“Hey, Ms. Murphy!” Jennifer, one of the girls on the sidelines, a junior, waved. She leaned on the head of her field hockey stick alongside a few other girls, the other nonstarters, the subs. They grinned and waved. A few of them were pretty good; they just weren’t stars. Anna’s star status bothered her. Even as a freshman, Anna had played entire games, often scoring multiple goals. But that fall, new to Deirdre’s French classes, Anna hadn’t yet confided in her. Now she often talked to Deirdre about it.
“You should be proud,” Deirdre had told her the last time. After school, Anna had hung around Deirdre’s classroom as she often did, wanting to chat.
“But, like, the other girls . . .” And she stopped. She paced the classroom, fidgeted with an elastic band.
“Don’t you think the other girls like it when you score? Don’t they want to win?”
She nodded. “Yeah, but . . .” She twisted the elastic.
“And don’t you think Ms. Jerome knows what she’s doing? You’re always saying what a good coach she is—no, but seriously,” she said, when Anna started to object. “What now, she suddenly doesn’t know anything? C’mon, Anna. What girl doesn’t want to score? Who wouldn’t want to be in your shoes?” She might have said, Who wouldn’t want to be you, but she held back; too much, she knew, even if it were true. Deirdre hadn’t convinced Anna that day, but now, on the field, the doubt didn’t show. Anna played with a kind of fierceness that seemed to say, I want this. It troubled Deirdre that Anna couldn’t enjoy her abilities. What she would have given to be as talented as Anna athletically, to have had Anna’s ease with other kids, her friendships. It hadn’t been easy for Deirdre growing up in Gloucester, and looking back, she could see now that she had brought on so much of it herself, feeling different from her classmates but not knowing why, spending so much of her time with her brother Paul, instead of trying to make new friendships; relying on Maria Da Silva next door.
Being a teacher, one the girls loved, offered a kind of redemption, visible proof that things do get better. If pressed, she wouldn’t deny that she enjoyed the attention, but most of the time she simply took it as the reward for her hard work and dedication.
Chapter Five
Through the open window, a warm September breeze rustled the paper grocery bags on the kitchen chairs. The air smelled faintly of apples. You of all people. In the grocery store, Frances Worthington had emptied her cart at the checkout right next to Deirdre’s. What had Frances meant by that? Deirdre unpacked the groceries and began stacking the contents in the cupboards.
When Deirdre had asked Mrs. Worthington why Anna had not yet returned her permission slip for Friday’s field trip, Frances replied, “I’m sure you of all people understand that the safety of our children is of utmost concern.”
Why, of all people? That was the thing with Frances. You just never knew what she was thinking, but everything seemed to have a secret agenda or hidden meaning. It drove Deirdre crazy trying to puzzle it out.
The front door opened and closed.
“Hey, hon.” Deirdre stuck the bottle of olive oil on the top shelf.
“Hey yourself,” said SJ. She walked into the kitchen, tote bag over her shoulder, jean jacket in her hand. “Have a good day?” She kissed Deirdre on the cheek. “What’s for dinner?” SJ peeked around Deirdre to see what was left inside the open paper bags.
“Pasta, how about? I bought some fresh veggies to go with, and herbs. And wine.” Deirdre closed the cabinet.
SJ yawned. “Sounds great.” She pulled open the utensils drawer and rummaged around for the corkscrew.
Deirdre started gathering the ingredients for dinner—the farfalle pasta, artichoke hearts, red peppers from the fridge, cremini mushrooms, broccoli, and garlic. “You mind chopping?” She handed SJ a wooden chopping block and chef’s knife. “Peppers into slivers. I’ll do the broccoli and mushrooms.”
Deirdre put on the water to boil, salted and covered it. “You know who I saw at the store? Frances Worthington.”
“Oh God. Your favorite.” SJ pulled the cork from the bottle of sauvignon blanc and poured two glasses. She settled at the kitchen table, a find at an antique store. They both loved the rich maple hues and the silverware drawer at one end—a country kitchen look but small enough for a city-sized kitchen. SJ plucked a scrunchie from her pocket and pulled her hair into a ponytail. Except for her long hair, SJ had always seemed rather boyish to Deirdre—slim hips, not much of a waist, small chest. She made choosing clothes seem effortless.
