The students in the library for study hall at ten A.M. on January 3rd at the Brook-Haven School were surprised to hear the slamming of Norman Laney’s office door. Usually this door was left open when he was in there, the better to prevent any disturbances from happening in the library and to provide more immediate redress should they occur. (Sometimes it seemed that Mr. Laney actually enjoyed storming out of his office, all his bodily weight shaking with rage, and venting this wrath upon the captive students, Jimmy Kuhn in particular.) Glances of surprise were exchanged and a low buzz filled the air. It was clear Mr. Laney had much more important matters on his mind than their behavior during study hall. But what could that be? And how could anything possibly have already happened to provoke the fury that was so clearly expressed in the slamming of the door? The new semester was only two hours old, and last night, his movie had premiered in Birmingham. Their parents had shown them the article in today’s newspaper as they ate breakfast. As far as they could see, Mr. Laney should have been in the best of humors.
If this had been a typical school year, Norman Laney would indeed have been in the best of moods right now. With all college applications completed and posted, all faculty recommendations vetted and ready to go, the most important work of his year was over and done. Come April he could probably expect that an unprecedented percentage of his senior class would receive acceptances from Ivy League schools. In two and a half months he would enjoy a glorious, luxurious week in New York, and another two and a half months after that, he would spend his summer travelling first class on a slow trip through several well-chosen European capitals, namely London, Paris, Florence and Rome. But this year Norman Laney had much more on his mind than the fate of his thirty-odd students vaulting into their futures or his own well-earned reward for helping to make those futures possible. It was his own fate at stake this time.
Somehow in the fall he had managed to defer his anxiety and push his concern to the back of his mind. And the false promise of the Christmas season had fooled and lulled him just as it did when he was a boy. With no rational basis for this belief whatsoever, he had always believed he would somehow get whatever he wanted under the tree, though he rarely, if ever, did. As an adult, this belief was still there, though it had morphed into a seasonal sensation of general well-being, as if all sore spots were being healed and all wrongs were being put right. No doubt the additional quantities of alcohol he consumed at one party after another fueled this feeling. But as early as January 1 of every year, he began to realize that he was in possession of nothing he really wanted or needed. This year was no different. Only worse. Much, much worse.
With a violence matching the vehemence of his mood, he snatched his wastebasket from where it was wedged under the corner of his desk and thrust it down on the floor in front of the chair where he was sitting. Then he began hurling all the detritus of last semester into the can, as he would have liked to hurl the headmaster along with it all. Memo after useless memo. Post-it notes with the phone numbers of panicked parents, hysterical at the prospect of their child attending Rhodes rather than Sewanee. Rough drafts of application essays. Teacher evaluation forms he had “forgotten,” once again, to hand out to his students. In two minutes his bin was full.
Norman Laney hurled himself out of the office next, and further shocked the study hall students by failing to look even once in their direction and saying nothing to either reprove or squelch the undeniable hum which had developed beyond his so firmly closed door. Some students even had the confidence to remark out loud that Mr. Laney’s back side bore an exact resemblance to an elephant’s rear end, minus the tail. Elizabeth Elder was herself slightly surprised that Norman was not coming to see her and neither poked his head in to say “hello, Happy New Year” or even glance her way as he passed her open door. But she knew him better than anyone did, except maybe his mother, and could guess what he was feeling. She knew he could not possibly be upset at her failure to attend last night’s premiere or the party following. Even if the movie had not been dreadful—as she’d heard from Norman himself—it would not have been her thing and he could not have reasonably expected her to go. He knew quite well that she never went to movies. Still, she would have liked to make contact with him and shear some of the force off the tropical storm brewing within before it turned into a hurricane. He could say or do some of the most regrettable things when he was in this frame of mind. But the look on his face when he passed back by a few seconds later, holding two large green trash bags from the janitor’s closet, forestalled even Elizabeth Elder from getting in his path. When she heard the second slamming of his office door that morning, she hoped she’d made the right decision, and not merely lost her nerve.
