911 Resumption of Whately Prep p.60

A path through woods in June.    dee

I am at the site that Julia reported having found an abandoned grey car. There is no car here.  I wonder if the stress of recent days is starting to weigh on her.  It’s a shame when people can’t handle what life throws at them.  I offered to come check it out, but that’s as far as I go.  Julia called the state police so I am sitting in my truck spinning the channel selector to a country western station.  Waiting for the big guns. Give me some of that country heartache crooned with a Southern twang.  I am getting impatient waiting.  What's more, I bet if Carl hears anything about this supposed trespasser, her will come down here to check it out.  I keep expecting to hear the crunch of his tires. Damn, Carl.  He always has to but into things that are none of his business. Guaranteed that if anything goes wrong it’s going to be due to Carl poking his nose into it.  

The more I think about it, the more I know I have to play his game. I climb down from my truck and pace the area, searching for clues.  Julia said she had placed rocks behind the wheels, hoping to slow down whoever’s vehicle this belonged to.  I find the rocks, the tire tracks and oddly, some random receipts from Wendy’s and McDonald’s.  The tracks appear to head to the River. 

I take the short walk from the cemetery to the River.  June has brought the foliage to life.  The path, normally a car’s width all the way to the River, is protected by the heavy umbrage of overgrowth.  Light, that has turned green as it passes though the pines, the sumacs and the willows, is filtered, leaving the path feeling like a tunnel.  I have to hold back branches and part plants on occasion.  I had forgotten how eager nature is to reclaim what is hers’.

Before I reach the River, I see the water moving. The current is slow because it has been a dry June.  I used to swim at this exact spot as a boy.  There is a small islet about 100 yards off-shore.  When we were young and daring and stupid, we would swim that distance.  I shake my head to clear it of the past.  My present weighs on me, though I try hard to avoid contemplating what I have done.  I know I have sold my soul to the devil. Having committed numerous illegal acts, I can not expect redemption. I play a complicit role in something evil and wrong.

My eye is drawn to a glimmer, brighter than sunlight reflected on the water.  As I get closer, I wonder, “What on earth?” 

As I get closer, I can see through the murky water of the Connecticut water; there is a car almost completely submerged in the water. Only a tip of the hood is exposed.  Sunlight is drawn to it.  Immediately, I radio it in.   

As I make the call, I pull my wallet, cell phone and glasses out of my pockets.  Before they hit the ground, I am diving in.  Someone might be in the car.  Underwater, I can barely see my hand in front of my face.  The passenger side doors are both locked.  When I try the driver’s side is, too.  I see a head resting on the driver’s side window. I have to go up, suck in air, then down again.  Using my the Maglite that is clipped on to my utility belt,  I swing the heavy flashlight and manage to shatter the safety glass. It stays curiously intact because of the water pressure holding it fixed.  I punch through the glass with a second strike and the glass floats, rather than falls, away.  I am able to unlock the driver’s side door.  I pull the door open, the resistance of the water slows me down.  I am beginning to feel burning in my chest, and have to surface.  A quick gulp of air and I am back down.  The body -- male? female? - has fallen half-out of the car.  I notice the face is an unhealthy white.  Never-the-less, I scoop my arms under the person’s arms with his or her face turned away from me.  I use my legs to push off from the frame of the car, bearing my load to the surface.  When I break through the water, Carl is there. He takes over and hauls the body to shore, dragging it across the small beach where kayaks and canoes often put in.  I am exhausted. I reach shore and stay on my hands and knees for several minutes. I am hungry for air and can’t get enough.  My chest feels uncomfortably tight, but I don’t want Carl to know.  He is performing CPR.  I file away the fact that he is proficient in this lifesaving technique.  The pain in my chest is intruding on my ability to watch him.  I change position by sitting on a rock, taking quick, short, shallow breaths until the emergency medical technicians arrive.  They seem more concerned about me than what is, by all appearances, a corpse that I found in the car.  I am the one they strap to the gurney.  I am who receives an open line of Ringer’s Lactate.  I am the one on the way to Cooley Dickinson with an oxygen mask securely over both my nose and mouth.  This was not the way things were supposed to go.  Not at all. 

Life Lesson on Coming Home Day 365

A paperweight seen at Silverscape Jewelers in Northampton, MA

There are many ways to come home.  We can tap into the collective consciousness of images that have been portrayed in the books we read and the movies we watch to imagine them.  There are so many ways to come home.There is the soldier, walking the long, dusty distance from the road to his house with valise in one hand, cap in the other.  There is the mother, cradling her new-born child mounting the steps of her front porch.  There is the child, shouldering his backpack, pulling open the the screen door.  There is the husband stepping into a still, quiet house calling, “Honey? I’m home.”  And there is completing a year's worth of daily blogs. I cranked out short, 500 word essays in order to fulfill a pledge made when imagination and capriciousness were both plentiful and easy to summon.

My journey began with words written on September 4, 2011: 

I am inviting you to join me on this adventure. Three years ago, I turned fifty. I enjoyed a pleasant dinner with my husband and another couple. Later, I wished I had made more out of the occasion than putting on mascara and pearls. Using the book "Julie and Julie" as a model, an inspiration was fomenting. The idea was unwelcomed and yet, appealing. After all, I had the staying power to "do" the entire Course in Miracles (a program of self-awareness that integrates your daily life with the presence of that of a Greater Being). Yes, it was a year course and it took me eighteen months. However, the point is that I had the intention to complete such a task ... and I did so. On the eve of my 53rd birthday, once again, I feel the need to make a grand gesture on a scale that fits my world and my abilities. It is unlikely I will hike Machu Piccu, travel to the Antartica, or even see the Russian steppes. However, I can reread Dr. Seuss's treatise-- Oh, the Places You Will Go-- and reflect upon that question. I can dig out my high school copy of Voltaires's Candide; I will rediscover Candide's voice when he utteres his opinion that, "Il faut cultiver notre jardin." In other words, before we reach out to "fix" the world beyond our immediate environs, we must first take responsibility for caring for our own gardens.

