Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes

by Kathleen West

  “Melissa,” he began again, “I just wanted to say—”

  “It’s fine,” Melissa interrupted, shaking her head. “I know it wasn’t your fault.”

  Andrew breathed. “Thank you.”

  “I mean,” she continued, “some people’s mothers have no lives.” She looked down at her script again. “They just completely, like, lose themselves in their children.” She underlined something and took a breath. Andrew felt his goose bumps return.

  Had his mother completely lost herself? Maybe it did seem that way, he thought. She repeated the same stories about her one claim to fame—that internship in New York she’d had in college. And now he couldn’t think of any of her interests beyond yoga and him and Tracy. “My mom tried to explain it to me,” Melissa said. “I mean, this is why she runs a business from home. Not having your own life, it’s sad. And makes you sort of psychotic. So, I know your mom’s attack has nothing to do with me, even though she did say those terrible things about my performance in Witches over Willow Street.”

  Andrew felt his mouth drop open. What terrible things had his mother said? Had she said them to Melissa herself? More likely, she’d made some gossipy comment—Andrew had overheard enough of them while she was on the phone—to the wrong person. Melissa kept talking. “And, like, I know her attack didn’t have anything to do with you, either. So we’re cool.” Without waiting for him to reply, she went back to reading.

  Andrew’s nausea intensified at the word “attack,” which he repeated in his head. Would it be fair to call it that? Wouldn’t Julia have needed a weapon or something to take it to that level? “Okay.” He stepped backward, ready for the conversation to close.

  “But like I said,” Melissa blurted, “I know it’s not your fault.”

  “Thanks.” He turned away and shrugged at Maeve, who was watching.

  HENRY ABBOTT

  Henry sat with Martin Young at the conference table the next morning and hoped he only imagined the tension building between them. He pushed a dark green pocket folder containing the specs for the Tuolomee Square project toward Martin, who grunted as he flipped it open. As they waited for Henry’s partner to arrive, the silence became arduous.

  Henry looked at his watch and regretted not more strenuously advocating to postpone this meeting until the cast-list hubbub had died down. But Brenda insisted they begin the process of lobbying the city council, specifically the swing vote.

  “If we can’t get Martin to green-light the zoning changes, the project’s on hold indefinitely. Let’s see if he’s at least amenable,” she’d said, and Henry felt he had no option but to agree. Now it seemed that Martin’s recent memory of Julia’s bad behavior might sabotage the whole thing before it began.

  “How are you?” Henry ventured, testing the mood. Martin began thumbing through the folder, glancing at each page quickly. He didn’t look up. Not a great sign, Henry thought. He wished he’d invented a reason to sit this one out, even though he and Brenda usually worked the zoning board in tandem.

  “I’m just fine.” Martin’s tone was bland.

  “Cold outside?” Henry nodded toward the window, where snowflakes drifted lazily.

  “It’s not too bad. Roads are clear.”

  “Good.” Henry steepled his fingers in front of him, and when Martin didn’t answer, he repeated himself. “Good.” His relief was tremendous when Brenda arrived, her laptop beneath her arm. Her professionalism might lift them out of this.

  “Don’t get up.” She smiled and reached her hand across the table to the city councilman. “Martin,” she said, “what’s jumping out at you about the proposal so far?”

  “I’m wondering about the price range for the rentals,” Martin said, not looking at Brenda as she sat, “as well as the concentration of low-income properties near the proposed construction site.”

  “Great questions.” Brenda launched in. “If you’ll refer to page six, you’ll see we’re looking at nineteen hundred per month for the two-bedrooms. Tuolomee Square is not a low-income space. Rather, we’re targeting young professionals who will contribute to the Liston Heights economy, as well as the surrounding suburbs.” Martin peeled back the pages.

  Henry cleared his throat and jumped in. “We’re planning a host of amenities aimed at attracting millennials,” he said. “Everything from a high-end workout space to events on a social calendar—mix and mingles around the indoor pool.”

  Martin peered up at him. “What kind of liquor license will you require for those?”

