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.  

Smiarowski Farm Stand Whately Prep p. 46

http://smiarowskifarm.com

I offer to take Ingrid, Kayla and Kendra for ice cream. 

“I”m about to leave my office now. I’ll just put on something less formal and we can head down to the Smiarowski’s Farm Stand in Sunderland.”

 “I would love that.  I was looking at the map. Is that on the other side of the River?”

“Yes, it will give you a different view of the area.  And Smiarowski’s had both hard and soft serve.  They’ve got you covered. On another note, did the girls like the campus?”

“We want to tell you all about our impressions when we see you.  Do you think we could see one of the boarder’s rooms before we head back to the Vineyard?”

“Absolutely.  If you are willing to stay until Monday, I can have Kendra talk to our Admissions Director and she can have an informal interview.  That will give you time to learn about the nuts and bolts.  I hate to steal you away from Martha’s Vineyard, though.”

“No, this makes me a lot more comfortable.  Let’s talk about staying. So the girls and I will be ready to go in about twenty minutes, that about right?”

“Perfect. I’ll toot my horn when I’ m all set to go. You should hear it up in the guest apartment.” 

I  had spent the early part of the afternoon writing up reports as well as a community email about the swan’s brutal murder. How am I going to put a “spin” on that for Ingrid, I wonder?  Would I let my child attend school where there was an incident such as this one? Whenever I am faced with difficult questions and challenging decisions, I find myself reflecting upon what my father would have done were he here.  Often, that helps.  I have a great deal of respect for the Head of Emma Willard School in Troy, N.Y..  We call each other from time to time to discuss topics that range from improving the quality of food, plagiarism on campus and finding professional clothes that flatter and do not look frumpy.  I did not call today because I did not want to disrupt her weekend anymore than necessary.

Whately Prep is starting to have a trickle of administrators and staff arrive.  They are officially due on campus tomorrow. We lease space to an English as a Second Language Program for students from the Pacific Rim countries as well as a nationally known Tennis Academy.  The Academy raises the bar for large numbers of students over the course of he summer.  Both programs last about eight weeks.  They will be clearing out, dorms will be turning over, in the third week of August.  Pre-season athletes return to campus a week later.  The academic year starts two weeks later.  This cycle of comings and goings stays fairly fixed year-to-year.  The current addition of graveyard mischief and fowl mayhem adds a wrinkle that will have to be addressed aggressively so it does not get out of hand.  My instinct is to call in outside help.  Robert Parker has done some work for us in the past; he’s a P.I. who finds run-aways, truant spouses, missing money.  He’s the kind of guy whom it is nice to have on your side.  I will call him from the house.

As I start up the walk to my front door, I see UPS must have delivered a package. As I get closer, I see that the small, brown box is wrapped and addressed with my name.  It strikes me as odd that there is no return address, However, we are relaxed on our campus.  Perhaps, too lax.  If I stepped over the package and unlatched the door, I am ninety percent sure that I left it unlocked.  I reach in my purse and pull out my set of keys.  I use one to break the seal of the tape. I set the box on a small outdoor table that fits nicely on the porch. As I pry back the flaps of the box, it takes me several beats before I process what I am seeing.  When I am certain that I have identified it correctly, I drop the box, vault down the steps, and lose my lunch in the bushes in front of the house.  I fumble with my phone and call Carl.  

“I need you.”

I edge back to the porch where the box lay on its side.  The contents have spilled out; the swan’s heart is sealed in a ziplock bag with a note. “Yours next.”

My legs wobble. I sit down hard on the front steps, with my hands folded,  elbows on knees.  I suppose this means no Smiarowki’s Farm.  

All in a Name Whately Prep p. 42

dee

Kendra is only fifteen!  I am really not sure she is ready to go away to boarding school. It is all so New England. These families send their children off to be raised by someone else.  Marcus thinks it will build independence and that Kendra will make lifelong friends.  He says the network is invaluable.  What do I know? I am a California girl. Sunshine, fast cars, beaches, families who argue loudly and with spirit and families who  never stop talk to each other. Marcus would let Kendra go in a heartbeat.  And I wonder how life would be for Kayla, at home with just the two of us?  Would that be a good thing for her?  

This is a freakin’ big decision.  Julia brought us to Whately Prep and has made certain we have had a tour of the entire campus.  She suggested that the three of us walk up to the apiary.  It’s near the top of the hill heading toward Quonquont Farm.  The many names that are from Native American roots leave me awkwardly shaping words in my mouth. Hammonassett, Mohegan, Narragansett,  Pequot, Wampanoag, Pocumtuck, Metacomet.  The Polish immigrants brought with them their diligent work ethic and names consisting of many vowels.  Krakowski, Janowitch, Wcislo, Nowak, Paskevich.  Julia suggested we all meet for lunch in the school's dining common.

