Zoë was so relieved and elated that she arrived at the school in a kind of haze, kissing Rudy’s cheek as he parked the car, then absently waving to Maya as she went off to the library to play board games.
“Ms. Goren?” The reading specialist opened the classroom door. She was a large, soft woman with warm, slightly protruding eyes, and Zoë could see at first glance that she was a hot-water bottle of a teacher, all comfort and reassurance. “We’re ready for you now.”
Zoë settled herself into a small chair opposite the bovine reading instructor, the austere Ms. Weyr (who had dressed for the occasion in a pink ruffled blouse), and the head of the lower school, Mrs. Benning, who resembled the beaming, active grandmothers who were always gardening, painting, and playing concert piano in arthritis medication commercials. Zoë listened to these three women as the golden words from the report card were repeated: remarkable progress, solid grasp, enthusiasm and interest, and the last four words that rang in her ears like a blessing from on high—reading approaching grade level.
“I can’t tell you what this means to me,” Zoë said, her eyes welling up with tears. “Maya has been so happy here, and she was actually reading a book in the car. And enjoying it! I am just so very grateful.”
“We feel lucky to have Maya in our school,” said Ms. Weyr, her square jaw softened by a genuine smile.
“I can’t wait to see what she accomplishes next year,” added the reading specialist.
“God, yes, I keep forgetting how close we are to January.” Zoë took a deep breath, a little uncomfortable at bringing up the subject of changing schools. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful, or as though she were anxious to leave the school because there was something wrong with it. But that was ridiculous. There was no reason for these women to feel insulted because she wanted to get Maya back into a mainstream school. After all, that was the whole idea, wasn’t it? And she could be honest with them, explain how hard it had been for her to adjust to living in the country. Zoë straightened her shoulders.
“Speaking of next year, I realize that I’d better get going on the admissions process for next fall. I know Maya could always go back to her old school in Manhattan, but I’ve begun to think that a more structured class would be better for her.”
“Excuse me,” said the head of the lower school, tilting her graying blond head to one side. “But are you thinking of taking Maya out of the school?”
For some reason, Zoë felt her cheeks heat in a guilty blush. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t love the Mackinley School, but the country isn’t really my place, and now that Maya’s doing so well…” She let her voice trail off.
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Benning, exchanging looks with Ms. Weyr and the fluffy reading specialist. “I see we should have made ourselves a little bit clearer.”
“When I said next year, I meant the next school year, in fifth grade,” the reading specialist explained. “And I was assuming that Maya would be staying on. Because while it’s true that she’s reading at near grade level, a child of her intelligence should be reading well above.”
“And since fourth grade is an important, transitional year, we never recommend removing a child from Mackinley at this point,” added Mrs. Benning. “We’ve seen time and time again what happens when a student leaves us too early.”
“They lose confidence, they feel pressured,” offered Mrs. Weyr. Like the other women, she was gazing at Zoë with a combination of compassion and concern. “They go from feeling that they are doing well to feeling that they can’t keep up. Especially in fourth grade. Up until that point, children learn to read, but afterward they are expected to read to learn.”
Zoë looked from woman to woman. “But I thought her case was mild. A year, you said, would make a huge difference.”
“And it has,” said the lower school head, putting her rawboned, ringless hand over Zoë’s limp fingers. “But we never said that she would spend only one year with us, Ms. Goren. We always recommend a minimum of two years for each child, and some stay far longer. I know you moved from Manhattan just for your daughter, and I know how hard that must have been. Believe me, you’re not the first parent to feel like a fish out of water. But I really think we should give Maya at least two years to really consolidate her gains before mainstreaming her.” She paused. “And as you just said, it would have to be the right school, one that doesn’t make her feel like there’s something wrong with the way her mind works.”
For a long moment, Zoë clung to the fantasy of the brownstone. I don’t have to listen to this, she thought. I have options. I can transfer Maya to another good school for dyslexics in Manhattan. Or else I can teach Maya at home, get her tutors. After all, this is my life, too. Surely it still matters whether or not I’m happy living here?
And then she flashed on the memory of sitting in her living room with Frances and Gretchen and Skeeter and Mack, thinking of alternative names for the Arcadia Wetlands Foundation. She remembered Mack saying the local newspaper needed an editor, and the seductive pull of that word: “needed.” She remembered Mack, soaping her legs in the bathtub, asking her a question about journalism and listening intently to her response.
“Ms. Goren? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, “I am. I’m just…readjusting myself mentally.” Or having an epiphany, if that was the right word for a sudden realization that came not with a leap but with a thud. Because it was clear to her now that she had, in fact, been happy here in the country these past six weeks or more. She had been busy working on a story, she had made friends, she had found a lover who made her feel safe enough to play a little at danger.
She still longed for Manhattan the way Jews had traditionally yearned for the Promised Land, but Zoë could not lie to herself and say that she was buying her daughter’s education at the price of her own misery.
“So are you rethinking your decision to take Maya out of school?”
“Yes, I…I guess I wasn’t really thinking things through,” Zoë said.