Back in his office, Norman Laney began filling one of the trash bags with the art history text books sent by publishers who never dreamed that he had no use for such books and even considered their use to be the mark of a secondrate teacher. Normally it was not his policy to throw away any of these books, but today it was. If only he could rid himself as easily of the extra pounds he’d put on over the holidays, not to mention the uncalled-for quandary the headmaster had put him in. Or the multiplicity of improprieties, indiscretions, wrongs and trespasses he himself had committed. Oh, yes! It wasn’t just a matter of one student’s abortion he’d facilitated two years ago. Who had he been kidding? It was a lifetime of lapses. Lapses of judgment, lapses of common sense, lapses in his own moral and ethical code, his own ideals and principles. He was guilty. Guilty as hell of everything. Including what the headmaster was accusing him of. Whatever that was. He didn’t know what it was, but whatever it was, he was sure he was guilty. Indeed, Tom Turbyfill wasn’t even the problem at all; Norman Laney was his own worst enemy.
The last book from the pile made a satisfying smack as it joined the others in the bag. He’d have to get Rosy in with his hand-cart to haul it all off. Unless … he caught sight of a box in the corner. Going over to inspect it, he found it contained utterly obsolete exam papers from three years ago. Dumping these into the second trash bag, he then dumped the books into the box. He’d still have to get Rosy in to take it away, but at least he would do so with a lot less grumbling.
The concept of being innocent until proven guilty was just another one of those naïve American notions that quickly evaporated into the fairy dust it was when grim reality occurred. Human beings were guilty and that was that. The older cultures—the Europeans—knew this. Proving innocence was not the issue. No one was innocent. He’d been guilty since as early as he could remember. Guilty of eating too much; guilty of being fat; guilty of wanting to read books instead of hunting, fishing or playing football like the other boys as his father had wished. Guilty of being what he wasn’t supposed to be, doing what he wasn’t supposed to do. You could never prove your innocence because you weren’t innocent. You could only hope to earn, or achieve, a state of grace.
No doubt this was why he’d become a Catholic. Though born a Baptist in the great redneck tradition of his poor white background, he had been confirmed a Catholic while in college, and it was more than just the gorgeousness of Catholic ritual and pageantry, or the storied cultural heritage of the Catholic church which had drawn him. Sometimes—like today—he even wished he’d stuck with his original intention to attend seminary and take orders as a Catholic priest. He had always viewed his work as a teacher as a different kind of priesthood—one that afforded him a place in the world more suited to his temperament—but perhaps he’d been wrong.
He prodded at the box of books with his toe to move it over to the side, near the shelves, but it didn’t budge. Would he have to tip Rosy to move it out of the office? Probably. The box proved to need a series of rather forceful kicks which Norman was happy to supply before turning his attention to the more ambiguous items on his desk demanding a more nuanced decision regarding their fate. This he was definitely not in the mood for. The ringing of the phone pierced his eardrum just as he sat down and pulled himself up to his desk. He was not in the mood for that either, no matter who it was. It could be the Queen of England herself inviting him to tea at Buckingham Palace when he was next in London, and he would not want to take the call. Of course, it could be Fee calling with a report on the New Year’s Eve party; he’d been expecting to hear from her these past two days. And he was curious. But not curious enough! It was time for him to tend to his own problems. He seized a stack of hand-outs he’d neglected to hand out and flung them into the bag while briefly wondering if he should save them for next year. Absolutely not! he decided. If he was going to restore order, he needed to make a clean sweep. And he might well not even be here next year. He should clear out his office with that prospect in mind.
Because when it came to the question of what he’d done wrong, he’d done it all. Example after example after example kept popping up in his brain like the painful throbs of a hangover’s headache on January 1. One such example was Kevin Forney. He used to come into Norman’s office after school, heavy with the burden of his impossible adolescent existence, and sit down across from Norman with every intention of laying this burden down on the desk between them. Except poor Kevin never could even open his mouth. He just sat there and stared helplessly at Norman, unable to speak. Norman was adept at drawing students out, but in Kevin’s case, he didn’t want to. He simply let Kevin sit there silently WITH THE DOOR WIDE OPEN while he graded papers or did other paperwork until a phone call, a colleague or another student prompted Kevin to leave the office. Norman knew from the start exactly what Kevin’s problem was and thought it infinitely better if this problem were never named by either of them.
