Extra Credit (18 page)

My door was closed, just as it had been when I left, and when I went inside, nothing was out of place. I walked back out to Dottie’s desk and asked her again. “Dottie, no one?”

“I didn’t see anyone,” she said, turning to face me, “and nobody left you a message.” She swiveled back around. “I have work to do,” she said.

Well, that’s a first,
I thought, hurrying back to my office to eat my sandwich. I was sensitive to the fact that I might have missed a student; students were quick to report to Sister Mary if their needs weren’t met by any of the professors under her charge, and I had been lectured more than once about my commitment to making sure that students were well cared for and that my office hours made their visits the most convenient for them, even if they cut into time I should have had to do my own work. I took the sandwich out of the bag and dove in, turning to look at my computer while I ate.

I was pretty sure I had left the browser on the school’s home page, but when I touched the mouse and the screen lit up, that wasn’t the case. The browser was back on the Sans-a-Flush page.

That’s funny,
I thought.

Twenty-Three

“What are you eating?” Max asked after I picked up the phone.

“Fresh mozzarella and tomato.”

“I just had a burger from Shake Shack.”

“Good for you,” I said. “We don’t have gourmet food on every corner here in the Bronx, Max. Fortunately, I have a student who is kind enough to bring me a sandwich every now and again.”

“Ass kisser.”

“No, just a nice lady,” I said.

“Lady?”

“Yes,” I said, then described Mary Lou Bannerman and her reason for being at St. Thomas. “She’s really lovely. I was less than enthusiastic when I found out she was going to be in my class, but she really has been a ray of sunshine.”

“Well, that’s nice. You have someone your own age to pal around with,” she said.

I was quick to point out that Mary Lou was older than me. As was Max.

“Well, whatever. Better than having to spend time with teenagers who don’t get your humor.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Listen, I have some bad news.”

A line like that always makes my blood run cold. “What?”

A little sob escaped, and since Max isn’t a crier, I knew that this was serious. “It’s my dad.”

I don’t know why she didn’t lead with that news, but she’s Max and she doesn’t usually follow normal conversational or social conventions.

“He had a stroke. It’s not serious, we don’t think, but he’s in Westchester Medical Center and he’s being observed.”

“What happened?”

“Mom found him at the kitchen table, dribbling coffee out of the side of his mouth. She said that he was having trouble talking and that his right hand wasn’t working either.”

“What can I do, Max?” I asked.

Her voice was a little hoarse, from crying, I expected. “Just pray.”

“Of course,” I said, “and if you need anything, or they need me to do anything, just call. I’m only twenty minutes away from the medical center.”

“I know,” she said. “He may get transferred to a rehab facility in Tarrytown and get back up to speed. That’s what we’re hoping, anyway.”

“And that’s exactly what will happen,” I said.

“You think?”

“With your father?” I made a dismissive noise. “Of course. That old guy is stronger than Fred.”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “You’re right. He’s in good shape, right?”

“The best.”

“So he’ll get through this,” she said, trying to make it more of a statement than a question.

“I have no doubt.”

“Thanks.” She changed the subject as she is wont to do when things get too intense. “So this Bannerman lady. Is she a good writer?”

“Too early to tell,” I said. “If she takes the second semester of this course, she’ll probably finish her novel and then we’ll see.”

“What’s her novel about?”

“Her husband’s murder.”

“Ooohhh,” Max said. “That oughta be interesting.” I heard the other line ringing on her office phone. She said something unintelligible, her voice muffled.

“What?” I asked, not sure that I had heard her correctly, but she was gone, as was her custom, without saying good-bye. I finished my sandwich and cleaned off my desk, preparing to head upstairs for my freshman composition class, the one with the kids who wouldn’t know a past participle if it hit them in the face. Thank God for Mary Lou Bannerman and her offering of sustenance; it would help me get through the next fifty minutes or so.