“You mustn’t be hard on yourself. The main thing to remember is that Maya is doing wonderfully well,” said the reading specialist. “And not just in the mechanics of reading, but also in analyzing content. Now, when something doesn’t make sense to her, she knows how to go about figuring it out.”
Zoë shrugged and smiled, trying not to show how close she was to crying. “I think I need to do more of that myself.”
Because it was now painfully apparent to Zoë that she’d made two rather crucial mistakes. The first was pretending to herself that she could fix her daughter in the space of one year. She might not love the country or have cottage-and-garden fantasies, she might not want to spend the rest of her life here, but she had made the decision to move out here, and by God, she and Maya were going to get everything they could out of this experience. And if that meant two years, or three or four, then she would find a way to make that work. She’d learn to drive, so she wouldn’t be housebound or dependent. She’d plan a way to spend more weekends in Manhattan. And she’d take advantage of the good things that the country did offer. Friends. Work. The challenge and rewards of moving out of her comfort zone.
The second mistake was a direct corollary of the first: treating Mack like a temporary lover, and believing for even one second that he would do the same to her.
Twenty-seven
M ack, this is ridiculous.”
Mack kept his eyes on the television, which was showing an old repeat of Monster Garage. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about you, hiding out in your apartment, living on beer and Slim Jims.” Moira began clearing empty bottles and plastic wrappers from the glass-covered NASCAR tire that he used as a coffee table. “How many damn car shows can you stand?”
Mack raised the longneck and took a long swallow of Bud. “Sounds like you’re awfully eager to have me on that plane to Fallujah.”
“Now, that’s ridiculous, too. Why h
ave you convinced yourself that you need to reenlist in the damn army just because of Jim Moroney? You’ve never cared what he thought before?” She looked at him more closely. “Or is this about Zoë? You know, if you don’t answer her calls soon, I’m going to.”
“I told you before, you talk to her. I’m heading to Kingston to reup.”
“Well, if you made up your mind, why wait? No need to extend this little vacation in self-pityville for my sake.”
Mack finally turned to look at his sister, who was standing with her hands full of his garbage. Well, he hadn’t asked her to clean up after him, and he sure as hell wasn’t thanking her for it. “I just figured I’d hole up till Christmas was over so you wouldn’t be all alone. But seeing as how you feel so negatively about my presence…”
“Oh, yeah, like you’re staying for me. Mack, let’s face it, you don’t want to go back to the army. You have a life here now, or at least you were beginning to, and that’s where you want to be.”
“Jesus, Moira, will you give it a rest? I already told you, I don’t have a choice. If I stay here, Moroney’s going to press charges.”
“So fight him! Fight it!”
“I tried to fight him, Sis, and this is the happy result.”
“Not with your fists, moron. Talk to Zoë, I’m sure she’ll have an idea how to deal with his lies.”
Mack snorted. “She’s a journalist, not a lawyer. Besides, I don’t think she’s going to want to get in too deep here.”
“Don’t be stupid. She’s…I mean, you’re…I mean, you two are a couple. Of course she’d want to help.”
“She’s screwing me to amuse herself while she’s stuck out here. That’s not exactly a pledge of eternal devotion.”
“It’s more than that. Believe me, I know when a relationship is fake, and you and Zoë are the real deal.”
“Yeah, you’re a real expert.”
Moira narrowed her eyes, then, without warning, opened her arms, showering him with empty cans and plastic wrappers. “You want to go back to war? Fine. Go. But don’t pretend it’s because you don’t have any other choice.”
“This is how it works,” said Mack. “You either get to throw stuff, or you get the last word. Not both.” He was paraphrasing the brilliant asshole doctor from some TV medical drama, but it still sounded good. His sister slammed the door, and Mack sat up, looking around at the mess. “Fuck,” he said, to no one in particular. The truth was, he really didn’t want to go. He wanted someone to stop him, just like in the movies, a big chase scene and Zoë telling him she loved him and they’d make it work. The whole town turning up in front of the local jail and showing its support. We love you, you’re not just a stressed-out grunt with a bunch of issues, you’re a hero, oh, and yeah, you’re smart, too. And deep. Don’t forget deep. And sensitive.
He reached under his couch and fished out his borrowed copy of the Ardsley Anthology of Poetry. Bunch of bullshit, really. Bunch of limp-wristed old assholes writing about death like they knew something about it. He ought to give the damn book back to that high school girl, or else throw it out. After all, what was the point of reading a lot of fancy words that didn’t even tell a proper story? Opening the book at random, he found something he hadn’t noticed before: “Lessons of the War.”
And there it was again, the feeling that someone had just given him the coordinates for the terrain he was stuck in, the sense that someone else had noticed that the old maps just didn’t describe what he was seeing anymore. Mack glanced at the date, and saw that Henry Reed had been writing about World War I. Fuck it, Mack thought. Taking a deep breath, he began to put on his boots.
