Читать книгу True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA - Nancy Robards Thompson - Страница 13

Maggie

What’s the secret of long-lasting love? Does it mean that the lovers never wish for different lives? Never feel she or he made a mistake in vowing to love that partner until death separated them?

Or do they simply turn a blind eye to the nagging doubts intrinsic to marriage, dig in their heels and resolve to stay for the long haul no matter the cost or sacrifice?

I wish I knew the answer.

I met and married Tim within a year of Mama killing herself; a few years later I had a daughter of my own and tried my best not to look back. Like most marriages, our relationship had its share of challenges. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.

Last night, as I sat at the dinner table with Barbara and Burt, who have been married for as long as I’ve been alive, I wondered what our marriage would have been like in the later years had Tim survived. It’s still hard to believe that he didn’t trust me enough to confide in me about the problems he was having with the business. I found out in the months after his death as I sifted through the rubble of our finances.

How could I have not known?

Stupid me. Safe in my cocoon. I’d finally found someone to take care of me.

As Barbara and Burt sat at the dinner table as they have, I’m sure, many nights over the course of their long marriage—being there, but not really being in the moment—I couldn’t help but wonder how does love, or more specifically marriage, survive the long haul, especially if one partner keeps secrets?

I sensed tension between them. Maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe was just a typical night in the life of the eternally pledged.

Burt was mostly quiet through dinner. He mumbled a cordial hello to Sarah and me, then sat hunched over the delicious meal Barbara had prepared, mentally closed. Barbara, however, chattered enough for both of them.

I heard somewhere that as couples age, they lose the ability to hear each other. Maybe that’s the key to survival?

Burt, present in body, but mentally absent. Barbara, animated and flushed, carrying on as if he weren’t even there.

Tiny beads of moisture glistened on her forehead and perspiration stains seeped through her blouse. She blamed it on hot flashes and fanned herself as she talked about a life that seemed separate from her husband’s—the spring-break trip she and Mary Grace would take; her garden; how she’d love to remodel her kitchen; the cookbook she’d love to write; the Stratford Park Middle School PTA, of which she’s vice president/president elect.

I’m registering Sarah for school today—at Barbara’s insistence, of course.

“Honey, there’s nothing for you to do hanging around here all day,” she said to an indifferent Sarah. “Heck, it’ll be even worse boring than this dinner tonight. You’ll have so much more fun at school. In fact, how ’bout if I drive ya? Y’all, me and Mary Grace’ll just hop in the car and go get you signed up. It’ll be fun.”

I wanted to tell Barbara it wasn’t necessary. Really. She needn’t put herself out by driving us.

And she needn’t make such an effort to fill the silence. Those quiet spaces in between sentences are my favorite part of the conversation. I’ve always thought the truth lies in those rests. It’s in these quiet spaces that the truth manifests, that the mind registers a pure thought—I agree with what she said, or That person is lying, or Yes, there’s definitely tension in that marriage—even if it’s for a nanosecond—before decorum wrestles it to the mat and truth is replaced by what is socially acceptable.

Pinned by decorum, I decided Barbara and Burt’s marriage was none of my business and that it would be rude to refuse her offer to drive us to school.

So here we are the morning after the first night in our new home, doing our best to establish a new routine—much to Sarah’s dismay.

“Mom. We haven’t even been here twenty-four hours. Why can’t I wait until next week to start school?”

I pour some cereal that Barbara left us into a bowl and set it in front of Sarah for her to add her own milk. “Because today is Tuesday. You shouldn’t miss an entire week.”

She frowns. “I could help you put things away.”

I waver on this one and turn my back to her as I weigh the pros and cons of letting her stay home. But she must mistake my silence for an answer.

“God, Mom, why not? You’re so mean.”

Her words bore under my skin and threaten to push me into anger. But I won’t go there. The old me would have. She would have turned around and put that little girl in her place—let her know in no uncertain terms that her attitude is not acceptable, but I can’t do that now. I’m not going to start the first day in our new house with a fight. I can, however, insist it’s better to get into a new routine.

“Well, if you believe I’m so mean, I suppose you’ll have much more fun making new friends at your new school, than staying home with me.”

She rolls her eyes and shoves the cereal bowl away. It spins in the middle of the table as she scoots back her chair with an abrupt motion.

