Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes

by Kathleen West

  Jamie backed away from the car, nodding as Isobel rolled up the window. Her back pressed against the leather seat as Julia pulled out of the lot toward another entrance. “I’m going to take some screenshots and e-mail them to myself,” Isobel announced. She willed her eyes open despite the dizzying movement of the car. “Actually”—she shoved the phone toward Tracy—“could you do it?”

  “Yeah.” Isobel heard the iPhone shutter noise as Tracy took the first one. “All of the posts?” Tracy asked, her voice shaky.

  “I’ll tell you when.” She reached for the phone back and blinked as she scrolled down. Lisa Lions posted two or three times per week, it seemed. It was all truly “inside” information—agenda items from faculty meetings, conclusions based on internal e-mails. “All of Lisa Lions’s posts,” Isobel said, and Tracy got to work. “Plus,” Isobel added, not caring how uncomfortable Julia or even Tracy would be, “the post about my father, and a few others by parents.”

  Julia coughed as she pulled into a spot and shifted into park. “Okay?” she asked. “By the way—”

  “Fine,” Isobel said brusquely, interrupting. She had no interest in Julia Abbott’s explanation.

  “Who is Lisa Lions?” Isobel wondered as Tracy snapped pictures.

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out, too,” Tracy said. Julia’s head snapped up toward the rearview mirror, but Isobel shifted her gaze away from her, up toward the ceiling of the car. Who would know the deadline for the reinstatement decision? Lyle knew, of course, but the idea of him informing on her via Facebook was laughable. Her temple pulsed. She raised a hand to touch the lump and flinched. Eleanor Woodsley would know, given her close contact with Mary Delgado. But with her impeccable reputation, what could she have to gain from Inside Liston? Eleanor hung her hat on being upstanding and completely, annoyingly appropriate. No, thought Isobel, she’s not Lisa Lions.

  “Can I see that?” Isobel reached for the phone. Tracy handed it to her silently. A Lisa Lions post from two weeks before was next in the feed. Uptick in requests for Woodsley as senior English teacher because she so thoroughly teaches college essay writing.

  Isobel enlarged the post. February 13. This would have been posted just after the faculty meeting at which Eleanor had bragged about her requests. At the same meeting, Isobel had disclosed the voice mail. The only people present for that conversation were herself, Eleanor, and Jamie Preston. Isobel handed the phone back to Tracy and stared out the windshield at a cluster of snow-dusted trees in front of them. She let her eyes blur.

  “Are you okay? Should I keep going?” Tracy asked.

  “Just take a few more screenshots,” Isobel said. “I need a bunch, especially by Lisa Lions.”

  “I’ve got, like, twenty examples,” Tracy said, “from all of the posters.” She paused. “Even my mom.”

  “I only posted the once,” Julia blurted from the driver’s seat.

  “Shhh,” Isobel interrupted. She closed her eyes. “Can you e-mail all of the images to me?” she asked Tracy. She leaned her head back against the leather headrest.

  Tracy tapped busily. “They’ll be in a few different messages to your school account.”

  Isobel’s neck started to ache, and she rolled it gently. The car had warmed, and it smelled like sweat and wet wool.

  Isobel tried to process what she’d discovered. She couldn’t make sense of this, but she’d be stupid not to suspect that Jamie Preston had leaked information to this group.

  She couldn’t believe it.

  “Anything I can do?” Julia asked. Isobel blinked her eyes open to see Julia peering at her again through the rearview mirror.

  “Be quiet.” Isobel surprised herself with her authority. She almost giggled, but she needed to think. She’d begun helping Jamie the moment the young woman arrived at LHHS. How could this be happening?

  Tracy cleared her throat. “There’s something else on the page,” she said. “Look.” She handed over the phone and pointed at a tab at the top labeled Documents. Tracy tapped it with her index finger. Teacher Phone Numbers, the first one said. Isobel clicked. A Google spreadsheet opened with Liston Heights teachers listed alphabetically by last name.Phone numbers appeared next to the names, and then cells labeled Call, which were sporadically filled. Isobel squinted at the list.

