Annie On My Mind (13 page)

But in their house they were like a couple of old shoes, each with its own special lumps and bumps and cracks, but nonetheless a pair that fit with ease into the same shoe box. “It’s so nice of you two to have us here,” said Mrs. Poindexter when we were all more or less settled in the living room and Ms. Widmer and Ms. Stevenson were passing out Cokes and tea and cookies. “All” not only included members of the student council but also Sally and Walt as Student Fund Drive Chairpeople, and Ms. Baxter as well. Ms. Baxter was taking notes, which made Mary Lou furious. Mrs. Poindexter was wearing a black dress with little bits of white lace at the throat and wrists that reminded me of Ms. Baxter’s handkerchiefs. Somehow it made her look as if she were about to bury someone. “I will read,” she said, “with apologies to Sally and Walt, who have already seen it, from Mr. Piccolo’s last report to me. Ms. Baxter?”

She settled her glasses onto her nose.

“Mrs. Poindexter,” said Ms. Stevenson as Ms. Baxter pulled a file folder out of the chunky, old-fashioned briefcase she’d brought with her, “shouldn’t the meeting be called to order first?” Mrs. Poindexter flipped her glasses down.

“Oh, very well,” she said crossly. “The meeting …’” Ms. Stevenson cleared her throat. “Eliza,” said Mrs. Poindexter smoothly, “we’re waiting.”

“The meeting,” I said as steadily as possible, “come to order. The chair”—I couldn’t help giving that word a little extra emphasis—”recognizes Mrs. Poindexter.” Mrs. Poindexter crashed her glasses back onto her nose and pushed away the black cat, who had started to rub against her leg. Then he moved to Ms. Baxter, who sneezed demurely but pointedly; Ms. Widmer scooped him up and took him downstairs.

“The overall goal,” said Mrs. Poindexter sonorously, looking over the tops of her spectacles, “is $150,000 for rising expenses like salaries and badly needed new equipment—in the lab, for example—and $150,000 for renovations. We don’t actually have to have the cash by the end of the campaign, but we’d like to have pledges for that amount, with their due dates staggered so we can collect $100,000 a year for the next three years. And by next fall, we’d like to have thirty-five new students—twenty in the Lower School, ten in the freshman class, and five in the sophomore class. So far, we have only four new Lower School prospects and one freshman, and less than half the money has been pledged.” Conn whistled. “Precisely,” said Mrs. Poindexter, who ordinarily did not approve of whistling. She began to read from Mr. Piccolo’s report: “‘The day of the independent school is seen by many local businessmen, financiers, and area industrialists as being over. Our fundraising consultant tells me that, college tuition being what it is, people are increasingly reluctant to spend large sums of money on precollege schooling, even with the New York public schools being what they are. I see this as influencing both the enrollment problem and the lack of donations, and creating constant resistance to our publicity campaign. There is also a feeling that independent schools can no longer shelter children from the outside world—there was mention by one or two people I spoke to recently of the unfortunate incident two years ago involving the senior girl and the boy she later married …’” That, most of us knew, referred to two seniors Mrs. Poindexter had tried to get expelled, first by council and then by the Board of Trustees, back when I was a sophomore. As Ms. Stevenson, who’d argued on their side, had pointed out, their main crime was that they’d fallen in love too young. But all Mrs. Poindexter had been able to see was the scandal when the girl got pregnant. “’... The point of view,’” Mrs. Poindexter went on reading, “‘been expressed by prospective Foster donors or parents that although once upon a time parents sent their offspring to independent schools to shield them from the social problems supposedly rampant in public schools, now those problems are equally prevalent in independent schools. This kind of thinking is what our publicity campaign must now counteract.’”

When Mrs. Poindexter stopped reading, I raised my hand, and then remembered I was supposedly presiding, so I put it down. “I have a friend who goes to public school,” I said, feeling a little odd referring to Annie that way, “and—well, I think they have more of a drug problem, for instance, than we do, and other problems, too. So I wonder if those parents and people are really right about the problems being equally prevalent. But one thing, though—even though my friend’s school is kind of rough, it’s a lot more interesting than Foster. What I’m saying is that I wonder if some people might want to send their kids to public schools to sort of broaden them. I think maybe more people think independent schools are snobby than used to.”

“We will get nowhere.” Mrs. Poindexter said severely, “if our own students do not see the value of a Foster education. Eliza, I am surprised at you!”

