“But, Jackson, these tests…”
He shook his head disgustedly.
“There’s nothing we can do about them. I can’t tell you how much I’d love, as president of the school board, to make an edict saying, ‘For two months, no tests at all. Let’s let our teachers teach. Let creative people be creative. Maybe then we could lure back into the classroom a few more Nina Bannisters.”
He found the cutlet, impaled it, watched it die on the fork in front of him, and swallowed it whole while the rest of the food on the table, knowing now what lay before it, shuddered in sauces of despair.
“Nina,” he then said quietly (any utterance at all an amazing feat since his throat was filled with fifty ounces of chicken pretending to be veal), “the tests are a fact of life. If we don’t administer them––just the way the state mandates that we administer them—we lose our funding. And then, talk about people getting fired–”
“I understand. So we’re prisoners.”
“I’m not sure that’s the term I’d use.”
“What term would you use?”
He thought for a time and finally said:
“Prisoners.”
“Oh. Well, you put it a little better.”
“It’s my legal training.”
“What else can she do, Jackson?”
He shook his head.
“She is one major faction of an entire state government; Paul is in Jackson representing the other faction. But…”
“She came here because of Paul, didn’t she?”
“It’s very possible. Nobody put it into writing, but…”
“We send our champion into battle, they send a champion back into his home town to…well, to make an example of us.”
“I wish I could tell you that you’re wrong.”
“So Bay St. Lucy High School—and Middle School and Elementary School—are going to be “what if” schools. April van Osdale is here to show the state what can be done if everybody just does exactly what the powers that be say must be done.”
“That’s about it.”
There was silence for a time.
Then it became clear that the girls at the far two tables, having finished off their peach cobbler or chocolate cake or cheese cake or vanilla sundaes or cherries melba—were getting hungry again and thinking about breakfast.
“Ma’am?” said Jackson, lifting an arm and gesturing to the waitress. “Bring the check to me, please.”
The players cheered. The waitress appeared with the check, Jackson put four fifty dollar bills on the table to cover it, and then said:
“All that I can advise you to do, Nina, is what you always do. Use your common sense.”
“If I used my common sense, “she said, “I’d leave Atlanta and go back to Tara.”
He shook his head:
“If I remember right, that burned too.”
Then he set about finishing his turnip greens.
“. . . in August in Mississippi there’s a few days somewhere about the middle of the month when suddenly there’s a foretaste of fall, it’s cool, there’s an lambence, a soft, a luminous quality to the light, as though it came not from just today but from back in the old classic times. It might have fauns and satyrs and the gods and––from Greece, from Olympus in it somewhere. It lasts just for a day or two, then it’s gone. . . the title reminded me of that time, of a luminosity older than our Christian civilization.”
––William Faulkner, Light in August
It was eight PM when Nina got home.
A beautiful evening. The snow was gone, the rain had not returned in some days, and the South was showing its inhabitants how lucky they were to be a part of it. Ice storms in the Northeast, snow in North Dakota, blizzards in Denver—
––but here in Bay St. Lucy there were only a few puffy gulf clouds out over the off shore oil rigs, while the three-star belt and sword of Orion shone in readiness for its eternally-upcoming battle with Taurus the Bull, a battle which probably would not happen tonight, since Taurus was still grazing peacefully in the sky of the southern hemisphere.
Nina gazed down the beach before making her way up the rickety stairs that led to her shack.
Some fifty yards distant, a family had found enough driftwood in the nearby dunes to make a fire. They were sitting beside it, roasting marshmallows, while the waves combed in before them leaving white tracery a foot or so from their beach blanket.
“April van Osdale,” she found herself whispering.
“Tests, tests, tests.”
She began climbing the stairs.
A shooting star began writing a piece of cursive overhead, then forgot what it was going to say, gave up, and disappeared
The ponderous ocean ignored it.
Nina reached into her purse for her key, then noticed that, a foot or so above the door handle, a note had been stuck between the screen and the door facing.
This, she thought to herself, could be good news.
She could have won something.
A lottery or something.
Or it could be an invitation to a party frequented by several friends, all of whom had a sense of humor and drank a lot.
Or it could be a notice announcing, with deep regret, the untimely passing of one Dr. April van Osdale, who had, been captured by a sea monster, torn to pieces, and eaten.
She pulled the note out and began unfolding it
“It’s going to be good news,” she whispered down at the fine quality caramel-color paper. “Yeah, right.”
A dust-covered bulb burned over the door. There was just enough light to read in the small sphere of illumination where the three of them—Nina, the note, and her sense of reality—found themselves.
NINA DARLING:
SOMETHING VERY TROUBLING HAS HAPPENED, AND I AM DEEPLY UPSET. I DO HATE TO BOTHER YOU, BUT I WONDER IF YOU COULD COME OVER TO THE AUBERGE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR TROUBLE.