  “Are they complaints?” asked Tracy.

  Isobel didn’t answer. She’d reached her own name, and sure enough, the voice mail she’d received was documented. Content: Warned about anti-American sentiments and liberal agenda.

  Isobel swallowed. As it turned out, she hadn’t been the only one to receive an unnerving voice mail. She reached the bottom of the list, and Eleanor Woodsley’s line on the spreadsheet was blank. Of course, Isobel thought. Her eyes swam, but she forced herself to check Jamie Preston, too. Also blank.

  “Um,” said Julia from the front. “I’m getting nervous about your head. I read an article about looking at screens while concussed, and—”

  Isobel put a finger up and kept her head down. “Shut up,” she said, and then: “Sorry, Tracy.”

  She clicked out of the spreadsheet and looked back at the main page. She could hear Julia breathing heavily.

  Although it seemed Isobel could scroll through several more sections in the group, she didn’t think she needed to. “You sent the images?” she asked. Her head had gotten hot in the warmth of the car, and she gingerly removed her hat, stretching it over the lump on her right temple. Tracy nodded. “Thanks,” Isobel said. She dropped the phone in her student’s lap. “I’m finished.”

  Julia turned toward her, her face ashen and eyes glassy. She swallowed. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do? A ride to the urgent care? Some kind of . . .” She paused, reaching for her purse, and Isobel felt certain she was about to offer her cash. Suddenly, Mark appeared next to the window. He tapped lightly with his knuckle.

  “Absolutely not,” Isobel said as she opened the back door. “But don’t call me at home,” she said. “Ever again.” Julia’s mouth snapped shut, and Isobel could read the guilt in her expression.

  “I was . . . ,” Julia tried, but her words died. “Tracy said motherhood was a waste,” she managed, sounding desperate.

  TRACY ABBOTT

  After Ms. Johnson got out of the car, Tracy and Julia sat there for a minute, neither of them speaking. “Go,” Tracy finally said.

  “You’re not getting back in the front?”

  Tracy shook her head and looked out the window, where Ms. Johnson’s husband helped her into the passenger seat of the minivan Tracy had seen so many times in the LHHS parking lot. She knew the decals on the back window by heart. “Kindness matters” was her favorite. She planned to order one just like it—she’d found the sticker on Amazon already—when she got her permit in the spring.

  Julia pulled out of the parking lot and headed home. Though the drive would take only five minutes, each second stretched. Finally, when they’d made it off of Liston Boulevard, Tracy spoke. “You left Ms. Johnson a voice mail on her home number?”

  Julia didn’t say anything, which was the same as confirming it.

  “It was because I said I didn’t want to be a mother?” Tracy asked.

  Julia depressed her turn signal and said nothing.

  “Why aren’t you answering?” Tracy asked. She could hear her tone rising.

  “Because you don’t understand,” Julia said.

  Tracy stared out the window again. She watched the houses in her neighborhood go by, their great room windows overlooking expansive front lawns. She’d go far away for college, Tracy thought suddenly. Maybe the West Coast.

  “You don’t admire me.” Tracy looked up. Her mother stared at her through the rearview mirror as they pulled into their driveway. Her voice sounded thin, and the gray circles beneath her eyes were pronounced, even though Tracy knew she had applied concealer and mas
cara that morning.

  Tracy looked through the windshield at the garage door lifting. She didn’t actually admire her mother. Not particularly. Not only had she clocked Melissa Young, but she had written that callous post about Ms. Johnson on Facebook. And she’d apparently harassed her? At home? Tracy hoped Ms. Johnson would notice that she’d written Kate Awakened at the close of the e-mail she’d sent last, the one with the screenshots of her favorite comments in Ms. Johnson’s defense. Julia pulled the car slowly into its stall. When it had stopped, Tracy got out and went inside without another word.

  JULIA ABBOTT

  Is that my racer?” Henry asked, laughter in his voice, as Julia walked through the mudroom. The kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and toast.