This journal is exactly how I will cultivate my own garden. For one year, I will keep a daily log of my adventures. My great-grandfather was a sea-captain. He maintained careful logs on his Atlantic passages. They helped him to arrive at strategies to better navigate the next voyage and the next. So... I will take a page out of his log and begin my own. I invite you to come along.

My journey concluded September 5, 2012.

I did it.  I made it home. I wrote 365 entries, of which 59 of them were pages in a serialized novel.  It has been more difficult than I imagined to have the discipline to take an hour and a half daily to write coherent words. I had not imagined the content or the direction my words would take me.  Having reached the anniversary of this blog, I feel less of a sense of accomplishment than I thought I might.  Here is the embarrassing truth, I watched the numbers of views (last view, 13,008) closely. It was the comments and mounting numbers of views that kept me on the path of production and each day. I did not receive money or acclaim, but the satisfaction that faceless readers in Latvia and Russia and Mississippi and Massachusetts took time out of their days for me?  Well, that was an amazing gift.  

I am left with the question of what comes next.

My plan is under development.  A few day breather is essential.  Then, I suspect, back to the boards.  I will post the continuing plot of Whately Prep on a blog entitled
Whately Prep: a novel of mystery, revenge, and intrigue. http://whatelyprep.blogspot.com     I will transfer all the past blogs related to 
Whately Prep to that site for those of you who would like to start from the beginning.
A New Dawn is comprised of short, sometimes quirky essays about life. www. anewdawn.blogspot.com
Dawnings  - a collection of longer, more in-depth essays are located athttp://www.dawneliseevans.com

Lest, this seem complicated and incredibly prolific, I do hope to simplify and streamline eventually, but for now, it works best that are three different blogs offering three different kinds of writing.  Ultimately, of course, it's all me.  I hope you have enjoyed getting to know me. Please, keep the comments coming. Your words, suggestions and thoughts have been, and remain, ample motivation for this writer.

Be well --
Dawn

Mrs. Dickinson Whately Prep p.58

dee

My name is Mrs. Dickinson.  I know this information. I repeat to myself, “My name is Mrs. Dickinson.”  I am not able to retrieve many aspects of myself.  The past is curiously present.  The present is lost in an impenetrable haze.  What I ate this morning, who visited yesterday or what I did last week are lost to me.  I try to hone in on them but short term memories are amorphous and slippery, lost to me.  The distant past welcomes me. I know the prognosis. My mother retreated from the present, then was lost in the past.  She forgot my name, her name, how to dress, how to speak, how to eat, then finally, how to breathe.  It’s strange, but there is still a piece of me alive inside, the Observer.  The Observer is part of the Hemlock Society.  Bad planning makes it a moot point.  This morning I woke up with the gift -- or the curse -- of utter clarity.  

I am in this expensive hotel of death waiting for my time.  I understand my circumstances but don’t have anyone here at this moment to express my desire to end my life.  These brief windows of lucidity are getting more and more rare.  The nurses pat my hand and treat me exactly the same when I am rational and when I am irrational.  Honestly, I would try to escape this place so I could find a way to end it, but I am literally tied to this chair.  All the pleading in the world won’t convince anyone to untie me.  I am the crazy lady who wanders because she has Altzheimer’s. 

I saw Carl and Julia last night. I am glad they are back together.  His brown hair and broad shoulders looks so attractive beside her Jennifer Jones (the long-dead singer from the 50‘s that Marshall and I loved) looks. Long brown hair, brown eyes, high cheekbones and bow lips.  I always thought if her intellect slipped, Julia could be a model.  The symmetry in her face is what people like.  I have admired the plastic elasticity of her face that allows her to be expressive without uttering a word.

Carl asked me questions.  He asked me about how I came to marry Marshall. He asked about Marshall’s parents.  He asked some about Julia and what the first fifteen years of her life were like, but he asked more about the years from tenth grade to graduating college.  My answers were incomplete. It was so frustrating for me not to be able to tell him what he most needed to know.  Locked in my head is the story Julia needs to hear. 

It is harder and harder for me to hold all the pieces in my hands.  They are not mine any longer.  By the time the kids left, I was so agitated by what I didn’t know and couldn’t tell them that I asked a nurse for a sleeping pill.  Maybe the sleep of the dead is what has allowed me to think this morning.  The edges of my memories are shrinking. Quickly, I take my pad and try to write down a message.  I get so far as “Find the album in.....” and the words slip from my thoughts. I can see the album and where it sits on the shelf above my bed.  What house was that bed it? Who lives there now? And the questions overtake the answers and I can’t remember my name.  Maybe it is Mrs. Dickinson?