Instead, one day he simply told Kevin that he should take Latin next semester. Kevin was surprised, but he complied. And then it was Mr. Carroway who had Kevin in his office in the afternoons. This worked out just as Norman had thought it might, Carroway being, at age forty-five, only a slightly more adult version of Kevin Forney. It wasn’t long before Kevin had not only joined the Latin Club but become its president, and his parents were proclaiming him “a different person.” How different, Norman hoped they didn’t yet know, and he himself didn’t want to know. But he had a good enough idea. One Saturday afternoon he had run into the Forneys at the museum; Kevin was with the Latin Club, they told him. Norman hadn’t known of any Latin Club outing scheduled for Saturday, and later saw Kevin and Carroway coming out of a movie theater together. Of course, he could claim ignorance and innocence as he had with Alexandra Sanders, but the truth is, he had supported a young man’s homosexuality just as surely as he had arranged for an abortion.
Kevin was now in college; had come home for Christmas this year with one pierced ear and a brazen self-assertiveness which made it perfectly clear to everyone that he was what he was. Norman could now claim credit for getting a young man to the point of wearing an earring stud. But this was his job.
At an early age, he himself had realized that he could either go with what he was or try to go up against it. Thanks to his mother, who had always loved and supported every ounce of him, he had been able to go—and go happily—with what he was. Going up against the mountain of his own impossible flesh would have resulted only in defeat and despair. So he had gone with his fat, not against it, and it had worked out amazingly well. In return, in thanks to the universe which had allowed him to thrive and flourish, it was his responsibility to help other youngsters learn how to go with whatever they were, no matter how problematic.
But still! Abortion and homosexuality! Perhaps the two most inflammatory social issues of the day! And Norman had been on the wrong side of both, at least as far as the state of Alabama—if not the entire country itself—was concerned. And here he was, trying to crack open a closed society by sending its sons and daughters who were meant to stay locked inside out into the wider world to encounter its broader ideas and bring those ideas back home. In this he knew he was exceeding his mandate to a treacherous degree. He understood perfectly well that he was supposed to render his young charges super-fit for their Southern society; not get them out of it altogether. So far he’d been able to manage it so that he did it with everyone’s blessing, which was the only way in the South to achieve anything that involved change. This lesson was written in the history books and it never paid to forget it: Southerners would sooner fight a bloody war than adapt to progress they didn’t want to accept. Not only that: They loathed carpetbaggers of any kind and would sooner kill them than tolerate “meddling.” For any revolution to occur, it would need to rise from within and remain perfectly quiet and utterly invisible until after it had been accomplished. Although he himself was neither quiet nor invisible, somehow the extravagances of his exuberant personality had provided camouflage for the seriousness of his purpose. But clearly someone had finally tumbled to what he was really up to and was trying to stop him.
If he had been able to argue his case before the highest court of Truth and Justice, he knew he would have been acquitted. He had made dubious decisions and taken even more dubious action which he had honestly deemed both best and necessary for the health and happiness of the students who came before him. As a teacher and guidance counselor to high school students, he was placed in one of life’s most difficult positions, and his actual job was, above all, to secure the future well-being of these fledgling individuals. He had not shied away from this challenge or pawned it off on others. He had met it head-on. But he’d be dead before he reached the highest court of Truth and Justice. Here on earth it was the court of parental opinion and the headmasters with their Ed.Ds he had to contend with.
But the reason he felt so guilty actually had little to do with any of these actions, not even with that stupid, stupid time he’d accepted a large loan from the Morelands, whose son was later stopped for speeding and then arrested for possession of cocaine. Norman had been placed in the embarrassing position of arguing that since the incident had not occurred on school grounds during school hours, the boy shouldn’t be expelled. The handbook was—at that time, anyway—ambiguous on that point, but everyone had expected Norman to argue the opposite point of view. It was abjectly humiliating when news of the Moreland’s loan to him became common knowledge. Some even thought the loan was made after the incident happened, which made it appear more of a bribe than a loan. But even the simple truth of the matter had been bad enough.
