The Best Kind of People

by Zoe Whittall

  It was only later that Kevin realized how richly ironic that comment was, as they were standing in the backyard of George’s parents’ estate, a house he hadn’t had to scrimp and save for, buoyed by a trust fund.

  Since he had decided to write the book he’d been watching and listening to the way Sadie spoke about her father. She mostly avoided speaking of him at all, even though she used to talk about him all the time. When she did mention him, she tried to do it in a way that made it seem as though she didn’t resent him.

  It had taken him a while to ask George for a meeting. First, Kevin wanted to write some sketches of the Woodburys’ lives before the arrest, and then do some legal research. It took him a month to feel organized enough to approach George’s lawyer, try to get an interview with George himself. He heard back less than forty-five minutes after he’d put in the request, which was unusual. George probably wanted to set the record straight.

  When Kevin got in line at the prison, leather-bound notebook open and pen poised, he took notes of how the people were standing in line, resigned and weary. He tried to keep calm and focused on the task at hand. When George walked into the room where Kevin was sitting at a long table waiting for him, he looked like he had been physically deflated, as though someone had pumped the air out of his ample chest, and altered that handsome but nerdy face of his, so that he had the withered look of any man, sort of like Kevin’s father actually, after thirty years at the mill, that whiskey face. The change in his appearance was startling.

  “Hello, Kevin.” George’s hand felt smaller, weaker, but his handshake was the same. In charge.

  “Hi, George. Thanks for helping me with the book.”

  “No problem, no problem. You know, I’m writing my own book in here,” he said, placing his hands behind his head in what Kevin remembered as a favourite position of teachers when they expect respect or compliments.

  “Is that so?” Hearing non-writers talk about their books-in-progress was one of his pet peeves. It happened all the time, especially with people who then claimed to never read books. Although George had once been a promising intellectual, an avid reader. He could probably do it, Kevin reasoned.

  “It’s a memoir of sorts, about the penal system. It’s a dreadfully mismanaged place — archaic systems of social order, everything is about race. It’s very Lord of the Flies around here. Fascinating to observe and document — in moments, of course, when it’s not a living hell.”

  Kevin wrote writing his own book. Lord of the Flies.

  “How is Sadie? Is she still staying with you?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  George grimaced slightly, looking down at his hands.

  Repentant?

  “Is she healthy? Going to school?”

  “Yes, very healthy. All things considered, anyhow.”

  “I broke her heart.”

  It seemed like the kind of comment that was looking for sympathy, not absolution or relief. It was obvious that both his wife and kids would be heartbroken. He wrote down, sympathy seeking?

  He started to wonder if George was talking this way for his benefit, so he would take notes and write down empathetic, concerned for his daughter.

  “This is awkward … I just need to know … if you’re guilty.”

  “I am not,” he said, so quickly that Kevin had to ask him to repeat himself to make sure he’d heard correctly. Kevin recognized he’d made a rookie mistake, going so hard and fast before establishing trust. They were then at an impasse. If he hadn’t been in jail, George would surely have made an excuse and got up to leave.

  “Tell me about the ski trip,” Kevin said, doodling circles in his notebook.

  “It was standard, the same trip I’d been on for dozens of years now. The school rents a charter bus, although some of the wealthier students come up in limousines. Those tend to be the kids who cause the most trouble. You know, they drink in the cars and their chauffeurs are well aware, and stay quiet, you know, for the sake of their jobs. Which is ridiculous, if you ask me, considering the liability, but I don’t judge. Some of these kids have no guidance, parents always off all over the world, they’re raised by nannies. I remember that. I was basically raised by my housekeeper, my beloved Andrea, may she rest in peace. Anyhow, the other five parents and I had quite a situation on our hands when the limos pulled up. Everyone from the buses got settled into their rooms, and we checked every student’s bag for bottles. Fairly standard stuff. I don’t know what went wrong, really. By the time it was evening and most of the good kids were assembled by the fire in the chalet or going for some night walks, a group of kids took off, I don’t know where, really. But they returned around midnight and I had to deal with a few who were quite sick. I called their parents, but no one was reachable, so Dorothy and I gave them water and told them to sleep on their sides, that sort of thing, hoping for the best. That’s the whole story. The rest of the weekend was fairly standard. Lots of skiing, one twisted ankle, two kids on hallucinogens who freaked out on the chairlift. That’s about it. Standard stuff.”

  “Okay,” said Kevin, taking careful notes. “Why do you think the girls are saying … what they’re saying?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “None?”

  “None at all.”

  They were silent for a few moments. A woman visiting a man with a neck tattoo of a swan quietly wept.

  “In my experience, most young women are still children — most of my students are. They might dress up like adults, and do provocative dances at the talent shows, and think they’re twenty-one, but you can still see the child in them. And sometimes young women are simply beyond their years, you know? They have a wisdom that only comes with age, but they aren’t yet physically grown. You can spot them in a classroom right away. Their minds are beyond their years …”

  Kevin shifted in his seat, knowing a potential confession was to come, trying not to seem too keen, nodding passively. George seemed almost lost in his own monologue, didn’t notice Kevin’s anxiety.