  Liquor license? Henry swallowed. He’d never heard of one for a residential space. “I don’t think we’ll need a commercial license for events limited to residents and their guests.” He shifted in his seat. “Do you?”

  “I don’t know.” Martin raised an eyebrow. “Alcohol weakens inhibitions, right? Allows people to say what they mean, even when it’s not the politically correct thing?”

  “I guess so.” Shit, Henry thought. They were off the rails already. He avoided eye contact with Brenda, who’d be understandably concerned. He’d try to steer Martin back to Toulomee Square and away from Julia’s insufficient inhibitions, which he had almost certainly referenced. “But I’m not sure what kind of liability we’d accept in that case,” Henry tried. “Millennial residents will certainly have their own parties on-site.”

  “The bottom line here is that the Tuolomee Square project will open Liston Heights to a new demographic,” Brenda interrupted, more insistent than she had been before. “Provide an affordable way for second- and third-generation residents to follow in their parents’ footsteps ten years earlier than they might otherwise be able to.”

  Henry picked up the ball. “The retail spaces could be filled with coffee shops, maybe a high-end grocery store, a wine bar,” he added.

  “You an expert on wine, Henry?” Martin’s voice had gone even colder. Damn it, Henry thought. Something was hanging Martin up on alcohol. But Julia hadn’t been drinking when she’d gone to school to look at the cast list. What was he missing?

  “Not at all,” Henry said, trying to keep it light, and then he realized that it was the comments Julia had made at the Percys’ holiday party. The thing about Melissa’s large feet. To think a teenager’s shoe size could torpedo an entire deal. Well, to be fair, he guessed, it would be Julia who torpedoed it, not Melissa Young’s feet.

  “Really?” Martin asked. Brenda looked at Henry, perplexed. He’d have to apologize later. Grovel, in fact, to make up for this potential debacle. “Not an expert on wine even with your wife’s”—Martin paused—“proclivity?”

  Henry put both feet on the floor and sat up straight. He’d give it one last effort before bagging it for today and moving on to the other council members, who might see the value of a younger generation spending their disposable income in Liston Heights. “Martin, can we keep this to Tuolomee Square? If there’s something else you’d like to discuss about the”—he rubbed his nose—“the unfortunate incident—”

  “Incidents.” Martin drew out the “s.” “Plural.”

  Brenda gave Henry a Mayday look. “Okay,” she said. “It seems as if—”

  “You’re right.” Martin slammed the folder shut. “It’s not the right time. I’m distracted by the situation at home. I’m sure both of you will understand if we reschedule this meeting for another week or so?” He stood, jostling the table. Coffee threatened at the rims of their mugs.

  Henry stood as well. “Let me know whether there’s anything I can do to ease your mind.” He could smell the vanilla creamer Brenda always used, sickeningly sweet.

  Martin laughed dryly. “Muzzle your wife?” he said, and Henry blanched. Martin turned to go.

  JAMIE PRESTON

  All Jamie could think about at her winter performance review that afternoon was whether this was her last one before learning her contract would be cut. “Shall we begin the ‘Grow’ section
?” Mary smiled, seemingly oblivious to Jamie’s discomfort. They’d already whipped through “Glow” at lightning speed. Mary’s compliments included preparedness for class, punctuality, and appropriate professional attire. “Liston Heights families expect a level of formality,” Mary had said once again, as if dressing appropriately were the trickiest and most critical aspect of teaching teenagers. Jamie had looked down at her cashmere sweater, a gift from her parents, and khaki pants. She’d ironed the pants for the occasion of this meeting, rather than fluffing them in the dryer as she usually did. Apparently, that had paid off.

  Even though she felt Mary’s comments about clothing were endlessly shallow, so much of working at LHHS did seem to be about appearances. Jamie’s mother knew this, too, expertly selecting the pencil skirts and blouses she’d purchased for her on their second annual back-to-school trip to Banana Republic. Jamie felt that faking it, at least in the wardrobe department, had kept her insulated from Peter Harrington’s fate. Peter had resolutely stuck to untucked flannels and jeans with rolled cuffs. Perhaps Mary hadn’t made such a big deal about “appropriate professional attire” with him.

