The Crazy School

by Cornelia Read

  The guy was so good I’d have skipped along behind him myself, blithely oblivious to the possibility of bears and snakes and impending nightfall.

  He slid a hint of Gerald into the mists of enchantment so subtly that the pair of them latched on to the guy, thinking his alleged guilt was their own idea.

  I had no doubt that Markham could easily have charmed the pants off Baker and eaten Cartwright’s lunch while he spoke, without a one of us noticing that he’d so much as twitched in his chair.

  Finally, he looked at that achingly thin watch again, then grinned at us all.

  “My client must return to work,” he said, “and I think we can all agree that her continued employment at the Santangelo Academy is testament to that institution’s utter faith in her innocence of any wrongdoing. In fact, she’s in line for a promotion.”

  Hands were shaken all around.

  Markham and I left the station. As we climbed into the Beamer, he winked at me and kissed his own ring.

  “Dude,” I said, “that was awesome.”

  “Let’s not go counting any chickens,” he said. “All I did was cast a few choice handfuls of grain as a temporary diversion.”

  “Markham, that wasn’t chicken feeding, that was snake charming. Turban and all.”

  “What can I say, darlin’. ‘Sometimes the light’s all shining on me . . .’”

  He hit the gas and shot us onto Route 20.

  “Now you’re gonna pay me back,” he said, “by asking your friend Lulu what she remembers about your traveling jacket last Tuesday night. But that’s all, honey lamb. That’s all. No meanderings from your appointed conversational task—we clear?”

  “Crystal,” I said as we flew back to Pittsfield.

  Lulu and I were hiding out by the grape arbor, smoking and freezing our asses off on the cold ground during lunch break from Sitting.

  “So listen,” I said. “My attorney wants me to figure out how Fay’s necklace got into my jacket. I don’t have a damn clue. I mean, if you took it with you when you left the Farm at the end of that party, then how the hell could anyone else get at the thing to slip any jewelry inside?”

  “I didn’t take your jacket when I left,” she said. “I didn’t even know you’d left it there.”

  “So how’d it get up to Dhumavati’s apartment?”

  “Gerald,” she said. “He gave it to me when I went out to wash your clothes.”

  “What time was that?”

  “After midnight, maybe? Not exactly sure. Definitely late.”

  “What the hell was he doing up there? I mean, wasn’t he on overnight coverage at the Farm?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” said Lulu.

  “Can’t,” I said. “Markham said I’m not allowed to talk to anyone about it. Probably piss him right off if he knew I was chatting with you, except about the necklace thing.”

  “So I’ll ask Gerald,” she said. “Piece of cake.”

  We heard a rustling in the trees behind us and simultaneously dropped our Camels.

  Lulu threw me a breath mint just as Wiesner emerged from the woods, snow dusting his cropped blond hair.

  “Got another one of those smokes for a poor wayward runaway?” he asked.

  “Wiesner, honest to God,” said Lulu. “You scared me to death, practically. And where the hell have you been?”

  “It’s a secret,” he said. “And I only came out because you guys were talking about Gerald, so it’s not like I’m going to come trotting back with either of you, okay?”

  “We can’t let you just leave,” she said.

  “Lulu, get real,” he said, towering over her. “How the hell you gonna make me stay?”

  “Um, there is that,” I said.

  “I mean,” he said, “no one will blame you for not trying to tackle me or whatever. And I wouldn’t recommend it anyway, what with my known predisposition for violence. So let’s just smoke and chill for a minute, okay? Then we can all just pretend we never ran into each other in the first place.”

  “Oh, for chrissake,” she said, shrugging and handing him my pack of Camels.

  “Smart move,” he said, leaning down to give her a playful tap on the shoulder. “After all, I’m a dangerous man.”

  “You’re a dangerous boy, Wiesner,” she said. “Don’t let’s go putting on any airs.”

  He grinned at her, cigarette clenched in his teeth, then held out his hand for the lighter.

  “You got enough food, wherever you are?” I asked. “Blankets and stuff?”

  “Taken care of,” he said, cupping the flame and pulling down a lungful of smoke. “Don’t worry your pretty head.”