“It’s not not seeing the value of it,” Mary Lou said angrily. “That’s not what Liza said at all! I think all she was doing was explaining what some of the people Mr. Piccolo talked to might be thinking. And I bet she’s right. I used to go with a guy from public school, and he thought Foster was snobby. And that we were too sheltered.”

“Oh, but, Mary Lou, dear,” Ms. Baxter fluttered, “neither you nor Liza is very sheltered, though, really—are you? That is, if both of you have been—er—associating with people from other schools, and, as you say, you have been. And that is fine,” she added hastily. “Very good, in fact.” She glanced anxiously at Mrs. Poindexter. “We must remember,” she said gently, “that it takes all kinds. The good Lord made us all.”

“I am not sure,” said Mrs. Poindexter, “but what this is all entirely beside the point. It is our job to sell Foster’s advantages to people—not to imagine disadvantages, or to dwell on the questionable influence students from outside schools may have.”

“Questionable influence!” I burst out before I could stop myself, and Mary Lou—she had worn that public-school guy’s ring for nearly a year—got very red. Conn shook his head at her and put his hand on my arm, whispering, “Watch it Liza.” Well, the whole meeting fell apart then—we spent a lot of time arguing instead of deciding what to do. “It’s just that in order to combat other people’s attitudes we have to understand them first,” Conn said after about half an hour more.

But Mrs. Poindexter still couldn’t see it as anything but unkind criticism of her beloved Foster. Finally, though, we decided to have a big student rally the Friday after spring vacation, and we planned to try and urge each student either to recruit a new student or to get an adult to pledge money. Walt muttered, “Nickels and dimes—Mr. Piccolo says businesses and rich people and industries are the only good sources of money.” But Mrs. Poindexter was so enthusiastic about what we could do if “the whole Foster family pulls together” that somehow she managed to convince most of us we might be able to turn the campaign around.

Sally and Walt said they would plan the rally, and Mrs. Poindexter said I should help them, as council president; she told us we should consider ourselves a “committee of three.” After a lot of backing and forthing, the three of us agreed to have two meetings the next week, before vacation began, and then a final one during vacation, right before school started again. Then, just as Mrs. Poindexter seemed to be ready to end the meeting and I was trying to decide whether to call for a motion to adjourn or just wait and see if she’d go back to ignoring my being president again, Ms. Baxter raised her hand and Mrs. Poindexter nodded at her. “I would just like to remind us all,” Ms. Baxter said, waggling one of her handkerchiefs as she nervously pulled it out of her sleeve, “that—and of course we are all aware of it—that it is now more essential than ever that all Foster students, but especially council members, conduct themselves both in private and in public in their usual exemplary fashion. We are more in the public eye than we may realize—why, just last week I was in Tuscan’s—Tuscan’s, mind you, that enormous department store—and a saleslady asked if I taught at Foster and said wasn’t it exciting about the campaign and wasn’t Foster a wonderful school.” Ms. Baxter smiled and dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief. “How wonderful for us all to be able to assure Foster parents and future Foster parents, by our own example, of Foster’s highly moral atmosphere. Even outsiders are beginning to see that we are indeed special—that is one of the exciting things about the campaign—what an inspiring opportunity it gives us all!”

“Well put, Ms. Baxter,” said Mrs. Poindexter, beaming at her; Ms. Baxter smiled modestly.

“Now we know why she had Baxter come,” Mary Lou whispered to Conn and me.

“I’m sure we would all like to show Ms. Baxter our agreement and thank her for reminding us of our duty,” said Mrs. Poindexter, looking around the room. Ms. Stevenson seemed to be thinking about clearing away the Coke cans. That seemed like a good idea to me, too, so I gave Mrs. Poindexter a perfunctory nod and then started to get up, reaching for the tray. But Ms. Stevenson glared at me and I realized that I was going too far.

Sally said, “Thank you, Ms. Baxter,” and started clapping, so the rest of us did, too.

“Thank you,” said Ms. Baxter, still with the modest smile, “thank you—but your best thanks will be to continue to show the world—and to help your fellow students show the world also—that Foster students are indeed a cut above. For—we—” she sang suddenly, launching into the most rousing but also the most ridiculous of our school songs, “are—jolly good Fosters, for we are jolly good Fosters …”

Of course we all sang along with her. It was a little sad, because none of us, except Sally and, at least outwardly, Walt, was really very enthusiastic. And there were those two old women, whale and pilot fish, eagle and sparrow, heads back, mouths open wide, eyes shining, singing as if they were both desperately trying to be fifteen years old again.