Chance meeting Whately Prep p. 57

dee

I leave my pick-up outside the front door of Sugarloaf Manor.  The smell of antiseptic, urine, aged bodies and their effluents assaults me as I enter the front rotunda.  The place looks like a four-star hotel. The decor is generic, but attractive. Reproduction antiques, reprints of Matisse’s and Monet’s works hang in neat rows going down the hall. There is a l large bulletin board with the names and faces of residents displayed in a colorful collage.  The smell of cauliflower, heavy and cloying wafts from the dining hall. It appears that most of the residents have gathered for their evening meal.  I eye the two rooms filled with senior citizens.  Most are women; many are in wheelchairs and powerchairs.  There is a sea of white heads when I look at the table rounds of diners.  I look for the Lucille Ball red that Mrs. Dickinson uses to dye her hair.  Find that head, and I will find her.  I do not find her.  When I walk down the hall to her room, I see she is seated, outside of her bedroom door.  An aide has cleared her tray.  Her head bobs slightly, her left leg appears to have a tremor.  

“You, you there, would you take me to the bathroom?”  

I am here because of an anonymous letter I found when I opened my bedroom door.  Someone had violated my privacy, entered my home, and left me an anonymous letter claiming that Mrs. Dickinson had information for me. I left the message untouched, on the floor, where it lay when I found it.  

I approach her cautiously, “HI, Mrs. Dickinson.  I’m Carl, do you remember me from Whately Prep?  Julia and i were good friends?”  Mrs. Dickinson turns to face me. Nothing like recognition shows on her face.  Then, suddenly, her face is transformed and it is glowing like a light filled vessel.  I follow her gaze to the room across the corridor.  I see a woman’s shapely legs, her face obscured by a bouquet of flowers.  She lowers the flowers to Mrs. Dickinson’s rolling table.  It isn’t until she does so that I realize that it is Julia.  

Follow the Money Whately Prep p. 56

June on Whately road                      dee

I read that the advice to “Follow the Money” is one of the most reliable predictors of success in solving crimes.  Crimes were committed here.  The police have not taken the situation seriously.  While they want to retain a good relationship with the school, they do not seem to be investigating the recent spate of events with any vigor or real concern.  I have come to the realization that to understand why the graveyard was violated, the swan was killed and butchered, and why I was threatened had to all revolve around money.  The question that remains is, “What money?”

I am running down to the River this evening. I am not going to stay caged in my office or my house, waiting for the next shoe to drop. I am not going to buy into this threat.  

I saw a brief glimpse of Kelly this morning as I walked to my office. I saw her figure but she did not linger.  I missed the reassuring comfort of having her seated in my office while I worked.  Now, I do not expect to see her.  I feel just slightly deranged, off-balanced. I have not slept well for nights.  It shows in my face, I noticed the circles under my eyes in the hall mirror as I headed out the door to put sneakers on for my run.  

This run will let me blow off steam and recalibrate myself.  I need the breathe.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Now I feel the rhythm of my legs as each foot strikes the ground and my arm churn the air. Forward.  Faster.  I push myself until I feel the pulse throb in my temple, then hold that speed.  All thoughts are forced out of mind by this concerted effort to drive forward using my own power.

A small grey square of metal begins to come into view through the cover of verdant trees and overgrowth.  Each step forward, it grows larger.  I see the hood of a car emerge, parked in a fire lane that runs beside the cemetery.  That makes no sense to me.  I check for the cameras up in the trees that have been trained on the graveyard to watch for suspicious behavior.  They are in place.  I wave at them, look at my watch, then hold up six fingers, point to my watch.  A kind of time stamp, of sorts.  Cautiously, I walk over to the grey Toyota Avalon.  The license plate has been unscrewed from the back; there is none on the front.  I vaguely recall seeing the car before. There is a Whately Prep parking sticker on the passenger side back door.  It belongs to the community somehow.  And the owner?  That worries me.  I weigh my options.  It seems overly dramatic to call for help at this point -- though in my lifetime, I have never seen anything but a service vehicle down here.  I hesitate to try the handles in case they need prints.  I decide to finish my run to the river, if the car is still here when I return, I will report it when I get back to campus.  

It is impossible to get back into the groove.  I try.  I am skittish.  Can’t identify any real threats, but I am feeling very vulnerable, alone, out here in the woods.  Then I am angry that someone has robbed me of the peace that my River runs usually restore to me. 

Disgusted, I turn and march all the way back to Whately Prep.  Someone is going to have to account for this situation.  

The Bedroom Whately Prep p.55

Julia is waiting for me.  I have moved through this day like an automaton that was programmed long ago. I go through the motions. Review cost, schedule manhours on jobs, inventory supplies left from the school year.  It is a matter of making a list at 8 a.m. and putting checks next to each task until 4:30 p.m..  That is how I get through this day.  When I walk across the campus to my house, I know exactly what I will find.  

Julia will be upstairs, stretched out on the bed, her face cradled in my pillow, the pillow cradled in her arms.  She will be wearing something dusty rose or mauve or beige that covers her torso, leaving bare her shoulders, arms and half of her legs.  Her eyes will be open.  Always, open. She will be facing the window and the light will shower upon her, bathing her in illumination.

We have done this dance.

I read an author, Lee Child, who wrote about one of his characters that he subscribed to the “One Bullet” school of thought.  This theory contends that each of us gets just one, one great love, that pierces us to the core; it is a love from which we are forever and irreparably changed.  I subscribe to this belief.  I live it.  I met Julia when I was fifteen and she was turning fourteen.  She was it for me.  I had the common sense to let her come to me rather than scaring her off.  I had hunted with my father, how was this any different? When the bottom fell out of her world in high school, I was there for her.  She turned to me like a flower turns to rain.  