  “You should come back to school,” I said. “I think Gerald’s under control. Plus, it’s not like you could testify against him. You weren’t even in the room, right?”

  “Let me tell you a little something about Gerald, Madeline,” he said, “speaking of dangerous men.”

  Lulu reached up to pluck the lighter from his hand, then tossed it back to me.

  “Go ahead, Wiesner,” she said, “spill.”

  He turned his head to the side and blew out a plume of tar and nicotine. “Okay, start with this for spillage: I think Gerald’s a fucking spy.”

  “Wiesner, if you go off ranting about the KGB or something,” I said, “I’m not above jumping you myself.”

  That got me a leer. “Jump me any ol’ time you want. That kinda talk fires my loinage right up.”

  “Don’t be an asshole,” said Lulu. “Just tell us what the hell you mean by ‘spy.’”

  Wiesner sank to the ground beside us, crossing his legs Indian-style and leaning back against one of the pergola’s rotting uprights.

  “Gerald and I showed up here about the same time,” he said, “and I gotta say, he seemed squirrelly from day one.”

  “Compared to what?” asked Lulu. “I mean, if you ask me, this place is pretty much ground zero, vis-à-vis Team Squirrel. Myself included, front and center.”

  Wiesner laughed, raising a hand to cite his own membership on the squad. “Let’s just say he’s above and beyond. And even weirder lately.”

  “I say again, weirder than what?” asked Lulu. “Weirder how?”

  “Fussier. Twitchier.”

  “We all are, Wiesner,” I said. “And come on, who could blame us? Fay and Mooney, all the Sitting . . .”

  “So why’s Gerald wandering all over campus in the middle of the night?” he said. “And I mean every night.”

  He took another hit of Camel. “And when he’s not skulking around through the classrooms and the offices and the meeting rooms—with a flashlight, by the way, and meanwhile all dressed up in black sweats with a freaking watch cap on like he thinks he’s some hokey burglar—what the hell’s he doing sitting up in his apartment till dawn with piles of books on his desk, taking notes and talking into this very shpendy-looking microcassette recorder?”

  “Um,” I said.

  “You guys wanna ask me,” said Wiesner, “I think when it comes to Team Squirrel, Gerald qualifies as outright bushy-tailed varsity captain. Possibly head coach.”

  Not to mention, I thought, that the guy was rich enough to buy up the whole damn American Squirrel League and make it collect acorns on his lawn.

  “Sounds like you’ve been doing a little skulking yourself, Wiesner,” said Lulu.

  He shrugged. “Gotta keep my hand in.”

  “So what’s he looking for?” I asked.

  “Fuck if I know,” said Wiesner, stubbing out his Camel. “Maybe you should ask your attorney—after Lulu finds out what the hell Gerald was doing with your jacket that night.”

  He stood up and patted each of us on the head. “Think I’ll be taking off now, ladies,” he said, then sprinted back out into the forest.

  “Who was that masked man?” I asked.

  “And we didn’t even have a chance to thank him.” Lulu rose to her feet and started brushing snow off the back of her pants.

  29


  On the way back to the dining hall, I told Lulu the rest of what I now knew about Gerald, once we’d assured each other that Wiesner couldn’t be eavesdropping.

  “So I’d love to know what happened at his last gig,” I said, “that he ended up here.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” she said. “And what the hell is a ‘special product,’ anyway?”

  “I dunno. Like some weird kind of algebra-extrapolation stock/bond thing. Futures or something? Risky stuff, but I guess you can make a lot of money with them.”

  “I’ll stick to cash crops, thank you very much,” she said. “Nice and tangible. Soybeans, winter wheat . . .”

  “You and Dean must be cousins,” I said, “somehow.”

  “All Methodists are cousins. It’s the bond of the Jell-O salad and the pale blue American sedan.”

  “Not Lutherans?”

  “ Lutherans? Bite your tongue!”

  “Consider it bitten,” I said.

  “Do you want me to ask Gerald about his career shift?”