“Are you girls ready?”  I ask Kayla and Kendra.  It’s a short walk, let’s go buy some honey.”

“Buy honey?  I thought we were going to an apiary,” says Kayla.

“And what do they have at apiaries, Kayla?”  

“Birds, of course.”

I quickly turn away so she doesn’t catch my smile.  Oh, the drama if she thinks I am laughing at her!

Kendra uses a condescending tone when she drawls, “Don’t you mean an aviaary?”

“Whatever. Let’s go, already.”

We walked single file up the narrow road leading toward the center of Whately.  As I took in the bucolic view of this town, I could imagine Kendra making a life here.  

No Bikes Whately Prep p. 37

I text Amanda around 9 a.m..

“Meet you at No Bikes in 15.  Head for the hills.”

“make it 20. mom needs me for chores :-\”

“Cnt xcape?”

“def not.”

“20, No Bikes, Hills."

Amanda is waiting for me when I get to the spot on the sidewalk we designated as half-way between our families’ Campground houses.  The words are repainted every year.  They have to be done by the beginning of the Season, July 1st.  A paintbrush hasn’t touched them since this time last year. They are faded, but our memory of them has not.  For us, the words are easy to find.  

Whenever we are both on the Vineyard together, we find ways to sneak out to hang together.  I have known Amanda since she was five and I was six years old.  Now that I am fourteen and she is thirteen, there is a new dimension to our time together.  All I can say is that it’s different, but it is still fun.  I can sit with her and read for an afternoon and feel like we did something cool.  We have promised each other not to let the boy/girl thing ruin a good thing. So far, so good. Her family is from New Jersey. She stays for the whole summer. 

I see her for the sporadic weeks that my family uses our house. 

I visited her twice in New Jersey with my parents, and last year, I took the bus by myself. They picked me up at Penn Station.  Her parents brought her to visit me while they went skiing a few years ago.  I think they were really impressed by Mom’s job and Whately Prep.  They are thinking of sending Amanda to Whately Prep in tenth grade.  That would be cool.

We set off toward Sunset Lake.  We call the small elevation above Sunset Lake, the Hills.  It’s a kind of play on the t.v. show about some Beverly Hills high school kids.  There are a bunch of benches on the hill and we sit up there for an hour at a time.  We can see Sunset Lake, the houses on the outer ring of the Methodist Campgrounds, the Oak Bluffs harbor and even the Vineyard Sound beyond the jetties.  The season, the weather and the time of day change the view profoundly.  While sitting on the benches we talk about big issues and small issues and even smaller issues.  All of the dialogue runs freely without censure.  If we have a disagreement that lasts more than a couple of hours, it is rare.

Neither of us have it in our natures to stay angry very long.  We both feel like we can count on each other.  One of our more stupid stunts was when seven-year old Amanda had the chicken pox, I went over to her house, snuck up the back stairs to her bathroom and -- oh, so disgusting - brushed my teeth with her tooth brush.  Forty-eight hours later, I was sick.  Two days later, Julian and my Dad had the chicken pox, too.  Luckily, Sarah wasn’t born yet.

Another example of our fun times was when we microwaved an egg.  It exploded. It exploded all over the inside of the microwave.  We thought we cleaned it perfectly, but her mother caught on as soon as she walked into the kitchen.  She said, quite simply, that she smelled trouble.  More like she smelled hard-boiled eggs.  

I count on my friendship with Amanda.  There is nobody else like her in my life.  I know enough not to talk about it with my guy friends. They wouldn’t understand. No Bikes and Amanda are mine.

The Trunk Whately Prep p.36

              The Trunk                 dee

I see Kelly.  She is in Gillian’s bedroom, sitting on her bed. 

She is in Gillian’s kitchen.

She is on Gillian’s porch.

Kelly has not been so pervasively present since she died. I have to believe this is tied to Gillian’s death. Nothing of this nature occurred when my father died.  Unless....unless...

I don’t want this thought to enter my head, but it is there before I can slam shut the door.

Unless, it is related to Carl.

I wrestle inwardly with this idea. Trying to think without words is a tool I use to slow down the steady, relentless parade of paranoid thoughts.  I try to jump between emotions, skimming the surface like a smooth, flat stone across the face of the sea.