And even when that time together came to an end, I was not disconsolate.  I knew she was it for me.  We found each other again after college.  She had her lovers, I had mine, but they were not the one, the great one.  When two cars race, the observers never know who will blink first.  The racers do.  The person who cuts the wheel to save himself is the person who has the most to lose.  We were those racers. When it came time for me to ask her to marry me, I froze.  I thought I had too much to lose if she said, “No.” She asked me.  I never answered.  I packed my belongings and moved across the country, running scared as scared can be.

Julia picked up, brushed off her knees, and moved on. 

I was devastated by my own betrayal of myself.  Fear is a compelling reason to run. But after years of a deep sense that I was not whole, I returned. 

I returned to Whately Prep with a mere kernel of a hope that Julia would still want me. 

The malicious acts of violence over the past few days clouds our emotions. It crossed my mind at one point that Julia might consider that I have been orchestrating events.  After all, I seem to be the one benefiting most.  Conveniently, the woman I love is seeking my help and reassurance.

When Julia called me at noon and said she’d meet me at my house at five, I agreed without hesitation.  My prior plans to have dinner with local friends, be damned.

I notice I am slightly breathy when I arrive at the front doors to my home.  I lift the latch on the left, the key on the right is purely decorative.  I step inside, seeing dust motes dance on beams of light that enter through the transom over the door.  The long central hallway makes a sharp right and the stairs ascend to the second level.  My hand slides up the bannister -- the bannister has worn smooth, almost silky after all these years. With my hand on my bedroom door, I pause just a moment, then enter.  

Cole Potter Reveals a Secret Whately Prep 54

The Springfield branch of Bank of America does not open for another ten minutes.  I want to be back in Whately by 9 a.m. so that I am not late for work.  Hopefully, I can go in, cash the check and be headed north without much fuss.  The check in my wallet feels like blood money.  Well, quite literally, that is exactly what it is.  

When I first received an anonymous email pointing out that I was not fiscally sound, I deleted it.  The second, third and fourth arrived on consecutive days.  Each of the emails was worded slightly more threateningly.  The fifth one was the first to mention that there was a way out of debt.  I owe $26,000 on the Toyota pickup I drive. I owe $12,300 on a bank note, My wife has racked up nearly $28,300 in credit card debt.  wShe’s used to living large in Texas. Finally, the one debt of which I am most ashamed, there’s my mother; I owe my mother the $20,000 she gave me toward a down payment on the condominium.  The mortgage on the condominium is $75,600. My salary of $36,800 does not stretch very far.  My job at Whately Prep pays reasonably, has good benefits and most importantly, it gives me an identity.  

I received the first email in the beginning of June.  I tried tracing the server through which it was routed, but it was a blind route.  No chance of locating an IP address. It was not until the second week of receiving provoking emails that I seriously entertained the possibility of assessing what the sender was proposing.  I suppose that was the beginning of the end.  

I have lowered myself lower than any man wants to think he might.  I have lied, outright lied, to people I care about all to make a dime. In the bright light of day, it hardly seems like I was thinking rationally.  When I came to a yes, it was carefully  considered. I spent sleepless nights lying next to my wife, wide-eyed and desperate about the possibility of retaining my reputation, my belongings, my career.  Easy money?

No, I wouldn’t say this has been easy money, but it has been good money.  I haven’t stolen. I haven’t hurt anyone.  I had no idea Gillian’s ticker would give out like that. Nobody could say I was responsible.

I think if I ever had to defend myself, I could simply say it was necessary. 

All Bets are Off Whately Prep p.53

dee

At last, after a five hour trip, we are back on Martha’s Vineyard, at my aunt's and uncle’s house. I’m happy to be sitting in a rocking chair on their wide, covered, front porch.  The world goes by and I can just rock. Whether I think or not  does not matter to a soul.  The entourage are all inside working on putting together an evening meal for everyone.  I am off the hook because I offered to do dishes.  

Ingrid and the girls are totally sold on Whately Prep.  I have my reservations; there was an undercurrent that neither Declan nor Julia explained to my liking.  Clearly, there was something more than a small act of mischief that precipitated Declan’s concern.  However, I was thoroughly impressed by the campus and the academic rigor of the place.  I can picture Kendra in New England.  Whately is bucolic and it feel like time stood still. There is tradition.  There are so many clear-headed reasons to allow her to attend Whately Prep.  Not the least of which is that she qualifies for the Edwina Goodwin Foundation Scholarship.  Free ride except spending money, books and transportation. 

When we were growing up, Declan and I were close. Every summer, we would hang out at each other’s houses on the Vineyard.  It was three months of condensed joy.  Being a kid, being a boy.  Now we tell tales about our escapades...the broken window at Giordano’s Restaurant, the tourist’s rental bicycle borrowed for one ride around Owen Park or the time we ate three pies my mother made that were earmarked for the Portuguese American Club.  He would be in Kendra’s life.  I know her would treat her like his own. Especially because Kendra was so close in age to Kelly.  Kelly’s burial was brutal; it was as if my own daughter died.  Yet, here she is, full of plans and pleads to attend school here in New England.  How can I let her go?

We have to make a decision within the week. There are other students hoping to get this coveted last-minute slot.  Suddenly, I have an inspiration.  I will let Ingrid be the deal-maker.   If she decides that she thinks it is best, I won’t stand in her way.  There should be better disclosure about the constant formula of letting go when you become a parent.  

