know how this works as well as anyone. Plus a nice little salary. Not bad.”
He goes on to tell me about the kids in the Homer House. There are nine boys; the youngest is sixteen and the oldest is eighteen. They have a broad spectrum of diagnoses, ranging from OCD and bipolar disorder to mild autism and severe ADD. He says that they’re a wild bunch, but they’ve been tamed pretty well by Ryan. Except for Nick Russo, he adds; he’s the eighteen-year-old.
“He’s got some anger issues we’re working on. Must’ve broken half a dozen windows around campus over the last few months. But he’s an interesting kid.”
“This is your sales pitch? Autism? Bipolar? Broken windows?”
From the other room, the vacuum emits that shredding sound it makes when it sucks up shards of debris. Rollie tells me he can finagle what’s called a Durational Shortage Permit through the state of Connecticut. This will allow him to hire an uncertified teacher due to either extreme circumstances or lack of desirable candidates.
“I’ve done it before,” he tells me.
I shake my head at him.
“You know what Spinoza’s contention was?”
“Unfuckingbelievable. You’re going to wield your philosophical drivel until I’m overcome with mental fatigue and become a relenting slob? Give me a break with that stuff.”
“That all actions are determined by past experiences, by physical and mental constitution, and by the state of nature’s laws at that moment.”
I’m still shaking my head at him. The vacuum continues to bellow a steady drone in the other room.
“I don’t know exactly what it was, Gray, but something led you back to this place. Something did.”
“A divorce did. It was a divorce. There’s no philosophy in that.”
He tells me he believes it goes deeper than that. Then he tells me he spoke with two parents earlier in the day who are considering withdrawing their children from the school. It always surprises me when I hear about students’ parents. It rarely occurs to me that these kids even have parents. They’re trapped in my brain as wayward misfits, castaways, abandoned on the Old Man’s doorstep. I have trouble envisioning them sitting Indian style beside a Christmas tree with shreds of paper strewn about; or seated at the dinner table, eating and talking with levity; or just saying goodnight to one another and meaning it. It truly strikes me that they have parents. Parents who love and worry and doubt and remember.
“And I’m not sure I can blame them,” he adds.
A posting was put on the school’s website. A letter was sent home. And calls were made, all explaining what had happened with the D’Ambrosio girl.
“We’re going to lose a few students. It’s inevitable.”
“You might have to moonlight,” I tell him. “Find a way to recoup that lost revenue.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he checks his phone before telling me he’s heading over to the dining hall. He encourages me to look over my new place before joining him.
“I’ll introduce you to the staff throughout the day. And I’ll show you your classroom after breakfast.”
He swipes the soda can off the counter, gives me a nod, and leaves me alone in Dimitri Ames’ old staff apartment. The moment he shuts the door, the vacuum cleaner ceases its hacking cough. And I’m left hearing a lone voice, mumbled at first, then more audible. It builds into a hostile whine, careening through the air in prepubescent squawks and expletives. Then another harmonizes with it, creating a caustic, discordant tangle. Then another. Then another.
Sitting on the teal loveseat, I can’t help but think what Dimitri Ames probably did on it some mornings with a willing eighteen-year-old student over a two month stretch. And though I haven’t eaten anything substantial in hours, my appetite is suddenly gone.
Chapter 4
It was a few days before spring when Laura and I met with the Cadman brothers to plan our kitchen. There were decisions to be made. Island or breakfast bar? Granite or marble countertops? Appliances. Cabinets. Lighting. Flooring. We sat in their dingy trailer, across from the brothers, and perused stacks of three-ring binders. Both men, chewing on sunflower seeds and spitting the shells into their palms, would either nod and mumble in agreement over our taste, or else scoff, confiding in us in a sort of menacing whisper, that the particular distributor we were considering made a sub-par product.
“I can’t imagine the missus here would settle for subpar,” one of the brothers said, a speck of shell in the corner of his mouth. “She deserves topnotch. Doesn’t she?”
Laura was always polite about the flattery. Even though she knew it was overflowing with sleazy intent. But she would smile and be agreeable, never letting them dissuade her from her choices. We were first-time buyers, but savvy enough to understand that the Cadmans were working tactfully to not only flirt with my wife, but to encourage us to exceed our allowances. They mostly ignored me, focusing instead on the princess, as they continued to call her.
In the beginning, we met with them an average of a few times a month. Each meeting revealed some newly bizarre behavior. Like one of them repeatedly discussing his ex-wife, even referring to her on one occasion as a “dishrag slut.” Or they would curse at one another over pricing or timeline quotes. One afternoon, while we were meeting with one of the brothers to pick out lighting fixtures, he reached into a small duffel bag on his desk and produced some rolling papers and a mason jar full of pot. Then he rolled the world’s fattest joint and proceeded to smoke it in front of us, explaining that it was medicinal.
There was a lot to laugh at during this time. And our laughter was that rare type that had within it s
ubtle traces of delirium that might’ve been masquerading behind a wayward kind of hopefulness. Just like building a new home, though, conceiving a child didn’t turn out the way we thought it would. Conception proved more complicated than we had imagined. But we enjoyed the process; our physical relationship had always been healthy, and though its purpose did somewhat change, we maintained a steadfast attraction to one another.
Laura. Graceful Laura. Her sweet, brown cookie-dough eyes; her perfect breasts and body; her heavy, ruler-straight hair that falls around her heart-shaped face in exotic, wavelike motion whenever she moves or mindlessly throws it from side to side. I loved to look at her from across a room when she was reading or sleeping or on the computer. She was able to be still and silent and yet somehow inspire in me an almost manic burst of worry and elation over what the future might hold for us. There was a magic to Laura, a reservoir of grace and goodwill that made me feel like I deserved her, which I probably didn’t.
It was during one of our early meetings with the brothers when we discovered we were the first to buy into Grove Garden Estates. Covering one of the trailer’s walls was a map of the development, each of the six properties delineated in thick, red marker. Our lot, number three, had a black asterisk next to it, which meant it was under contract. Like the others, it was level, wooded in the rear, and had two full acres. We chose it simply because the road in front of it, once paved, would resemble a sort of cul-de-sac. This, we imagined, would someday be ideal for tricycles and hopscotch and mosaics sketched out in sidewalk chalk. Laura’s parents approved of our plan.
“That’s the way to do it,” Laura’s father, Luke, told me one evening when we had them over for dinner. “You get yourself in the door, get settled, and watch the price of the rest of those homes get jacked up, thirty, forty grand. Meanwhile, you’ve got the most equity.”
Everybody’s Out There Page 6