Friday Mornings at Nine (14 page)

Instead, she glanced at her watch. “I have to go soon.”

His eyes widened. “Really? But it’s nearly lunchtime. I was hoping we could grab a bite at the Winter Palace.”

She pressed her lips together. “I don’t think—”

“Just wait.” He moved toward her, shooting her one of his Gimme-A-Chance-And-I’ll-Charm-You looks. Funny. He could still pull that off. “Let’s see if we can secure a reservation on this room, and then we’ll talk about lunch, okay?”

She shrugged. He’d have to drag her in there, North America’s Best Chicken Kiev or not. As for the Vat, maybe they’d get lucky and be told by the university administration that the chosen location was unavailable. Then they’d have to hold their CPU reunion in the psychology building or something. Somewhere she could feel numb and indifferent.

But it turned out to be no problem for two alumni to rent out the Techie Lounge for a night—given a couple of months’ advanced notice, given the purpose was for a former campus club’s reunion and given their readily available $150 deposit check written out and handed over to the C-IL-U treasurer.

The Winter Palace was, to Jennifer’s relief, not so easy a place to secure a reservation, however. Not for lunch. Not for anything. The building was gone.

“Aw, crap,” David said, staring at the empty lot just off campus where “their” Russian restaurant had been. “They tore it down.” He craned his neck to scan up and down the block. “Maybe they just moved to a new location.”

But when they asked a college boy on a bike, and then an elderly lady with a dog and, finally, some businessman in a dark blue suit if any of them knew what had happened to it, they all said, “No.”

A store owner in the mini strip mall next door explained the rest. “Tore the place down, ’bout three years ago now. Owners moved to Florida.”

As the man answered a few more of David’s questions, Jennifer’s cell phone rang. She backed away several feet, recognized the number and answered. “Hi, Michael. What’s going on?”

Her husband could not, thankfully, see her grimace or spot the tremors in her hands, but David missed nothing—not even while finishing up his conversation with the store owner. Jennifer could feel his eyes on her—watching, waiting, analyzing.

Michael, who sometimes called on his lunch break, babbled on about the school’s standardized testing, some student-adviser meeting he had that afternoon, the grading he needed to finish up that night. She mostly murmured, “Oh, okay,” to anything he said, including his suggestion that he could pick up a pizza on the way home if she and the girls wouldn’t mind eating an hour later.

She sighed. What did it matter?

Michael wasn’t a bad man, despite his cluelessness, nor was David purely evil, despite how he’d hurt her once. Being sandwiched between them—Michael jabbering in her ear and David scowling in her line of vision—she couldn’t help but wonder how she was to have been attracted to (and to have, at one time, attracted) these two very different men. These two sides of her. Did either of them really know her? She doubted it, but perhaps that was her fault. Perhaps she had never been fully honest with either of them about herself. Perhaps she had projected just enough of what they had wanted to see and hear that each man assumed she was who they had wanted her to be.

When Michael finally rang off, she snapped the phone shut, only to have to deal with David, who had finished his conversation with the store owner and moved to within a foot and a half of her, the intensity of his gaze always startling at so close a distance.

“He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” he asked her point-blank, his tone a mix of accusation and curiosity.

She shook her head, surprised by his surprise. “But,” she fired back, recognizing the probable source of his insecurity and consequent attack, “I’ll bet Marcia doesn’t know
you’re
here either.”

He didn’t immediately answer, but she saw she’d struck at the truth. “In the ways of sneakiness we always were well matched,” she whispered, a torrent of memories accompanying her words. She and David, lying convincingly to the resident assistants about their whereabouts in the dorm during a series of unnecessary fire alarms. Blatantly cheating on their end of the year Spanish project. Stealing a couple of programming tests off the professor’s computer—not that they’d needed help with the class. Just to do it. Stuff she probably wouldn’t have even thought of doing had she not been following David’s lead. But, nevertheless, she had pulled off those pranks without a hitch, which said something about her, didn’t it?

David had enough sense not to challenge her or question her meaning. “The Winter Palace is gone,” he said instead. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t grab a quick lunch somewhere else. You up for burgers or something?”

“Thanks, David, but no.” She glanced pointedly at her watch. “I’d like not to have to rush home. If I leave now, I’ll get there about fifteen minutes ahead of the girls.”