“Aren’t you going to eat? You’re going to get hungry before lunchtime.”

“I have no appetite.” She slams her bedroom door. “And I have nothing to wear,” she yells so I can hear it through the closed door.

I stand in the small kitchen straddling indecision. Am I doing the right thing? The movers won’t be here until tomorrow. Maybe I should give her a day to get acclimated. But somehow I know that if I do, it won’t make her any happier. Yes, better we both have some space today.

Twenty minutes later, we pile into Barbara’s Volvo station wagon.

She looks better this morning, rested and refreshed. Her thick silver hair freshly washed and framing her fleshy face. Her pretty blue eyes, rimmed in liner and mascara, sparkle as she bids us a good morning and tells everyone to buckle up.

Back in North Carolina I used to love to watch cooking shows. I thought she looked like that Food Network host Paula Deen. The resemblance really was uncanny.

The school is farther away than what I expected. Barbara says the county built it to accommodate the influx of nouveaux riches moving into this area that used to be exclusively old money. As we drive along, things look strange. Underneath, it’s the same place I grew up, but on the surface it’s different. As if a brand-new generation of inhabitants have invaded the place.

“They tore down the old Stratford Junior High where you went to school.” Barbara points at a vacant lot with a Conrad Contractors sign sticking out of the ground. “The city sold the property to a developer.” Barbara shakes her head. “That’s prime real estate. I heard he’s gonna cram a bunch of huge houses on that lot and sell them for millions. And people are buying them as fast as he can build them.”

I nod and gaze at the empty lot. If I squint my eyes, I can see ghosts of the past milling about the phantom buildings—the lockers, the old concrete basketball court. All gone now. Not that I’m nostalgic over it. In fact, it makes it a little easier to take Sarah to a different school. It just makes me realize how much Stratford has changed in my absence.

Barbara merges into traffic on Jewell Avenue. “It’s a long haul out to the new school, but Sarah can ride the bus with Mary Grace. They pick them up right outside the house.”

I glance back at Sarah, who is staring out the window as Mary Grace hums a little tune.

“The kids at school are mean,” says Mary Grace.

Barbara adjusts the rearview mirror toward the back seat. “What kind of thing is that to say on Sarah’s first day, missy?”

“It’s the truth, Mama.”

The school sits behind a tall brick wall with a wrought-iron gate. The two-story, early American architecture is unlike any public school I’ve ever seen; certainly a far cry from the concrete block, one-story institutions with open-to-the-element corridors that the county constructed when I went to junior high.

“We have arrived,” says Barbara.

And how.

She pulls into a parking space, then leads the way to the reception desk, just inside the front door like a sentry guarding the main hall. Anyone who wishes access to Stratford Middle School must first gain entrance.

The gatekeeper, a fine-boned woman with short dark hair, regards me suspiciously until Barbara introduces me.

Her name is Judy. She’s the school office manager. I have a feeling nothing gets by Judy.

Mary Grace hugs her mother and Sarah goodbye and kind of half waves at me, then heads to class.

“Have a good day, M.G. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Barbara laughs. “M.G.?”

“Yeah,” says Sarah. “She likes me to call her that.”

“Well, I think that’s just great.”

Sarah wanders over to look at some teacher photos hanging on the wall across from the desk.

The place still smells new—that freshly built smell of construction, paint and floor wax co-mingling with simmering school lunch. There’s a trophy case to the right down the hall a bit; on the left is a set of double doors with a brass plaque that says Library. At the end of the long main hall is an elaborate staircase with swarms of teenagers traveling up and down.

The place buzzes with snatches of conversation and laughter, movement and the sound of the glass front doors opening and shutting, letting in intermittent clips of car engines and the occasional honk of a horn. People are everywhere—kids hanging out and talking; adults who I assume are teachers rush about with purpose; a group of four blond women each wearing large diamond rings and expensive-looking tennis outfits.

My God, they all look alike. How do they do that?

Barbara follows my gaze to the women. “Oh, I see you’ve located the Stratford Wives.”

I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. “The Stratford Wives? Oh my God, that’s perfect. Who are they?”

“They think they’re the queens of the universe, if that tells you anything. In reality, they’re just a clique of spoiled rich men’s wives who don’t realize high school ended more years ago than they can probably count.”