Moving on, I button up the denim work short and slip on my sneakers, no socks. I can’t bear to pull on my soggy, sweat-drenched underwear -- so I go alfresco. A bit risque for the Head of an elite boarding school, but the one thing I can claim about my ascendency to the Head’s position is that I have not compromised who I am along the way.  I have capitulated and finessed and sometimes compromised, yes, even my principles, but not who I am.  It gives me some small satisfaction, like I am owner of this make and model of Julia Dickinson.  

The shirt falls to mid-thigh.  I stand on the edge of the tub and peer in the small medicine cabinet mirror.  My legs are passable, even as the years creep forward to a final accounting, my legs are withstanding time.  Maybe not so much my face...

My eyes are swollen from crying. I finger-comb my hair into its blunt-edged page boy cut.  A few wispy bangs hide my high forehead. My face, according to every magazine I have ever trusted, is an oval shape.  To my mind, that’s as boring as oatmeal.  A lot of people have told me my face has symmetry that is “pleasing,” that I am “attractive.”

Superlatives are not wasted on me. Especially after an hour crying jag submerged in water.  My fingers have the white, wrinkly appearance of a child’s skin after spending too much time in the pool.  When I open the bathroom door, I am assaulted by the smell from that god-awful trunk. 

Carl appears at the top of the stairs with two mugs of tea.  The teabags are artfully looped over each handle so as not to fall  completely into the water.  I sniff and catch myself thinking, “How metrosexual of him.”  

“Are you ready for this?” I gesture toward the room with my chin.

“I am, if you are.”

“Thanks for the tea.  Chamomile?”

“Chamomile with lavender.”  Metrosexual.

“I have a Hefty garbage bag.” He holds it and a pair of gloves up for me to see.

“Then, again, I was thinking I could carry the whole thing outside and we could open it there, instead.”

I walk into the room and find I gag a bit.

We both step back into the hall and shut the door. 

“Plan B.”

We go downstairs, pass Kelly in the hall and sit in the living room. 

“Let’s have our tea. Then, there’s Vick’s in the bathroom, we’ll rub that under our noses.  The trunk has handles.  We’ll carry it outside together.  Whatever is in there does not belong in the house, no matter what.”

“Okay.  I like that.  No wonder you run this place.”

“Be real, you suggested it.”

“I’m just brown-nosing.  You are the boss, after all.”

We sit quietly and drink our tea. Kelly settles on the stool at my feet.

If Carl is aware of her presence, he is a mighty good poker player.

When we enter the room housing the trunk the next time, we are prepared. We have tied cloth napkins around our faces after dapping some Vick’s Vaporub under our noses.  We are both wearing work gloves; Carl’s are yellow, rubber dish gloves and mine are ancient, leather, gardening gloves.  Years of wear has molded them into the shape of Gillian’s hands. I am conscious of my breezy state of undress every step of the way as we wrestle the foul-smelling trunk down the stairs.

Outside, the trunk lid opens readily.  Before I look inside, I notice Kelly sitting in a cherry tree with prominent, gnarled limbs.  From her vantage point, the trunk’s contents are readily visible. Her expression gives nothing away.

Stepping forward gives me a better view.  Carl suddenly bolts behind the cherry tree.  I can't see him, but I can hear him retching. 

The trunk is packed, literally crammed, with road kill.  The animals themselves are indistinguishable from each other. They are in various stages of decomposition. Maggots are rolling and sliding over each other in a sickening feeding frenzy.

The lid has words branded into the wood.  Gillian must have used a soldering iron or a similar tool to etch the words, “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

I think those words told the whole story. Gillian was a huge fan of animals of all kinds.

She must have gone out early every morning, scoured the roads of Whately for maimed and killed animals.  With a shovel, she would dispatch the survivors,  

I turn away from the horror of her collection.

Stiff-jointedly, I walk to the other side of the house. My legs buckle just as I reach the porch,  

Night has fallen.  I hear the slam of the trunk lid falling shut. Carl must have pushed shut the lid. He appears by my side.  “Let’s get out of here,” he says.  Lacing his fingers in mine, he pulls me to my feet,  Together, we lock the front door.  I drop his hand before we step back onto the main campus.  

“ Will you have your guys throw the entire trunk in to the dumpster?  I don’t have it in me to me to follow through on this one. I need to go home." I stop and turn, forcing him to stop walking, too.  

"It is important that this thing - whatever we call it - between us, remains just between us.  You get that, right?

Carl half-smiles, a sad grin. “I do.”

I walk home alone, touched by his willingness to let me go.