“Yeah, and she’s so strange.” Deirdre shook her head. “She said something—no big deal—but something I just can’t figure out.” She told SJ about the conversation. “I mean, why me of all people? What’s she getting at?”
SJ chopped neat slivers of red pepper. “I think you’re overanalyzing. I think she just means that as someone who is particularly sensitive to her students’ needs, you should be understanding . . .”
“Of her reasons for not letting Anna go on the field trip?”
“She’s not letting Anna go?” SJ moved her red pepper slices into a pile.
“She said something about children’s safety, that I of all people should understand that.”
SJ put down the knife. “You’re so paranoid sometimes. You’re reading way too much into this conversation that, as far as I can tell, was no big deal.”
Maybe SJ was right. Since the administration knew about her sexual orientation, it wasn’t as if Frances was insinuating something that wasn’t public knowledge. Well, for her students it might not be public knowledge, but being gay was not something that would get her in trouble with Martin Loring. Still, Deirdre couldn’t shake the feeling that Frances seemed to be getting at something, hinting, insinuating. The water boiled, and Deirdre poured in the pasta and stirred with a wooden spoon.
“But what kind of a message is Frances sending to Anna if she doesn’t let her go on the trip?”
SJ swallowed a sip of wine. “Would you let it drop? Can we talk about something else? Anything?”
“You don’t think it’s wrong?”
SJ did not say anything.
“You think it’s fine for the Frances Worthingtons of this world to never cross the line out of their safe little neighborhoods and that I should go along and not challenge that?”
“Listen to yourself, would you?” SJ fiddled with her ponytail. “You, Deirdre Murphy, queen of the I-want-to-live-in-a-nice-neighborhood club . . .”
Deirdre stirred the pasta.
“. . . the I-want-to-teach-in-a-private-school club . . .”
Deirdre spun around. “Why shouldn’t I want to teach in a private school?” She shook the wooden spoon and boiling water dripped onto the kitchen floor.
SJ put down her wineglass and walked over to Deirdre, touched her on the arm. “Let’s not fight about this. All I’m saying is that you and Frances Worthington might not be all that different, you know? You don’t love the East End. You hate that I work there.” She rubbed Deirdre’s arm, caressed the back of her neck.
“It’s dangerous,” Deirdre said.
“See?”
“See what? Anyone can tell you that and only crazy people think otherwise. But that doesn’t mean we can’t go visit an art gallery because it’s in a dangerous neighborhood. We’re not strolling through the streets, for God’s sake. We’re going to an art gallery.” Deirdre turned away from SJ and laid the wooden spoon on the counter.
People with guns don’t go into art galleries. People with guns don’t go into schools, either. Little boys don’t end up in containers in the river.
“For Anna’s sake, you might make less of a big deal about this. She has to live with her mother, remember.” SJ hugged Deirdre from behind and sat back down at the kitchen table. She took another long sip of wine.
Deirdre tested the pasta and drained it in a colander, poured olive oil into the sauté pan, and waited for it to heat before adding the vegetables. It didn’t occur to Deirdre right then that
SJ hadn’t apologized. Or for some reason, maybe SJ resented moving into this neighborhood. These things Deirdre would think about much later. What Deirdre focused on now was the notion that she and Frances Worthington were alike. Could it be true? Could SJ really believe that Deirdre was anything like that cold, awful woman? Frances didn’t care about her daughter—all she cared about was her image. Her standing in the community. Maybe Deirdre had lobbied hard to live in this part of town—on this very street even—but no, she was nothing like Frances Worthington. No, SJ was dead wrong
Deirdre drank her wine and sautéed the vegetables until they were soft and the room smelled of red pepper and garlic. Woodsy, from the mushrooms with that slightly sour smell of broccoli. She quartered the artichoke hearts and added them to the mix, sprinkling them with bits of fresh oregano she rubbed from the stems. She snipped pieces of basil too, breathing in that sharp, sweet smell that on her fingers smelled like sex.
