HELEN FOLLOWED HER out to her car. She wore a chunky necklace made of resin blocks strung on colorful coated wire, and it rattled against her clasped hands.
“I feel terrible about that meeting,” she said.
Ruthie fished for her keys. She couldn’t make sense of her purse; it was like she was sucked into space and her hand was in a black hole. “I’m sorry you feel terrible, Helen. I’m the one out of a job, though.”
“I know how it must rankle, but—”
“Rankle? Rankle?”
Helen took a step back. “We’re in the heat of the moment right now. But Ruthie, you’re so good. People recognize that. We both love the Belfry and it will have a life beyond both of us, after all. It will continue to serve the committee—I mean, the community! Isn’t that the most important thing? That we meet the future with confidence?”
Ruthie looked at Helen, amazed. Her life was in tatters and Helen was giving her a chamber-of-commerce speech? She’d actually heard Helen say that last bit at the Spring Festive Fling a few months before. Helen looked supremely comfortable, or as comfortable as a person can be with three tons of resin strung around her neck.
Behind Helen’s head rose the pure white form of the Belfry. Ruthie felt her throat constrict. She knew everything there was to know about the building. She knew the condition report. She knew she had to fix the air handler next year. She knew how the voices of the children echoed up from the education wing to the offices. She knew how cooling the breeze could be in late September. She knew that when she brought in food the platter could be cleared in fifteen minutes flat. She knew her employees, how Vivian needed to be encouraged, how Tobie was dealing with a husband with chemo, how Mark needed just a little room to spin before he came up with a brilliant idea.
There had been jobs that she’d liked, jobs she’d tolerated, jobs she’d loathed. She’d never had a job she’d loved. Standing here now, it felt as though something had moved through her and scoured out her insides.
Her hand found the keys. She clicked the lock open and swung behind the wheel. The car was a furnace. She started the engine and opened the window. To her dismay Helen didn’t step away. She leaned into the open window, her necklace clanking against the car.
“I tried to protect you,” Helen said. “But nobody says no to Mindy.”
Ruthie’s head swiveled. “What?”
“My doctor said, ‘You have to stop the oppositional stress. Give in or be dragged!’ ” Helen fingered her resin. “Anyway, there’s no use looking back. We have to move forward.”
“But I’m the one under the wheels, Helen!”
“And just for the record, I was very much against holding that meeting with Catha.”
“There was a meeting?”
“I thought it was…unseemly. We can do better.”
The air-conditioning blew in her face, and she welcomed the blast. “Helen, please step away from the car.”
Helen hung on to the car door. “We are still friends. I am going to continue to be a part of your life because I want to. You’re so gifted. I can see you taking your skills to the next level, maybe working with artists?”
“Where?” Ruthie asked.
Helen waved a hand, and cookie crumbs went flying. Some of them stuck to her shirt. “So many wonderful nonprofits in the area,” she said.
“Yes, I know all of them, and I know all of their directors. Most of the ones on the North Fork are cutting staff. I will have to move, Helen. Sell the house. Leave my community, my friends, take Jem out of school…” Ruthie fought against the thickness in her voice. “Do you realize that? When directors lose their jobs, they have to move!”
Helen looked down and adjusted the ring on her third finger so that the stone, pale yellow, slid to the exact center. “Catha thinks we should drop the ‘the.’ We might change the name to just Belfry. Or BM.”
“That is a terrific idea,” Ruthie said. “Do that!”
“I’m on the naming committee.”
Ruthie gripped the steering wheel, afraid she’d push the pedal to the floor. She remembered how when Jem was a toddler, she had to force herself to speak softly when she was thick with frustration and sticky with spilled juice. The titanic rage of mothering a toddler was nothing compared with this.
What could she say to Helen, a woman who had told her over the course of years that they were “family”? You are being a colossal shit. Your cowardice disgusts me.
When she’d decided to apply for this job, her first directorship, she’d called her old boss. What are the pitfalls, she’d asked him. “If you want to be a director of a museum, just know you’re going to get fired at some point in your career,” he’d said. “It won’t have anything to do with your job performance. It’s usually one person who wants to make a mark. They rope in a few others who want power. If they’re rich and nasty enough, they win. Boards are basically ovine in nature. One sheep says leap over the cliff, and next thing you know you’ve got a whole lot of haggis.”
“Naturally I’ll be a reference for you,” Helen said. “You were the best director we ever had.”
“Well, thanks for that,” Ruthie said. “You just lost me.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry about that. I feel terrible. Let me tell you something. I’ve lived a long time, and I know that you can’t hold back change. The good news is, you’re fabulous.”
Ruthie stepped on the gas.
She couldn’t fight this. She’d been in the museum business long enough to know that starting a board fight would be disastrous. Helen wouldn’t stand up for her, none of them would, because there was no reason to act on principle when social comfort was involved. The women on the board bumped into one another all summer; they served on other boards together, they went to the same restaurants, the same shops, the same parties. They exchanged the same recommendations of the same Parisian bistros. They ran into one another all over the world, or at least the parts sanctioned by their travel agents. Why would they risk unpleasantness? Just for her? They were used to listening to authority. They were trained that way, the last generation of gentlewomen (Ruthie prayed!) who were passed down from father to husband and told to dress well, set a good table, and shut the fuck up.