Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes

by Kathleen West

  Jesus, Isobel thought.

  It wasn’t until the class had begun and moved into its second or third Warrior 2 that Julia finally caught Isobel’s eye.

  I belong here, Isobel told herself as Julia stared. She offered a closed-mouth smile and then looked over her fingertips as the instructor prompted.

  As she lay back in corpse pose at the end of class, Isobel felt accomplished. Finally, the instructor rang a chime and wished the class “namaste,” and Isobel moved to get the disinfectant from the cabinet near the door, where Julia was rolling her mat.

  Julia looked up just as Isobel was grabbing a cloth rag from a wicker basket. Isobel had already decided she’d speak first. “Hello, Mrs. Abbott,” she said.

  “Ms. Johnson,” Julia said flatly.

  “I’m surprised to see you all the way out here in Mills Park.” She dampened a cloth with the minty cleaning solution and handed the spray bottle to the next woman waiting.

  “I was trying to get off the beaten path.” Julia paused, and Isobel started back to her mat. “I’m surprised to see you here, too,” Julia called after her, “as it’s the middle of the school day.”

  Isobel turned back around and ran a hand over her hip, deciding what to say. “Yeah,” she offered, her voice quieter than she meant it to be, “I have some time off.”

  Julia smirked. “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I heard about the investigation.” Isobel stepped backward, away from Julia’s inappropriate volume, and bumped another woman’s shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” she muttered to the person she’d jostled. “I’m sorry.”

  The woman waved her off, and Julia maintained her smug smile. “Wayne Wallace is calling all the parents,” she continued, “though you probably know that. Had you heard people weren’t sure you had a license?”

  Isobel looked at the chalkboard on the wall over Julia’s head, trying to tamp down her trepidation. Tension is who you think you should be, the quotation there read. Relaxation is who you are. A wave of dizziness passed over Isobel, her vision blurring in the heat. The letters on the chalkboard ran together. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had been openly mean to her. Were other people in the studio noticing? How could they not, when everyone else spoke in the whispers that matched the instructor’s good-bye? “I knew Wayne was making some calls,” Isobel said, clinging to professionalism.

  “It seems like you’re having a difficult time,” Julia said. “That’s really too bad.” She stood, her ponytail swinging, her rolled mat tucked under her arm.

  “I love teaching,” Isobel blurted. She lifted the rag in her hand, marking her point.

  “Yeah,” Julia said, “but maybe Liston Heights isn’t the right venue for you?” Julia seemed so composed, while Isobel felt as if she were disintegrating. “People there have really high expectations,” Julia continued. “I’m sure—and obviously I’m not telling you anything you haven’t thought of yourself—people would rather not have the daughter of a notorious financial criminal lecturing their children on social justice.” She laughed then, that same grim laugh from the locker room before class, though nothing was funny.

  Isobel nearly dropped to her knees. A sharp pain presented above her right ear. The instructor approached suddenly and grabbed Isobel’s elbow. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look woozy.”

  “I need—” Isobel looked past Julia through the glass door beyond the studio.

  “Let’s get you out of the heat,” the instructor said. She helped her to her feet and pushed her lower back as she opened the door. Isobel blinked in the bright light and let herself be hustled away.

  HENRY ABBOTT

  Dad,” Andrew whispered in Henry’s ear at eleven thirty that evening. Henry registered a hand on his biceps, gently shaking. In a blink, he sat up and reached for his glasses. “Sorry,” Andrew said. Henry swung his legs onto the floor. The cuffs of his threadbare pajamas slid down over his ankles.

  “What is it?” Henry asked, coming to himself.

  “Kitchen?” The boy pointed at the hallway.

  “Are you okay?” Next to Henry, Julia sighed heavily in her sleep. Andrew looked at her warily.

  “I’m okay.”

  Henry hefted himself from the bed and creaked toward Andrew.

  At the kitchen table, Henry could see his son’s teeth grinding beneath the flesh of his cheek. When had his face become so thin and defined? Henry felt nervous suddenly. He couldn’t remember seeing Andrew so agitated. “Do you want water?” he asked.