Late that afternoon when I got home from the meeting—trying to tell myself I shouldn’t call Annie, because she should rest without interruption for her performance—Chad met me at the door, waving a long envelope that said Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the corner, and sure enough, it was an acceptance! It’s amazing what hearing that someone wants you to go to their college can do for your ego, but when it’s also the only college you really want to go to, and the only one you think can teach you what you have to know in order to be the only thing you want to be—well, it’s like being handed a ticket to the rest of your life, or to a big part of it, anyway. I couldn’t hold all that in, so I did call Annie after all, and she’d gotten into Berkeley.

We decided to go to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden the next day no matter what, to celebrate spring and acceptances and the coming of vacation next week—hers started the same day mine did and lasted as long, because there were going to be special teachers’ meetings at her school after the official public-school vacation week. Then, when I got off the phone and went to the dinner table, Dad produced a bottle of champagne, and so it was a very merry Winthrop family who went uptown that night to hear Annie sing.

I don’t think it was the champagne I’d drunk that made Annie look so beautiful that night, because I noticed that most people in the audience had dreamy, faraway looks on their faces when she was singing. For me it was as if the concert were hers alone, although three other kids sang and someone played the piano—very well, Mom said. Annie had on a long light blue corduroy skirt that looked like velvet and a creamy long-sleeved blouse, and her hair was down over one shoulder, gleaming so softly under the lights that I found myself clenching my hands at one point because I wanted so much to touch it. Annie had said that she’d be singing more for me than for anyone else that night, and that there was one song in particular she wanted me to hear. When she began the only Schubert song on the program, she raised her eyes way over the heads of the audience and her special look came over her face, and it was as if she poured everything she was into her voice. Listening to her brought tears to my eyes, though the song was in German and I couldn’t understand the words; it made me want to give Annie all of myself, forever. “Of course that was the one that was for you!” she said the next day in the Botanic Garden when I asked her about the Schubert.

There were hills of daffodils behind us, and clouds of pink blossoms, and the smell of flowers everywhere. Annie sang the Schubert again, in English this time:

“Softly goes my song’s entreaty Through the night to thee. In the silent wots I wait thee. Come, my love, to me …”

“It’s called Standchen,” she said when she’d sung it all. And then: “I’ve missed you much, Liza, having to spend all that time rehearsing.” Two elderly people came toward us, a woman carrying a carrying bag and a man carrying a small camera tripod. Their free hands were linked, and when they’d gone by, so were Annie’s and mine. We walked a lot, hand in hand when there was no one around and once or twice even when there was, because no one seemed to care and the chance of our meeting anyone who would—family, people from our schoois—seemed remote. Sometimes Annie told me the names of the flowers we passed and sometimes I made purposely wrong guesses. “Tulip,” I said once for daffodil. Annie laughed her wonderful laugh, so I said

“Oak?” when we passed a whole bank of little white flowers, and she laughed again, harder. We ended up in the Japanese Garden, which is just about the prettiest part of the whole place, especially in spring when nearly every tree is blossoming. We sat under a tree on the other side of the lake from the entrance and talked, and caught and gave each other the blossoms that floated down and brushed against us. We talked a little about Sally, I remember, and how pious she’d gotten, and I told Annie about the special council meeting and how Ms. Baxter and Mrs. Poindexter had sung the song. And we talked about the recital and how it was the last one Annie would ever be in at her high school. That brought us to a subject we’d been avoiding: graduation and the summer Annie was going to be a counselor at a music camp in California—I’d known that for a while, but I don’t think it really hit either of us till that day that we’d be away from each other from June 24, which was when Annie had to be at the camp, till next Christmas, assuming we both came home from college then. Until college acceptances had come, college had seemed so far in the future it couldn’t touch us, like old age, maybe. But now it was as if, faced with it, we wanted to go back and think it over again—we were being swept along on decisions we’d made before we’d even met each other, and suddenly we didn’t feel as triumphant about getting in as we had yesterday when we’d first heard. We’d been sitting very close together, talking about that, and then we got very silent. After a few minutes, though, we turned toward each other and—I don’t know how to explain this, really, but as soon as our eyes met, I knew that I didn’t want to be sitting outdoors in public with Annie, having to pretend we were just friends, and I could tell she didn’t either, and we both knew that there was no problem now about our not wanting the same thing at the same time, and not much problem about being scared. “There’s no place, is there?” Annie said—at least I think she did. If Annie did speak, I probably answered, “No,” but I’m not sure if we actually said the words. We sat there for quite a while longer, Annie’s head on my shoulder, until some people came around to our side of the lake. Then we just sat there, not being able to touch each other.