“You actually believed that?” asked Wiesner.
I looked back at him. “I miss the hell out of believing that.”
“So what happened?” he asked. “I mean, here you are at Santangelo, all dressed in black, making fun of shit all the time. Total cynic.”
“It just stopped,” I said. “It was like one day we all woke up and went about our business, as though none of it had ever happened. No more hitchhikers, no more Stoned Balloons.”
“Because the war was over?” asked Sitzman.
“More than that. Maybe everybody grew up or something. Watergate happened. People started looking inward instead of to each other when they felt like they needed help.”
When they didn’t lay down cash on the barrelhead for reassurance from EST or Arica or primal therapy.
“After that,” I said, “it was pretty much selfish bullshit. Disco. Chardonnay. Consciousness-raising.”
“You ever get the feeling the sixties stuff could happen again?” asked Forchetti, looking like he’d give anything for me to say yes.
“Sometimes it feels like there’s a glimmer of it around the edges,” I said. “But I don’t think it ever lasts.”
I leaned my chair back. “Remember the picture of that one guy standing in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square?”
Wiesner and Sitzman nodded. Forchetti just crossed his arms.
“I remember the first time I saw it,” I said. “I felt like I totally knew what he was thinking: that all he had to do was stand there, because it was so obvious the stupid bad shit had to stop, and that he wasn’t alone. Like, even the guys driving the tank knew he was right, so there was no reason for him to be afraid of getting run down.”
I looked down at my desk. “It was the saddest damn picture I think I’ve ever seen.”
“Why?” asked Wiesner. “The tank stopped. He was right.”
“Yeah, but he was wrong about everything else,” I said, “because the stupid bad shit never stops—he just didn’t understand that yet, and I knew how much it was going to suck when he figured it out.”
Forchetti smirked. “So are you gonna let us go early today?”
“No,” I said. “I’m going to make you sit here and listen to ‘Alice’s Restaurant.’”
The bell rang just as Arlo was wrapping up the last round of “You can get anything you want . . .”
Lulu peeked in the doorway after the kids took off. “You remember we’ve got a faculty meeting?”
I groaned.
“Next to the dining hall,” she said. “I’ll walk you over.”
We trudged off, hearts heavy.
“Don’t we have to make Fay’s birthday cake?” I asked.
“Already baked,” she said. “Two layers of devil’s food. I just need to frost it.”
Dhumavati opened with a list of announcements: The student soccer game against guests at a yoga center up the road on Wednesday. The week’s dorm-parent duty roster down at the Farm. An entreaty to search our classrooms for unreturned library books.
She looked up from her notes. “That’s it for official business, so I thought we’d make tonight an open session.”
There was a sharp and universal intake of breath around the room. In the absence of a concrete agenda, meetings were never canceled or brought to an early conclusion. They were automatically transformed into windows of therapeutic opportunity, meaning we’d spend the next two hell-or-high-water hours rending the flesh of a random victim.
Mindy, Lulu, me . . . it didn’t matter. Truth was immaterial, the object was fear.
Blue eyes or brown eyes, fellow traveler or counter-revolutionary capitalist roader, dirty Juden or dirty Boche—you never knew who’d ride in the tumbrel next.
Pick a card, any card.
Someone in the room was already guilty. Someone would prove to have a scapegoatable flaw.
Santangelo was the last holdout of Mao’s Cultural Revolution. We had the “Self-Criticism” sessions down pat. All we needed were a dozen or so copies of the Little Red Book to wave around while we performed the loyalty dance.
The idea of Mindy in a dumpy green Chinese suit made me want to refuse Dhumavati’s job, raise or no raise.
“Who’d like to open tonight’s discussion?” Dhumavati asked.
No takers, not surprisingly.
We all tried not to fidget, because the slightest tic of sound or motion—throat cleared, knuckles cracked, fingers unwittingly drummed against taut thigh—would bring the group down on your ass like some frenzy of sharks snapping at a slick of rancid chum.
I caught Mindy staring at me, her lips pursed in a mean little simper. Figuring I might as well beat her to the punch, I raised my hand.
“Madeline, you have something you’d like to share with the group?” asked Dhumavati.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to appreciate Mindy.”
Dhumavati’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise. “And what would you like to appreciate Mindy for?”
“I need to let Mindy know that I’m feeling gratitude for how she’s always really being there for me in our therapy sessions with Sookie.”
“Tell us more about that,” said Dhumavati.
“She totally calls me on my shit,” I said, “which is just so important to the process, you know?”
“Let’s all join Madeline in appreciating Mindy for her help with that piece,” said Dhumavati, raising her hands to lead us in a round of applause.
When the clapping died down, all eyes remained on the object of my appreciation.
“Mindy, do you have anything to share with us about how being appreciated by Madeline made you feel just now?” asked Dhumavati.
“I, um . . .” Mindy faltered, looking like she was about to hack up a fuzzy pink hairball.
Not above a little simper of my own, I blinked at her. Twice.
Gerald put a hand on her shoulder. “Just go with what you’re feeling right now.”
“Surprise?” Mindy said.