  “No,” said Andrew, his hands flat on the oak in front of him. “Is it true?” His upper lip twitched.

  “Is what?” Henry asked.

  “Dad,” Andrew insisted, “you know what I’m saying.” Henry rubbed the stubble on his jawline, feeling a slight looseness to his skin there. “Did you—” Andrew breathed. “Did you and mom buy my part in the musical?”

  “What are you talking about?” Henry asked, still squinting under the bright kitchen lights.

  “You know,” Andrew said, more loudly. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He stared at his dad. “Did the costume shop buy my part?” Henry blinked at him. “My part in the musical,” Andrew clarified, looking down at his hands, now balled into fists.

  “Of course not,” Henry sighed. “That’s not how these things work.”

  “What things?”

  “Decisions like the cast of the Liston Heights High School musical.” He stood. “I’m going to get some water.” He needed a second to decide how to play this. Neither of them said anything as Henry turned on the tap and filled a glass that had been sitting on the edge of the sink.

  When he got back to the table, his son looked slightly abashed. “What do you mean, ‘that’s not how these things work’? You and mom donated money for the costume shop, right?”

  Henry looked at the clock, its spindly second hand ticking past twelve. He’d be as straight as he could, he decided. At seventeen, Andrew was old enough to understand the basics of negotiations. “Yes,” he said. “We love Liston Heights, we support you and your activities, and we wanted to contribute to the program.”

  “But did you ask for anything in return?”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  Andrew’s eyes widened. “It’s coming from the cast! It’s coming from my friends.” Henry noticed the red rims around Andrew’s eyes. He’d been crying. “It’s all anyone’s been saying since the video.”

  “How does the video factor into this?”

  “Dad,” said Andrew, “no one’s been talking about anything but the video since the day it happened. I can’t escape it. It’s been on Watch This! and then the news, and now . . .” He drew in a shaky breath.

  “And now what?” Henry shivered and wished for his and Julia’s thick duvet.

  “Last Friday Melissa Young said that Mr. Dittmer had to give me the part of the inspector because of the costume shop. She said that Mom . . .” He searched for the vocabulary of the deals and handshakes he didn’t know existed.

  “I’m sure that wasn’t exactly how it went,” Henry said, calm.

  “But?” Andrew pressed, tears coming now, catching in his eyelashes.

  “But,” Henry surrendered, “that’s a little bit of how the world works.” Andrew stared at him. “You have to know that, right?” Andrew shook his head weakly, and Henry’s heart broke a little. He recalled another evening eight years before, Andrew’s big eyes aghast, when Henry finally confirmed that he himself was Santa Claus.

  “So it is true,” Andrew moaned. “I didn’t earn it.”

  “Son?” Henry leaned across the table and put his big palm over Andrew’s quivering fist. “No one really earns anything.”

  JULIA ABBOTT

  On Wednesday morning after the kids had left for school—Andrew’s eyes had looked bleary, Julia noticed—Henry
lingered in the kitchen.

  “No early meetings?” Julia glanced up from her laptop, where she’d been skimming headlines on Women’s Wear Daily, trying to distract herself from the Inside Liston Facebook page. Henry’s tie hung askew, the short end caught on the buttons of his shirt.

  “Andrew woke me up last night,” he said. The words sounded rehearsed, as if he’d been thinking about them for hours.

  Julia blinked at him. Her hands migrated from her keyboard to her lap. “Why?”

  “He wanted to know whether we bought his role in the musical for him.”

  “What?” She rubbed the pad of one thumb over the nail of the other and glanced out at the snow-covered hydrangea.

  “Apparently, the other kids in the play have told him that we donated the costume shop in exchange for his part.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Julia said, looking back at him. Henry grabbed his travel mug from beside the sink and crossed to the coffeemaker. “What did you tell him?”

  “He’s not an idiot,” Henry said, his tone low. “He’s seventeen years old.”