  Henry looked up from his newspaper. “Was it really hard?” he asked. “Tracy looked peaked. Said she was going to lie down.”

  Julia clasped her hands together over her stomach. Henry stood, alarmed. “Are you sick?” He reached an arm toward her. When he touched her back, his hand felt warm through the waterproof fabric of her running jacket.

  “No.” She’d tried to devise a way to avoid telling him about the accident, but she knew it was impossible. Tracy knew. Everyone would know. Doubtless, video footage from spectators was already posted on Inside Liston.

  “What’s going on?” Henry asked, sitting back down as Julia tucked her chair in beside him. “Did something happen?”

  Julia closed her eyes. Henry grabbed her hand, nervous. “Yes,” Julia said finally, opening her eyes slowly. “Something did happen, Henry, but before I tell you, I want you to know that it’s all settled. I think everything’s okay now.” She wasn’t exactly sure if this was true, but she hoped.

  “Okay.” Henry moved both his hands to his armrests, bracing himself. Julia hated that she recognized his posture. They’d been here before, him waiting for her explanation.

  “There was an accident in the parking lot after the race.” Julia had practiced this line during the silent ride home.

  “Is the car damaged? Because we can fix that.” If only it had been a fender bender, then Henry could go back to his coffee and the weekly transaction listings.

  “There was no damage. But”—Julia drummed her fingers on the table and let out a tremulous breath—“I hit someone.”

  “Is there damage to the other car? I mean, that’s a pain, but that’s what insurance is for. Did you exchange details? I can make the call.” Henry reached for his cell phone.

  “That’s not it,” Julia said quickly, staring past him. “I hit a person.” She paused. “Who was walking.” It was her turn to brace herself. She knew he’d be livid.

  Henry jutted his chin toward her and laid his hands flat on the table. “How? Is he okay? Did you call the police?”

  “It was a teacher,” Julia continued, “and, yes, she seems fine. Well, she went to urgent care, but she’s walking and talking.”

  “Seems?” Henry asked. “Did you at least call an ambulance?”

  “She insisted that we not do that.” Julia began fiddling with the Tiffany bangle.

  “What happened?” Henry said slowly. He looked away from his wife into the kitchen, where the red light of the coffeemaker glowed.

  “I think I was reaching for my phone—it had fallen into the well on the driver’s-side door—and I looked down for a moment. I was rolling toward the stop sign at the exit of the parking lot, not even five miles per hour, and I just”—she swallowed—“tapped her.”

  “You tapped her?” Henry repeated. “Who was this?”

  “It was Isobel Johnson,” Julia said, her head hanging.

  “The English teacher? Of course,” Henry said. He leaned back. Julia agreed the whole thing was massively unfortunate. She’d hit the woman who’d commented on the news story, Tracy’s favorite teacher, who’d supposedly turned her against motherhood. People would think Julia had done this on purpose. “And did she fall?” Henry shouted. “Cuts and bruises? Head injury? What are we talking here, Julia?”

  Julia’s voice became a whisper and her tears immediately accumulated. “She fell on her side, I think. She seemed fine, although she had a lump on her temple.” She pointed at the spot on her own head. “She sat in our car for a little while.”

  “In your car? Why?”

  Julia studied the hydrangea in their yard. She’d hoped she would be able to skip this part, but now Henry had asked. “She wanted to see that secret Facebook group I’m a member of. The group called Inside Liston.” She shook her head quickly, signaling him not to ask any questions just then. “There’s been a lot in the group about Isobel Johnson because she was recently suspended. And I posted there about her father. Tracy saw it, and that’s why she hasn’t been speaking to me.”

  “What about her father? How is that relevant?”

  “He’s Robert Miller, that big financial criminal from the nineties. Remember him? Anyway, this teacher talks on and on about justice and, like, equity, and her own father stole millions from a charitable foundation. I thought people had the right to know.” She twisted the bracelet. Henry watched her for a second and then stood and walked to the study.

  “Where are you going?” Isobel called from the table.

