Love and Lechery at Albert Academy

by Dolores Maggiore

  MMCraney”

  “Oh wow!” I said. “There’s something attached to the back of this: a letter from Craney firing Ms. Whitfield for ‘reckless endangerment of a minor’ and ‘moral depravity.’”

  Katie and Dorotea let out a discreet cheer.

  “Nice work, team. Grab those papers, stuff your bras with them, and let’s split.” My face was one big smile.

  Dorotea locked up. We slithered noiselessly, stuffed bras notwithstanding, along the walls to the exit and then up the back stairs to our dorm.

  We could hear the hot chocolate party at the other end of the hall. In a few minutes, we would have our own version, a tea and schnapps party, in Katie’s and Dorotea’s room.

  And tomorrow, I would decide how to get these papers to Joe Gallo.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Vin Santo

  I was up early. I made sure to stash the papers away in my box of Tampax, but I hadn’t yet figured out how to get them to Joe.

  Lunch was normal for the second day in a row, only now we had another member, Dorotea, in our gang. Conversation was dumb, mostly about the lumpy Shepherd’s Pie, and Dr. Eisenberg’s awful dress and her nylons—they contained two runs apiece. And an occasional cryptic reference to last night’s fun.

  Katie leaned over closer to me, pretending to tie her shoelace. She grazed my elbow and whispered, “You okay?”

  I bent down to get my napkin and answered, “I really do want to stay at Albert.”

  The softness of her eyes offered me the caress her hands couldn’t. “I know,” she said.

  We had been joking for a while when the girls’ abrupt silence made me turn around. Joe Gallo was standing behind Katie and me.

  Joe looked as young and as cute as any of the guys on American Bandstand. He was just waiting to surprise us, quietly standing there, wearing bucks, a green heather Shetland, and lush tan cords. To top it off, he had a crewcut!

  After freeing himself from our hugs, he introduced himself as Katie’s dad’s close friend. Katie said, “He’s really like a dad to me. Like Pina’s mom is. A mom, I mean.” Katie still didn’t know exactly what to say about Joe.

  The girls gave somewhat tentative smiles. I saw one girl whisper. The answer came in hushed tones, “No, her dad’s alive.”

  When Dorotea introduced herself, Joe burst out in a broad grin. “Gott sei dank!”

  We didn’t know the German God was so popular, but lots of us were thanking him these days.

  Dorotea asked, “You are so happy to make my acquaint, why?”

  Joe winked. “You’re not missing. You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  Dorotea winced. “I make your eyes hurt?”

  Katie leaned over and tugged on Dorotea’s jacket. “No, he’s glad to see you, just like us!”

  Joe asked us before I could ask him. We needed to speak in private. We sat at a distant table. Katie was squirming a bit. I think she was afraid to say we broke into Craney’s office. I figured Joe, as an investigative journalist, might not be too angry.

  “Joe,” I said. I looked around before producing the manila bundle from my satchel.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Please! Not here, don’t open it here,” I said.

  My face was hot. Katie looked uneasy. Joe narrowed his gaze at me.

  “I can’t just let you do all the work,” I looked at Joe. “This whole problem was my doing; I had to help undo it.” I whispered, “Here’s the dirt on Craney and Whitfield.”

  “You didn’t?” Joe grinned. “The journal you gave to Doc was already big stuff. This will put the article over the top!”

  It was clear Joe knew I had stolen the contents of the folder. His eyes darted from me to the bundle. He gave a soft chuckle and clapped me on the back. Then, he made me promise no further inside jobs, and explained the main purpose of his visit today.

  “I want to rattle Miss Craney’s cage. I thought I’d ask her in person for a spot on her calendar since she hasn’t returned my phone calls. In the meantime, I want to take in the atmosphere for the article I’m writing. ”

  “Upturned noses?” Katie asked.

  “Actually, your friends there didn’t seem all that affected. Hey you.” Joe poked me. “You’re awfully quiet for an investigative reporter.”

  “Will it work, Joe? Will it get Craney off our backs forever?” I chewed on my lip.