  “Wait.” Julia stood from her stool, her stocking feet flat on the hardwood. “You confirmed that? You told Andrew that we bought him a role in the musical? What were you thinking?”

  “I didn’t say that we bought the part.”

  “Well, it sounds like you didn’t not say that.” She raised her voice. The last thing Andrew needed when he’d been struggling in rehearsal was the impression that he didn’t belong, that he was inferior.

  “Calm down,” Henry said, maddeningly staid. He put a hand to his forehead. “Can you just listen to what I have to say for once?”

  Julia clenched her teeth. For once? She listened to what Henry said all the time. He’d choreographed their meeting with Wayne Wallace, for starters. Then he’d “advised” her on the video. He’d been running interference between Julia and the kids for two weeks straight since the cast list had been posted.

  “You know very well that we did, in fact, buy Andrew’s role,” Henry said tightly, “or at the very least, we strongly encouraged the school to cast him. Andrew knows that. The other kids know that. It’s the way of the world. If we pull the strings—and I’m not saying we shouldn’t—there will be consequences.”

  Behind them the coffeemaker hissed, spitting the last of the water from its reservoir. Julia’s hands felt itchy. “You think I haven’t had consequences?” she said. He didn’t even know yet about Kate Awakened, the fourteen laughing responses to her YM comment on the Inside Liston page. “You think I need punishment? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Henry turned away from her and straightened his tie. He didn’t like to argue, she knew. He’d always back off. She’d seen his reticence in their very first English class together, the one during which she’d so enjoyed hassling the TA, and Henry had so enjoyed watching her do it.

  When he turned back to her, Henry’s voice was tighter, more urgent. “Julia, you’ve been getting us into jams like this Melissa Young thing for years. When Wayne mentioned overinvestment? That’s you. At some point we have to let the kids live their own lives.” The floor felt slippery beneath her socks. It was easy for Henry to talk about overinvestment. She’d handled everything for the kids, from birth till now. “When do we all get to make our own decisions and our own mistakes?” Henry said more quietly. “Or will we always have to dodge yours?”

  Julia sat back down on her stool, the perch from which she managed the entire household. She didn’t speak.

  “Did you know the Tuolomee Square project looks dead?” Henry continued. “I don’t think I can get Martin Young to sign off on the zoning change, and there are a couple of other members he’s blocked.” He exhaled loudly. “My deal might be off because you punched Martin Young’s daughter.”

  Julia’s eyes filled, tears of helplessness more than of anger. She made everything happen in their family. Every team the kids had joined, every play, every academic program—it had gone well because she’d been paying attention. She’d given up on her own journalistic dreams as a twenty-year-old and poured every bit of her ambition into making their family work. And now Henry saw her only as a liability, and multiple fake accounts mocked her on social media. A pause extended between them. Steam rose from Julia’s coffee. She reached a hand up to swipe the tears.

  Finally, she looked at him. “Can you change?” he asked quietly. “Can you stop doing stuff like this?”

  “Like what?” she asked weakly.

  “I need you to be different,” Henry said. Julia hooked her toes around the stool’s rung and dipped her nose toward her coffee cup. Could she change? She had no idea. She had always just been herself.

  ANDREW ABBOTT

  Andrew knocked tentatively on John Dittmer’s office door just as the bell rang for afternoon study hall.

  “Come in,” called Mr. Dittmer. Andrew pushed the door open, the handle warm against his hand. “Ah,” said the director, standing up from his desk. “Andrew! Have a seat.” He sounded friendly enough, not nearly as irritated as he’d been at last night’s rehearsal.

  “Hi.” Andrew moved toward the table, then sat. The room smelled like corn. Andrew glanced at Dittmer’s desk and saw an open bag of Fritos. “So,” the director said, “Ellis Island is your first speaking role. That’s a big transition from the chorus and the behind-the-scenes work you’ve done in previous productions.”

  Andrew nodded. He shifted in his seat, legs stiff.

  “How’s it felt so far?” Mr. Dittmer prompted.