  Now, more than a year after the day Peter had been canned, Jamie’s mouth tasted stale. The remnants of her lunch, a Thai-curry frozen thing that had taken six minutes of her twenty-minute reprieve just to heat, emanated from the trash bin. Mary’s “Glows” were based on such small things—no-brainers. Hadn’t she noticed anything else—anything substantive—about Jamie’s teaching? Jamie thought she’d be reaping the benefits by now of ingratiating herself to parents. She’d been doing the good-news e-mail messages religiously and she kept the parents up-to-date on curriculum. “Uh”—Jamie looked down at the list of Evaluation Criteria for Probationary Teachers on the dingy desktop in front of her—“could I make an addendum, actually?” Isobel had advised her to do this—to point out the positive steps she’d taken that Mary might not recognize. It made her nervous, but it seemed worth it, especially if Mary thought her best quality was her ability to dress herself.

  “Absolutely.” Mary held her pen poised above her own copy of the criteria.

  “I think—” Jamie paused, gathering her courage. “I think I’m pretty skilled at technology integration.” She watched Mary circle the corresponding bullet point.

  “Okay,” Mary said, “I agree that you’ve made an effort to use the course management system and to provide appealing visuals. Good point. Anything else?”

  “I volunteered for the Sunshine Committee,” Jamie blurted, and then regretted it. Who cared that she sometimes ordered flowers for teachers “experiencing life cycle events,” as the committee described their charge?

  “That’s a good way to get to know your colleagues,” Mary said kindly. “Okay.” She looked at her pile of paperwork. “I think we’re ready now for ‘Grow,’ yes?”

  “Yes. I’m ready for ‘Grow.’” Jamie gripped her red felt-tip, preparing to transcribe Mary’s advice.

  “Let’s start with turnaround time for essays. I’ve noticed that you typically take three weeks to post grades for student papers.”

  Jamie wrote Grading on her list. “Is that too long?” She hoped not.

  “Now that you’ve been with us for a year and a half, I’d like you to focus on getting that down to about two weeks.” Mary pulled at the scarf she’d looped around her neck. “How does that sound?”

  Jamie shifted at the desk, her knee bumping the underside of the attached tabletop. She took a breath, embarrassed by the curry smell. The only possible answer was that the two-week turnaround sounded great, but in fact, Jamie wasn’t sure how she could possibly work any faster. She already spent every evening and at least one weekend day on grading and planning.

  “Okay.” She nodded. Maybe she could write fewer comments on the papers? She scraped her boot along the blue-gray carpeting and bit her lip.

  “I think speeding things up will go a long way in building your reputation in the department,” Mary said. “Parents like real-time feedback, especially with the online grade portal.”

  Got it, Jamie thought. And now, please God, let this meeting be over with just one “Grow.”

  “And the second ‘Grow’ I have for you,” said Mary, as Jamie’s stomach twisted, “is to begin making positive calls home.”

  “Positive calls?” What the hell? Jamie thought.

  “It’s a great practice,” Mary continued. “Pick a couple of students in each class, and call home with a compliment. Leave a voice mail if you have to.”

  “Okay,” Jamie said, again, writing positive calls on her notepad. When would she accomplish these? In between speed-grading assignments and incorporating the newest educational technology? Jamie underlined the word “positive.” “I do already send good-news e-mails to families,” she ventured. “Will those suffice?”

  “Liston Heights parents love a voice-to-voice connection. It makes them feel like teachers really appreciate their children, that we notice the small things they’re doing to make our community great.” Mary gave her a meaningful look. “If you really want to become indispensable here,” she said, “I’d start making the calls. Get the parents totally on your side.”

  “I’ll get right on it.” Jamie would just have to make time. “Indispensable” meant that her contract couldn’t be cut, right? “I’ll do my best,” she told her boss. She could hear voices in the halls, as the students made their way from the cafeteria to classes.

  Mary tucked her notes into a folder and swung her legs out from under the desk. “Okay,” she said with finality. “I think that’s it.”