  “That’s what I’m trusting our story, yours and mine, will do. Right now, this is step one, ‘rattle the cage.’ After I meet with Miss Craney, I’ll let you know about steps two and three. Mind you, your information will put the icing on the cake.”

  “Hot dog!” I said.

  “This about the Whitfield scandal or…?” asked Katie.

  “Well, it will only be a bigger scandal if Craney resists the efforts of my pen,” said Joe.

  “Right. The one that’s mightier than the sword,” I said.

  “Heck,” said Joe. “I might even rattle some sabers, whatever it takes.”

  Joe chucked me under the chin and smiled his gorgeous smile.

  “Craney won’t be able to resist his charm,” I said to Katie.

  “Hope she falls for it—hard!” smirked Katie.

  “Ladies, I’ll catch you later. I’ve got a message and a package for you. Hope I also have some good news. Come give Uncle Joe a hug.”

  While his good looks and manners might charm Craney, his writing would cause her to straighten up and fly right. He had exposed corruption and payola in various institutions.

  I realized with a huge grin that Joe had said “our” story!

  He wasn’t going to discuss the Emily Whitfield story with Craney today, but the mere mention of scheduling a time for it would cause Craney great grief. According to our new friends, not many people had resisted her advances, and the few who did suffered the brutal consequences. Mine might still await me like the hangman’s lonely noose.

  We saw Joe stop halfway through the loggia. His smile would light up even the shadiest nooks and their denizens. The light accentuated, in particular, the paleness of Craney lurking about. Not only did she appear ashen, but also her face blanched a lighter shade of gray when she saw Joe.

  We saw Joe shake her hand and take out his appointment book. Craney’s hand flew to her forehead as if in doubt that her weeks contained seven days. Her index finger switched positions from her mouth to her forehead. She grimaced and shook her head. The potential interview seemed ill fated.

  Joe smiled and shrugged. Craney left in such haste, she forgot her briefcase. Papers flew out of her hand, some hovering mid-air. They seemed the tail of Craney’s kite-like flight down the loggia.

  Joe joined us again in the refectory. All smiles. “She’s flustered all right. Just wait until the articles come out.”

  “Have you found Miss Whitfield?” asked Katie, jumping up and down.

  “Just a few more T’s to cross and I’s to dot.” Joe formed those letters in the air with his finger.

  “Oh, wait!” Joe stopped his spelling and started to dig around in his briefcase. He removed an overwrapped brown package.

  “Quick, put it in your satchel, Katie. It’s a gift from my father, Fifi. He also sends kisses, the real kind, and the chocolate ones too.” Joe produced another package, clearly the typical blue and silver packaging of Ferrara chocolate kisses with fortunes inside their wrappers.

  “Fifi’s working on locating the other folks, your Alda Baciadalupo. Seems they move around a lot.” Joe’s cough suggested things it wasn’t safe to say.

  “Oh. I miss them,” I said.

  “Send kisses—real ones—back,” said Katie.

  “The first package,” said Joe. “Is contraband.”

  “Yeah.” I giggled.

  “Fifi knows how much you like it. Seems you two and a certain Italian friend had quite a liking for biscotti and Vin Santo. E vero?”

  “Wha?” I squinted at Joe. “What are you really saying?”

  “N
othing. It’s my father. He said he had a very dear friend whose daughter always used to ask for a sip.”

  “Uh oh!” Katie’s eyes darted around. I could see she was trying to read between Joe’s lines.

  “My father added that it would be a shame if you could never share it again.”

  “Joe, c’mon,” I said.

  “Top secret.” Joe put his finger to his mouth and winked.

  “Don’t joke if it’s Alda…” I started to say.

  “Shush. Do not say it!” Joe’s taut face indicated his sudden seriousness. “But, if you want, you could write a note to my dad with an enclosure for his long-lost friend’s daughter.”

  Katie took one look at me and suggested she and Joe go for a walk. I was on the verge of tears. I wasn’t quite sure why, but I needed some time to think and to write a letter.

  I had two hours until science. Enough time for what? All I knew was that Alda was alive and okay. And for that, I was grateful. Where or how was irrelevant.

