The Twisted Thread (27 page)

Fred drove to campus quickly. He had to see Porter before Last Tea, which was where announcements about faculty departures were always made. He also, he confessed to himself, needed to tell the head he was leaving before he changed his mind.

He was in luck. He parked his car and saw Porter striding across the Quad. He looked wrung out, but that distinguishes him from no one right now, Fred thought. Appropriately enough, Fred asked if he could talk with him about next year in the shadow of the statue of the school's founder, the old warlord. Porter said, “Well, at least you don't want to talk to me about Tamsin.” Why would he need to do that? Fred asked, surprised, and Porter said, “I don't have time to explain. Check your e-mail, and tell me what's going on. You look like you've seen a ghost, Fred.”

“I'm resigning, Porter. I'm moving to Brooklyn to paint again,” Fred told him, and he explained that he had an unprecedented opportunity and he was going to take it. As he spoke, he noticed how the season had ripened into luscious fullness: the leaves had turned a thick green, the lawns were dense as horses' manes. Every twig, blade of grass, and rock seemed outlined in rich, tender light. Fred had never felt so attached to the academy. And
attached
was the word his mind selected because it had to settle on one, but his body felt the loss of his connection to this world in a hundred places.

Below a gray layer of fatigue, Porter looked as he always did: at ease in his height and handsomeness, his voice as full and round and soothing as it had always been. “What the hell is going on, Fred?” he asked gently. Was it this investigation and the situation Armitage was facing? Was it his load of courses? He launched in on ways that he might keep Fred at the academy. A reduced teaching schedule, support for his work during the summer. A new dorm? Fewer advisees? He deployed all the usual blandishments: the excellence of Fred's teaching, the art program couldn't sustain his loss, did Fred know how many students and parents had identified him as the teacher who had made the most difference to their or their children's education at Armitage? Fred did know, because Porter had assiduously made sure to pass on praise, knowing how useful it was to feel known and visible in what one did.

But as Porter wheedled and badgered, Fred observed two things. The first was that none of the lures Porter dangled reached him anywhere that mattered. It was when he thought about painting that he actually felt alive, and the feeling wasn't precisely a good one: it was a tingle, close to pain and a near relation to panic. It made his skin crawl and his heart thrash in his chest, and it was as vibrant as he had felt in years.

He knew, too, that it wasn't only the thought of painting again. He had the discovery of Llewellan's hatefulness to thank as well, and that he couldn't face discussing with Porter. He kept saying, “Porter, I really appreciate your concern and I am sorry to leave you and the department in the lurch, but I have made up my mind.” He was done with this institution and with institutions like this.

The second thing he noticed about Porter was that his heart wasn't in the coaxing. He sounded and looked the same; he was as articulate as always. He looked Fred earnestly in the eye. But he doesn't mean it, Fred thought and felt a burst of pity for the man. Was this hesitation new? Had Claire's death revealed Porter to be as human as the rest of them? Was it, Fred thought, just that we needed him to be better than we were so we stopped being able to see what was actually there?

Then all of a sudden, Porter stopped talking. He peered a little more closely at Fred and said, with some surprise, “I'm not making one bit of difference, am I? You just don't want to do this anymore. I could offer you two years off and a chance to come back at double the pay and you wouldn't take it. You're done, aren't you, Fred?” And as he said this, he stood to his full, patrician height and shook his head, not with amazement or scorn, Fred saw, but with envy. Porter, too, wanted to be done with Armitage, with the life he had made for himself and his family. He, too, yearned for something different. Fred was nearly as tall as Porter, he realized all of a sudden. How funny, he thought, he had always assumed Porter was so much bigger than he was.