I was thinking about how I could skip out after class and head up to the medical center as I arrived at my classroom, preoccupied with the thought of an ailing Marty and concerned for Max. Still in the hallway, I texted Crawford about Max’s father, letting him know that I would be visiting the hospital after school. After that, I took a deep breath and went into the room, where I was pleased to see I had full attendance.
Will wonders never cease,
I thought.

After class, I raced back to my office to get things in order. I hadn’t heard back from Crawford, so I didn’t know if he had read my text, but I figured he would have found out from Fred by now what was happening. I wasn’t worried about him not knowing where I was for the time being. As I was putting some files and papers into my bag, I was suddenly racked by the pain of knowing that sooner rather than later, most likely, Max would be losing a parent, someone who also had been something of a surrogate parent to me. Up until this point, Max had led a pretty charmed life in terms of what she had had to deal with; in her family, no one had had a major illness, everyone was settled and happy, and her parents were healthy, living on their own now that their children were grown. In my own experience with losing my parents, Max had been supportive, yet held me at arm’s length during that time, preferring to give over the lion’s share of bereavement duties to her mother and father, who had supported and nurtured me during two hellacious periods in my life. What would this do to her? I wondered. Max doesn’t like things that are not tidy and neat, and my life throughout the years had been decidedly messy. She had done what she could to be there for me, but now that she was entering the time when her own parents were past elderly and into the realm of the “old-old,” as they are now called, how would she deal? Sure, I had talked a good game, letting her know that I thought her father would be fine, and maybe he would be. Realistically, though, how many eighty-year-olds, despite good health, make it back to 100 percent after a stroke?

I was glad Fred was in her life. Although the guy didn’t speak much, he was her rock, and that might be all she would need to not go off the deep end should something terrible happen as a result of Marty’s stroke.

Just as I was about to take off, my office phone rang. To answer or not to answer, that was the question. I thought of Sister Mary’s lack of affection for me and decided answering it would be in my best interest, just in case she had called to chat about one of my myriad shortcomings as a teacher.

I wished I hadn’t answered. It was Christine.

“Alison, I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t get ahold of Bobby,” she said.

Neither can I,
I thought, but held back on that observation. “What can I do for you, Christine?” I asked, sounding a little cool to my own ears.

My frigid tone didn’t seem to have any effect on her. “I’m a little shaken, Alison.”

I let out an exhale and resisted the urge to ask, “What now?” Instead, I asked her what was wrong in the most sympathetic tone I could muster.

“It’s Sassy. Sassy Du Pris? Chick’s ex-wife?”

I knew who Du Pris was, but I didn’t let on. Whatever she already thought of me, I would hate for Christine to think I was cyberstalking her family, even if all I was doing was a little research. “What about her?”

“She called me,” she said, “and she said that she wants the money.”

“Well, she doesn’t have any claim to it,” I said.

“I know, but she said that she would do whatever it takes to get it.” Christine sobbed into the phone. “I know this woman. She means it.”

Twenty-Four

For the second time that week, I found myself driving to Connecticut to calm a frazzled and upset Christine Stepkowski Crawford Morin, and this time, if she offered me wine, I would only be able to have a half glass at most, given that I had to drive back to Westchester. I was furious that I was doing this and that it might interfere with my visit to Marty, but I hoped that talking Christine off the ledge wouldn’t take that long and I could squeeze in a visit before hours were over. I was a one-woman counselor and self-appointed designated driver, and those two things made me ill-tempered. I pulled up in front of her impressive manse and got out of the car, slamming the door so hard that I’m surprised the windows didn’t shatter.

So why was I there? Despite everything, I liked Christine. Did I resent that she had had an excellent adventure abroad while I stayed home, making sure
her
kids had everything they needed and then some? You betcha. Was I a little perturbed, maybe even jealous, over her easy familiarity with Crawford, such that it wasn’t unusual to see her touch his arm or put her arm around his waist? More than you’ll ever know. Even so, would I wish that brood of little troll-like rug rats on anyone, even my worst enemy? No, and that’s why I was there. She had her own share of troubles, not the least of which was that she was raising little kids all over again, little kids who had sprung from someone else’s womb and who had a host of unformed ideas about what it was to have a stepmother. It made my time with Meaghan and Erin seem like a walk in the park, and trust me, it wasn’t.