He nodded, but she knew David never gave in easily. She could almost see the board game behind his eyes, the strategy in his moves, as he said, “See you on November thirteenth, then? It’ll be here before we know it.”

“True.” She broke away from his magnetic circle and took a few independent steps in the direction of her car. He motioned to follow her, but she waved him off. “Until November.”

And even though he got in the last word—“We’ll be in touch, Jenn,” he called after her—she felt relief bordering on euphoria that she was the one who got to leave
him
behind this time.

Late September through early October

F
or the three consecutive weeks that followed, the Glendale Grove trio did their best impression of Shell Game Friendship.

Tamara would run into Bridget and both would quickly scoot away. Jennifer would slide into the middle of the other two but, after a momentary pause, would soon be elsewhere herself. There was a great shuffling of insincere greetings and relieved departures, their biggest problems remaining hidden beneath an impenetrable bowl—like a tightly cupped palm over their hearts—with no one admitting to what lurked, alone and hard, underneath the smooth veneer.

The day after Jennifer’s face-to-face encounter with David, she left a message on Bridget’s home voice mail (when she was certain the other woman would be showering), pleading illness and her inability to make it to the Indigo Moon that morning. In truth, she needed time to herself, time to think, the lack of which had caused a particularly painful malady that Jennifer reasoned could surely fall under the subheader of Sickness.

Thus, considering Technology Avoidance to be her Rx for the day, Jennifer did not respond to Bridget’s phone call of concern, Tamara’s e-mail asking how “the event” at the university went or even David’s follow-up text message saying:
Thx 4 the visit.
Really, they all just needed to give her a damn break.

In light of Jennifer’s absence, Bridget considered cancelling out on the Friday coffee date herself. But she knew it would be a cowardly reaction, and she’d been practicing boldness in cooking (amazing what curry could do!) and wanted to extend the experience to life.

However, the visit itself proved dissatisfying to both women, though Glendale Grove onlookers would have noticed nothing amiss, except the notable lack of one regular member of the threesome. Not so unusual considering their several years of get-togethers. Even inevitable, one might say. But the morning’s omission really threw the remaining two off course.

Bridget’s resolve of boldness was doused by Tamara’s strained demeanor. For once, the latter was cagey and nearly introspective. She answered Bridget’s inquiries about her aunt’s funeral with measured civility and only one brief instance of moist emotion, but she divulged little else of a personal nature.

Bridget, having already learned her lesson about sharing her fears with Tamara, wouldn’t give away anything either. She merely deflected Tamara’s halfhearted questions back to their speculative discussion on Jennifer and how the meeting with her ex-boyfriend the day before might have gone.

With focused effort and forced graciousness, the pair managed to stay at the Indigo Moon all by themselves for one hour and seventeen minutes. Not that either was counting.

Tamara, acutely aware of the slipper of mistrust that had wedged itself in the door between her and Bridget, could not, nevertheless, work up the energy to yank it loose, let alone remove it altogether. She had too much on her mind anyway to be playing junior high clique games. She didn’t blame Jennifer for canceling out, and she couldn’t bring herself to feel hurt by their friend’s avoidance.

Bridget, by contrast, had always felt instinctively more comfortable when Jennifer was present at their morning meetings, and so found herself startled by the suspicion that a rift may have begun long before—not just with Tamara, but with Jennifer, too. She’d noticed a drifting between them that had been present back in the summer and, possibly, even in the spring, but she’d tried to shut it out and think only of the three-plus years of good discussions and warmth. But the clues were in the little things. The increasingly longer conversational silences. The unanswered phone calls. The lack of
realness
when the problems turned deep and dark, despite the many hours the women had spent together in the past.

Perhaps, Bridget thought, Jennifer had been easier to be around simply because she’d hidden herself so successfully. And perhaps Bridget had been fooled over the years into believing they’d had a genuine intimacy when it may have merely been careful self-protection on Jennifer’s part, drenched in a sheen of polite attentiveness. It hurt her to think so, but she couldn’t rule it out.

So, when the next two Fridays brought with them a natural reprieve from the stresses of their coffee gatherings (parent/teacher conferences one week and the four-day, wraparound Columbus Day weekend the next), none of the three women experienced any emotion akin to disappointment.

Of course, while all of the ladies may have had a much needed break from each other, they were hardly immune to the troubles at home. In fact, their required and concentrated attention in
that
quarter only intensified those problems.