“So,” SJ said, setting the table in the dining room where they liked to eat dinner, “remember that guy who moved us in?”
“The older one or the kid?”
“Mickey.”
“Right. The kid.”
SJ swallowed. “Yes. Him. So, I’m teaching him to read.”
“He can’t read?”
“He can sound out words—mostly—but read like an adult or make sense of what he reads? No.”
“Wow. That’s . . . crazy.” Deirdre poured the drained pasta into a huge bowl, and mixed in the vegetables and herbs. She took some cheese from the fridge and grated it on top. “I know there are illiterate adults, of course I know that, but . . . I guess I’m a little surprised. Not that he looked like someone who knew how to read!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” SJ stopped what she was doing, left the silverware drawer open.
“He looked like a thug. You didn’t think so?”
SJ shut the drawer, two forks, two spoons, and two knives in her first. “No,” she said, “I don’t.”
“He did not look like . . .” Deirdre made quotation marks in the air with her fingers, “a fine upstanding young man.”
“Because he’s a mover?”
Deirdre carried the bowl of pasta to the dining room and placed it in the middle of the table. She pulled her chair out to sit down, but the phone rang. “You start,” she said to SJ. “I’ll grab this.”
“Tell whoever it is that we’re eating,” SJ said, as she helped herself to some pasta.
“Hello? . . . Anna? What? Slow down. What’s going on?”
“Tell her that we’re eating, okay?” SJ yelled into the kitchen.
“No, Anna . . . listen . . . I can’t hear what you’re saying . . .” Deirdre peeked around the corner, receiver to her ear, and mouthed to SJ, Anna Worthington.
* * *
SJ stabbed at a piece of broccoli. The phone calls had started toward the end of Anna’s freshman year. Legitimate homework questions first and then a fight with her mother or some disagreement with one of the other girls. Whatever it was, she always needed to talk it over with Deirdre. And when SJ complained, when she tried to point out the growing frequency of the phone calls, Deirdre accused her of being heartless, of not understanding. But what SJ wanted to tell Deirdre was that she understood all too well.
Even all these years later, she could still hear Mr. Freeman’s voice clear as rainwater. Truthfully, they could’ve been and probably had been talking about calculus, but that voice in SJ’s ear was at once silken and throaty. Now, sitting in the dining room with Deirdre on the phone in the kitchen, she remembered the shivery electricity of it, as if via the voice, some part of Mr. Freeman—who through it all she had continued to call Mr. Freeman—had entered her, and even after hanging up, SJ had carried it within, a secret pleasure. For days after that first time, SJ had walked around school in a dreamy state, her body tingling with desire.
Mr. Freeman insisted that his students call him with any homework difficulties. He wanted them to succeed, and if that took getting calls at home, then so be it. SJ had scoffed at first. Who would call a teacher at home? But then after hearing a few kids talk about it at lunch, about how helpful Mr. Freeman had been, how totally open he was, how he genuinely wanted them to understand, and how it was “totally cool” that a teacher would go so far as to give out his number, she thought differently. She called one night after struggling with the chain rule. She remembered the surprise in Mr. Freeman’s voice when SJ identified herself, how he had said something about what a treat it was to hear from her, how she always seemed so confident in class, not needing help, how he’d noticed SJ’s efforts to work out the problems on her own, how he admired her tenacity.
Noticed. Admired. Tenacity.
Tenacity. Her mother might have said stubbornness. But after that first conversation with Mr. Freeman, SJ saw herself differently, as someone willing to figure things out and not give up. It was a positive trait for sure, Mr. Freeman had told her. An excellent attribute for a scholar.
