Even though this was the third Sunday in a row, Eudora Easter was surprised to find herself in church. Yes, she was in the back pew, on the aisle, so as soon as the spirit moved her—which she had been sure it would—she could leave the church without attracting any more attention than she already had by being the only Black person in the congregation and get back to her studio, which was her church, where she belonged. Now she knew she wasn’t going to leave before the service was over because she would attract the attention of her friend—her dear friend—Michael Woodward. He’d see her leaving and be disappointed. She had observed how surprised he was when he’d climbed up into the pulpit three Sundays ago and saw her there in the back pew—surprised and delighted, as if he thought she needed the support his church would provide her, when he knew as well as she did that it was he who needed support. She couldn’t imagine how much spiritual energy it required to purvey a faith one doesn’t share.
Eudora hadn’t been a congregant long enough yet to know that Michael’s parishioners loved him for doing exactly that. The way he had conducted himself as their rector for so many years had bolstered their faith more than it would have if he’d had his own belief to use as a crutch. Trying to believe day after day, and acting upon that belief—that was what was important. Michael Woodward loved dogs and kids. He breathed compassion and forgiveness. When you grieved, he grieved too, sometimes even more profoundly; and when you were glad, so was he. His congregation had come to understand that Love is God so God is Love, and all the rest is just theology.
Nineteen years ago, Michael and Eudora had watched their friend, the extraordinarily talented teacher, Francis Plummer, lose his mojo, run completely out of gas, and pretend it wasn’t happening to him while all his embarrassed colleagues and students knew it was until, at last, he did the right thing, as Eudora had predicted he would, and retired before Rachel Bickham would have had to fire him in her very first year at the helm. Eudora would resign before that even began to happen. “Then what would I do?” she’d asked Michael over coffee one day during the winter vacation. “I don’t know if I can do it alone.”
“Not sure what it is,” Michael, that subtle proselytizer, said, “but I do know you don’t have to do it alone.”
So here she was in his church.
When the service was over, Eudora was the first out the door where Michael stood to greet the parishioners. They both wanted to hug each other, but especially now that she was tinkering with the idea of joining his church, it was wise to keep private their indecisive and racially mixed courtship of one another. It had been going on for several years. If people knew about them, they’d grow more and more curious.
Eudora grew curious herself when, parking her car in front of Rose’s Creamery where she would buy a butterscotch sundae to assuage the hunger the tiny communion wafer had stimulated, she recognized the youngish-looking man standing nearby as the one who had panhandled there most days in the autumn. His presence in Fieldington was even more anomalous than hers. She wondered where he had gone and why he’d come back, and why had he let someone cut that lovely blond hair, but most of all, she wondered where he’d got his nice new clothes, especially that smart blue woolen coat. And where was the hat people had dropped their money in? At his feet was a Styrofoam cup he must have harvested from a dumpster. Suddenly hungry no longer, she turned the ignition back on and headed for the school and her studio.
On the way home, Eudora decided that this person in his new attire had to be the same person Sylvia had come across. At the time Sylvia had been so disturbed she didn’t want to talk about it, so Elizabeth had. It wasn’t as if hordes of derelicts chose Fieldington as their base. So maybe it was the singularity of his presence that had disturbed Sylvia. Or was it the attraction of a likeness she didn’t know how to talk about, their mutual anomalousness? It wasn’t so very long ago that it would have been no less natural for the citizens of Fieldington to think of Sylvia as a half breed than to think of him as a beggar.
By the time she was halfway home, Eudora had dismissed her theory as the musings of an older woman who’d lived a history Sylvia had only read about. For all Eudora knew, Sylvia had never even heard that racist pejorative term, and she would never think of herself as an “exotic.” Instead, Eudora began to think about how disturbed Rachel was when she’d told her about Sylvia’s being closemouthed about her transaction with a homeless man. What degree of intimacy with him would rile her daughter so?
Eudora hadn’t been worried at the time. She’d ascribed Sylvia’s unwillingness to share her feelings with her mom as the normal desire of young adults to put distance between themselves and their parents. Now, as she turned into the school’s driveway, anticipating entering her studio and transferring her attention to her work, Eudora began to think of the homeless man as an uninvited guest Rachel would have to make room for in her own life, as well as her daughter’s. Otherwise, she would soon exhaust all the space around herself. That the homeless man had no idea of this didn’t make it untrue.
It was strange: Eudora had started her day, postponed her work because she was worried about her future and needed the solace of Michael’s church; and here she was, still postponing, thinking about Rachel’s future. Well, they’d keep each other company, urge each other on to fulfill whatever that future turned out to be.
