Set Me Free (24 page)

“Look, it’s great by me if you want to be this hands-off.” She was already standing. Why did she make me feel as if I was
losing?

“I plan to check in on you.” It was feeble, and I knew it.

Helen turned and smiled, and her look made me feel small. “You do that,” she said ever so sweetly. “I really hope to see you
at a rehearsal or two.” Then she was gone. In the moments after she left, before I grudgingly set to grading papers, I sat
at my desk and tried to take comfort in the vision of a lone Amelia Barrow showing up for Helen’s first session. Meanwhile,
out in the hallway, Helen leaned against my door. She tried to calm herself. Her eyes were stinging with self-righteousness.
She dropped her smile. She unclenched her fists. She didn’t know why winning was so important. She didn’t know why proving
herself to me mattered so much.

C
AL

Stolen, Oregon
Friday, October 11, 1996

M
y meetings with Helen and Elliot had not gone Well. I suppose I could have just called up Benson i^X w %J Country Day and
screamed like a maniac at the headmaster’s administrative assistant, threatening medicine circles and rain dances, but that
would have put them off only for a while. I figured the best way to proceed was to gather evidence, subtly, carefully, cheerfully,
and do my best to sublimate my hostility. So I cornered Amelia after class that Friday afternoon. At its best, it was a halfhearted
gesture. I had no idea our short conversation would be half as fruitful as it was.

She was already in the hallway by the time I extracted myself from behind the desk. Yes, I sat behind my desk sometimes, and
no, I know that isn’t “progressive,” but sometimes a teacher is tired. Sometimes we don’t feel like perching on the edge of
our desks, texts splayed open in our palms, tweed jackets slung over our shoulders. When I got to her, Amelia was standing
in front of her open locker, removing two bulky plastic bags, her jacket, her backpack, her lunch bag.

“You have a minute?”

She glanced at her watch and tilted her head apologetically to the side. “You feel like walking with me?”

“Sure, sure,” I said, doing my own calculations. Elliot would be safely ensconced in his office by now, nowhere near the main
house. “Let me grab my bag.”

We met outside. It was a gorgeous fall day. We’d had a fine rain the night before—unusually blustery, presaging winter—and
it had made the earth soft and spongy. It brought the smell of the high desert up from ground level and into our chests: pine,
sagebrush, the sweet tangle of juniper where it hits you at the back of the throat. I relieved Amelia of one of her bags.

“So what’s up?” She led the way, cutting a path away from the building.

“We haven’t had a chance to catch up, have we? Since you’ve been back.”

“No, I guess we haven’t,” Amelia said, looking at me funny. “If this is about that Pearl Poet paper, look, I’m okay with the
B-plus. I’m not interested in rewriting it.”

I laughed. “No, it’s not about the paper.”

“Oh. You just kept reiterating that in class today, and I think your idea of rewriting is theoretically a good one. But I
only think it’d be worth all that work if I’d gotten less than a B.”

“Good thinking,” I said rather absently I realized we weren’t walking in the direction of the house. We were walking away
from campus, into the wilderness. But I had her bag and I wanted to keep her talking, so I didn’t mention it. “Any wild plans
for Columbus Day weekend?” (Look, I know it’s not politically correct, but the truth of it is, we at Ponderosa Academy like
having days off. Even if it’s because of a genocidal maniac and the race that followed him into these United States. We take
every holiday off we can, thanks to my early suggestions. Columbus Day. Martin Luther King, Jr., Day. If Flag Day fell during
the school year, we’d take it off too. Hell, we’d take off Simchat Torah if it were up to me.) Amelia’s answer was an eye
roll, so I changed the subject. “How was Benson Country Day?”

She shrugged. “Fine. Good. Just wasn’t for me, I guess.”

“How so?”

“For one, you have to wear a uniform. Which is about the dumbest thing ever. I mean, I guess I know why they do it, so that
there’s this equality and everything. But there’s never equality, because somebody has really expensive shoes, or someone
else has diamond earrings. Anyway, everyone knows who’s on scholarship and who isn’t.”

“You weren’t the only one boarding there, right?”

“It’s a day school with some boarders. I think they want to expand that, though.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Awfully
interested in my education, aren’t you? You just now deciding to take your duties as a godfather seriously?”

I lied. “I read an article about Benson. I’m just interested to see if they’re living up to their promise.”

“It’s nothing like this, if that’s what you’re asking.” She gestured around us. “They have landscapers. They have actual staff
members, not just volunteers. They have
money.
But. You know. I think the kids also miss out a little.”

“Oh? Like how?”

Amelia sized me up, smiled, looked at me warmly. And then she opened up. “Like there was this one teacher? Really popular
with the kids. Really nice, accessible.
Too
accessible, turns out.” Amelia shot me a knowing look. I got the significance.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“No,” Amelia said. She shrugged. “There were no consequences. The school sided with him. Protected him. Just sent him to another
school.” She shook her head, laughed. “I mean, you and my dad would have
killed
the guy.” She stopped in her tracks, concern flooding her face. “Oh, shit. Cal. You’ve got to promise me you won’t tell Elliot
any of this, okay? He doesn’t know—and I don’t—oh shit…” She pleaded with her eyes. “Can you keep that a secret? Please?”

Should have been a moment of crisis. Should have presented me with a conflict between my loyalties as standard-bearing teacher
vs. godfather. Not to mention that this just might be the thing to nip
Benson in the bud. Most important to me was the little thrill I felt at having been Amelia’s confidant in a secret she was
withholding from her father. She trusted me; she
entrusted
me with a secret. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and she wanted me to agree not to notice.

“Anyway, we’re here,” she said.