He went back to his apartment and collapsed on his bed. When he woke, it was 5:45. He had only a short time before he had to get ready. He buttoned his shirt slowly and dragged a comb across his unruly hair and pulled on a battered blue sport coat, reserved exclusively for events like this and the Christmas concert. Just as the clock in the chapel struck six, he walked out the door. He'd be slightly late. When he had been a student, and in Llewellan's time as well, Last Tea had taken place at three and was literally that, a decorous tea party complete with the wife of the headmaster serving as mother over a heavy Victorian set and greasy petits fours. Fred's grandmother said her wrist used to ache after Last Tea, the pot was so heavy. The thought of Lucinda serving in that capacity was ridiculous. And it might well have been her suggestion that Porter shift the ritual's tone. He had scheduled it three hours later and added alcohol and decent hors d'oeuvres to the offerings, and everyone had enjoyed themselves a great deal more. The tea set had vanished into a storage room, replaced by tall, utilitarian urns of coffee.

The party was held in the Head's House, and Fred joined the stream of his colleagues at the tall white door. Usually, Lucinda presided over this part of the gathering, but it was Porter this year who took each faculty member's hand and shook it warmly. Glad you could make it, he kept saying. So glad to see you. Wonderful of you to come. Such a terrible way to end the year. So confusing. But it's important to honor certain traditions. He was just as warm with Fred as all the others and, Fred thought, just as distant as before.

Fred immediately poured himself a large glass of Merlot and glanced around for Madeline. He had avoided her since he'd returned from New York. He wasn't proud of that, but she had done just as good a job of sidestepping him. Still, over the past two days, he'd half-hoped to find a note or message or e-mail from her, but there had been nothing.

Then, all of a sudden, she arrived. Long, tangly hair, bright cheeks, mildly, sexily unkempt. She was pumping Porter's hand enthusiastically and taking just a little too long to talk to him. Right behind her, Marie-France Maillot stood there impatiently in her narrow gray skirt and prim white blouse, her face pruning up even more than usual. Everyone knew she harbored a huge and harmless crush on Porter, who almost always spoke his more than serviceable French with her. Marie-France loved correcting his mistakes in gender. Fred smiled but was dismayed to find his stomach contracting heavily at the sight of Madeline.

Then she saw him, too, and on her face was her usual unguarded expression: Fred could see that today it combined anger, attraction, impatience, irritation. And he smiled because even though those angular New Yorkers had her beaten hands down in terms of sophistication, Madeline was ten times more alive than they would ever be. A brimming handful of energy and warmth. And he was leaving her here, where someone was going to scoop her up in a matter of minutes.

She strode over to him, but not before pouring herself a large glass of Merlot, too. “Hey,” she said, “you know what Emily James just told me? ‘Miss Christopher, you look as bad as I feel.' ” Fred laughed. She did look tired, it was true, but he said to her impulsively, and it made her cheeks flare red, “Madeline, you could be dressed like Marie-France and you would still look good.” She took a sip of her wine and dribbled a little on her skirt. “Oh, damn,” she muttered happily. “Are you going?” she asked, clearly not able to help herself. When he told her he was, she said “damn” again and whispered “of course,” because she had just been offered a chance to stay.

Then neither of them felt they could say much, and they stood together in nervous, companionable silence. The room filled with their colleagues, some of them well past usefulness in the classroom but most of them dedicated, bright, orderly people with tidy minds, truly engaged with their subjects and students. Many of them he would miss; some he'd forget altogether, and others he'd be actively happy to leave behind. Harvey Fuller, reptilian as ever, had just poured himself a glass of juice.

And then there was this shadow of loss. It lay across everything. Despite his own uneasy elation, Fred was able to recognize just how deflated, frightened, and undone the community of teachers was. Madeline got dragged off by Grace to the other side of the room, but conversation was muted, although he could hear people muttering about Tamsin and Scotty and poor Jim French's banged-up head. Most people drank coffee and lemonade instead of alcohol. An anxious murmur had replaced the usual end-of-year giddiness. And where was Lucinda? She ought to be here helping Porter out. Regal, stylish, straightforward, she was formidable, and her invisibility made a difference in the event. But just then, Porter cleared his throat, and his colleagues stilled themselves. Most people had to take a fork and clank away at the stem of a wineglass to command attention. All Porter had to do was stand up straighter.