ADMIRINGLY, AS EVER,
ALANNA DELAFOSSE.
“I would say that music is the easiest means in which to express, but since words are my talent, I must try to express clumsily in words what the pure music would have done better.”
––William Faulkner
The Auberge des Arts was the Robinson Mansion and always would be to Nina. It emanated darkness, even despite the numerous yard lights that had been installed in its extensive, magnolia-dotted lawns, and its Gothic windows would always hide secrets behind the curtains that hung, silent and diaphanous, as though held by invisible hands.
She approached it carefully, revving down the Vespa’s little motor even more than normal. The paths seemed to encircle her. There were lights in some of the windows. She began to ask herself the question she’d always asked while approaching this vast and bat-filled building, even as a girl, even before its restoration and artistic transformation:
Was she more frightened of people who might be inhabiting these rooms, or of the rooms themselves, silent and empty, growing dark, growing light, day after day after day?
It was a question she did not want answered.
She parked the Vespa, hearing as she did so, the sounds of several guitars which seemed to be playing in one of the front rooms.
She climbed two steps that led up to the wide wooden porch, and she could see now that, through a window to her left, several people were sitting in a tight circle, guitars before them, their hands active as spiders weaving nests among the strings.
She rang the bell. A soft and sonorous moan seemed to grow beneath the arabesques of the Malaguena, then soften and finally disappear.
The door opened. Alanna Delafosse stood before her.
That was about like saying ‘The Grandeur of the East,’ ‘The Mystery of the Orient,’ and ‘The Splendor of the Old South’ stood before her.
Or perhaps that was an exaggeration.
It was not much of an exaggeration though, for Alanna never tired of attempting to portray humanity as it was
depicted in museums, and not how it was lived in school buildings and feed stores.
She was a Creole woman, not as dark as the sky had become in the last ten minutes, but somewhat deeper in texture and a good deal more mysterious. She was wearing a brightly-colored tent with the signs of the zodiac burned celestially upon it; a garment which could, Nina found herself thinking, have come straight from the closet of Margot Gavin
“Nina! Thank you so much for coming!”
“No problem. I just got home and found your note, Alanna. What’s happening?”
“I’m grief stricken. You cannot imagine.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s a letter I received today. It must have been written several days ago. I’m still in shock. It concerns our ‘Arts in the Schools’ program. We have, as you know, been bringing groups of high school students weekly to the Auberge, so that they could meet writers, painters, actors, from various towns and cities throughout the state. We pay these artists a stipend, of course, with part of the funds coming from the school’s budget. It was Paul who suggested it, after all. But now, this letter…”
“Can you show it to me?”
“Of course. I have it inside. Come, come. The guitar ensemble is practicing in what used to be a front parlor, and which we now use as a practice room for any groups of musicians that care to come.”
Nina walked in and Alanna closed the door behind her. The ponderous chandelier that hung in the entrance hallway examined her and, showing a sign of its good will, did not come crashing to the floor.
“So many people are using the Auberge these days, Alanna.”
“Yes. Theater groups, painting classes, music students—it’s functioning exactly as we had hoped. That’s precisely why this news is so disheartening. It’s simply—well, I can’t imagine why such a decision could have been made.”
“What decision?”
“You’ll have to read for yourself, my dear. I can’t seem to talk about it. I begin to stammer. Then there is a temptation to fall into profanity, which, as you know, is never warranted.”
Nina knew no such thing, but she had learned dirty words so late in life, and their use so ill-suited her saccharine personality, that she avoided using them for fear of making people break into laughter.
“Come. This way, down the hall. The letter is in the original music room of the mansion. Actually, it’s my favorite room. I’ve left the old instruments, and the pictures, just as they were; but I’ve transformed what space is left into my own special study.”
“You like living here?”
“Very much.”
“Isn’t it a little spooky?”
“Not at all. To me, bungalows and house trailers are spooky.”
“Well. I suppose you may have a point there.”
“Of course, I do, darling.”
“It’s just that this place is based on money made by criminals.”
“I believe that can be said about all art.”
Why did she ever try to converse with Alanna?
She would give it up in the future, and confine her utterances to grunts of slight pain and yowls of delight.
“Here we are. Come in, Nina.”
Nina could see the yellow glow emanating from inside before she could see the room itself.
“Oh my!”
“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”
And it was.
The first thing to catch one’s eye was a harp, golden, shaped like angels’ wings, standing exactly in the center of the room, forming the sun around which various planets—grand piano, smaller spinet piano, violins mounted on walls, pictures of opera houses and composers—had been frozen in their rotation and now stood ready for some final concert which would probably never come.
The two women entered and padded like cats, their shoes scuffing on a worn hardwood floor, their hands not daring to touch the instruments, their mouths turned respectfully away, for fear of careless breaths clouding enamel and gold finishes.
“The original music room of The Robinson Mansion.”
“It’s incredible.”
