OAKRIDGE
A great deal of thought had gone into the decor. The principal’s office managed to successfully interweave the potentially discordant strands of its nuanced message. A clutch of framed diplomas from esteemed colleges was balanced by a beaded deerskin certification from the Narragansett Tribal Authority. The bookcase gave agonizingly balanced time to progressive staples like Spencer, Steiner and Montessori, classical works from Virgil to Shakespeare and global fiction from Bolaño to Walker. Photographs on her walls and desk firmly established Margot’s bona fides as both a compassionate caregiver and a responsible custodian to her precious charges.
“Stephanie. Thank you for coming.”
Margot came around from behind her desk, hand extended with a broad smile only partially dampened by the concerned, vaguely regretful furrow of her brow.
“Can I offer you a tea? Water? Yes, I know we should be using glass, but I’m always afraid someone’s going to cut themselves,” she said, nodding to the neat stack of water bottles on the tea table.
Oakridge had been Jordan’s choice. He would never have admitted it but the private school was a yardstick of his own success. Toward the end when the fiscal levee was starting to crumble, he had put the Oakridge bills on a credit card.
“I wondered if you and I might catch up a bit before I have Sophie join us.” It came across as a question.
“Of course.”
“How have things been, at home?” Margot leaned back in her chair and interlaced her fingers over her expansive chest. Her expression was open, expectant, patient, supportive and utterly free of judgment. Christ, she was good, Stephanie thought.
“Fine. I mean, obviously it’s been a little...challenging for all of us, but fine. Sophie has seemed—” she floundered for a moment before concluding helplessly “—fine.” Margot nodded sagely but said nothing. Waiting.
“She lost her father. I can only imagine how a ten-year-old processes something like that.”
“Of course.” Silence. She would need more. Gossip was the currency here. Yes, your child may stay at our prestigious institution despite beating the crap out of some tormenting bitch, but only if you pay the toll in full. Stephanie sighed.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”
Nothing.
“Jordan, my husband, had been having an affair. Apparently for some time.” Margot’s expression subtly softened and became more attentive. That’s it. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“I never knew about it, but it seems he’d kept an apartment on Marlboro Street. He and this...this woman had been on the way back from the Cape together when the accident happened. Her car rolled down an embankment into a pond. They both drowned. Most of it was kept out of the news but the police were not so discreet. Sophie heard it all. She loved her dad very much. It was terrible for her, particularly for her.” Stephanie glanced up. Confirmation of rumor but no fresh product. She’d need more.
“We weren’t allowed to see him, even the funeral was closed casket. The bodies were in the water for a while and apparently... Well, they wouldn’t let us see the body. I think that was the worst—there was no real closure and Sophie had nightmares for weeks. You know, her father as some hideous bloated zombie lurching out of the water...”
“How awful,” Margot said, shaking her head with an expression of deepest sympathy. She pressed the intercom on her phone. “Would you send Sophie in, please?”
* * *
On the way home Sophie sat sullenly in the backseat even though her mother had been letting her sit up front for months. “You can’t keep doing this sort of thing, you know.” Stephanie glanced at her daughter in the rearview mirror.
“She started it.”
“Yes, but you escalated—Christ, you literally beat her up. We’re lucky they’re letting you come back.”
Sophie didn’t say anything else for a while. She just looked out the window. When she followed them just with her eyes the trees seemed to whiz by so fast but when she moved her whole head they slowed down so they almost stood still. “I’m not like you,” she said quietly. “I can’t just pretend everything’s all right all the time.”
* * *
The only light in the cell was from the large screen mounted high on the wall. Jordan’s arms were raised like a conductor’s. All of his attention was focused on the two long cylinders, one tan and one green, twisted together like snakes in a can. Moving his hands in the air, he rotated the image so he could see it from every angle. Finally he brought his hands slowly together, folding the animated protein on the screen into a position where hydrogen bonds held it in place. He clicked the green “done” button on the lower right corner, and the protein disappeared with a cheap digital fanfare and a new puzzle took its place.