No, he was guilty just for being who he was. It was that existential guilt Kafka had dramatized so well, and the same situation, in which a mediocre, mid-level bureaucrat comes to arrest you simply for being who you are. And what was he? A teacher who never really taught—just gave his students bits of himself. Choice bits, yes, but no real instruction. A teacher who had no notes, no lectures, no lesson plans and never once actually prepared for a class—except by living his life in a certain way. A teacher who often arrived ten minutes late and let out ten minutes early, thus shaving twenty minutes off an unmanageable fifty and making it a much more manageable thirty. A teacher who might even cut a class altogether when it was his turn to speak at Adelaide Whitmire’s book club, which always met at two o’clock in the afternoon, because Adelaide insisted that two o’clock was the only proper ladies’ meeting time. And he never notified the front office of these cancellations of class, just told his “Giotto” students to go to study hall tomorrow. Often the seniors just left campus for the day, as he well knew. It was true, too, that sometimes he used class period and his students to get the invitations to his Orange Bowl Gallery exhibits finished. And as for his work as a “guidance counselor,” he belonged in hell just for his use of hyperbole on student recommendations. If Tom Turbyfill wanted to get him on something, he didn’t have to make it up or look very far. Of course he fudged his receipts for expenses because he always lost the originals. Was that embezzlement? What made it all so much the worse was that he did not know who had accused him of what. So he felt accused of everything by everybody. And he was guilty of it all.
He knew very well what most of his enemies thought he was, beyond being unfit for Mountain Brook society in general. They thought he was a buffoon, a clown; therefore a homosexual, and therefore a pedophile. He was so grossly abnormal in his corporeal shape that it was assumed he harbored further abominations within. Of course the suspicious human mind couldn’t see the obvious: that a body like his had no choice but celibacy. Nobody had ever wanted to do anything with it, and he, thank God, had never wanted to do much of anything with it either.
Who could accept at face value the idea that he had dedicated his life to young people? Parents of teenagers knew better than anyone how thankless a job that was. So they assumed there must be some ulterior agenda of his own that was both perverse and sexual; therefore, sexually perverse. Again it was so American—to demand sainthood of everyone while secretly believing that everyone was the worst kind of sinner. There were many affinities he had with European society above and beyond the art and culture it had produced, and one was its matter-of-fact acceptance that everyone was naturally a sinner. And that when someone sinned, it was no big surprise. The big surprise was when someone managed to do some form of good in the world regardless of his own flawed nature.
A tentative knock on his door interrupted what had become a prolonged reverie in which not one further scrap of paper from his cluttered desk had been either filed or thrown away. He was clutching two such scraps in his hands while simply staring into space. “Come in,” he said in a voice so angry it was almost a snarl.
Ellis. The last person he wanted to see.
“What is it?”
The face Ellis poked around the door was obviously disconcerted at Mr. Laney’s unexpectedly dark mood. He remained on the threshold, afraid to venture further.
“Just wanted to congratulate you on your film debut.” Ellis managed a nervous laugh.
“That piece of crap is destined for utter oblivion!” Norman Laney balled up the paper in his hands and savagely consigned it to this exact fate in the trash bag by his desk.
Ellis did not know whether to argue the point or not, but on the whole thought it better to leave the immediate vicinity of Norman Laney as soon as possible after thanking him for being invited to the premiere. Ellis had been prepared to be effusive in his thanks, but swallowed most of it and barely stammered out the minimum before scuttling off like a frightened beetle.
With the door of his office shut once more, Norman Laney rose to his feet and began pacing while contemplating the speckled linoleum of his floor. The phone rang again, and again he ignored it. He would like to hear about Palm Beach, he decided, but it was probably another well-wisher who’d been to last night’s premiere, and he just didn’t want to hear it.
The sight of Ellis had infuriated him, and provided his free-floating anger another target to seize on. Last night Ellis had hardly glanced at Valerie Whitmire even as Norman was pointedly introducing him to her. Instead his eyes had kept darting over to her cousin James, while greeting Valerie only in the most perfunctory way that might or might not have passed for polite according to Yankee standards. By the standards of the Deep South WHERE HE NOW LIVED, he had been downright rude. Fortunately, Valerie had simply shrugged the whole episode off. No doubt she had been able to size up Ellis right away as a man a few years younger than herself and therefore at least a decade behind her in actual maturity. And James, of course, had relished the attention. He depended on fawning fans because he certainly wasn’t a critic’s darling. So he was quite happy to have Ellis bounding beside him like an eager puppy while fielding introductions, greetings and congratulations from the other guests. Ellis had obviously not been in the South long enough to learn that you didn’t monopolize the guest of honor or ignore everyone else, especially the attractive heiress Norman Laney had made a point of introducing you to.