That decided, she got out of the car, pushed Sylvia, Rachel, Michael, and the homeless man in his new attire out of her mind, went into her studio, and resumed her career.
WINTERS SEEMED TO be longer in a New England boarding school. The days went on and on. Even the best of friends could get tired of each other, as differences, accepted, even celebrated, begin to rub.
Which is why Sylvia was somewhat less than a hundred percent enthusiastic when on a winter night she said to Elizabeth, “You’re going to stay with us over the Washington’s Day weekend when school closes down. So, let’s make some plans.” She was in her top bunk.
Elizabeth had just turned out the light and crawled into her bunk below. “Have you asked your parents?”
“I don’t have to ask my parents. It’s my house too. Why do you even ask?”
“If I wanted to bring you home to my house, I’d have to ask my parents.”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you go to school here, that’s why,” Sylvia said.
“And you don’t go to school in Oklahoma?”
“Obviously.”
“Yeah, obviously,” Elizabeth said in that knowing, sarcastic tone that grated on Sylvia, mainly because she couldn’t match it and sound like herself. “Besides, it isn’t Washington’s Day,” Elizabeth added. “That was years ago. It’s President’s Day.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I asked you what the difference is. Does that sound like kidding?”
“Okay. Washington owned slaves. You want to celebrate his birthday, you go right ahead.”
“Whaaaat? Say that again.”
“I shouldn’t have to.”
“Oh? Because—”
“Yeah, because.” Elizabeth said. “Forget it, let’s change the subject.”
“Like maybe Washington owned my great grandfather?”
Elizabeth sighed.
“So I should be the one to not celebrate his birthday, not you?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.”
“Besides, we both know that’s not why they changed to President’s Day,” Elizabeth said. “It was because Lincoln—”
“What about my dad?” Sylvia said. “Is it okay for him not to be pissed at George Washington?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Fine, okay, I will. I’ll make an appointment with his secretary.”
“Oh shit, how’d we get into this?” Sylvia said. “Do you know how stupid this sounds?”
“Or maybe I’ll write him a letter,” Elizabeth said. “Dear Mr. Perrine. I have a question about George Washington. Was he a nice guy?”
Sylvia didn’t respond. She’d just let Elizabeth wind down and then maybe they could go to sleep.
“I heard he killed a lot of Native Americans,” Elizabeth said. “What do you think, Mr. Perrine? Was that okay?”
Sylvia made a loud snoring noise.
Elizabeth stopped talking.
Sylvia knew that in the morning, they’d both pretend this conversation never happened, but she remembered their wondering why they’d never talked about this stuff before and Elizabeth saying because they didn’t need to. Well, Elizabeth was wrong. When you’re sick of winter and tired of being stuck away in a boarding school with the same people every day, you take it out on people who will let you get away with it.
Like Elizabeth, who, as usual, was the first to fall asleep. Listening to her breathing, Sylvia wondered not for the first time what it would be like to spend the weekend with Elizabeth and her parents in Oklahoma rather than the other way around. She saw the same tall, skinny guy in a straw hat and red neckerchief she’d always seen standing in the doorway as Elizabeth introduced her. Behind him, trying not to look uncomfortable, Elizabeth’s mother was a stout woman wearing a full-length apron and black flat-heel shoes. Sylvia knew that when she visited there someday, Elizabeth’s parents wouldn’t look like this at all, and she knew Elizabeth would be knowing enough to have warned them, but she continued to be sure they would be surprised anyway to see the dark skin of the girl who was their daughter’s roommate actually standing at their door. Sylvia had the idea that males were less prejudiced than females. She hadn’t read the polls. Come on in! the father would say, recuperating first.
SENT BY: BOB Perrine on 2/14/12; 10 pm
To: Rachel Bickham
Re: This weekend
Hey,
I’ve cleared my Friday afternoon, so BIG SURPRISE! I’ll be at your place by late afternoon on Friday. Aren’t you proud of me? Can’t wait.
Love,
B
P.S. I won’t leave until Tuesday morning.
SENT BY: RACHEL Bickham on 2/15/12; 7:12 am
To: Bob Perrine
Re: This weekend
Hey yourself,
Proud? YES! Ecstatic? OH MY! We’ll be at the door waiting for hugs on Friday afternoon. And on Sunday night, Big Surprise, haha, we are having our usual double birthday party. Your 55th and Sylvia’s 18th. Too bad I wasn’t born in February. We could have a triple. And of course, the usual suspects are coming.