  I remembered Alda saying, “My father’s friend in Maine.” I had thought of Fifi, who wanted the Feds to relocate him to rural Maine, but I figured it was just a stretch of my imagination. Maybe the Feds had relocated all of them together. Maybe I wasn’t really stretching.

  How could I have accused Alda of making Dorotea disappear? Of trying to mastermind a Mafia execution of Craney? I did actually claim she had no morals.

  Shoot. What kind of friend was I? I could almost hear her say, “You and Katie are the closest things I’ve had to friends.”

  She would have done anything to make us happy. She-it!

  I knew what I had to do.

  ****

  “Dear Fifi!

  Baci, baci, baci! Grazie! We love you.

  Pina and Katie

  PS If you know a girl named Alda, please give this letter to her.

  My other letter started:

  “Alda, ciccia!

  “We miss you. I miss you, and I am soooo sorry. I was always blaming you like some amoral mafiosa toots. Just didn’t know what to believe, but I know I hurt you. Forgive me, huh?

  “I have so much to tell you, but I’ll wait until I see you. I will, won’t I? Maybe I won’t be expelled. Maybe you’ll be back just like Dorotea came back. And I feel bad about her too. I was such a turd.

  “Your friend, Pina

  “PS I really, really want to stay here at Albert. Would you ever come back?”

  I finished my letter, a torrent of tears cascading down my face. I could almost hear the plop plop as they hit the desk. I was happy; I had Katie, I had friends, I had fun. I had to stay at Albert. I just had to.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  All the News That’s Fit to Print

  Katie, Dorotea, and I busied ourselves with our final projects, all due before Thanksgiving break. We made papier-mãché bones for my French catacombs, as well as turdlets for Dorotea’s French sewer project. We also made merry with our newfound friends. Our sterling reputation as outlaws and our supply of schnapps helped. We were careful to hide the latter.

  My hands would graze Katie’s occasionally, and our eyes would linger on each other a bit too long. Yet, it felt as if we’d taken a vow of chastity, in addition to our unspoken vow of silence. We didn’t talk about “it” or anything much, for that matter. Perhaps we were holding our breath until Thanksgiving break. (Doc and Joe had invited my family to their home outside of Boston for the Thanksgiving weekend.) Maybe we sensed we were living on borrowed time until we had the final word from Craney.

  I was thrilled my parents had agreed to the invitation. My father, who normally would have had a conniption at the thought of winter driving to a stranger’s house for the holiday—he knew Doc and Joe and even liked the boys—apparently jumped at the opportunity to see Boston. Thrilled, yes, but I still had to talk to my father face to face about my problem. Another reason to hold my breath.

  In the midst of all the breath-holding, Katie seemed like “Little Mary Sunshine.” She hummed on her way to class and whistled while doing reports. When she did touch me, it was often to pinch me on the cheek, urging me to look on the bright side. Once when she actually came all the way into my room, she held me by the shoulders and looked me in the eyes to say, “It will work out.”

  Even Dorotea was nifty. Her English was improving. We were “in step” together not “stepping out” or “stepping it up,” and “what’s up?” didn’t mean the sky. She was delighted to be our friend and invited by Katie’s dad to spend Thanksgiving with us.

  Dorotea saw me pouting one day as I left the room she and Katie shared. She followed me on tiptoes back to my room. I was just about to slam the door when she gently touched my hand to stop me.

  “May I?” she said.

  I grumbled, “Yeah.”

  She led me to the edge of my bed and sat me down, still holding my hand. “Warum?” she said.

  “Why what, D?” I was not in the mood.

  “You are sad about Katie.” She lowered her head to catch my eye. Her gaze went deep and tender. “Pina, Pina, you are such a dummmkopf! Sorry, but it is true.”

  I pulled away and snapped back, “Ruhig!”

  “No. I will not shut up!” Dorotea stood staring back down at me. “Yes, you, dummy, she loves you! So you shut up!”

  “Huh?” My voice had all but disappeared.

  “I hear Katie’s dreams in the middle of the night. Always, ‘Pina this, Pina that.’ Or ‘No! Don’t leave!’ Dummy, you, Pina. She is so afraid you will leave.”