Jennifer, for instance, was getting the sense that too much time scrutinizing the behavior of her elder daughter would lead to little good for either of them. And parent/teacher conferences, never one of her favorite events under the best of circumstances, proved to be a gateway to a series of uncomfortable yet unavoidable discussions.

She’d been pretending to listen with rapt attention to Veronica’s U.S. history teacher, Mr. Ryerson, a wiry, genteel man who had the gaze of an impassioned hawk. Having survived all of Shelby’s conferences relatively unscathed (“Your daughter is a bright student but quiet in class discussions…”), Jennifer had not expected to encounter any difficulties with the reports of her more talkative daughter. But Mr. Ryerson had no less than six pages of notes on Veronica.

“She doesn’t have trouble with the class work,” he told her, “when she pays attention to it. But I’ve noticed a steady drop in her concentration over the course of the first quarter.”

Jennifer fidgeted with her watchband. “Uh-huh.” Veronica was a teenager—what’d he expect? She’d gotten a B for the grading period. It wasn’t like she was failing.

As if guessing her silent argumentativeness, Mr. Ryerson continued, “I realize high school history is about the last thing a typical fourteen- or fifteen-year-old would be interested in, but I suspect Veronica’s lack of attention has far more to do with a triangular drama that’s playing out in the classroom than with any real resistance to the Boston Tea Party.”

“A triangular drama?” she said, finally making eye contact with the man.

“Yes.” The teacher sifted through a few pages of notes. “Not to name names, but your daughter seems to be…socially involved with two of the boys in the class.”

“Two of them? I only knew about Tim Taylor.”

He nodded. “Tim is one of the boys. He sat to Veronica’s right for most of the quarter until I had to move their seats a few weeks ago. They’d taken constant texting to new levels.”

Jennifer squinted at him. “But the school has a policy about cell phone use. They’re only allowed between classes or after school.”

Mr. Ryerson gave her a significant look. “Exactly.”

“Oh,” Jennifer said. “So, I take it you took their cell phones away for the class period and then…?”

“And then they borrowed phones from friends. After I discovered that ploy, they resorted to old-fashioned note passing. But as distracting as this behavior was, most of the teachers in the building are fairly lenient about cell phone infractions and the like. So many kids text each other in secret, we would have class sizes of ten if we sent everyone who’d abused the policy once or twice to the office. No, it wasn’t until another boy—Erick—started getting involved that the situation worsened.”

Jennifer murmured his name. “She’s never mentioned an Erick.”

“Erick sat directly behind Veronica until I moved his seat, too. He’s a new student this year, a sophomore, actually, and very charismatic. He and your daughter have really, uh, hit it off.”

“They’re flirting?”

The teacher laughed. “Teen
flirting
in public is generally a nonverbal thing. Lots of looks and smiles, the occasional rude gesture. Sometimes, when the kids are popular and confident, it morphs into giggling, chatty conversation and suggestive language. It does not routinely include inappropriate touching or grappling, or it crosses the line from flirting into wrestling.”

Jennifer gulped. Tim and now this Erick guy have been
grappling
with Veronica? “They’re touching her?”

He shook his head. “Most of the time, she’s the one touching them. Even with their seats in opposite corners of the room from hers, she’ll often make a point to pass by one of their desks when she gets up. The class tends to find it all very funny, so even when I don’t see it happening, their laughter gives her away.”

Jennifer felt a spasm of embarrassment as she thought of her extroverted, popular daughter. Was this really how Veronica acted in class? “I’m so sorry she’s been this disruptive, Mr. Ryerson, but why is this the first time I’m hearing about this problem? I would’ve liked to stop it immediately.”

“It’s progressively worsened,” he said. “Initially, I’ll admit, I didn’t think the kids’ behavior was anything out of the ordinary, but since the Homecoming committee’s activities have accelerated in the past two weeks, so have their in-class antics. I had a discussion with the three of them after class on Tuesday, and all of the kids promised to tone it way down. The boys made an effort on Wednesday and Thursday—Tim, in particular, was quite subdued—but Veronica kept at it, primarily by sneaking up behind Erick and running her hands down his chest…and a little lower.”

“Oh, crap,” she whispered, not quite under her breath.

