Today, I asked her what I should do about Meaghan’s situation, and I waited. I stood staring at her grave marker for a long time, wondering what she would do in a similar instance, but Alphonse had been a bit of an enigma so I wasn’t entirely sure. After a few minutes, I reached down and drew my fingers across her name, etched in the stone.
“Nothing to say today?” I asked. When it was clear that Alphonse didn’t have an answer for me, I started back toward the building, a little clearer of mind, but not much. I still wasn’t sure what to do, and that troubled me. Usually, I went with my heart and did the first thing that came into my head, not always a winning combination, but one that eventually worked out in the long run.
Just as I was leaving the cemetery, picking my way across the gravel at the entrance, I stumbled backward, landing at the base of a great and majestic gravestone. Obviously, Sister Irene Mary Stanislaus had come from money, because her family had erected a great and soaring angel in her honor, a marker that towered above the rest of the sisters’ stones. I stood and dusted myself off, my skirt marked with a little slash of mud across the hem; I cursed lightly under my breath and looked at Sister Irene Mary’s epitaph:
Great is truth and mighty above all things.
I guess I had my answer.
Twenty-Two
As I made my way back to my office, I decided that I wasn’t going to seek out Joanne Larkin today but later in the week. I had to wrap my brain around this situation and figure out the best way to approach it. I have never been officially diagnosed, but I suspect I have a terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease, one that gets worse when I have to deal with a sensitive situation or topic. Rather than blurt out the first thing that would inevitably come into my head, I was going to jot down a script, one designed to counter any objections Joanne might have to my accusation and that would keep Meaghan in school and in good standing both academically and athletically. Meaghan would probably handle getting expelled better than she would handle getting bounced from the basketball team, but neither scenario was a good one, and they went hand in hand.
Members of the cross-country team went by in a blur of purple, our predominant school color, and a blast of chilly air kissed my face. I thought about Meaghan and her bad taste in men, something that up until recently we had in common. Both of us had great fathers yet had exhibited incredibly poor judgment when it came to the opposite sex. I hoped that she would see the light, as I had, and move on from Mr. Super Senior, someone who I hoped graduated at the end of the year, joined the Peace Corps, and headed to a far-off land where cell service and texting were still a decade away from being a reality. It didn’t seem like my fervent hope of them breaking up was in the cards, though, so I had to think about Plan B, which was finding a way to make him look unsuitable to her without pushing her farther into his warm embrace, kind of like the polar opposite of playing Cupid.
I had too much on my mind, the least of which was school, and I had to get my focus back when it came to teaching. I was carrying my usual load, but with all of the family drama taking center stage, I was behind on a variety of tasks, including the grading of some creative writing exercises that I had given my class the week before. It was funny how that worked: Students waited until the last possible minute to hand in assignments, yet didn’t give an inch when it came to when I got things back to them. It had become obvious to me over the years that most of my students thought I was some kind of professorial eunuch, laboring solely for their pleasure at the temple of St. Thomas University. The fact that I had a husband, a dog, some stepchildren, and a social life of sorts never entered their minds, so focused were they on their own pursuits of education, sex, and booze. Most of the time it made me laugh, but this week, after break-ins and dog poisonings and cheating scandals, I was ready to tell each and every one who asked where their test was or why their paper wasn’t graded to “stick it.”
After a calming visit to the cemetery, I had managed to think myself right into a black mood, a mood that would surely persist until I got some perspective on my work and hunkered down. As I rounded the corner to the stairs that would take me back to my office, Mary Lou Bannerman appeared, a paper bag in her hand.
“Hi!” she called in that ever-cheerful way that she had. I didn’t know what she took to stay in this state of perpetual bliss, but I wanted some. “Did you have lunch?” she asked.
I thought about the peanut butter sandwich on wheat bread that I had packed that morning and that resided at the bottom of my messenger bag, probably as flat as a pancake by now and more than a little odiferous. “No,” I said.
She thrust the bag toward me. “Fresh mozzarella with sundried tomato and pesto.”
My mouth watered at the thought. “You don’t have a glass of a witty yet serious Chianti in there, too, do you?”
She smiled wider. “No, but that surely could be arranged.”
I took the bag. “It’s like you can read my mind,” I said. “I was just thinking that I was going to go back to my office and eat lunch before my next class. I was also thinking that the lunch I packed was completely unappetizing.” I opened the bag and saw that in addition to the sandwich, there was a bag of gourmet chips, the kind that are made from a variety of root vegetables but are still loaded with calories and sodium, just the way I like my chips.
She turned and looked toward my office, waving a hand in that direction. “Well, bon appétit,” she said. “I’m off to the library. I’ll see you tomorrow in class.”
“Yes, that,” I said. “I was hoping to get your assignments back, but it’s not looking good.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “No worries. Whenever.”