We were cresting a hill and looking down at the old shed Elliot had been working on with some of the kids. It dawned on me
who was staying there, and by then it was too late. The door opened and Ferdinand bounded up to us as Helen waved from the
doorway. “Hey!” Amelia’s hands were too full for me to shove the bag back in them. And if I had gone that direction, my next
step would have been to turn tail and run. I wanted Helen to think I had more dignity than that.

“Hey!” called Amelia, her voice full of light. She tore down the hill and left me alone to fend off the stupid dog. By the
time I got to the shack or shed or whatever it was, Amelia was inside and Helen was leaning against the door frame. I didn’t
like her watching me.

“How kind of you,” she said, her voice twinkling. She called her dog to her, but he just kept slobbering on my hand. I tried
hard not to feel mocked.

“Yeah,” I said lamely.

She reached out her hands and took the bag, peering inside. “Oooh, clean towels. Amelia, you shouldn’t have!”

“I thought you could replenish your stash at the gym.” Amelia was huddled over Helen’s bunk, stripping the bed. My eyes adjusted
to the darkness inside. The dog wouldn’t leave me alone, so I crossed my arms as I sized up Helen’s new home. The space was
small, but there were already pictures on the walls, an oilcloth on the desk that doubled as a table, flowers in a mason jar.
The place looked positively pastoral.

“Amelia’s been taking good care of me.” Helen turned to me conspiratorially, the way adults do when they are speaking fondly
of children or the elderly. “She keeps all my affairs in order. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

“You know, it’s going to get cold in here.” I couldn’t help it. All I wanted to say were mean things.

Helen didn’t blink an eye. “That’s been a concern of mine too. But Elliot insists we’ll figure it out. I have more comforters
than I know what to do with. And the woodstove.”

I grunted.

“I’ve made us tea.” Helen moved into the kitchen area, which was about three steps from where we stood.

“You know,” said Amelia, “people lived like this not too long ago, Cal. Like, half a century. And they didn’t have woodstoves
to keep them warm, or water purifiers, or hot showers to go to.”

I grunted again.

“Here we are,” said Helen in a chipper voice. She handed me a cup of foul-smelling boiling water.

“And they didn’t have gas stoves to heat their water!” continued Amelia.

“So.” Helen sat on the newly smoothed bunk and handed Amelia her cup of tea. They sat side by side, and I was forced into
the chair. Ferdinand lay down on my feet, trapping me in the most uncomfortable seat I have ever occupied.

“Do you want some?” asked Amelia. “I feel bad. We took both your mugs.”

“I’ve been drinking tea all day,” said Helen, picking a piece of lint off Amelia’s jeans.

“Hey, do we have to read all of
Midsummer Night’s Dream
for Wednesday, or will we only be discussing Act One?”

“I’d like it if you could read the whole thing.” Helen looked warily in my direction as she answered Amelia.

Amelia was the one I addressed. “You’re adding Shakespeare to your busy schedule?”

Amelia shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I take a Shakespeare class with one of the preeminent Shakespeare experts of our time?”

I tried to drink the tea. Everyone was being so
nice.
I added, midsip, midgag,“I didn’t know there was going to be a class. In addition to the play.”

“It’s not
poison,”
Helen said. “The Bard will not
kill
people when measured out in large doses.” I could tell I’d gotten to her. Amelia was lost. But then Helen regained herself
and was stronger than ever: “Look.” The whole building seemed to stand at attention around us—the furniture, the windows,
the ceiling. Her voice implied a frankness I thought I’d welcome. “I know you’re upset about the whole Benson thing.”

“What whole Benson thing?” Amelia eyed me suspiciously.

Helen didn’t answer. She kept talking to me. “I would like for us to be friends, Cal. We got off on the wrong foot. But you’ve
got to see things from my perspective, don’t you? Just dropped here, with no idea what to expect. I feel I’ve walked into
a lion’s den. But I have a job to do.”

“What
whole Benson thing?” Amelia repeated.

I coughed and looked into my tea as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. Helen answered for me. “An exchange
program your dad wants to set up.”

“Oh my God.” Amelia set her mug on the floor, then stood, nearly bumping her head on the slanted ceiling. “Oh my
God.”
She looked very fierce. I could see her mind putting together our conversation. “You were trying to get information out of
me?” She shot me a look of pure alarm, utter disappointment. “I can’t believe I trusted you. Cal, you promised. You better
keep what I told you to yourself.” She looked righteous. Just like Elliot. “Promise me, Cal. On everything you hold dear.”

“I promise,” I said, trying not to smile at her solemnity.

I doubt she heard me. She careened out of the house, and because there was nothing reasonable to slam—the ancient wood slab
set on rusty hinges would have broken the house down around us—and because there was wilderness around us, a few moments later,
it seemed she had never been there in the first place.

“Hmm.” I looked down into my mug again and swirled the sodden leaves back and forth. “That didn’t go very well, did it?”

“No,” Helen said. The amusement in her voice made me look up. She was smiling.

“What?”

“I’m glad to see I’m not the only one locked in a little war with you. Makes me feel better about myself. Makes me recognize
my actual odds of mending things between us.”

I’ll tell you the truth right here. It made me smile to hear her say that. It was as if I were King Tut and she cut through
all my mummy bandages and found my tiny, ossified carcass inside. It was as if she understood that carcass, as if she weren’t
disgusted by it at all, by its smell or look or its ugliness. It was familiar to her. There was something funny there, something
strange and good about her trust in me, about her willingness to be amused by my arrogance and anger, and it made me laugh.
I sat in her tiny shack and laughed my ass off until my stomach hurt so bad I swore I’d never laugh again.

A
MELIA

Stolen, Oregon
Friday, October 11, 1996