I recall Ingrid’s friend dismissing her complaints during pregnancy. “Be grateful, it’s the time you have the most control over your child. Once they leave your womb, all bets are off.”  I have thought of Ingrid telling me that many times since. I am not even much of a betting man.

Dollhouses Whately Prep p. 52

http://www.kshs.org/cool3/graphics/dollhouse.jpg

It is as hard to sleep as I can ever remember.  I think of Julia. I think of the string of events that have unfolded since I arrived back on campus; not one could I have predicted.  Perhaps the least of which was what happened at Gillian’s house.  What had been a smoldering, but unspoken tension, that exists between Julia and me has reached a feverish pitch.  I see her skin, and want to touch her.  I hear her voice, and I want to talk to her.  I smell her scent and I want to lay with her.  The struggle I have with morality, right and wrong, all but disappears when I am in her presence.  All there is us.

Declan and I have known each other since high school. If I could fault him, if I could find legitimate grounds to believe my moral superiority, I would.  But the truth is, he is as good as they come.  

I get up and snap on the harsh overhead light that sits  over the workbench in the corner of my bedroom.  My secret.  My little-known hobby is building dollhouses.  I like the detail, the exactitude. I plan the most lavish, detailed houses and build them.  If replicas were built based on my models, they would cost millions of dollars.  I put close to 500 hours into building these dollhouses.  Then, I donate them to Children’s Hospital in Boston.  There are people that see that they find homes with children and families who, during a difficult time in life, enjoy them.  My only stipulation is that the dollhouses be an anonymous gift.  This hobby forces me to slow down and appreciate the fine details of architecture, construction and the craft of building.  I find that I can lose myself in the pursuit.

Julia could have been mine.  I have spent the past twenty years knowing that, had I asked, she would have spent her life with me.

I believed myself unworthy, I believed myself underserving. Instead, I have had a string of unfulfilling and dissatisfying relationships.  Not through any part of the women, for sure,  but because none of them were Julia,  I want to know if she regrets it, If she would have me now. I do not want to life out my entire wondering.  I glue on a windowbox and examine my work.  Gently, I pry it off the facade. I replace each of the miniature geraniums with mounds of petunias.  Such attention to detail gives me pleasure.  This is a world in which I control the outcome of my actions.

Frank Talk Whately Prep p 53

http://harpymarx.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/dscn619746990001.jpg

I am back at my desk. I wanted to go for a run this morning. Declan gave me a black look when he saw me dressing.  When I continued to ignore his 
judgmental gaze, he said, “Julia, you can’t be serious.” 
My plan was to dress myself and run.  Run, run, run.  I did not want to think about gravestones and deaths and bloody swan hearts. I did not want to replay Kelly’s head, her precious head, breaking on the river’s edge. A glance showeed me that Julian was engaged in Sunday morning cartoons.  Marshall made plans to grab a bagel with Kendra last night, so I knew he was covered.  I threw out an idea, “Declan, why don’t you run with me?”
“Come here, please, Julia.”
I moved back across the room, picking my way through the land mine of laundry, luggage and debris created by a family can make in a 160 foot space. My heart surged with love as I see them within the temporary embrace of that chair.  I turned back to Declan.  I thought carefully before speaking.
“I love you, Dec.  At the same time, I can’t run a prestigious school like Whately Prep, mother my children, play daughter to my dead aunt, and be a detective, while being the wife you want. I can’t be jolly and run off to the Vineyard and lie on the beach.”
“Where is this coming from? I am not asking that. I simply want to keep you safe. ”
He massages my shoulders.  
“You and the kids can’t hole up in the Hotel Northampton until the police figure out what’s going on at campus.  I have a school to run.  I need to go back. I prefer you and the boys go back to the Vineyard where I am not worried about you.  My fear for you and the kids is getting in the way of me doing a good job, or at least the kind of job, I want to be doing.”
Declan seemed incredulous. “I would think you would want us to rally by your side.”
“Can’t you see it scares me more to have the threat of anything happening to the kids or to you?”
“Well, Julia,” his hands come off my neck and settle in his own lap as he speaks, “maybe you can understand how it feels for me to leave you here.”
“I feel like you are making this some kind of contest about who loves whom more.”
“No, Julia, I just want you to acknowledge that by putting what you deem are the needs of the school ahead of us, you are making a choice that satisfies you. It is, in essence a selfish choice, because it doesn’t take into account how I, as your husband, feel.”
I bow my head.  His words hit home.  
I have not cried hard in a very long time. I reign in my emotion by biting my bottom lip.  
He shakes his head -- I assume at my obstinacy -- embraces me, then stands up.  The bed that we shared is now cool, most of the covers are on the floor. 
“We will leave after we have brunch with Marcus and Ingrid.”
I entered campus by one o’clock, after alerting Cole Potter that I was in my office. I have been here since...looking over the empty pond, mourning the many losses in my life.

I am back at my desk. I wanted to go for a run this morning. Declan gave me a black look when he saw me dressing.  When I continued to ignore his 

judgmental gaze, he said, “Julia, you can’t be serious.” 

My plan was to dress myself and run.  Run, run, run.  I did not want to think about gravestones and deaths and bloody swan hearts. I did not want to replay Kelly’s head, her precious head, breaking on the river’s edge. A glance showeed me that Julian was engaged in Sunday morning cartoons.  Marshall made plans to grab a bagel with Kendra last night, so I knew he was covered.  I threw out an idea, “Declan, why don’t you run with me?”

“Come here, please, Julia.”