  My tears told the rest of the story. I was scared too. Dorotea hugged me and used the sweetest German terms of endearment. I was “liebling Pina” and “schaetzle.” I felt truly comforted by her. Of course, a glass of Eierlikor enhanced Dorotea’s soothing. She knew I had a weakness for German eggnog.

  ****

  A week had passed since Joe’s surprise visit. I didn’t expect miracles, but I was beginning to doubt even he could produce the holy grail of articles exposing Craney. In the meantime, my mother had called. She was quite the doll-like Chatty Cathy, oohing and aahing, asking about Thanksgiving less than two weeks away.

  “I’m dying to see Dr. McGuilvry’s home,” she said.

  “I’ve seen pictures,” I said. “It’s old, straight out of my history book.”

  “Did his friend Joe help decorate? I bet he’s got some taste.” She was almost smacking her lips.

  After her questions about the decorating skills of two homosexual men, my mother switched the topic to my Aunt Athena. She would send brochures about Barnard Prep in New York if I were interested. Since she was a notable Barnard College alumna, Athena said I would be a shoe-in. I agreed to check my mailbox frequently and hurried my mother off the phone.

  Our almost daily jaunts to Albert’s postal room to claim care packages had been eliminated due to ice and below freezing temperatures. This morning, however, Katie found a phone message from Doc that Jocelyn had taken late the night before. He wanted Katie to know a special pre-Thanksgiving gift was on its way.

  Bundled beyond recognition against the near zero temperature, Katie and I actually walked side by side, almost touching, to retrieve our mail. Through layers of wool and cotton I said, “I miss this closeness. I miss you.”

  “What?” Katie attempted to slide her earmuff off.

  “I miss you, dammit,” I said.

  “Dammit?”

  I ripped the scarf away from my mouth. “I mean, do I have the plague?”

  “Oh, Pina…” Katie squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t make me cry. My eyes will freeze.” She laughed, but her chest rising through the padding said she was crying inside. “I am so scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of hurt.”

  I stole staccato glances. I pulled her scarf down and kissed her lips. One brief, chaste kiss. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” I pleaded. “I can’t cry anymore, and you’re right. Our eyes will freeze shut. C’mon.”

  I pulled her along. Again, our voices were muffled. “I d
o love you,” Katie said.

  When we arrived at the school post office, we had to push our way in. Apparently, everyone was expecting packages. Once inside, we saw that no one was paying attention to the glass plated brass mailboxes. Katie pulled herself up to her full five foot, six inches to peer over the swarm of girls buzzing in the corner. Individuals squirmed to inch closer to the bulletin board that usually announced class cancellations, concerts, and earth-shattering news from world papers or The Albert Buzz, our school rag.

  “Bravos” were rising from the masses along with giggles and ill-quoted lines of poetry.

  The rest of the words were blotted out by the humming of the chain of Albert girls flowing out of the office like an exuberant river, streaming down the hall out into the Circle. Through the window, we saw the single-file march round into an unbroken circle. We saw mouths open in an inaudible cheer followed by an eruption of books thrown up in unison.

  Katie and I rushed over to the bulletin board and saw what someone had typed and posted unofficially; it lacked the official seal of Head Mistress Craney’s office.

  Typed in bold lettering on cream-colored vellum, the crispness of the announcement stood out dead center against the bland, pit-marked cork of the empty bulletin board. Its title in capital letters read,

  “Miss Emily Whitefield Outstanding Teacher of the Year.”

  Katie and I jumped up and down, slapping each other playfully.

  “Joe did it. You two really did it.”

  Katie read the announcement that must have been mailed to parents.

  “In an unprecedented gesture, members of the Advisory Board and the Board of Directors of the Albert Academy have chosen to acknowledge former instructor Miss Emily Whitfield’s outstanding service and rousing inspiration to the young women of the Albert Community. The Board owes a debt of gratitude to the Albert girls who scoured the archives of Albert as well as the faculty rosters of various institutions to reveal the whereabouts of this mysterious and dedicated artiste. Mysterious both for her curious withdrawal from public life and for the depths from which she draws her inspiration. Miss Whitfield has written a novel and a history dedicated to the Academy, her former students, and the Village.”