  “Um.” Andrew stalled. What could he say? He almost laughed, thinking of what the truth might sound like. The whole thing has been terrible? First, my mom humiliated our entire family. It’s clear the entire cast knows she’s psychotic. And now I’m not even capable of doing the basic things you ask in rehearsal. Besides all that, I know you never wanted to cast me in the first place? “I guess,” Andrew tried, “I guess it’s been a little rough.”

  “The leads this time are extraordinarily experienced,” Mr. Dittmer said. “You’re jumping into a seasoned crowd.” He waited again. Andrew heard footfalls in the outer office, an adjacent door closing.

  “Melissa especially,” Andrew said, drawing in a breath. “She seems, uh . . .” He searched for the word. “She seems disappointed in my performance.”

  Mr. Dittmer brought the tips of his fingers together and nodded slowly. “I can imagine your relationship with Melissa is a little strained.” The director was quiet for a moment. Meanwhile, Andrew’s mind was racing. He felt an overwhelming desire to get out of this situation, to feel comfortable in practice, to be able to face his friends.

  “The thing is, Mr. Dittmer,” Andrew said. He could hear his pitch rising. “The thing is,” he started again, wanting to sound mature, “I don’t belong up there with those kids.” He forced himself to make eye contact. “I know I don’t deserve my role.” He spoke the words, and a heaviness lifted as if the truth of the situation had been holding him down.

  “Why would you say that?” Mr. Dittmer asked.

  Andrew felt suddenly calm and emboldened. “Can we be honest with each other?”

  The director’s mouth opened slightly, and he nodded. “Okay,” he said.

  “I know you felt like you had to give me the inspector role because my parents donated the costume shop. I know—” He swallowed, replaying Melissa’s pronouncement in his mind. “I know I belong in the chorus.”

  Mr. Dittmer tilted his head. “There are lots of reasons casting decisions are made,” he said finally.

  Andrew felt a strange new energy in his legs. He had an urge to stand up. Instead, he leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “I want to be a luggage handler. I want to be in the chorus.”

  Mr. Dittmer blinked a few times. “You want me to reassign the inspector role because you want to be in the chorus?”

 
; Andrew slapped the table with an open palm. He felt happy, relieved. “That’s what I want,” he said. “Can we do that?”

  Mr. Dittmer patted his thighs and looked at the Fritos. Andrew felt like taking a handful in celebration. “Well”—he considered—“we’re in our second week; the blocking is just emerging.” He looked back at Andrew and waited, thinking. “Yes,” he said finally, “I can switch your role for Tryg Ogilvie’s. You can be the luggage handler, and Tryg can take on the inspector.”

  Andrew blanched at the mention of Tryg—he still hadn’t talked to him about the goddamn Instagram video that wouldn’t die—but the idea of holding the suitcase seemed right. “Okay,” Andrew said. “I’m game.”

  ISOBEL JOHNSON

  When Isobel had arrived home after yoga the day before, her first call had been to Mark. After she’d told him through her hiccups and sniffles what had transpired in the studio, he advised her to call Mary Delgado. “It’s harassment,” Mark said. “First the voice mail, which had to be from Julia Abbott, and the calls to Wayne’s office, then bullying about your father? Something’s happening. There’s, like, a conspiracy. Should I come home?”

  “No,” Isobel whimpered. There was nothing he could do.

  “Mention ‘hostile work environment.’” Mark had gone into lawyer mode, which Isobel appreciated, especially in her distress. “Text me once you talk to her.”

  She’d called Mary next, and her boss had immediately agreed to an in-person conversation. Now she walked to the table at the back of the library where the department chair sat waiting. Isobel looked terrible. It had seemed tasteless to wear expensive clothing when parents in the district knew about her history, her dad’s treachery. So she’d pulled on her Merona brand jeans and an ages-old button-down with a rumpled collar. She hadn’t bothered with makeup. Mary looked stunned when she saw her, and Isobel wondered if she’d overdone it.