“Barbara!” I am completely taken aback by this side of her. “I had no idea you could be so catty.”

Stratford Park was full of old money when I was growing up here, but we never had Stratford Wives. My, my, how things have changed.

“Oh, honey, stick with me. You ain’t seen nothing yet. Oh! Oh, that one over there.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially and nods to a heavyset mousy woman with brown hair and glasses who is logging something into a notebook on a table under a Volunteer banner. “That’s Connie Claxton, archenemy of the Stratford Wives and anybody else who dares look crosswise at her precious little brat.”

“Claxton? Any relation to the Claxton fruitcake empire?”

“No, I believe the Claxton company is actually named after the city in Georgia. But Connie Claxton is a fruitcake all right. Oh, and Chloe’s a seventh grader, you’d best warn Sarah to steer clear. She’ll probably try to glom onto her. She doesn’t have any friends.”

I raise my eyebrows at her and try to keep my voice light. “Isn’t that a little harsh?”

Barbara raises her eyebrows back at me. “Chloe and Connie are like pit bulls, they seem nice and maybe even playful at first, but they turn on you in a heartbeat. Believe you me, I am the first one to stand up for a child, but Connie and Chloe are a piece of work. The rules apply to everyone but them, but she’s the first to scream if she thinks she’s been wronged. I’ve had my share of Connie encounters and she got Anastasia Deveraux, the little neighbor girl who lives across the street, called down to the principal’s office claiming the girl was a threat to her daughter’s safety. You know once anyone raises the safety flag the principal has a duty to act on it. Ana may be a little full of herself because she’s a popular girl, but she’s no more a threat to anyone’s safety than you are. Her mother, Elizabeth, was mad as a wet cat. It turns out it was all over Anastasia not wanting to sit with Chloe in study hall. Anastasia simply doesn’t like that child because she’s a mean, spoiled little brat who always has to have her way. From what I understand, very few of the kids like her because of how she treats them. Her mother doesn’t help matters. Connie thinks she can bully her way to making people like Chloe. It’s really sad. Oh, God, here she comes.”

Barbara turns and busies herself, but Connie marches right up to her.

“Barbara, I need a word with you.”

I actually see Barbara bristle.

“Connie Claxton. What can I do for you?”

Connie pushes her glasses up on her nose. “You can get your daughter under control.”

Barbara cuts her gaze to me for an I-told-you-so moment then looks back at Connie. “What, pray tell, is Mary Grace doing that needs to be controlled?”

Barbara’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and I don’t know whether to laugh or turn and walk away, the scene is that unbelievable.

“She was laughing at Chloe in the library. If I didn’t know better, I might think this was harassment. But considering the source, I suppose that would be silly.”

My jaw drops at this dig at Mary Grace’s disability. I’m sure Barbara is seething.

“She’s a child, Connie. Children laugh. Laughter does not hurt anyone.”

“I know that. She’s a special child, she’s not capable of physically hurting anyone. What I’m saying, Barbara, is there’s no reason you can’t teach her some manners.”

For a second I fear Barbara is going to slug her. I want to slug her. I can’t believe someone could be so low.

“Why don’t you set the example and teach your little Chloe some manners? Maybe it will help her get along better, bless her little heart.”

Connie huffs off.

“So there you go,” says Barbara. “That’s Connie Claxton.”

I start the paperwork to enroll Sarah. But there’s a slight snag when Judy asks for an official document to prove that I reside in the school zone.

“Don’t you have a lease agreement or an electricity bill?” Judy says. “Something that shows you’re official?”

“Certainly not,” Barbara snaps. “I will not charge my niece rent to live with me. You’re just going to have to take my word for it.”

Judy smiles apologetically, clearly at a loss for what to do, clearly wanting to accommodate Barbara.

“I’ll have to make some calls. But let me see what I can do. Why don’t you and umm…” she glances at the paperwork “…Sarah. Why don’t you and Sarah have a seat over there? This may take a few minutes, Mrs. Woodall.”

Mrs. Woodall.

The words knock the breath out of me. Since Tim’s death, it feels as if Mrs. Woodall is someone else. I have no idea who I am. But I nod anyway.

Sarah sits on a sofa across from the desk.

Barbara touches my arm. “I have to go make some copies in the PTA office. Do you want to come with me?”