  “I know it’s a cliché, the old soul. But some young people have that. And it may be confusing for some adults, sure. But I know what is right, and I believe in the law, and I know that no matter how old a young person may seem, any desire is simply left best to the imagination, or else it is a crime. An older person, and certainly an older teacher, has power and the young person does not.”

  Kevin’s disappointment became evident across his face, and George smiled as though to say gotcha you fucking con.

  “Well,” Kevin said, “they have enough power to put you in jail.”

  George’s face grew red, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. “I know right from wrong. If anyone even laid one finger on my daughter, I would lose my mind. Just lose it. Understand me, Kevin, there is a reason why someone is setting me up, but I don’t know what the reason is. I have only done one thing I regret in this life, and it was a very long time ago.”

  “What was that?”

  He looked down at the table between them and exhaled, beads of sweat dropping onto the Formica. “We can email,” he said. “Or letters. Ask me questions that way. But I will never confess, young man. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You can trust me,” Kevin said. He looked at George, trying to establish that trust, but he imagined George had been lied to for years by students, and could see the lie no matter how unfailingly he held his eye contact. “And please don’t tell Sadie or your wife about the book. It would compromise things,” he said.

  George looked him up and down, considered it, then nodded.

  twenty

  sadie knocked on the secretary’s door. “Dorothy?”

  “Come on in!” she sang, looking up from her desk, an open Tupperware container of carrots and celery holding down the day’s newspapers. A stack of Support George Woodbury signs were gathered in the corner, fading blue marke
r on white bristol board.

  “I’ve been wondering how you are holding up. A bunch of us went to see your dad, to try to make sure he’s keeping his spirits up and knows he’s got our support,” she said, sipping from a stainless steel travel coffee mug.

  “I’m sure he’s really happy to have you guys … in his corner,” Sadie offered, adjusting her backpack on her shoulder and pulling both dangling straps.

  Dorothy reached into her desk and pulled out a stack of stickers.

  “Don’t tell anyone I gave these to you, but my group made these.” She handed them to Sadie as if she expected applause. The stickers said Why Won’t the Media Tell the Truth? and Regret your behavior the next day? — Cry Rape and Ruin a Man’s Life and Free George Woodbury, The Age of Consent is Misandry.

  Sadie grimaced and pocketed the stickers.

  “Don’t tell anyone where you got them. I could lose my job. That’s how ingrained institutionalized misandry is in this country.” She laughed somewhat hysterically before focusing on Sadie. “What can I help you with today?”

  “I need a note to explain my absences lately. You know, some kids have been really mean, and I’ve felt really … emotional.”

  “Of course, of course. I’ll write you a note that allows for some flexibility,” she said. She pulled out a pad of attendance slips and started to write. Sadie played with the Zen garden on her desk, read the text of her inspiring leadership posters on the wall.

  “Did you grow up here in Avalon Hills?” Sadie asked, making small talk.

  “Yes, I did. I actually went to school with your father. I mean, I went to the public school until the tenth grade and then got a scholarship to come here. It was night and day, the difference, you know. How much support you kids get. Sometimes I think you need to be reminded of that, just how good it is here.”

  “I’m sure parents remind their kids every time they write a tuition cheque.”

  Dorothy didn’t laugh, just handed her the note. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  Sadie sat down in the chair and pulled at the sleeves of her cardigan.

  “How are you so certain that my father is innocent?”

  “Oh, honey, I just know. I just know him. Right? I mean, you of all people, you know how good a person your father is?”

  “Of course, of course I do, but …”

  “You’ve never seen him do or say anything inappropriate in your life?”

  “Never,” she agreed.

  “Well? There you have it. We all witnessed his instincts ten years ago when he jumped on a crazy man with a gun for the sake of the school. I mean, how much more clear an image can you have of someone with an upstanding character? You’ve spent more time with him than anyone else. We’ve all known him for decades. Guys with … guys who …” — she paused, appearing to be choosing her words carefully — “… take advantage or have any kind of sinister edge, you can sense these things. We’d have known years ago; we’d have a sense. This is what feminism has done, Sadie. They’ve blurred the line between the psychopaths and normal men who have a right to be men! They’re taking over!”

  Sadie pulled her knees up to her chest, crushing the note in a fist while Dorothy ranted. She was making a circle in the maroon carpeting and fiddling with the window blinds while she talked. Eventually she paused, as though noticing Sadie for the first time.

  “Anyway, don’t let the kids get to you, Sadie. They’re just bullying and conspiring, and this will all be over soon. We’ve got his back,” she said. “You should go back to class.”

  “Okay, sure. Thanks,” she said, going out into the hall, trying to breathe deeply before heading back to physics.

  She got to the door and peered in, saw Jonathan Moore hard at work on his laptop, Madeleine Stewart with her hand raised. She turned around.