  “Lulu, no. Seriously, I’m not even sure you should bring up the jacket. We don’t know what the guy’s deal is at all. Especially now, with the whole burglar-skulking thing. Gave me the creeps, Wiesner talking about that.”

  “You’re sure? I can be circumspect. Methodists are justly famed for their circumspection.”

  “Let’s let Markham handle it. He’s practically Samoan.”

  “Samoan?”

  I shook my head. “Had to be there.”

  We trudged along in silence for a minute.

  “Hey,” I said, “what’s today?”

  “Shitty,” she said.

  “No, I mean day of the week.”

  “You know what?” she said. “All this Sitting, I don’t even know.”

  “If it’s Friday, I might like to do a little skulking of my own.”

  “For what?”

  I told her about Santangelo’s dirt meetings.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You’re serious? No confidentiality?”

  “Anything you wouldn’t want them to know?”

  She laughed. “Whining about my mother? Not a lot anyone could hold over my head, unless they threatened to reveal her secret Jell-O recipe.”

  “So what’s the secret?”

  “Shredded carrots,” she said. “You can throw in mini marshmallows, if you want to get hoity-toity.”

  “That’s nasty.”

  “I’m not going to lose any sleep over the possibility of blackmail.”

  “Ew,” I said, “blackmailers would pay you to keep that stuff under wraps.”

  “And don’t get me started on Mother’s scrapple.”

  “Your poor therapist! I bet she goes to those secret meetings and just uncontrollably weeps.”

  “Heh,” said Lulu.

  “Can’t believe I’m about to ask this,” I said, “but do you think we missed lunch?”

  “Mmmm,” she said, “I wonder if they have any scrapple Jell-O.”

  She leaned down and picked up a large pinecone from beside the path. “I can make a nice centerpiece with this.”

  We made it before the steam tables went all verboten on us—in fact, they hadn’t even started moving the salad bar back over to the wall.

  I snaked myself some cottage cheese and artichoke hearts and cucumber slices and Italian dressing, with grated cheddar and even some of Santangelo’s Salvation Army croutons for good measure.

  When I got to the faculty table, the only place left was next to Gerald, who was fastidiously chewing each bite of his Salisbury steak and whipped potatoes thirty-two times, while Mindy babbled on about the latest pink additions to her stuffed-animal menagerie. A bunny and a puppy and two of just absolutely the cutest little fluffy kittens you ever saw, apparently. Blink blink.

  I waved at Pete, but he was staring out the window and didn’t wave back. Or look.

  Whatever. Sitting made everyone cranky.

  So, since I couldn’t talk to Gerald about my jacket, or his Hamburglar deal, or anything real, I started trying to figure out a way to bring up fractals to see if I could get him chatting about his previous job.

  Only let’s face it, fractals are not exactly something that come up naturally in your average conversation. I couldn’t just go, “Fluffy kittens, Mindy? Funny you should mention them, because I was just thinking how they relate to the philosophical vagaries of investment banking.”

  We weren’t exactly talking me having some whole bounty-licious smorgas-copia of higher-mathematics small talk at my disposal.

  I had to say something, though, before Mindy’s jawing on about all those cuddwy iddoo-widdoo puddy-tats made me fwow the fuck up.

  I looked around the table, desperate for inspiration. When I saw that Lulu had deposited her spiky forest swag right next to her plate, I heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Hey, Lulu,” I said, “okay if I play with your pinecone?”

  “Have at it,” she said, handing it over.

  “Love these things,” I said to Gerald. “They’re just so damn Fibonacci, you know?”

  Which was, like, the only other thing I knew about math, aside from my general suckage at the subject—that all pinecones were examples of the Fibonacci series, a string of numbers that kept appearing in nature.

  I started counting the petals of the cone as they spiraled out from its base: “One, one, two, three, five,” hoping to hell this would somehow coincide with fractals.

  “Eight, thirteen,” continued Gerald. “I love that stuff. I always used to count them when I was a kid. Did you know it works with the heads of sunflowers, too?”

  “Really?” I said. “Gerald, that’s fascinating. I had no idea!”