“Why does being appreciated by Madeline surprise you?” asked Pete.
Tim leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Maybe because Mindy knows she doesn’t call Madeline on her shit to be helpful?”
“That’s a very interesting observation, Tim,” said Dhumavati. “Can you tell us why you think Mindy does call Madeline on her shit?”
“Because she feels threatened?”
“Nuh-uh!” blurted Mindy.
Dhumavati turned toward her. “Do you think there’s any truth to what Tim’s saying about your feelings toward Madeline?”
Mindy looked at the floor and shook her head.
“I think she does,” said Tim. “I think she totally does.”
Mindy’s hands were now clasped in her lap. I watched a fat tear plop down onto her thumb.
“Nuh-uh,” she said, sniffling.
Gerald got up to fetch her a box of Kleenex.
“Mindy,” said Dhumavati, “I’m feeling some truth in what Tim is trying to tell you. Can you hear that?”
Mindy was silent, hugging the Kleenex box to her belly.
“I think you do feel threatened by Madeline,” Dhumavati continued. “So much so that you can’t take in how much she cares for you.”
“Dhumavati?” I said.
She ignored me. “Can you let us know what you’re feeling now, Mindy?”
Mindy shook her head again.
“Dhumavati,” I said, “this is ridiculous.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Everyone looked at me.
“I mean that I don’t particularly care about Mindy.”
Mindy blew her nose at that, more tears plopping into her lap.
“I mean, I care about her right now,” I said, “because she’s so bummed out, but I didn’t do the appreciation thing because I care about her generally.”
“We can learn from people we don’t care about, Madeline,” said Dhumavati. “I think that was your point in appreciating her.”
“Look, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t actually appreciate her.”
“Be that as it may, you’re still grateful to Mindy for keeping you honest in your therapy sessions. That’s what counts.”
“Dhumavati, I’m not grateful to Mindy for that. In fact, whenever we have to do therapy together, she’s an annoying bitch.”
“But you appreciated her!” said Tim.
“So I lied.”
He went white. “Why would you do that?”
“Because she was gunning for me,” I said. “Right, Mindy?”
“Pretty much,” she admitted.
I looked back at Tim. “Last time we had group together, you poked Mindy in the arm and told her to shut up, right?”
“Well, yeah.” He crossed his arms.
“So I’m not alone in thinking she’s an annoying bitch, at least occasionally.”
Tim shrugged. “You still lied.”
“I know.”
“Why would you do that?” he asked.
“Because,” I said, “I didn’t want to get eviscerated all night over some pointless bullshit. Mindy was going to set me up, so I did it first. She and I don’t like each other—I’m sure she’d characterize me as an annoying bitch.”
Mindy nodded.
“But here’s the thing, Tim,” I said. “I feel like shit now because you guys went for her throat with such astonishing gusto. And she didn’t deserve that, even if she would’ve enjoyed the hell out of watching it happen to me.”
Nobody said a word.
I shrugged. “Okay, so I just felt like it was important to be honest for once. Mindy and I can keep on hating each other, and you guys can go right ahead and take out whoever you want for the rest of the session.”
Dhumavati cleared her throat. “Mindy, would you like to share with the group how you feel about what Madeline just said?”
Mindy simpered at me again, then she said, “I feel like Madeline needs to fire herself.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Lulu.
“Lulu, I’m feeling some hostility from you,” said Dhumavati.
“I’m feeling some hostility from me, too,” said Lulu. “I mean, for God’s sake , Dhumavati, Madeline’s right. What the hell is the point of sitting around tearing into each other like this?”
“Even if Madeline’s original intention tonight was dishonest, I certainly feel as though we’re clearing the air now. Don’t you think that’s worth doing?”
“If viciousness is the only thing we’ll accept as authentic emotion,” said Lulu. “But I refuse to concede that’s all there is. I think it’s just what we’ve allowed ourselves to settle for.”
“We have a perfectly authentic way to express our positive feelings. That’s the whole point of appreciating one another,” said Dhumavati.
Lulu sighed.
“I’d like to appreciate you for reminding us how important that is, Lulu,” said Dhumavati. “I agree with you that these meetings can all too often degenerate into accusation and shame-mongering. In fact, I’d like to see our time together put to more generous and compassionate use. But it’s not up to me. That’s why we call it an open session—the agenda is yours, not mine.”
Pete raised his hand.
“What would you like to add to the discussion?” asked Dhumavati. “I value your input on what’s been said so far tonight.”
“I’d like to appreciate Lulu and Madeline,” he said. “They’ve made me feel incredibly welcome here, and I value our new friendship a great deal.”
Lulu was soothed by that, I could tell.
“Thank you, Pete,” said Dhumavati. “I’m grateful to you for demonstrating what I was just trying to say.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “And I’d also like to do a turn-in.”
Lulu was suddenly looking a whole lot less soothed. I tucked my hands under my legs so no one could see how hard I was gripping the sides of my chair’s plastic seat.
“Good for you,” said Dhumavati. “And what would you like to do a turn-in for?”
“Smoking cigarettes,” he said.
My stomach threatened to give dinner an encore appearance right onto the carpet.