  “Thanks,” Jamie said. “Great advice, as usual.” She hoped the comment about “indispensable” meant she was on the cusp of that. If faster grading and a few phone calls could put her over the edge, surely she could acquiesce. As Mary disappeared into the hallway and Jamie’s students started straggling in she thought about how she’d perhaps make a few calls during her prep period.

  JULIA ABBOTT

  On Tuesday afternoon, Julia had been tempted to go to her usual hot yoga class, but there was the possibility that she would run into Vivian Song at the studio, as she had many times before. She couldn’t see Vivian now that the board had met once without her. Who knew what she, Annabelle, and Sally had gotten out of Robin, who’d turned out to be such a backstabber? Julia’s criticisms of Melissa’s acting were hardly the only observations she’d made to Robin over the years. What else would her “friend” repeat?

  Still, Julia felt claustrophobic in the house. She’d been doggedly avoiding Facebook since she’d discovered the video on the Inside Liston page. And then the same day, the Liston Lights had profiled Tryg Ogilvie on Instagram, as if humiliating Julia was worthy of public praise. “I love sharing my point of view on my YouTube channel and my Insta,” Tryg had said in his interview. I bet, thought Julia ruefully. But certainly, she reasoned, other posts would rise to the top of her feeds while she stayed away, and her humiliation would blow over.

  She felt twitchy without a full to-do list or access to social media and finally decided on a quick trip to the grocery store. At the Whole Foods, she picked up a superfood salad and some Broccolini for dinner and then detoured past Bloom, her favorite Liston Heights boutique, on the way back to her car. The front window of the shop was filled with winter white—sheer blouses with raised polka dots, high-necked sweaters, a sleek-yet-playful bomber jacket shown over distressed white jeans with artful holes in each leg. Was she too old for the ripped-denim trend? She cocked her head to the side as she stared at the pants. She’d pair them with ankle boots and a chunky knit sweater. Not too old, she decided. After all, she’d seen women in their sixties with frayed patches on their jeans who looked chic—as long as the holes were far from the inner thigh.

  Wanting just a peek at the jeans up close, Julia opened the door to the shop, a bell tinkling her arrival. Once she was inside, the cerulean accent
wall where they kept dresses distracted her. She’d been browsing just like this when she’d found that dress for Tracy, the one she’d almost convinced her daughter to wear to her piano recital. Julia thought back to the event, Tracy playing the Rachmaninoff beautifully, her hair in a high ponytail, Italian merino sweater slim over tapered slacks. Her girl looked cute. Sporty, Julia thought. But she’d hoped Tracy could try for elegant just one time.

  Julia saw another dress that would flatter her size-zero daughter—a spring style, bright pink with a fitted bodice and slightly flared skirt. She picked it off the rack and spun it. It’d look great with a contrasting belt and some neutral lip gloss. If only she could get Tracy to wear makeup regularly. “A little mascara would really pull that outfit together,” she’d say some mornings over breakfast.

  But since Tracy had started in Ms. Johnson’s class, that seemed even less likely. “I’m concerned about the artifice society insists women keep up,” Tracy had said one recent morning. “Is that the right word, Mom? ‘Artifice’?” It went right along with her comments about not having children and the motherhood penalty. Julia had never heard of such a thing before English 9 had become a liberal think tank. In any case, if she couldn’t get Tracy to wear a muted long-sleeved dress, the chances of getting her into this pink one were nil. She felt wistful as she put it back on the rack. Tracy’s narrow calves would have looked divine in the right heels below that skirt. Maybe if Ms. Johnson mentioned that pink dresses were a universal sign of feminism, Tracy would take three of this one.

  Julia could smell the olive oil in her salad dressing through her grocery bag, and her stomach groaned. She’d had only Diet Mountain Dew so far today, which she’d sipped while researching the theater programs Andrew would visit this summer on a college trip. She’d also reluctantly called her mother. She unfolded a pair of the white jeans as she recalled their stilted conversation about the family’s lake place and her father’s recent physical. The Bloom clerk approached. “Anything I can help you with today?”