“Yes. Yes, it is. But here is the most wonderful part. Over here, on this stand. Come, come this way.”
Nina followed and found herself led to a phonograph, its great curved bell yawning out over the rest of the room like some giant sea shell out of which one might hear the roar of breakers, the comings and goings of the tide. It sat regally on a square oaken box, which, like a desk upended, seemed to have been made specifically to support it.
“When I was a young girl,” she whispered to the center of the record, where a dog was listening to a replica of the phonograph that now sat staring down at them—“A wealthy friend took me from New Iberia to New Orleans to hear my first opera. Oh, how I remember it!—I could only gawk at the massive balconies, the people in their evening clothes, the quiet talk between acts mixed with the clinking of champagne glasses—all such things
“Just last week, Emil Reittinger, Director of the Mississippi State Opera Ensemble—they’re based in Vicksburg—came here to talk to six of our music students. He was marvelous. He played several recordings on this old, wonderful Victrola, then talked about the lives of Caruso, Gobi, and others. The students were enchanted.”
“I remember,” Nina said, quietly, “when the bus brought them back to the high school. They were almost in tears.”
“So was I, darling. It was unforgettable. We paid Emil Reittinger—the great Emil Reittinger—one hundred dollars. One hundred. Now. Look at this letter.”
She pulled a sheet of paper out of a cavernous pocket.
Nina took it.
It was carefully embossed, official in its appearance, dirty to the touch, and evil in intent.
“Dear Ms. Delafosse,” it began.
“It has come to my attention that several sums of money have been dispersed, over the past three months, to both you and to an institution known as Auberge des Arts. While I am quite certain that your intent in utilizing these sums has been constructive, you must realize that they have been made available without prior authorization and are, consequently, to be viewed as in no way other than illicit, and highly objectionable. It is the intent of the school system of Bay St. Lucy to provide for its students a broad range of cultural and scientific opportunities, and, toward this end, we seek to identify and utilize all resources within our purview; still, in light of ever shrinking budgetary parameters and ever growing demands for precious classroom time, I cannot allow the continuance of activities which are simultaneously unsanctioned, unscrutinized by official channels, and irrelevant to clearly-stated classroom goals and objectives.”
“In short, these dispersals of funding shall cease and desist immediately, and all future projects potentially involving them are to be summarily cancelled.”
“Again, I appreciate your efforts to be a part of our ongoing mandate of community excellence; I cannot though refrain from adding my astonishment that such activities have been allowed to escape proper administrative supervision.”
My Regards,
Dr. April van Osdale
“The bitch,” said Nina, quietly.
Alanna did not laugh.
Perhaps Nina was learning to use profanity after all.
CHAPTER 9: SECOND MEETING
“It’s better to build a tight chicken coop than a shoddy courthouse.”
––William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying
The following morning—Friday—Nina arrived early at school only to be told she was expected later on at city hall.
She had been summoned by April van Osdale.
Oh God.
But there was nothing for it. She had to go.
She delegated a few duties, then took the school van downtown.
At nine thirty, she parked and walked up to the building.
A receptionist met her at the door.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m Nina Bannister. I believe Dr. van Osdale wants to see me?”
&n
bsp; “If you’ll wait, I’ll see if she’s available.”
“Thank you.”
The receptionist left and disappeared into the bowels of the building, while, behind various desks, people came and went and whispered and laughed and took things out of printers and stared at computer screens.
Two minutes passed.
“Ms. Bannister?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. van Osdale can see you now.”
“Thank you.”
She followed the woman, who, every few steps, looked around to be sure that she had not gotten lost.
April van Osdale’s office was situated in the back of a massive room, and had been cordoned off by several massive green curtains.
She appeared through a crack in these curtains, much as though she were taking a bow after a theatrical performance.
“Nina!”
“Dr. van Osdale.”
“April! You must call me April. Thank you so much for coming! I know you have millions of things to do!”
“It was no problem.”
“Come in, come in. Everything is a shambles. We’ve got packets of mock tests coming in from Jackson. Over there on that desk are the math tests. There, on the one beyond it, English exams. They’re exactly the same in format as the real ones will be. We’re taking the real examinations on February 16, you know.”
“Yes. All the teachers have that date circled on their calendars.”
“Here. Sit down.”
Nina did so.
April van Osdale said:
“I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed my time at the high school yesterday.”
“That’s good. We enjoyed having you.”
“Do you think the meetings went well?”
“Oh, yes. The faculty were very impressed.”
“I’m so glad! I want them to be inspired and not overwhelmed. There’s so much that can be done to help get these scores up; we just have to focus, focus, focus.”
“I understand.”
“Simply to disseminate the information we’ve already gleaned about test taking, will be a major help. It’s been shown, for example, that students who have no idea what a correct answer to a particular question is, will have a better chance of getting it right by choosing “C” over any of the other choices.”
Game Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 3) Page 9