“On campus?” she asked.
“Friday afternoon,” he said. “But a couple of times off campus over the weekend.”
“Anything else you’d like us to know?” asked Dhumavati.
“That’s it,” he said. “I was feeling stressed. Now I regret the decision to cover that up with smoking.”
“How do you feel now that you’ve done your turn-in?” she asked.
“Better. It feels like it will be easier to resist the temptation now that I’ve admitted it.”
“That’s the whole point,” she said. “You have a fresh start.”
Pete smiled at her. “Thank you for that. I appreciate it.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to share?”
I held my breath. Oh yeah, and I was with Lulu and Madeline, who were smoking right along with me, and then I smoked pot at Madeline’s house, and we’ve all been slamming down as much coffee as we can get our hands on.
“No,” he said, “I think that’s about it.”
“Let’s let Pete know how much we appreciate his candor, shall we?” said Dhumavati, starting to clap again.
We all joined in, Lulu and I somewhat more tepidly than the rest of the crew. Lulu caught my eye, the corner of her mouth twitching up in relief. Or maybe dismay.
I wondered what the point of him doing a turn-in was if he was going to lie about it. Was it meant to show what a good little lapdog he was? Or—to give him the benefit of the doubt—was he was trying to come to my aid by deflecting the conversation?
But then I wondered if he’d been hoping Dhumavati would ask him whether he’d been with Lulu and me at the time of his transgressions, given how quickly he’d tacked that turn-in on to his purported appreciation of us.
Pretty damn candyass, no matter how you sliced it. I just hoped Lulu would get that before she was tempted to open up to him any further. I sure as hell wasn’t about to waste any more Camels on the guy, even if he begged.
“Let’s go home early for a change,” said Dhumavati. “I think we could all use a break.”
People bolted out of the room like she’d fired a starting pistol.
I figured I’d wait, so as to avoid getting trampled. Lulu was of the same mind, apparently. She didn’t budge from her chair, just hummed “Goodnight, Irene” under her breath.
Dhumavati stood up and started gathering her papers. “Are we all set for Fay’s birthday?”
“I baked a cake,” said Lulu. “It should have cooled enough for me to get the frosting on by now.”
“I’ll bring ice cream and paper plates and party hats,” said Dhumavati.
“I bought a box of candles,” I said, pulling them out of my jacket pocket.
Dhumavati laughed. “You got off easy.”
“I have a feeling Lulu is way better at baking,” I told her. “And thank you for letting us go early.”
“Madeline,” she said, “you may not believe it, but I’m as sick of these meetings as you are. The human capacity for pointless sniping never ceases to amaze me.”
“I admit to being shocked,” I said.
“If you think you had me fooled for a moment,” she said. “Appreciating Mindy? That woman’s about as appreciate-able as head lice.”
“And here I thought you were a true believer,” I said, “waving your Little Red Book.”
“It’s not that bad,” she said. “Sometimes the tension makes people bring up topics that actually matter. In Synanon, they called it the Game.”
“You were in Synanon?” I asked.
“Close enough,” she said. “Why don’t you two go frost that cake?”
Lulu and I stood up.
“And for God’s sake,” said Dhumavati, “get yourselves some better mouthwash. I can’t stand smoker’s breath.”
Lulu and I just
stood there, stunned, as she walked out of the room.
“Did somebody put acid in my coffee this morning?” Lulu asked me.
“Looks that way.”
“Luckily,” she said, “it was good acid.”
It was dark in the woods about an hour after we’d finished supper in the dining hall. Lulu and I were toting the cake down to the Farm. She’d frosted it creamy white and written Fay’s name across the top in pale blue script, with little candy pearls.
“Should’ve brought my flashlight,” I said.
“We’re almost there. You’ve got a lighter?”
“Always,” I said. “You want me to hold it up so we can see?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just wanted to make sure we had something to light the cake.”
“Right here in my jacket.” I fingered the Bic and the box of tiny pink candles in my pocket.
“I’m a little surprised Dhumavati’s letting us do this,” Lulu said.
“After that meeting?”
“Well, maybe not as surprised as I might formerly have been,” she admitted.
“I think she feels bad for Fay, you know?”
“It gives me hope for this place—the kids should have a little celebration on their birthdays.”
We came out of the trees. The windows of the building below were lit up—rectangles of welcoming yellow light.
“What’d Sookie have to say yesterday?” asked Lulu, picking her way carefully down the hillside. “Anything useful? I forgot to ask you.”
“She wasn’t in her office. Her kids have the flu or something.”
“There’s a nasty bug going around,” she said. “The whole second floor in New Boys was down for the count over the weekend. We’ll probably get it, what with being shut up in all these damn meetings, breathing each other’s fumes.”
“Something else to look forward to.”
“At this point I’d pretty much welcome it. I could hole up in my bed for a couple of days with mugs of tea and some crappy novels.”
“Looking forward to the flu,” I said. “That’s just sad.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “Pitiful.”
We reached the bottom of the hill and trudged toward the garden fence.
“Well, I’ll be dipped,” said Lulu.
“What?”
The Crazy School Page 11