A sudden revelation had exploded like a bomb in Norman’s brain and shattered any possibility of enjoyment in the occasion that was supposed to be a triumph, of sorts, for him. Ellis was a homosexual. That had to be it. Norman had grabbed Valerie’s arm, put on his biggest grin, and bulldozed through the circle surrounding the Hollywood director responsible for creating the abomination they were all about to be subjected to. Normally Norman’s sixth sense alerted him immediately when he was in the presence of a homosexual man, but his radar had failed to register Ellis. James was certainly no homosexual himself, with three ex-wives and now a young blonde barely half his age, an intern at Vanity Fair he’d recently met when the magazine did a profile to dovetail with the film based on his first book. She wouldn’t last long, Norman could tell. Clearly bored with Birmingham, and just let Adelaide get a hold of her, interrogating her about her parentage and background. That “relationship,” such as it was, probably wouldn’t last the whole week of James’s visit, and she’d fly back early to New York. Or perhaps she was merely a prop, persuaded or even rented in some way, just for this occasion. Yes, of course that was it.
“What? You’ve never been down South? I can’t believe it. You must come. I’ll tell you what: why don’t you come with me to Alabama when the movie premiere’s in my home town? I’ll show you around, we’ll go to the party, you can see the South? My way of saying thank you …”
James just needed a blonde nearby to complete his self-image, the way some women needed a one thousand dollar handbag to complete their look. Hence the three ex-wives. All had originally completed his image at one time, until another blonde came along who completed his image more fully or willingly. Norman, of course, remembered the days when James was teased for being a nerd who couldn’t play sports and never went to the prom because he couldn’t get a date. Now he was having the nerd’s revenge.
But even in the absence of an alert from his radar, he should have guessed about Ellis. In no way effeminate at all, he was still too good-looking in the way of some gay men, and had a bit too much very good hair—like a soap opera star. And it would explain why Ellis never even seemed to notice all the female students who tried to flirt with him. But dear Lord! Norman stared so hard at the linoleum that it now looked black with white speckles instead of white with black speckles. Ellis damn well better keep it to himself. The school couldn’t get away with three suspect teachers. Then there was Dennis Morton, getting chummy with Kaye Beasley, and Dan Riley, soccer coach, sex ed instructor and confidante at large.
“I didn’t see anything wrong with it. I thought it was part of my job. She’s going through a really tough time at home, just needs someone to talk to and I …”
“Once is one thing!” he had thundered. “But every afternoon? With the door closed? What were you thinking? You’re not a licensed counselor! You could get the school sued into bankruptcy! It wouldn’t be just you! We would all lose our jobs!”
Not to mention what people thought of him, Norman Laney. They praised him, thanked him, congratulated him. And behind his back, they speculated that he was a pedophile. Either that, or Ignatius Reilly. He didn’t know which was worse: pedophilia, or Ignatius Reilly.
When the phone rang yet again, he snatched it up. He was ready to hear about Palm Beach. He needed to hear about Palm Beach.
“Norman, you really need your own phone line.”
It was Adelaide Whitmire. He groped for his chair and swiveled it around. “Oh, hey, darlin’,” he said. Although Adelaide was no one’s idea of a darling, she was on the Brook-Haven board, and he needed her help.
“I’ve called two times already this morning, and the girl in the office insisted she put me through.”
“I’ve been in a meeting and just this minute walked through the door.” He extended his leg and rocked it back and forth. He had somehow forgotten that Adelaide was calling “first thing, right after New Year’s.” She had wagged her finger in his face while reminding him last night.
“You need your own phone line and an answering machine in your office. It’s outrageous that anyone who wants to speak to you has to go through that imbecile female in the front office. She swore she took down my messages but of course she didn’t since I never heard back. We’ll never get that fund-raiser planned at this rate.”