  I sounded all fakey-fake, like my mom when there was a guy in the kitchen and she suddenly became incapable of opening pickle jars, but Gerald seemed pleased and flattered.

  “Pineapples, Sharon fruit, and many leaf configurations,” he said. “Of course, in some plants, the numbers don’t belong to the sequence of F’s—Fibonacci numbers—but to the sequence of G’s—Lucas numbers—if not to even more anomalous sequences.”

  “So it’s not, like, universal, then.”

  “Well, you couldn’t really call phyllotaxis a law,” he said. “It’s more accurate to think of it as a fascinatingly prevalent tendency.”

  “Phyllotaxis? Is that anything to do with fractals?”

  “You’re interested in fractals?”

  “Oh, I think they’re inspiring,” I said. “Even though I’m not sure I fully understand the full range of their applications.”

  I looked deep into his eyes with a little blink blink myself.

  “They’re for describing things that are, like, bumpy, right?” I asked, finger to lips, the confused ingenue. “Coastlines, the stock market?”

  Had Gerald looked any more ecstatic, I would’ve worried he was about to bend me over the table and spank me out of sheer glee.

  Gotcha.

  30

  We were all hauling salad bar and tables back to the walls for après-lunch Sitting, but Gerald was still talking a blue streak.

  “That is, the Mandelbrot set is the subset of the complex plane consisting of those parameters for which the Julia set of . . .”

  His voice kept blurring in and out—phrases like “certainly include Mikhail Lyubich and Jean-Christophe Yoccoz, at the very least,” alternating with the “Waaah, wuh-WUH waaaaah” of adult speech in Charlie Brown specials.

  I was ready to throw myself at Mindy’s feet and beg for enough contrapuntal iddoo-widdoo cuddwy-wuddwy that I might hope to achieve spontaneous combustion and thus end my agony.

  “. . . realized that prices having theoretically infinite variance did in fact follow a rather more Lévy-stable model,” Gerald went on, “such that our comprehension of financial markets—”

  “Financial markets?” I shrieked, grabbing the man by his cheesy lapels. “Gerald, you’re a goddamn genius!”

  He
blushed, stepping back from the praise.

  “Seriously,” I gushed, “you’re blowing me away with the staggeringly lapidary sublimeness of your erudition, here!”

  “That’s awfully kind of you, Madeline,” he mumbled, looking down at his now bashfully pigeoned toes. “But I can’t say I’ve made any original contribution. For goodness’ sakes, Mandelbrot’s 1975 Les objets fractals: forme, hasard et dimension alone—”

  “Dude,” I insisted, “don’t go trying to hide your light under any bushels. You’re all, like— I mean, why aren’t you on Wall Street?”

  I laid a gentle hand on his wrist. “Why aren’t you teaching at, I don’t know, Harvard?”

  “Madeline, I used to imagine that I’d . . .” But he stopped there, looking like he might be on the verge of tears for a moment.

  “Gerald?”

  “I had no choice. My reason for coming overrode all other considerations. Money, pride, reputation . . .” And then he did tear up. Turned his head to the side so I wouldn’t see.

  Too late.

  “Gerald,” I said, “if you ever want to talk about it . . .”

  “I would, I think.” He looked around the shabby room, at everyone drawing its chairs back into yet another torturous circle. “I’d like to talk about it with you.”

  I sent up a little prayer of apology to Markham. “I would consider it an honor, Gerald. I really would.”

  “Doesn’t seem like we’ll have any chance of that now,” he said. “Maybe we could have a cup of coffee together in my apartment after we’re done with this session?”

  The dining hall went quiet as people started taking their seats.

  Gerald chose a place next to me on the floor, holding my hand throughout our next two hours of Sitting.

  31

  I spent the entire Sitting session wondering how not to accept any more Gerald-prepared beverages—especially alone in his apartment—while trying to steel myself against the desperate urge to yank my hand out of his.

  It was, after all, he who’d had control of my jacket, with the consequent opportunity to plant Fay’s broken necklace on my person. Gerald the spy, Gerald the probably-killer, Gerald the close personal friend of Santangelo, who’d set me up to take the probably-rap.