I moved back across the room, picking my way through the land mine of laundry, luggage and debris created by a family can make in a 160 foot space. My heart surged with love as I see them within the temporary embrace of that chair.  I turned back to Declan.  I thought carefully before speaking.

“I love you, Dec.  At the same time, I can’t run a prestigious school like Whately Prep, mother my children, play daughter to my dead aunt, and be a detective, while being the wife you want. I can’t be jolly and run off to the Vineyard and lie on the beach.”

“Where is this coming from? I am not asking that. I simply want to keep you safe. ”

He massages my shoulders.  

“You and the kids can’t hole up in the Hotel Northampton until the police figure out what’s going on at campus.  I have a school to run.  I need to go back. I prefer you and the boys go back to the Vineyard where I am not worried about you.  My fear for you and the kids is getting in the way of me doing a good job, or at least the kind of job, I want to be doing.”

Declan seemed incredulous. “I would think you would want us to rally by your side.”

“Can’t you see it scares me more to have the threat of anything happening to the kids or to you?”

“Well, Julia,” his hands come off my neck and settle in his own lap as he speaks, “maybe you can understand how it feels for me to leave you here.”

“I feel like you are making this some kind of contest about who loves whom more.”

“No, Julia, I just want you to acknowledge that by putting what you deem are the needs of the school ahead of us, you are making a choice that satisfies you. It is, in essence a selfish choice, because it doesn’t take into account how I, as your husband, feel.”

I bow my head.  His words hit home.  

I have not cried hard in a very long time. I reign in my emotion by biting my bottom lip.  

He shakes his head -- I assume at my obstinacy -- embraces me, then stands up.  The bed that we shared is now cool, most of the covers are on the floor. 

“We will leave after we have brunch with Marcus and Ingrid.”

I entered campus by one o’clock, after alerting Cole Potter that I was in my office. I have been here since...looking over the empty pond, mourning the many losses in my life.

Morning with Kendra Whately Prep p.51

www.brandchannel.com

I leave the hotel room about six a.m..  Sarah is not in her port-a-crib.  She is curled in a tight ball between Mom and Dad.  Julian whistles when he sleeps. There is such a whistle that a train could be coming through. I have been awake since around five this morning.  I woke up, then was afraid of oversleeping, so I listened to my iPod.  I am wearing the cutoffs from yesterday, a clean navy tee shirt that says Peace Happens, and a pair of brown Topsiders. My wallet is in my right back-pocket.  It contains $15, my driver’s permit, and a condom.  I expect to use only the money this morning.  

Kendra is waiting in the lobby by the front doors.  We move outside in unison, without saying a word.  It felt good.

We start toward Bruegger’s Bagels.  

“Did your parents hear you leave?” I ask her.

“Kanya did.  I had to bribe her to get her to be quiet.”

“So what did that cost you?”

“Chores for a week.”

“Wow, I am flattered.”

Kendra has an asymmetric face that appears beautiful from either side. Straight on, one eye is slightly higher than the other and her smile is just a tad crooked; one corner of her mouth lifts just millimeters more than the other. I am cursed with noticing this. I like walking beside her.  Her head comes up to my chin when I wear these shoes.  She glides along in a little plaid dress and pink sandals.  It’s confusing to have these feelings, jumbled and unfamiliar about a girl I barely know - who happens to be related to me, by the way. The idea that she may be going to Whately Prep next year is complicated for me. 

We pause in front of a small outside bistro on the side of the hotel. She says, “Photo Op.” Kendra throws her arm around my shoulder, holds up her phone and shoots the picture. We both lean in, heads touching, to see the image.  She demands my cell phone number so she can send it to me.   

Exactly what is Kendra to me?  What can she be to me?

When we get to the crosswalk, the light changes, Kendra grabs my hand and pulls me across the street.

I want to always remember that moment. The feel of the soft hand of a girl I like being in mine.  That one moment unrolls like a sensory-charged video -- frame by frame. The first warmth of a June day touching our skin.  The dingdong, dingdong of the traffic light bleating out its warning to the blind.  The scent of coffee, hanging in the air.  Our legs shuffling, shuffling in a half-trot to beat the light.  The day is full of promise and we are racing toward something new.

Falling Photos Whately Prep page 50

                     Falling photos of the past.           dee

The photographs spill out of the envelope, tumbling to the floor in a cascade of black and white faces, frozen stills from the past.  I meant simply to tidy the bookshelves in the guest room where Marcus and his wife, Ingrid stayed recently.  I replaced the book, The Old Man and the Sea, and in doing so, dislodged this manilla envelope.  I stoop to pick up the photos, when one demands my attention.  I sit down abruptly on the corner of the full-sized bed.  It squeaks as it absorbs my weight.  I pinch the edge of the photo.

Mostly, I am amazed by what I have willed myself to forget.  Now that I am in my sixties, and Declan, my only surviving child, is grown and has a family of his own, I have reinvented myself.  I have become an independent-minded potter who volunteers at the hospital and plays Mahjong on Wednesdays nights.  My friends call me Stella, though my given name in Elizabeth.  Go figure.  My husband, Claremont, is involved at the Portuguese American Club. He is the book-keeper as well as an active member.  He chases down donations and dues and contributions from people who use the facility for receptions and parties.  Claremont is one of the MV Hospital administrators; his days are full of helping people figure out how to pay for their medical care.  He is paid reasonably well and he has seniority that comes with four weeks of vacation.  If I mention retirement, he laughs at me. He says he doesn’t have time for it.  The two of us have established a good balance.