Interesting use of the word “we.” Norman cleared his throat in a businesslike manner and pulled himself up to his desk as if Adelaide were at the other end of it. As chair of the board for the Birmingham Museum of Art, she was in charge of the big fund-raiser this year. “Of course I’ll need your help,” she had informed him months ago. That was her way of asking. Norman could picture her at the other end of the line, with her reading glasses at the end of her no-nonsense nose, her notepad and pen ready for action as if she were the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Indeed, Adelaide would have made a perfect CEO, with her autocratic personality and that complete sense of entitlement that others would do all the work that needed to be done, including her own. But as she was one of Norman’s strongest allies and supporters, he couldn’t afford not to take her as seriously as she took herself.
“Did you manage to get hold of the guest list for the last fund-raiser?” Norman tried his best to make this task sound like a herculean undertaking, when really it was a matter of a simple phone call he had suggested months ago.
“Norman, you know I couldn’t possibly call that woman. And anyway, didn’t I hear that she’s in Palm Beach right now?”
“Actually, the guest list should be in one of the files you inherited when you became chair last year.” He hoped he sounded as if this idea had just occurred to him. But she should know quite well—apart from the fact that he’d told her—that there was a file containing all the information and invoices from the museum’s last fund-raiser organized by Felicia Keller five years ago. Adelaide did not have to invent the wheel; she just had to follow the template provided by the contents of the file. The guest list, the menu, the caterers, the musicians, the florists, the printers—it was all there. She could tweak it where she wanted and put it on automatic pilot where she wanted. In any case, putting it all together was mainly a matter of making the phone calls and running the errands.
“What file? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen any such file.”
He tried not to sigh audibly. “Let me see what I can find out,” he said.
He could sense her relaxing as the burden shifted to someone else’s shoulders. “You’ll need to get right on it,” she warned. “There’s not a moment to lose.”
“Darling, we’ve got four months.” In agitation he began tapping a pencil against a blank notepad on his desk.
“We’ll need every bit of it,” she said sternly.
“I’ll go down there tomorrow,” he promised. On his lunch hour, when technically he wasn’t supposed to leave campus except on official school business. “Tell them to expect me, okay?” He knew just where to look, having helped Fee with the fund-raiser five years ago.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody knows who you are down there.”
“Yes, but if I’m going to go rifling through the filing cabinets …”
“I see what you mean,” she said. “I’ll do what I can.”
As if it weren’t a matter of a simple phone call.
“Good,” he said, hoping that concluded that and the conversation could come to an end. Adelaide truly was one of the most tiresome people, thinking herself so much smarter and more important than she was. If born in a different time and place, she might have actually become a CEO instead of simply impersonating one. Still, it would have been through force of will and sheer ambition, not because of any ability or intelligence.
“Who on earth was that young man you introduced to Valerie last night?” she said.
He played dumb and looked at his watch. Ten forty-two. He didn’t dare tell Adelaide he had to leave for class. She knew quite well he didn’t teach again till eleven.
“The tall one. With the wavy blond hair. He was wearing that tacky sports jacket.”
“Oh!” he said. “You mean Ellis. Mark Ellis.”
“Who’s that?”
“Our new lower school English teacher. He—”
“Where is he from?”
“Indiana, I think. But he—”
“Valerie will never be interested in a boy like that. A teacher. From Indiana.” Her voice dripped disdain.
“Oh, no. Of course not.” He pulled open a drawer as silently as he could and removed an apple from his stash. He didn’t dare bite into it, but looked at it longingly.
“From what I could gather it appeared that you were trying to introduce them to each other.”
“Darling, I did introduce them to each other. He came with me, she was standing there all alone when we walked up. What else was I to do?” Against his better judgment, he bit into the apple. “Just being polite. I wouldn’t dream of trying to arrange Valerie’s love life. If you can’t do it, then no one can. Our Valerie seems quite resistant to influence and positively resentful of interference.”
Unable to decide whether she was being praised or mocked, Adelaide abruptly changed the subject. “What are we to make of this person James brought with him?”
Again he played dumb, just for the fun of it and to allow himself another bite of apple. “Person? What person? Who are you talking about?”
As Adelaide exhaled her exasperation, Norman took yet another bite of apple.
“That little teenage girl he had with him. You saw her.”
“I assure you I didn’t meet any teenage girl,” he professed.