After that, SJ called almost nightly, problems or no. Mr. Freeman didn’t seem to mind. He seemed happy to hear from her. Sometimes they talked about things other than math, about SJ’s loneliness, about movies they had seen, books. SJ remembered saying something about how it surprised her, a math teacher liking reading so much. And Mr. Freeman had laughed that silken, throaty laugh, the one that made you feel as if you’d rather be nowhere else in the world except right here, that laugh, a gift more precious than anything, more intimate than a touch, more erotic.
“Listen, sweetie . . .”
SJ stopped chewing. She got up and walked to the entranceway to the kitchen, but Deirdre was sitting at the table, hunched over, her back to SJ.
“It’ll all work itself out. You’ve . . . you’ve got to do what your mother says, I can’t help you there . . . I know . . . Yeah, I know, but what can we do? No, listen . . . don’t do that . . .” Deirdre pushed her hand through her bangs and over the top of her head. “Anna? I’ve got to go . . .”
SJ returned to her place at the dining room table. Her pasta was already lukewarm. She got up and retrieved the wine bottle, poured what was left into her glass. She had never told Deirdre about Mr. Freeman. What could she say? What could she admit out loud without making it all too real? How could she explain the phone calls that had turned into after-school visits and then the occasional Saturday afternoon?
“Damnit.” Deirdre walked back into the dining room, shaking her head.
“You need to be careful with that girl.”
“What?”
“Anna Worthington. You need to be careful.”
Deirdre said nothing, then, “She was upset.” She pulled out her chair and sat. “I was just calming her down.” She picked up her fork, scooped up some pasta and vegetables. “You want yours nuked?” She pointed to SJ’s half-eaten dinner.
SJ shook her head. Crossed her arms in front of her stomach.
Deirdre carried her plate into the kitchen. “That Frances Worthington is such a bitch!” Deirdre yelled from above the drone of the microwave. “Forbidding Anna to go on the trip—telling her she doesn’t trust me, that if another teacher were leading the trip, then maybe Anna could go. Do you believe that?”
SJ did not reply.
“She doesn’t trust me? Like I’m not going to be careful with those kids? What does she think I’m going to do, lose her daughter?” Deirdre returned, put her plate back on the table, and sat down.
SJ poked at the pieces of broccoli left on her plate. Pushed around the pasta.
Deirdre looked at SJ, waited for a response.
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”
“Well, I mean, come on, who does that woman think she is? And what kind of support can I expect from her if this is what she tells her daughter—that I’m not to be trusted? Thank God Anna is smart enough to see that her mother is a control freak. I feel bad for the kid but at least she’s smart enough to see that her mother is full of it.”
Deirdre ate a forkful of pasta and vegetables. “You don’t have much to say,” she added between bites.
“I’m just sick to death of Anna Worthington this and Frances Worthington that . . . It’s all we ever talk about.”
“We’re talking about my credibility as a teacher!”
“If you’re so certain that Frances is full of shit then ignore her, what else can I say?”
Deirdre swallowed her wine. “You could agree with me.”
“You know I agree with you. This is ridiculous. You’re just venting. All I said was you need to be careful with her.”
“Okay, okay! Forget it.” Deirdre finished her wine. “So, anyway, before . . . you . . . you were saying something about that Mickey guy, the mover?”
SJ pushed back from the table, stretched out her legs. She hesitated.
“Something about him not being able to read?”
“Yes, well, he . . . I’m . . . I’ve been teaching him. For a week now. He stopped in just after Labor Day.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you teaching him?”
“Because I want to.”
Deirdre pushed the last of her pasta onto her fork with her knife. “Aren’t there classes for that sort of thing?” She dabbed her finger at the bits of grated cheese on her plate.
“There are, but he . . . I agreed. That’s all. I wanted to do it.”
“Florence approved?”
“Florence doesn’t have any real say in the ma—”
“But she thought it was a good idea?”
“She . . . Yes, she’s fine with it.” SJ stood and picked up her plate. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know.”
“Kind of a weird coincidence, don’t you think?”
“What?” SJ said from the kitchen.
Deirdre got up and carried her plate to the sink. “You know, that first this Mickey guy moves us in and then he shows up in your library to learn how to read?”
The Year of Needy Girls Page 4