The picture I am holding harkens back to another age, another era.  It shows a time before we were Stella and Claremont. I was the daughter of a Polish farmer and his wife. My father farmed potatoes in Hadley, Ma.  On about ten acres of our own, and fifteen that he leased, my father perfected the art of growing potatoes in Hadley’s silty soil.  He was one of the first farmers to install an irrigation system using water from the Connecticut River to irrigate his acres of potato fields.  My mother was the true monarch of he Plodnyk Potato dynasty.  Silva Plodnyk made the decisions about how to raise my five brothers and sisters and me.  She did not believe in time for recreation.  We were meant to work, or rest in order to work. Whether is was farmwork or schoolwork, the Plodnyks were known as hardworkers.  The black and white photo is shot on our farm by the front gate.  I am standing on one side, Marshall Dickinson is standing on the other.  We are at least three feet apart, but even in the photo, the fifty-year old photo, I can feel the connection that existed between us.  I study it trying to discern what gives away our passion.  Was it how our eyes looked directly into each other’s eyes? Was it the slight leaning of my upper torso toward his?  Was it the way both of our mouths were soft and gently pursed?  I see it finally.  Our hands are just inches apart as we both grasp the fence rail.  We are standing on opposite sides of the fence and our hands are magnetically drawn to one another’s.  The familiar sorrow settles over me. In the old days, they called this melancholy. I wonder what might have been.  What if my mother had let me go to Wellesley on the scholarship I won? What if Marshall hadn’t gone to Harvard?  Marshall and I never talked about our emotion-laden past.  The only evidence that exists - as far as I know - is this one photograph.  We did not want to clutter the future with memories of our past, so we cut them out completely.  Now that Marshall is gone, I often wonder if that was the right thing to do.  I see so much of Marshall in Julia.  It astonishes me at times to see the daughter of the man I loved fill her father’s shoes so aptly.  I bless the twist of fate that brought our families together.  Marshall and I have grandchildren together. The irony of such a thing is something of a secret joy to me.  Marshall, Julian and Sarah are wonderful children; Declan and Julia are doing an outstanding job raising them.

I scoop up the photos and slip them back into the envelope.  Glancing around the room, I wonder what on earth to do with the evidence of my past.  I take two steps, bend at the waist, and life the corner of the mattress.  I slip the envelope between the mattress and the box spring.  It is unlikely anyone but I will flip the mattress.  I will be in the earth the day that such a thing happens.  The photos are safe for the time being.

The Blue Bonnet Whately Prep p.48

dee

I like the Whately Prep campus. I could really see myself going to school here.  The best thing of all is the gym.  I would be able to compete on the Whately Prep Swim Team.  In California, both Kayla and I have been on swim teams since we were about seven years old.  My mother said it was going to be swimming, dance or tennis.  We liked the bathing suit colors and chose the sport simply because of a little purple and a lot of teal.  The irony that Whately Prep's school colors are purple and teal does not escape me.  I want to get away from my parents, in particular, I am over arguing with my mother.  The surprise is going to be on her. I think Mom believes that I am trying to legitimize running away from home. There is so much more.  We have not been getting along. She has been more controlling than ever before. I means, she came down to the pool two weeks ago because she was calling me and I didn't pick up. I was in a meeting with Coach -- who, by the way, does not allow us to have our cell phones on when we are in team meetings.  You would think she'd be embarrassed, but no, she SAT DOWN and stayed for the rest of the meeting.  I wanted to disappear into the floor.  She and Dad have been arguing a lot lately, too. I think it's because she can't just leave him alone. She is always following him saying, "Why are you doing it (mowing, doing a crossword puzzle, loading the dishwasher, addressing bills) like that?  Let me show you how I do it."
So Whately Prep, where kids rule, that sounds cool to me.  I met some students who are ambassadors. They live near campus and they come a couple hours every day to take visitors on tours.  Their parents go talk to the Dean of Admissions, and the ambassadors talk to the visiting students. I was there on International Day. I was the only native English speaker in the bunch of students.  But, weirdly, it was fine.  I felt humbled by how worldly these kids from Russia and Korea and China were.  I guess I kind of appreciated my life a little more when this Russian girl said in her heavily accented English, "Are there this many choices every day?" when we went to the dining common buffet.
The student ambassador leading my tour took us to hang out at the Student Center. We grabbed sodas and candy bars (and the school paid)!  He told us that Northampton is the closest town - about eight miles straight down the road. He said we should try to visit - it's got a lot of restaurants and bookstores.
Julia said something about us moving to the Hotel Northampton this afternoon, then BAM!
We are checked into the Hotel in two rooms.  Mom is letting Kayla and me walk around downtown. She handed us each a twenty to spend.  I barely recognized her on this trip.
As we are leaving the swanky hotel lobby, Kayla spies a store called A 2 Z.  It's a combination toy, book, game, science store for kids.  I promise her we'd come back after we get the lay of the land.   No use spending all our cash at the first store.  There is an extensive art store I like; it holds so much possibility.  Kayla drags me into what looks like the first mall ever.  Thorne's Market. It is about four stories high and filled with shops and services.  The wooden floors creak when we walk on them, but the place is kept up.  Again, Kayla almost spends her money on earrings, but thinks better of it when I remind her to keep looking.  We see an Urban Outfitters on the other side of the street.  We do not cross. The local stores are so much more interesting to us.  We walk up Main street until we come to the main gate of Smith College.  I stand at the gate for a long time, thinking about my chances for getting in.  Would they be better if I graduated from Whately Prep or my high school at home?
Kayla tugs on my sleeve, "Let's goooo...."
We stop in Starbuck's and treat ourselves to lavish, frozen drinks with piles of whipped cream.  I pay for both of them, using my twenty. After tip, that leaves me with eight dollars.  Kayla drags me into this store called Faces. It has stuff. Lots and lots of stuff that, when you see it, you want it. There are clothes and books and toys and novelty gifts and greeting cards.  I buy a magnet that says, "Rubber duckies do it in the tub."  Mom will either laugh, or take it away from me. No in-between ground.
Kayla buys a lacy purple tee shirt from American Apparel.  Good choice.  She has exactly a nickel left.  I shake my head.  When we get outside, she hands me the bag. "Here," she says, "that's for you. It's a going away gift."
"I'm not going anywhere!"
"Yes, you are. You are going to Whately Prep."
"I haven't even gotten in."
"You're going.  Face it."
I suddenly feel like I have let Kayla down by dreaming my own dreams.
"Wherever I go, wherever I am, if I wear this tee, I'll think of you. Hugs?" We pantomime hugs and air kisses. The moment passes.
When we get back to our room at the Hotel Northampton, Julia offers to take us to dinner anywhere we would like. She suggests Indian, Italian, Chinese, Japanese, Vegetarian options.  Timidly, Kayla asks,
"Was that a diner we drove by when we came into town?"
"The Blue Bonnet? Yes.  Why, does that appeal to all of you?"
With heads nodding all around, she says, "Blue Bonnet it is." She leans down to whisper to Kayla, "I love diner food, myself.  Good call!"