“If only all of my students were like you. Sandwiches and patience. My life would be perfect,” I said, starting down the stairs toward the door. Looking into the hallway, I spied the back of someone leaving my office, pulling the door shut behind him or her, which was odd, because the note that I’d left on my door asked students to either e-mail me or put a note in my mail slot if they wanted an appointment outside office hours. The sun glinted off the double-paned leaded glass, so I couldn’t make out if it was a man or a woman. By the time I got there, the only people on the floor were Dottie and a number of my colleagues all either leaving or going back to their own offices.
Dottie was actually working when I got to her desk, a spreadsheet open on her computer. “Hi, Dottie,” I said, checking the mail slot behind her for a note from a student.
She raised a penciled-in eyebrow, no thicker than a toothpick, at my greeting. Today’s getup was a flowered tunic paired with purple leggings, eye shadow to match, natch.
When it was clear that was her greeting, I asked her if she had seen anyone go in or out of my office, or if anyone had left me a message. She continued working on the spreadsheet, giving me a curt shake of her head to indicate that she hadn’t seen anyone nor had anyone left me a message. At least that’s what I deduced.
My door was closed, just as it had been when I left, and when I went inside, nothing was out of place. I walked back out to Dottie’s desk and asked her again. “Dottie, no one?”
“I didn’t see anyone,” she said, turning to face me, “and nobody left you a message.” She swiveled back around. “I have work to do,” she said.
Well, that’s a first, I thought, hurrying back to my office to eat my sandwich. I was sensitive to the fact that I might have missed a student; students were quick to report to Sister Mary if their needs weren’t met by any of the professors under her charge, and I had been lectured more than once about my commitment to making sure that students were well cared for and that my office hours made their visits the most convenient for them, even if they cut into time I should have had to do my own work. I took the sandwich out of the bag and dove in, turning to look at my computer while I ate.
I was pretty sure I had left the browser on the school’s home page, but when I touched the mouse and the screen lit up, that wasn’t the case. The browser was b
ack on the Sans-a-Flush page.
That’s funny, I thought.
Twenty-Three
“What are you eating?” Max asked after I picked up the phone.
“Fresh mozzarella and tomato.”
“I just had a burger from Shake Shack.”
“Good for you,” I said. “We don’t have gourmet food on every corner here in the Bronx, Max. Fortunately, I have a student who is kind enough to bring me a sandwich every now and again.”
“Ass kisser.”
“No, just a nice lady,” I said.
“Lady?”
“Yes,” I said, then described Mary Lou Bannerman and her reason for being at St. Thomas. “She’s really lovely. I was less than enthusiastic when I found out she was going to be in my class, but she really has been a ray of sunshine.”
“Well, that’s nice. You have someone your own age to pal around with,” she said.
I was quick to point out that Mary Lou was older than me. As was Max.
“Well, whatever. Better than having to spend time with teenagers who don’t get your humor.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Listen, I have some bad news.”
A line like that always makes my blood run cold. “What?”
A little sob escaped, and since Max isn’t a crier, I knew that this was serious. “It’s my dad.”
I don’t know why she didn’t lead with that news, but she’s Max and she doesn’t usually follow normal conversational or social conventions.
“He had a stroke. It’s not serious, we don’t think, but he’s in Westchester Medical Center and he’s being observed.”
“What happened?”
“Mom found him at the kitchen table, dribbling coffee out of the side of his mouth. She said that he was having trouble talking and that his right hand wasn’t working either.”
“What can I do, Max?” I asked.
Her voice was a little hoarse, from crying, I expected. “Just pray.”
“Of course,” I said, “and if you need anything, or they need me to do anything, just call. I’m only twenty minutes away from the medical center.”
“I know,” she said. “He may get transferred to a rehab facility in Tarrytown and get back up to speed. That’s what we’re hoping, anyway.”
“And that’s exactly what will happen,” I said.
“You think?”
“With your father?” I made a dismissive noise. “Of course. That old guy is stronger than Fred.”
I could hear the smile in her voice. “You’re right. He’s in good shape, right?”
“The best.”
“So he’ll get through this,” she said, trying to make it more of a statement than a question.
“I have no doubt.”
“Thanks.” She changed the subject as she is wont to do when things get too intense. “So this Bannerman lady. Is she a good writer?”
“Too early to tell,” I said. “If she takes the second semester of this course, she’ll probably finish her novel and then we’ll see.”
“What’s her novel about?”
“Her husband’s murder.”
“Ooohhh,” Max said. “That oughta be interesting.” I heard the other line ringing on her office phone. She said something unintelligible, her voice muffled.
“What?” I asked, not sure that I had heard her correctly, but she was gone, as was her custom, without saying good-bye. I finished my sandwich and cleaned off my desk, preparing to head upstairs for my freshman composition class, the one with the kids who wouldn’t know a past participle if it hit them in the face. Thank God for Mary Lou Bannerman and her offering of sustenance; it would help me get through the next fifty minutes or so.