We have you all day Saturday, Sunday, and Monday! Three whole days! Can’t wait for Friday night. You will need to rest up on Saturday morning.
Love,
R
P.S. It’s your place too, by the way.
WHEN RACHEL WOKE up on Thursday morning, anticipating her husband’s extended visit and the birthday celebrations, the weather outside her window matched her mood: sunny, blue skies, almost warm at fifty degrees. The school would close for the long Presidents’ Day weekend at noon. In the early afternoon, she and Sylvia and Elizabeth would go into Fieldington and shop for Bob’s and Sylvia’s Sunday night birthday party. Then they’d come home and have the rest of the afternoon to enjoy the intimacy and unguarded conversation that would happen naturally while preparing the dinner ahead of time together.
Rachel got out of bed, still excited by this prospect, but a few minutes later, while looking in the mirror to brush her hair, she thought of the actual work to prepare the dinner and realized she didn’t want to do it. It was one thing to whip up a batch of pancakes in the middle of the night, another to go to the grocery store and buy all the stuff and then come home and actually have to cook it. Just the idea of work she seldom had to do as a boarding school professional who ate most meals in the dining hall brought a groan. Peeling potatoes, chopping carrots, incessantly checking the recipe in her one and only cookbook? Who was she trying to kid?
Besides, she had decided to give her daughter some space of her own, hadn’t she? No, they were not going to have a cooking party. They’d go to Battastelli’s Deli and buy everything pre-prepared and then come home and stick it all in refrigerator. The kids could do whatever they want and she would retire to the Little Room and read one of the books Sylvia had given her for Christmas.
BY THREE O’CLOCK, the campus was empty and silent. Clouds had covered the sun, a fierce wind had arrived, and the temperature had dropped to just above freezing. It was hard to know whether it was going to rain or snow. In this cold grayness, Rachel, Sylvia, and Elizabeth went downtown, with Sylvia driving.
Sylvia parked the car in front of Battastelli’s, and Rachel tore the list of items to be bought into three parts to expedite the chore of shopping. After Battastelli’s, they’d cross the street and buy the ice cream at Rose’s.
Sitting in the front seat of the car on the passenger side, Rachel turned to her left to hand Sylvia her third of the list, but Sylvia was looking away to her left, at something across the street. A powerful tension was radiating from her shoulders. “What’s over there?” Rachel asked.
“Nothing.” Sylvia snapped her head and shoulders around to face forward.
Rachel leaned forward to see around Sylvia, instantly disliking herself for not trusting her, and saw several people entering Rose’s Creamery. Another person stood by the door in a blue topcoat, the hood of which was pulled up, hiding the person’s face so that Rachel didn’t know whether it was a man or a woman. Why wait for someone there? Why not inside where it was warm? Sylvia was still looking straight ahead as if to look any other direction would cause her harm, her expression studiously blank. So this is one of the places kids get the drugs they bring into the school, Rachel thought. Makes sense for a dealer to hang out here: drugs and ice cream in one trip. Rachel turned to glance at Elizabeth in the backseat. Elizabeth returned her look, her face as blank as Sylvia’s. Nothing could be clearer.
“All right, let’s go shopping,” Rachel said, and some of the tension flew out of the car. She would never use her own daughter as a spy to catch her fellow students doing wrong. That’s a line no school professional would ever cross. Sylvia and Elizabeth both knew this. And they didn’t do drugs, she was quite sure of that. For anybody who had worked in a boarding school as long as Rachel had, there were multiple signs, both of innocence and guilt, that most parents would miss. So all three of them were safe.
Rachel got out of the car first, leaving Elizabeth and Sylvia to say whatever they needed to each other, and entered the deli where it was bright and warm and the air was loaded with the scent of hams and cheeses, just baked bread, and olives. She felt a surge of happiness. She’d think about drugs and kids after the weekend.
Moments later, Sylvia and Elizabeth came into the store. She wanted to tell them not to worry. Instead, pretending she didn’t notice their expressionless expressions, she handed each the third of the list she had been going to hand them in the car. The two girls went off to different aisles while Rachel went to the bakery section.
She felt another surge of happiness when the baker said, “Hey, headmistress, how ya doing?” and smiled at her like he always did. He was big and round, with lovely blue eyes, and looked exactly like a baker. She’d been buying cakes from him for years—for teachers’ birthdays, anniversaries, retirements.
“I’m doing fine, John. And you’re looking great.”
She didn’t know his last name and he didn’t know her first. They were just two people who liked each other. “It’s for my husband’s and daughter’s birthday,” she said, pointing to the biggest, most expensive cake.