I glance at Sarah ensconced on the couch with her arms crossed defensively, her backpack at her feet.

“Thanks, but I’d better wait here in case they need some more information—”

“Good morning, Barbara.” The only blonde in the building who is not wearing a tennis outfit walks up and touches Barbara on the arm. She’s dressed in a smart black pantsuit and carries a slim briefcase, which is not big enough to hold a racket. She’s almost pretty—if not for the pallor of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes that she’s trying to cover up with thick concealer.

“Oh, Elizabeth, you’re here. Good. I want you to meet my niece, Margaret Woodall. She and her daughter just moved here yesterday from Asheville and will be living in the carriage house.” Barbara turns to me. “Elizabeth Deveraux and her husband Andrew live across the street. They have a seventh-grader named Anastasia. I’m sure she and Sarah will just love each other. We’ll have to get them together once you’re settled in.”

Elizabeth smiles. “We’ll have you all over for dinner next week.”

“Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

“Barbara, do you have a minute for me to go over something before tonight’s meeting? The music department changed their request for funds and I want to make sure you agree with my counterproposal before we put it to a vote tonight.”

“Sure, I do. Margaret, honey, I’m going to talk to Elizabeth and then go make my copies. Hopefully, by then they’ll have everything in order. She’s enrolling Sarah in school. You know how those things go nowadays.”

The two women disappear behind a door that’s next to the front desk. I sit down next to Sarah, who is busy watching Stratford’s middle schoolers stream down the main hall. My daughter looks so fragile sitting there in her pink blouse and slim denim capris; her fine-boned features devoid of makeup and enhanced by the way she’s swept her blond hair off her face into a ponytail.

I have a sudden flashback of what it’s like to be thirteen years old, on the outside looking in. It wasn’t until Tim and I moved to Asheville that I began to feel part of something—part of a community. I want to hug her and tell her it won’t always be this painful.

But I don’t dare.

Soon enough she’ll be in the flow, right there in the thick of things.

The kids at school are mean.

I blink away Mary Grace’s words, but find myself scrutinizing the children as they walk by: a group of five girls dressed cute—one in a Hollister T-shirt, another in a Roxy—walking shoulder to shoulder, sporting pastel messenger bags slung across their chests, rather than backpacks.

They whisper and giggle.

One squeals, “No way!”

Then they whisper and giggle some more.

Mean or nice?

They’re just girls. Girls being teenage girls.

Two boys stop five feet in front of us. I look to see if they notice Sarah— Hey, she’s cute and she’s the new girl. There’s value in being the new girl whether she realizes it or not—but they’re too busy play-punching each other to look in our direction.

A man dressed in a white polo and khaki pants—probably a teacher—breaks up their roughhousing.

“Don’t you boys have somewhere to be?” he says. “First bell rings in seven minutes. If you’re not in your seats, you’re tardy.”

Strict. Not necessarily a bad thing.

The boys move on.

As the throng of children starts to thin, I can see out the glass doors to the car line where parents are dropping off the last-minute arrivals.

Mercedes.

BMW.

Jaguar.

Lexus.

This is public school? A different breed than I’ve ever known.

“Mom, if they don’t hurry and figure this out I’m going to be tardy.”

I touch Sarah’s arm—that soft, smooth skin. “It’ll be okay. The teacher will understand since it’s your first day and all.”

She yanks her arm away. “How would you like it if you had to walk in in the middle of class?”

She’s so angry and I don’t know how to help her. It breaks my heart a little more because I know that feeling of just wanting to disappear. I wish there was something I could do to comfort her.

“I’ll check on things.”

By the time the administrators figure out what to do with us, school’s been in session for more than an hour.

“You’ll go right to second period since first hour is already over.” Judy glances at Sarah’s list of classes, then hands her the schedule. “Geography is your second class. It’s in room 234. Just go upstairs and turn left, you’ll see the room on the right. Your mom can walk you to class if you want.”

Sarah flashes me a don’t even think about it look. My heart sinks, but I bolster myself with the thought that at least she has enough confidence to navigate these strange halls alone.

“See ya.” She turns to go without a hug. I reach out for her, but she’s already gone.

“I’ll pick you up right here after school, okay?”

She doesn’t look back. Just walks straight ahead down that long, empty hallway.