I was thinking about how I could skip out after class and head up to the medical center as I arrived at my classroom, preoccupied with the thought of an ailing Marty and concerned for Max. Still in the hallway, I texted Crawford about Max’s father, letting him know that I would be visiting the hospital after school. After that, I took a deep breath and went into the room, where I was pleased to see I had full attendance. Will wonders never cease, I thought.
After class, I raced back to my office to get things in order. I hadn’t heard back from Crawford, so I didn’t know if he had read my text, but I figured he would have found out from Fred by now what was happening. I wasn’t worried about him not knowing where I was for the time being. As I was putting some files and papers into my bag, I was suddenly racked by the pain of knowing that sooner rather than later, most likely, Max would be losing a parent, someone who also had been something of a surrogate parent to me. Up until this point, Max had led a pretty charmed life in terms of what she had had to deal with; in her family, no one had had a major illness, everyone was settled and happy, and her parents were healthy, living on their own now that their children were grown. In my own experience with losing my parents, Max had been supportive, yet held me at arm’s length during that time, preferring to give over the lion’s share of bereavement duties to her mother and father, who had supported and nurtured me during two hellacious periods in my life. What would this do to her? I wondered. Max doesn’t like things that are not tidy and neat, and my life throughout the years had been decidedly messy. She had done what she could to be there for me, but now that she was entering the time when her own parents were past elderly and into the realm of the “old-old,” as they are now called, how would she deal? Sure, I had talked a good game, letting her know that I thought her father would be fine, and maybe he would be. Realistically, though, how many eighty-year-olds, despite good health, make it back to 100 percent after a stroke?
I was glad Fred was in her life. Although the guy didn’t speak much, he was her rock, and that might be all she would need to not go off the deep end should something terrible happen as a result of Marty’s stroke.
Just as I was about to take off, my office phone rang. To answer or not to answer, that was the question. I thought of Sister Mary’s lack of affection for me and decided answering it would be in my best interest, just in case she had called to chat about one of my myriad shortcomings as a teacher.
I wished I hadn’t answered. It was Christine.
“Alison, I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t get ahold of Bobby,” she said.
Neither can I, I thought, but held back on that observation. “What can I do for you, Christine?” I asked, sounding a little cool to my own ears.
My frigid tone didn’t seem to have any effect on her. “I’m a little shaken, Alison.”
I let out an exhale and resisted the urge to ask, “What now?” Instead, I asked her what was wrong in the most sympathetic tone I could muster.
“It’s Sassy. Sassy Du Pris? Chick’s ex-wife?”
I knew who Du Pris was, but I didn’t let on. Whatever she already thought of me, I would hate for Christine to think I was cyberstalking her family, even if all I was doing was a little research. “What about her?”
“She called me,” she said, “and she said that she wants the money.”
“Well, she doesn’t have any claim to it,” I said.
“I know, but she said that she would do whatever it takes to get it.” Christine sobbed into the phone. “I know this woman. She means it.”
Twenty-Four
For the second time that week, I found myself driving to Connecticut to calm a frazzled and upset Christine Stepkowski Crawford Morin, and this time, if she offered me wine, I would only be able to have a half glass at most, given that I had to drive back to Westchester. I was furious that I was doing this and that it might interfere with my visit to Marty, but I hoped that talking Christine off the ledge wouldn’t take that long and I could squeeze in a visit before hours were over. I was a one-woman counselor and self-appointed designated driver, and those two things made me ill-tempered. I pulled up in front of her impressive manse and got out of the car, slamming the door so hard that I’m surprised the windows didn’t shatter.
So why was I there? Despite everything, I liked C
hristine. Did I resent that she had had an excellent adventure abroad while I stayed home, making sure her kids had everything they needed and then some? You betcha. Was I a little perturbed, maybe even jealous, over her easy familiarity with Crawford, such that it wasn’t unusual to see her touch his arm or put her arm around his waist? More than you’ll ever know. Even so, would I wish that brood of little troll-like rug rats on anyone, even my worst enemy? No, and that’s why I was there. She had her own share of troubles, not the least of which was that she was raising little kids all over again, little kids who had sprung from someone else’s womb and who had a host of unformed ideas about what it was to have a stepmother. It made my time with Meaghan and Erin seem like a walk in the park, and trust me, it wasn’t.
While I waited for Christine to answer the door, my phone buzzed in my bag. A text from Max read Call me, a message I had had from her several hundred times over the past few years. I texted her back that I had to do something and then would be all hers.
Christine answered the door looking exactly the same as the last few times I had seen her, her eyes red, her cheeks flushed, her body language jittery. She pulled me into the house. “Thank you for coming, Alison.”
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