“You most certainly did. You put your arm around her. I saw you.”
“Oh, you mean Heather Moore,” he said.
“Yes. Heather Moore. What is she? What is she doing here?”
“She’s an intern for Vanity Fair. James met—”
“A secretary? Why does a secretary for a magazine need to come down here to the premiere of a movie? And that child doesn’t even look old enough to have a driver’s license.”
“Well, actually she’s got a college degree. In journalism. And she’s just starting out—”
“You know I don’t read idle nonsense like that magazine. Valerie showed me the article on James months ago. She tried to get me to read it but I refused. I threw it away as soon as she left the house. It was all about James’s marriages and divorces—as if I wanted to have that lying around the house and be reminded of the way he’s chosen to live his life and reflect poorly on his family name. And I fail to see what his personal life has to do with either the book or that stupid movie. I also fail to see why a secretary for the magazine had to come down here months after the piece has already been published. Am I expected to include her in the dinner party this evening?”
“Well, you certainly don’t want anyone going back to New York and saying they didn’t receive any of the famous Southern hospitality from the Whitmire family. Especially not someone who works for a national magazine. You never know what will end up being printed about you and your dinner party.”
“Oh, heavens. Of course she’s invited. Of course she is. I never said she wasn’t. I never told James that either. It’s just that he never told me he was bringing anyone. You know how particular I am about my seating arrangements, and the place cards have already been made out. They were done three weeks ago. I doubt I can get that same calligrapher. As you well know, I use only the best people, and they can’t be had at a moment’s notice.”
“But probably for you, darling, they’ll make an exception if you get onto them right away.” He pulled himself even closer toward his desk and looked longingly at his telephone cradle as he had once gazed at the now ravaged apple.
“Yes, I’ll need to get hold of her immediately. I’ve got a thousand things to do, so I’ll have to call you later. I can’t afford to lose any more time chatting on the phone. I’ll probably need to get that leaf for the table out of the closet.”
“Oh, don’t worry about calling me back,” he said, generously. “There wasn’t anything else you needed to tell me, was there?”
Adelaide was uncharacteristically silent. “Actually, I do think there was one other thing,” she said. “But I can’t think what it was.” She paused again. “I don’t think it was that important.”
“No,” he agreed. “The important thing right now is your dinner party.”
“Oh, I know!” she exclaimed suddenly. “It isn’t very important, really, but I wanted you to know I heard the most ridiculous rumor.”
“What’s that?” he said sharply, clamping the phone back to his ear.
“Someone told me—can’t think who—it might have been Jan Lindgren—no, it must have been Libba Albritton. I see so many people over the holidays, you know, Norman. We get invited to everything and would be out every night if I didn’t put my foot down.”
“Of course,” he murmured, elbows on his desk, head staring down, bracing for the moment Elizabeth Elder had told him to seize when it came.
“But someone—I do think it was Libba—told me you were thinking of leaving Brook-Haven School. I told her not to be absurd; I hadn’t heard a thing; and I’d be the first to know, so it couldn’t be true. I just wanted to let you know what people are saying. How on earth could such an absurd piece of gossip get started?”
“I think I know,” he said confidentially, lowering his voice to the conspiratorial whisper that was so effective with Midge Elmore. “But you don’t have time to go into this now,” he continued dismissively in his normal voice. “It can wait, though I did want you to be the first to know.”
“What in the world? Tell me this instant.”
“No, no, darling. It’s not that important. You need to hang up and call the calligrapher right away.”
“I will the minute we’re through. Now what is all this about?”
“I’m just guessing,” he said doubtfully, “and I don’t know if I should even pass along my own idle speculation….”
“Out with it, Norman!”
“Well, all right,” he capitulated reluctantly. “But you should choose carefully what you do with this. It isn’t information; it’s just speculation. I must make that clear.”
“Of course,” she bristled. “You know quite well I have no time or inclination for gossip.”
Norman well knew that despite her illusions of self-importance, Adelaide liked nothing better than a good gossip, unless it was to be the first to hear a good piece of gossip and the first to pass it along.
“Here’s what happened.” He lowered his voice again. “As you know, almost every time I run into him, Larry Plumlee offers me a job in the English Department at Shelby State.”
