Читать книгу No Ivory Tower - Stephen Davenport - Страница 15

EIGHT

If anyone had asked Rachel if she still thought she had all the right instincts for her job at this point or whether she was in over her head, she would have wondered why the question had even come up. Gaylord Frothingham had assured her that she was in good shape and that he’d taken care of everything. And even if she’d known about Francis Plummer’s experience yesterday, she would assume that his loss of mojo was an aberration. Yes, she was disappointed in herself for hanging up on her husband without getting the details of the terrible thing that happened in his Chicago office, but she trusted him to understand how disappointed she was. She hadn’t predicted that the job would be easy, only that she was the right person to get it done.

She would have felt less self-assured, though, if she had known who was waiting in her office as she as she hurried back from teaching the one course she had retained since being made head of the school. But she had no idea. The day was sunny, the sky an ethereal blue, the grass was green, still wet from dew, and she was pulsing with energy. She went through the front door of the Administration Building and down the hall toward Margaret’s anteroom. She and Margaret would plan the day, including setting an appointment with Francis Plummer for that afternoon.

But Margaret wasn’t at her desk. She was standing in front of the closed door to Rachel’s office. Her face was flushed, her hands clenched up by her shoulders, and her normally pleasant voice a whole octave higher. “I could kill the bastard!”

“Margaret!”

“Amy Michaels’s father is in your office. At least that’s who he says he is. I told him please wait until you get back, but he paid no attention and barged right past.”

“Wait a sec, you say Amy’s father? Mitch Michaels? The radio guy?”

“Yes, him. He actually put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me aside.”

“But there’s a court order that he can’t come on campus.”

“I know. That’s why I called the police.”

“The police! That’s the last thing we need. They’ll drag him away in handcuffs. He’s famous. It’ll get in the paper and on TV and all over the—”

“Rachel, did you hear what I said? He put his hand on my shoulder. He pushed me aside!”

Years later, Rachel would still be amazed that Margaret had had to tell her twice. She was silent for a moment, visualizing a man shoving her friend out of his way. And then she said, “All right, Margaret, Call the Hartford Courant. Tell them something very interesting is about to happen.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Margaret gave Rachel a look of joyous exaltation. Yes, they were sisters, Margaret and Rachel, partners. “I’ll go away for a few minutes to give the police and the reporter time to get here,” Rachel said, as Margaret gleefully reached for her phone. “Then I’ll come back.”

MAYBE IF MITCH Michaels, sitting on the sofa, waiting for Rachel to show up, had known who painted the picture of the tree that hung above his head, he would have felt differently about Claire Nelson. Maybe he would have felt the same as he did feel, only more so. But he assumed the picture—which had drawn him to itself, right past the businesslike chairs in the center of the office—had been painted by a professional.

Sitting there waiting, Mitch thought that if he were the boss of the Department of Education, he’d give every kid who liked to do art a test. The kids in the top one percent would all be sent to art school. They’d become professionals. Like the artist who painted that tree. Not a dime would be wasted on anyone else. You just try telling him why taxpayers should pay for someone’s hobby and see how far you get! But he was just being hypothetical: if Mitch Michaels were the boss of the Department of Education, the first thing he’d do was close it down.

There was nothing hypothetical about the regret he was feeling, though, for pushing that lady. Lost his cool. He was really sorry. He’d parked his car in the wrong parking lot. What, he’s supposed to be a mind reader? Where were the goddamn signs? “How do I get to the principal’s office?” he’d asked three kids walking side by side, arms linked. Do they all do that? he wondered. Walk around clinging to each other, like fleas on a dog? Does Amy?

They pointed the way. “Head of school, not principal,” one of them corrected.

What, principal wasn’t good enough for a private school? The very idea that he wasn’t allowed on here, that he was breaking the law, couldn’t visit with his own daughter—and then the secretary standing in front of the office door. Like a butler telling him to go around to the back. So he shoved her. Actually put his hands on her and pushed!

Nothing for it but to apologize. He owed her and he would. He would do it right now, before the principal arrived and he delivered his ultimatum. He started thinking up the words, but the door opened before he could think of any, and Rachel Bickham entered.

RACHEL WAS SURPRISED he was so big and so handsome in his blue suit and regimental tie, his blond hair cut short, fifties style. She told herself not to panic, she could deal with his kind, and closed the door behind herself. He didn’t stand up. She waited some more, staring at him; he stared right back and didn’t move. She said, “Mr. Michaels, you can’t just barge in here.”

“Really?” His lips made a tight little smile. “It seems I already have.”

She turned her back to him and went to her desk and sat down behind it as she would if he were not there, studiously ignoring him, and glanced out through the French doors for the police to arrive. A reporter too, she prayed: TALK SHOW HOST ARRESTED: TRESPASS AND BATTERY. She felt his eyes on her. There was a lot of silence.

“Wow, you are an angry person, aren’t you?” he said.

“It takes one to know one,” she said, her face still toward the window.

“You’re right. Birds of a feather.” His voice was dark and rounded with a hint of rasp, a perfect radio voice. “I understand you have started a new program here.”

She turned her face from the door and stared at him.

“I think I’ll talk about it on my show.”

“Mr. Michaels, it’s not a program. It’s just one kid.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really!”

“Well then, that’s what I’ll say: you make exceptions for kids like her.”

She’d never seen a more victorious smile than the one he shined on her then, as he watched her confusion. She didn’t know what to say, so she countered with: “Mr. Michaels, you’re breaking the law. I’ve called the police.”

“Oh goody. I’ll talk about that too.” He stood up and stepped to the French doors and looked out over the campus. “I hope they get here soon.” Then he whirled from the doors and leaned down and put his hands on the edge of her desk. He wasn’t handsome anymore. Little bubbles of spit hung in the corners of his mouth. “Jesus! You let her in,” he said. “A girl who does it with teachers. And in the same dorm with my daughter!”

Rachel pushed her chair back and stood up. She was tall too, and wasn’t going to let anyone lean over her. “I decide who lives in what dorm, not you,” she said, and realized right away she should have stayed in her seat so he could tower over the likes of her while she figured out a plan to cut off his balls and make him regret he’d taken her on. Besides, it wasn’t even true. She didn’t decide who lived in what dorm. The dorm heads’ committee did.

“And I decide what to talk about,” he said. There was a knock on the door. Rachel ignored it. She’d guessed what was coming next. “So you can decide,” he said. “If you don’t want to hear it over the radio, you can kick her out. That’s a good deal for you—an easy way out. Her father’s in London and there’s lots to arrange. So I’ll give you a month.”

There was another knock. It seemed very timid. “Come on in,” Mitch Michaels called as if it were his office.

The door opened. A very small policeman entered. Rachel knew who he was: a neighbor of Margaret’s who had just graduated from the police academy. Theoretically, he was twenty-one years old, but he looked about fourteen to her. “Mr. Michaels?” he said.

“That’s me.”

“Come with me.”

Michaels grinned.

“Please.”

“Uh uh. My listeners would miss me.” Mitch Michaels moved past the little policeman, patting him on the head as he went. “You should join a gym,” he said. Then he turned around again and walked away, and the little policeman looked as if was about to cry.

Rachel told Margaret to postpone her appointment with Francis. She had an emergency to resolve.