While I waited for Christine to answer the door, my phone buzzed in my bag. A text from Max read
Call me,
a message I had had from her several hundred times over the past few years. I texted her back that I had to do something and then would be all hers.

Christine answered the door looking exactly the same as the last few times I had seen her, her eyes red, her cheeks flushed, her body language jittery. She pulled me into the house. “Thank you for coming, Alison.”

I know she would have preferred Bobby, but she got me instead. I wasn’t sure why we couldn’t do this over the phone, but she had sounded so completely unnerved that having someone who was acquainted with the situation—that would be me—to relate the latest developments to in person seemed to be the only way she was going to get off the proverbial ledge. At least she had had the good manners to realize that it had been an imposition, I thought, as I spied a coffee urn on the table alongside some of the most delicious-looking chocolate chip cookies I had ever seen. I prayed silently that they were for us and not the troll-children.

I took a seat at the giant kitchen table, which was more of a casual dining set than a standard breakfast nook kind of table. Her kitchen, as it had been before, was gleaming and spotless. I thought guiltily of the dingy rug at my back door, the one that I wiped my feet on when I came in the house but that Crawford seemed to think was invisible, preferring instead to track his mud throughout the first floor until I screamed at him to take his shoes off. How did she keep this place so clean with six people in residence, four of whom used to live under a bridge somewhere? I thought about this as she scurried about, pouring me coffee, handing me milk, and freshening up her own cup. Her racing around the kitchen led me to believe that she had already had a few more cups than her tiny frame could safely absorb. I pulled her cup away from her.

“Maybe you should switch to decaf,” I said.

She laughed, but as always, at least lately, the laughter turned to tears.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Is it weird that I called you?” she asked, before launching into the story of Sassy’s call.

I employed my old trick of counting to ten before speaking, but my silence spoke volumes. She looked crestfallen.

“It was weird. I knew it. I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m here now, and I want to hear what happened.” I reached down for my messenger bag on the floor and came face-to-face with one of the midget children, a different one from the sleepwalker. I gasped. “Oh, hello, honey,” I said.

The child, of indeterminate gender, just pointed at me. “Her,” it said.

“That’s Alison, Devon,” Christine said, scooping the toddler up in her arms and handing him a cookie that was as big as his pretty impressively sized head; I wondered what the late Mrs. Morin had looked like. “You remember her, don’t you?”

“Her,” he mouthed around a big chunk of cookie.

I stared back at him, determined not to be spooked. How scary could he be? He was wearing one of those patterned diapers that promised that he would be a “big kid” any day now. Clock was ticking, Devon. Kindergarten appeared to be right around the corner, and he was still crapping in his pants.

“Go find your sister and put on a show,” Christine said, watching him run off. She dropped her head into her hands. “I’m too old for this.”

I had to agree with that. I was tired just watching her try to take care of the kids, never mind actually interacting with them.

She took a big bite of the cookie in front of her, half eaten and on a paper napkin. “I don’t know why I’m eating,” she said, seeming to lose her train of thought.

“Sassy,” I reminded her. If she didn’t focus, Devon would be potty trained before I heard even one detail from this tale.

“Right.” She took another bite of cookie. “Sassy was Chick’s wife. They divorced right before he vanished.”

I knew that already, but again I kept my mouth shut.

“Ask Bobby,” she said, invoking my husband’s name in that familiar way that made the hair on my neck stand up. “We weren’t crazy about her, but I’m sure her family didn’t know what to make of Chick either. He was kind of a character.”

You think?

“Anyway, when it came to the divorce, we never did hear Sassy’s side of the story, but Chick’s side was pretty horrible. Cheating, abuse, drinking … you name it.”