“I had no earthly idea of any such thing!” she said, outraged. “Who is this person—Plumlee? What kind of a name is that? He sounds ridiculous. I don’t even know who this man is!”
“Oh, yes, you do. Anyway, it’s not important. Only this year, for whatever reason, Larry is going so far as to present me with a formal contract.”
“How dare he!” she exclaimed indignantly. “He has no right to try to take you away from us! Is that even legal? Who is he, anyway? I don’t believe I’ve met this person.”
“None of that matters. What does matter,” he lowered his voice even further, “is that Tom Turbyfill got wind of it and urged me to take the job.”
“He did WHAT?”
“You heard me.”
“But why? Why would he want you to leave?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” he said, suppressing a fake yawn, as if the whole subject were boring him.
“I can’t believe it. He must have given you some reason.”
“Oh, he made some remark about my master’s degree being in English instead of education. And that as assistant headmaster—”
“I’ve never heard anything so silly in my life! You could have been the headmaster if you’d taken the job! That nonsense about your degree can’t be his real reason.”
“Adelaide, you’re a very smart woman. I don’t think it is his real reason. But I—”
“What? What is it?”
“Again, this is pure guesswork on my part. The last thing I want to do is hurt the school in any way, but if rumors are getting around …”
“You know you can trust me. I am not like your other friends, Norman. This town is full of frivolous women who have nothing but time to spend chattering on the phone. I’m a serious person with important work to do, and nothing is more important than the school. You should tell me immediately anything you know.”
“Well, that’s just it. I don’t know anything. I only suspect—”
“What do you suspect?”
“Here it is: Tom Turbyfill knows that Elizabeth and I are not pleased with him as headmaster. He would like to see me leave the school before I bring my concerns about him to the Board.”
There was silence for a prolonged moment. “You know something?” Adelaide said finally. “I have never liked that man. After that party I gave to introduce him to the community? The one you helped me with? Remember?”
“Oh, yes.” Having done most of the work for it, he remembered it very well indeed.
“I have never ever received a thank-you note,” she said.
“Putting it nicely, he doesn’t do this school any favors,” said Norman.
“No, he doesn’t. Why didn’t you come to the Board—or to me—with your concerns before now?”
“Well,” he said judiciously. “I wanted to give the man every chance. But if rumors are starting to fly, the time has come for me to speak up before it affects our enrollment next year.”
“Enrollment?” She was puzzled by this new turn the conversation was taking.
“I’ve never wanted to take myself too seriously,” said Norman modestly, “but if word gets around that I’m not coming back …”
“Oh, good gracious! I hadn’t even thought of that! What a disaster.”
“Yes,” he concurred. “I think the Board should step in before it’s too late.”
“You’re absolutely right. Only what’s to be done, do you think?”
“Can I count on you?” He feigned hesitation. “Or should I take it to Dirk Pendarvis?”
“Oh, you can count on me,” she assured him. “Just tell me what to do.”
He knew he better spell it out for her, just as Elizabeth had instructed.
“Just call Tom Turbyfill,” he said with the utmost nonchalance he could muster. “Let him know that the Board has heard rumors that I’m being encouraged to take another position, and that the Board does not want to see me leave under any circumstances. If he tries to indicate any problems, you could let him know that the Board is behind me one hundred percent, has complete faith in me, is not interested in hearing anything against me, et cetera et cetera.” He paused as if to consider. “You might even go so far as to point out that the Board considers me vital to the school’s success, and if he does anything to interfere with the job I’m doing, he’ll find that he’s the one who needs to look for a new position. You’ll know exactly what to say,” he concluded breezily. “It’s after eleven, now, darling. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait a minute, Norman,” she commanded.
He waited.
“Should I tell the other Board members?”
“Oh, I think so,” he said casually. “Tom Turbyfill is a bit thick-headed, and it may take more than one person to get the message through to him.”
“What about Dirk Pendarvis?”
He considered. “Dirk probably needs to call me first. As chairman of the Board, he needs to hear it from me before speaking to Turbyfill. Now good luck with your dinner party, and call me tomorrow to let me know how it all goes.” He hung up abruptly and headed toward the door while seizing his briefcase from the chair as he passed by.