  Sadie had always felt at home at school. She had assumed she’d be a lifelong student, and then a professor or a politician. But walking out behind the field, wandering back towards Jimmy’s house, it occurred to her that she didn’t want to be there anymore, that she wasn’t the same Sadie. What would it mean to let this change her? The things she no longer cared about were numerous, and she couldn’t imagine that changing.

  when sadie emailed the info@rightsformen.com address listed on the sticker Dorothy had given her, she was informed that the next meeting was going to be held at a private room at the Applebee’s by the highway. As soon as she got the email, while sitting alone in the make-out room reading Sexual Personae by Camille Paglia, she knew she was going to go. She didn’t know why. She considered them slightly insane and possibly dangerous. But they had something she wanted: certainty about her father.

  she locked her bike to a rusty street sign by the parking lot, watched as a group of townies hauled five children out of a minivan. She knew she shouldn’t use the word townies. Once upon a time her mother was a townie, she supposed, though Joan would never describe her family that way. And that was a long time ago. She’d been to Applebee’s after track meets, but it wasn’t the kind of place her parents would take them for dinner. They’d go to the country club, or to one of the local organic food bistros in town.

  The hostess, who stood at the little podium absorbed in her phone, pointed towards a door when she asked where the meeting was, and she realized that she shouldn’t have worn her school uniform. It was too late to change now, so she just made her way into the room. It featured a long dining table with a group of mostly older men sitting around, and Dorothy McKnight standing at a giant paper flip board. On it was written Fatherhood is a Right — Thanksgiving Potluck and Rally! There were baskets of chicken wings and french fries, some spring rolls.

  “Oh my,” she said, noticing Sadie, still holding the opened door with one hand, a blush creeping across her face. “Gentlemen, we have a special guest. This is George Woodbury’s darling daughter, coming to see how much we support her dad.” The group turned to look at her, most giving a weird kind of avuncular smile in her direction.

  “Come, sit by me,” Dorothy said, bringing over a chair.

  “I’m just here to see what you guys are, like, doing about my dad and stuff.”

  “We are behind him, one hundred percent!” Dorothy said.

  The men nodded. When a man with a strange white handlebar moustache spoke up, Dorothy sat down.

  “Your father is a symbol of all that feminism has done to cause hysteria in this world. Hysteria has become law! Feminists show specific signs of mental illness, and you can see, this is what happens when these women get too much power. Innocent men go to jail because girls aren’t taught anything about being decent and responsible human beings. They are taught they can do anything, and deserve special treatment, and men have to pay for it.” Everyone at the table nodded reverently.

  “We should have more girls involved in this group,” said Dorothy. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  Sadie’s whole body went cold, broke into a sweat, and her hands began to tingle. She nodded at them. They were people her father would call delusional nutbars. But some weird part of her wanted to believe them. Because if what they were saying was true, she could defend her father, she could take all the confusion she felt and turn it into something concrete. It was an answer.

  Dorothy looked at her. “We need someone to help with our social media campaign. Would you be interested?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just hang out a bit first.”

  when she arrived back at Jimmy’s, opening the door with the newest key on the golden chain around her wrist, Kevin’s bong was sitting out on the dining room table. The bowl was already packed tight, and she heard the shower running. Clearly he’d prepared for a post-shower toke. When she sat on the couch, the objects in the room appeared to bounce slightly, moving around. The floor under her feet rocked as if she were on a boat. The unsettled feeling in her
heart was beginning to colonize her body. She cupped her hand around the green glass of the bong and pressed her finger over the hole before lighting it. It made a pleasing bubbling sound as she inhaled, puffing out her cheeks. She exhaled, and the room shifted back to normal. She was so caught up in the moment, she didn’t see Elaine standing in front of the tv.

  “I don’t know where you think you are, Sadie, but this is not a druggie den for teenagers,” she said.

  Sadie coughed, putting the bong back on the coffee table. Elaine picked it up. Sadie giggled.

  “We’ll talk about this later. Watch some cartoons or something. I’m calling your mom.”

  Sadie didn’t care. All she knew was that she’d figured out a way to stop the spinning anxiety and to make everything a little bit funny at the same time.

  twenty-one

  sadie was back in Ms. Rockbrand’s office, many years after the almost-shooting. It was no longer above the stationery store, but in the basement suite of her house, a stately wooden structure with a large front lawn in the older part of town where Joan had grown up.

  “It’s been a long time,” she said, ushering Sadie into a big room with two stuffed recliners to choose from, a box of plush toys in between the chairs. Sadie chose the one closer to the window, and pulled off the oversized grey sweatshirt belonging to Jimmy that she’d been wearing non-stop since she left home.

  Elaine had been very permissive in the tiny pink house. She had turned a blind eye to Sadie sharing a bed with her son, allowed her to stay home from school or come home early if it got to be too much. She occasionally monitored her assignments, but mostly it was as if the structure of Sadie’s life — the meetings, the sporting events, the debates — all vanished. But Sadie understood that the incident with the bong had been too much for Elaine. She’d called Joan and they both insisted: the only way Sadie could remain at Jimmy’s house was if she went back to Ms. Rockbrand to express her feelings.