Mr. Ryerson smiled kindly, though his gaze pierced right through her skull. “You’re going to need to talk with your daughter. I spoke with the principal this morning, and Veronica’s on probation in my class. She’ll be suspended for two days and moved out of my room within one week if that behavior continues.”

At Glendale Grove Elementary, Bridget was hearing equally disturbing news from Evan’s first-grade teacher, Miss Welsh.

“I’m glad you were able to come in today,” Miss Welsh said, gently but not at all like her usual, bubbly, third-year-teacher self. “I’ve kept the next conference slot open, so we’d have a little extra time. Mrs. Molinelli, the school social worker, is going to stop by in a few minutes.”

The social worker?
“Why?” Bridget asked in alarm. She kept Evan clean and well fed. She made sure he got enough sleep and wasn’t late to school. She never forgot to pack his lunch, his mid-morning snack or his gym shoes. She wasn’t a negligent mom, was she?

“You know, I’m still pretty new to the school district,” the teacher said. “So there’s a lot about the kids’ emotional development that I’m still learning. But I’ve been noticing how Evan’s been really withdrawn lately and, when I question him about it, he gets irritated. There
does
seem to be something bothering him, though, yet he always denies there’s a problem. Have you noticed him acting differently at home or showing signs like these?”

Well, of course Bridget noticed
that!
But she had three children. Each of them had their own personality. And Evan had always—
always
—been her supersensitive one. She tried to explain this to Miss Welsh.

The teacher nodded. “I can see that about him. He’s very attuned to the needs and hurts of the other kids. But—” She paused at the knock on the classroom door and the subsequent appearance of the social worker.

“Hello, ladies. I’m Mrs. Molinelli,” she said with a smile at Bridget. “Thanks for letting me join you.”

“Hi,” Bridget murmured, the worry in her gut expanding.

Mrs. Molinelli jumped right in. “I’ve observed Miss Welsh’s class several times,” she explained. “And we’re both concerned about Evan’s behavior this year. Back in the spring, I’d spoken to him and his classmates when I observed the kindergartens, and there was no sign of the frustration we’re noticing in him this year. Are there any…situations at home that might be upsetting him? Any kind of family issues that could be affecting his routine?”

Bridget began to shake her head but then stopped. “I started working again in the summer,” she admitted. “Just part time, though, and it’s only during the hours the kids are in school, so I’m still always home when they get back. You think that could be it?”

Mrs. Molinelli scribbled something in a spiral notebook. “It’s possible, but there are a lot of possibilities.” She scribbled some more. “Has he mentioned being disturbed by anything in particular lately? A classmate? A sibling? Did you have a pet or family member pass away in recent months or experience any kind of marital discord that might cause him trauma?”

Bridget blinked at the woman. She knew the school had to ask questions like these. That they were bound by law to report any potential abuse or to follow up in situations where a child might be in physical or emotional danger. But for all of Evan’s sensitiveness, Bridget couldn’t believe there was something going on behind her back at home that would affect him so profoundly. And, sure, she’d had some marital concerns lately, but Evan couldn’t have picked up on
that,
could he?

“No.” But then she remembered that day in the backyard when he said his stomach hurt, and she told the two women about that. And about him mentioning some kids being mean. “He didn’t mention any names, though. And he’s really tired by the time he gets home, so maybe it’s just the longer day.”

Miss Welsh agreed to an extent. “The transition from half-day kindergarten to full-day first grade is a challenge for many of the children. But school’s been in session for almost six weeks now. Most everyone else who had difficulty with the extra hours seemed to adjust several weeks ago. But it’s possible that’s the problem. He may just be more sensitive to change than most.”

Bridget’s heart tightly embraced that theory.

“We are, however, noticing Evan going further and further into his shell,” Mrs. Molinelli said, flipping to an earlier page in her spiral. “The behavior we’re seeing in him—his hesitation in playing with other children at recess, his inhibition in the classroom, his unwillingness to be engaged by either adults or other kids and his quick temper when forced to interact—all of these are especially unusual given the report from his kindergarten teacher that he was ‘a kind, bighearted boy who loves to laugh and play with blocks and other building material with his classmates.’” She looked up from her notes. “We’d like you to talk with him. Keep an eye on him at home. Perhaps he’s not getting enough sleep, or he’s being bullied by a sibling or someone on the bus. He
has
been really tired lately, so maybe whatever the problem is has been keeping him awake at night and the fear of the conflict is giving him stomachaches.”