The strange thing was, no one he’d ever met read poetry over there. The soldiers he knew all read porn and thrillers if they read anything. Well, maybe you didn’t need poetry in a war zone. Maybe war was a kind of poetry, in the sense that it made ordinary things mean more, and mean different, and it mixed up death and life in ways that made you uncomfortable until it changed you. And honestly, he had to admit that he’d made a hash of civilian life. He hadn’t even turned out to be a very good driving instructor, because when it came to the student he’d most wanted to reach, he’d failed miserably. Zoë might have passed her written test and gotten behind the wheel a few times, but she was as nervous and resistant as ever. He thought about Maya’s school, and how they separated out all the components of reading, and how when you weren’t naturally good at something you needed all the rules made explicit. How they took the fear and embarrassment out of the process. There had to be a way for him to use all that, he thought. Come up with a whole new system, make a difference. Or maybe you needed to approach things from the opposite end, and think about the design of the control panel. Was there a way to change the arrangement of the gauges and dials, or the shape of the wheel, so that it made more sense? For a moment, Mack felt a thrill of excitement, thinking about what he and Skeeter could do in the Big Dog Garage. There was probably a whole business to be made, redesigning cars so they were easier to learn on.
And then Mack felt the air go out of him. Who was he kidding? The minute he showed his face in town, Moroney was going to slam his ass in jail. And then the best he could hope for was a career cleaning toilets at the high school.
Mack stood up, swayed for a moment, then lurched toward his bed, where his old army rucksack was already packed. Shoot, maybe he should eat something besides little smoked jerky sausages to soak up some of that beer.
No, better keep moving. He could always stop by a McDonald’s. On his way out the door, Mack remembered to turn off the television set. “…chance of snowstorms,” said the blond meteorologist. He hesitated, thinking about turning it back on to hear the rest of the report, then decided not to bother. Instead, he opened the Ardsley Anthology, turning back to Henry Reed’s poem about war and warring realities. As he read the opening lines, Mack found himself lulled by the steady rhythm of the poet’s words, taken to a garden during weapons practice, distracted by the bees fumbling for honey as he fumbled to assemble his gun.
Yeah, and that’s all the poem was—a distraction, not a goddamn set of instructions. He snapped the book shut and threw it on the bed, then shouldered his rucksack and headed out the door.
Twenty-eight
Z oë raced up the stairs to Moira’s house, and knocked loudly.
No response.
“I’ll try the barn,” said Maya, not bothering to hide her pleasure. “And say hi to the horses.” Glad someone’s having fun here, thought Zoë. She knocked again, then tried the door.
“Don’t tell Mack,” Rudy called from the car, “but you can try his apartment. The stairs go up the back of the barn.” He pointed, and Zoë headed for the little apartment over the barn, realizing that she’d never even seen where Mack lived. She felt a moment of doubt.
Maybe this wasn’t the relationship she’d thought it was. Maybe it had been a casual, physical thing, and he’d just gotten tired of her and hadn’t had the maturity to end things in person.
Well, then, that’s what I’m here to find out, Zoë thought, trying for composure. Here is your intrepid reporter, finding out. She knocked. “Mack? I know you don’t want to talk with me, but I want to talk with you. And I think you owe me that.” Silence. “Plus, I owe you money.” More silence. “Not that I’m saying that you’re in it for the money.” God, this was awkward. “Mack, let me in.”
“He’s not there. You missed him by minutes.”
Zoë turned to see Moira standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a dingy green coverall and looking older than she ever had before. “Where is he?”
“Going to kill himself.”
“What?”
“He’s off to reenlist.”
“You’ve got to be joking. Without saying a word to me? What the hell happened?” The look on Moira’s face made her add, “Does it have something to do with our relationship?”
“According to Mack, you’re just screwing him for fun, and Moroney’s going
to have him arrested for assault if he stays.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
A hint of curiosity replaced the stoic blankness in Moira’s expression. “Which part?”
“Both parts! Moroney can’t arrest Mack for assault when he started the fight, and there are witnesses. Not to mention a lot of incriminating evidence that Moroney is five different kinds of corrupt. Which I intend to expose in an article. Or a series.”
“And Mack’s not just a way to pass the time while you’re stuck in the boondocks?”
“No,” said Zoë, slowly. “He’s my lifeline here.”
“Well,” said Moira, “in that case, you’d better hightail it over to Kingston before your lifeline gets himself shipped to a war zone.”
Zoë raced back to Rudy. “Do you know where the recruitment office in Kingston is?”
“Yeah, but Zoë, look at the sky. If we head out now, we stand a good chance of getting caught in a major storm.”
“Rudy, Mack’s going to reenlist!”
“I feel awful, Zoë, but I can’t be stuck in Kingston all day. I promised my wife we’d visit her mother in hospice after I took you back home. The old lady doesn’t have too long.”
Zoë had a very uncharitable thought about Rudy and his never-ending supply of ailing relatives. Zoë ran back to Moira, who was now talking with Maya. “I need you to take me.”
“Rudy can’t?”
“Rudy won’t. Moira, we have to hurry.”
“I can’t.” Moira held up her right hand, and for the first time, Zoë could see that three of the fingers were splinted. “Not to mention a sprained ankle and bruised ribs.”
Zoë looked at Maya. “I told you horses were dangerous.”
Flirting In Cars Page 28