  “I’m looking up the Johnsons’ home number,” he said. “Isn’t there a school directory in here somewhere?”

  “She said not to call her at home,” Julia said. She dropped her head to the table, where it rested on her forearms. “Anymore.”

  “Anymore?” She might as well tell him the whole thing. He was already so discernibly disappointed. Henry came back carrying the spiral-bound directory. Julia hadn’t realized he even knew of the book’s existence. “Do they list the teachers in here? Why did you say ‘anymore’?”

  “They list them if they don’t opt out. And I left Isobel Johnson a message a few weeks ago,” Julia said, voice muffled, “on her home phone.”

  Henry grabbed his glasses and scanned the early pages, where the directory listed various committees and chairpersons. “Faculty,” he said aloud when he found it. “Johnson. Is this a home number or a cell?”

  “Home,” Julia said.

  Henry grabbed his phone from the table and started dialing.

  “I told her she was anti-American.” Henry look repulsed and waved her off. A few tears leaked from Julia’s eyes, and she used one of her gloves to wipe them. They waited in silence, Henry listening to each ring. Finally, Julia could hear an answering machine, the same one she’d encountered weeks ago. “You’ve reached the Johnson residence,” said a male voice. “Please leave us a message.”

  After the beep, Henry said, “Yes, this is Henry Abbott. Listen, Julia and I are both terribly sorry and concerned about what happened—about the accident—today in the high school parking lot. We’d love to know how you’re doing, Isobel, and whether there’s anything we can do. If you can—if you’re willing—would you please call me? I’m leaving my cell.” Henry recited the number and hung up. He sat back down with his wife.

  “Julia,” he said, sounding grave, “something has got to change.”

  Her whole body felt tired. “I know,” she said. “Everything is always so messed up.”

  “What can we do?” Henry asked. “Don’t you feel like maybe something’s missing at this stage? Like, from your life? Are you happy?”

  Julia sat back in her chair and pulled the elastic from her ponytail. She felt anger mix with her sadness and embarrassment. Her whole life had been about clearing obstacles for him, Andrew, and Tracy, and they had all benefited. And now Henry wondered if there was something missing, impeding her happiness? After he’d blissfully remained her focus for the past twenty years? The phrase she’d uttered to Tracy in the car came back to her now: You don’t admire me, she thought.

  “Well?” Henry prompted. She realized he was still staring at her.

  “
Maybe,” she said finally. “Maybe I’m ready for something more.”

  ISOBEL JOHNSON

  Isobel touched her bruised right temple as she and Lyle walked to Wayne Wallace’s office on Monday morning. She’d called the principal the night before, Mark at her side, her voice shaking. “I’m sorry to bother you at home,” she’d said, “but I have something important to share with you.” Wayne had made a number of guttural sounds as Isobel delivered her rehearsed speech, and finally he suggested they meet before school.

  “Will you invite Mary Delgado and Amanda from HR?” Isobel asked. “I’m bringing Lyle Greenwood.”

  “Yes,” Wayne said, “I suppose that would be appropriate.”

  An hour later he’d called back. “You were hit by a car in the high school parking lot?” he said.

  “Yes,” Isobel replied, prepared, “and I’m happy to file any necessary paperwork after our meeting on Monday.”

  “But are you okay?” Wayne sounded worried.

  Probably about the potential workers’ comp claim, Isobel thought. “I’m fine, and I’d be happy to talk after our meeting.”

  Now Isobel gripped the handle of her laptop bag, its fabric rough against her skin. Once the doctor had determined she had a soft-tissue trauma and not a concussion, she and Mark had put the screenshots of the Inside Liston Facebook group into a PowerPoint so she could click through them for the administrators. She’d explain the timeline and, more important, who was behind the posts. She was ready.

  “You’ve got this,” Lyle said. “I really believe your suspension ends today.” He’d agreed that the information from the group changed everything: The complaints, while perhaps genuine, were provoked and coordinated. Without Lisa Lions, the school would have heard from maybe one or two parents. And if it hadn’t been Isobel, Lisa Lions would have targeted someone else.