The Long Ride Home Whately Prep p. 47

Life ring on the ferry Martha's Vineyard  dee

I have Julian and Marshall in the way back -- the third seat -- of the van.  Marcus is sitting up front, riding shotgun, and Sarah is buckled into her carseat in the middle of the backseat.  The boys aren’t fighting because they are engrossed in a Transformer video.  Sarah is asleep.  The only way off the Island was to wait in standby for the ferry since four this afternoon.  We hit the lottery and there was a spot for the car on the 8:30 boat.  We will get back to Whately just after midnight.  The decision to leave was easy.

When Julia called, her tone was devoid of affect.  She recited facts with no emotional  inflection at all.  Most people believe that she is a bit cold and aloof because that is what she does when she feels out of control. She if from the “just-the-facts, m’am, just-the-facts school of crisis management.  It is her ability to separate emotion from fact that allow her to make executive decisions and to lead confidently wearing the mantle of responsibility.  It is not how many people operate.  

Julia called me on the landlinefrom the Whately Prep garage.  

“Hi Declan.  How’s it going?’

“We were just playing a rousing game of Yahtzee and Sarah is blowing bubbles -- Not in your mouth, sweetie! Julian, please take the bottle from Sarah. How’s your day going?”

“Actually, that’s why I am calling.  First, I don’t want you to come home.  It would add to my worries to have you here. “
“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not. I told you about the swan this morning.  Well, this afternoon, the swan’s heart was delivered by messenger to our house.  I called the State Police and I have hired a P.I. as a body guard while we straighten out things.”

“Are you serious?  Was the box addressed to you?”

“Yes, and for the time being, the police want to err on the side of caution.  They have experience dealing with these things. They may call in the FBI.”

“I am coming home.  I am not leaving you there alone.”

“I am staying in the Hotel Northampton for the time being.  That is not being distributed to anyone at school except Cole, Carl, and my assistant.  Better to keep it on a need-to-know basis, they say.”

“Get another room.  We are coming.”

“Please, Declan, I have enough to worry about. I need to get Ingrid and her daughters out of here without totaling freaking them out.  I need to assess the risk to other people on campus, and I have to try to make sense of someone’s motives for doing these violent things.  I would prefer not to add my terror that the children or you might be hurt.”

“Julia, you are thinking logically and that’s great, but I can’t be here and simply look the other way.  As a guy, I am hard-wired to DO something.”

“Are you still, there, Julia?”

“Okay, here’s what would be great.  It will involve a lot of driving.  You will want to rent DVDs for the kids.  Come out to Whately with Marcus.  Spend the night and then head back to the Island with Ingrid, Kayla and Kendra in the morning. I would tell Marcus that a lot has come up at work and there has been some vandalism that I have to deal with right away. That covers everything.  Does that work for you?”

“Yes.  We’ll be there on the first boat out of here.  However, I’m going to make reservations to come back to the Island for Monday morning.”

“Not the vacation we planned three months ago, is it?”

“Not at all.”

“Declan, thank you. You know I appreciate it.  You get that I want you here, but I just...”
“I get it, Julia. Do what you have to do to get rid of this crazy and we can get back to normal.  Please, be careful.  Don’t go anywhere alone.”
“The cops have done a run through on this stuff.  That’s why I am calling on a land line. There is sophisticated software that can triangulate my position using a cell tower and the GPS in my iPhone.  Hackers can use it to find out exactly where people are. “

“Don’t trust anyone, Julia.”

“Come to the Hotel Northampton.  I’ll get another larger room for our family and Ingrid and Marcus can have this one.  So far as the kids go, I think we should tell them there was a water leak in the house for the time being.  Agreed?”

“Works, why not?  Okay - see you tonight. I love you. Be safe.”

“Drive carefully.  Text me when you get on a boat.”

The boat just docked.  I wait for the doors to open to begin the long ride home.