“It's time for the hard part now,” he said. “Saying good-bye to those we know and care about, the ones who have had the audacity to find a job somewhere other than Armitage. And this year, we have more than just that sort of loss to deal with. Before we start, I want to thank you all for your grace and hard work in an absolutely horrifying time. I have never felt closer to you and more blessed to have you as colleagues.” This was more effusive than Porter usually allowed himself to be. Madeline had unhooked herself from Grace and come back to join Fred; they both noticed Porter's voice and looked more closely at him. Then, as if recognizing that his tone was slipping, however slightly, he turned over the event to the chair of the math department, who did his best to sound sad about losing Marcus Lyle, off to pursue his love of fly-fishing. Next came a couple who taught history and had taken positions to be nearer their families in Georgia. Known, expected departures, announced early in the spring, which was the season for change in this world. A couple of advancement people were wished well next, off to do their necessary, grubby work at salaries close to three times what the faculty were paid.

Madeline had sneaked off to fill up her and Fred's glasses and secure a napkinful of goodies. She came back just in time to see Porter claim the room's attention again. “We have a bit more business to attend to,” he said, “other rather unforeseen developments.” Fred looked at the head more closely and knew the man must be referring to him, but who were the others? Could Roddy the Shoddy finally have gotten the ax? “The first is Fred Naylor, our fantastic art teacher,” Porter said and waited to go on as surprise settled over the room. And then he began to speak about Fred, to Fred. What he said and how he said it made Fred blush, and he noticed that Madeline was smiling crazily. She even punched him in the arm, Porter's praise got her so excited. And no one missed Porter's resounding finale: “Art does matter, art may matter more than schools, and Fred, despite his heritage, despite the safety his life here has held for him, has made the harder choice to leave, to find out what he is really good at, to find out who he is.” Fred could barely glance at Porter. Colleagues came up and congratulated him, honestly pleased at his news. “Great opportunity, Fred,” said Forrest Thompson. Even Marcus Lyle gave him a smile. Slowly the hubbub subsided and they composed themselves for the next announcement.

At last, Porter cleared his throat and started again. “After thirty-two years of service,” he said, “Marie-France Maillot has decided to return to Marseilles.” No one had known, and all eyes turned to watch the slender, stiff woman, her eyes trained on the carpet, her fingers taut around the handle of her teacup. “Thirty-two years of being our most treasured emblem of France. Thirty-two years of reminding us every May Day how to sing the ‘Internationale.' ” He spoke about the Mustang, the way she carved her fruit, and the herbs in her windows that thrived despite all the, ahem, cigarette smoke in her apartment. He spoke about the trips she took with kids back in the eighties and the time they all escaped from her and went to the casino in Monaco. He made people laugh, and even more, Fred noticed, he made them see Marie-France as more than the stick-figure caricature of a grammar-mincing Frenchwoman. She emerged in his words as a passionate person, someone worth knowing. And then he did a lovely thing. He had memorized a short poem by Apollinaire, and he spoke it aloud to her. He then gave her a first edition of the poems, found a few years ago in Paris and waiting for this occasion, which he knew had to come sooner or later. Her family would reclaim her, and why not? She was eminently worth reclaiming. Then he leaned to kiss her, once, twice, three times, four. The kiss of the South, the placing of the cheeks on one another,
les bises
. “
Tu me manqueras,
Marie-France,” he said as he leaned in the last time.
“Tu me manqueras.”
I will miss you, in the familiar form. I will miss you.

Then Porter released the frail woman and looked round the room. “I wish I were done, but I am afraid I have to ask for a few more moments of your time.” He gathered in another breath. He looked, Fred realized abruptly, incredibly sad. “I have nothing but the simplest words for it. I must resign from Armitage. This is my last day. I can do nothing but thank you for all you have been to me, done for me, done for the school. You have meant more to me than you could ever know.” Marie-France fell to the ground, and Forrest Thompson bent stiffly to revive her. Stan Lowery spilled his Chardonnay on Porter's dog. Several women screamed. At last, Fred saw Lucinda, who stood as cold and dry as a dead tree in the threshold of the door that led from the foyer to this stiff and stately room. She had twisted a sweater around herself, and she could not look at her husband. “Why, Porter?” asked Stan, for all of them.