He smiled. “Really? Born the same day! How’d you manage that?”
“Magic, John. Pure magic.”
He grinned and his eyes lit up. Then he put on a sad face, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m saving that one for myself.”
“Oh, your birthday too?” Rachel said, playing along.
“Nah, I’m just hungry.”
Rachel giggled.
Smiling again, he bent down and took the cake from the glass display and placed it before her on the counter. “Your husband’s a lucky guy.”
She started to say, I bet your wife is too, but realized just in time she didn’t know if he really had a wife. For all she knew, he was divorced, or never married, or had a wife who had died. “Thank you,” she said instead, and while he placed the cake in a cardboard box, she imagined saying, My husband and I live apart most of the time but he’s going to be home for three whole days. It was surprising how much she wanted him to know.
She began to wonder if Elizabeth and Sylvia would buy the ice cream right there in Battastelli’s instead of across the street at Rose’s as planned. They’d say it’s just as good ice cream and more convenient since they were here already, and avoid passing close by, practically bumping into that drug dealer. But she knew they were too smart to try that ploy. As soon as Rachel got home, she’d call her friend Mo Comeau, Chief of Police, and ask him to keep an eye on this person.
Sylvia and Elizabeth stood beside her now, each carrying two full shopping bags. Several people had lined up behind them waiting to be served. “John, this is my daughter, Sylvia, and our friend Elizabeth,” Rachel said. “She’s coming to the party too.” There was no need to tell him who was the daughter and who the friend.
“Well, that’s nice, Elizabeth. And happy birthday, Sylvia. Wish your dad one from me too.” He lifted the box with the cake inside it into Rachel’s outstretched hands. “You all have a wonderful time.”
They left the store. It was four o’clock, already getting dark, and it had started to rain and grown even colder. They put the purchases into the trunk and headed across the street toward Rose’s. Rachel walked ahead so she wouldn’t have to watch them pretend not to notice the drug dealer. The girls would have the same idea: they would lag behind her as far as possible without being obvious.
Just then, a man passed by the person in the hooded topcoat and bent down to drop some money in a Styrofoam cup on the ground. Rachel froze. She’d been so sure this was a dealer that she hadn’t even seen the Styrofoam cup. She gathered herself, started walking again, and was soon right beside this person and he was looking straight at her the way people do when they are trying to figure out if they have met you before. In the dark, and with his hood covering much of his face, all she could make out was his yellow beard—and the dirt on his topcoat and the knees of his trousers that told her he lived outdoors. Of course Sylvia had been disturbed. How could she not have been? Rachel turned her face from him, imagining apologizing for thinking he was a drug dealer. Maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it either, she thought as she entered the bright warmth of Rose’s Creamery.
“WHY DID HE have to come back?” Elizabeth said, exasperated, when they were halfway across the street. She spoke in a whisper, as if Rachel, now entering Rose’s, could still hear. “I thought we were finished!”
Something that’s supposed to happen hasn’t yet, is why, Sylvia thought. She’d say it out loud if it didn’t sound so crazy. Why else leave a family who cared enough for him to give him that coat? The hollow feeling she’d been trying to convince herself was actually relief from the burden of responsibility for him had disappeared the instant she’d seen him, right where he had been standing the first time.
In another ten steps they would be right next to him. Elizabeth whispered, “Don’t say anything to him.”
“We have to. We can’t just walk right by. My mom won’t figure it out.”
“What, you think she’s stupid? We’ve risked enough. No more!”
They finished crossing the street and stepped up onto the sidewalk. The door to Rose’s and Christopher were only a few yards away.
“Oh all right, I won’t even look at him, if it makes you happy,” Sylvia whispered. She put her right hand in the pocket of her slacks where her cell phone was. With her left hand, she gestured for Elizabeth to go first. “I’ll just put a dollar in his hat.”
“A whole dollar! Gee, that will help a lot,” Elizabeth whispered, and walked past Christopher without turning her head. One step behind, Sylvia didn’t look at Christopher either when she bent down and put the cell phone gently into his Styrofoam cup. “Elizabeth is on speed dial,” she said, still not looking at him. “Call us when you need anything.” She followed Elizabeth in.
“THAT’S YOUR HOMELESS man, isn’t it?” Rachel asked the two girls once they entered Rose’s, blinking their eyes against the sudden brightness. She had meant to wait for a minute or two to appear more casual than she felt, but the question popped out of her mouth with a will of its own.
“I don’t know whether he is or not,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe he’s some other homeless man.”
“I doubt that, Elizabeth. There’s not a bunch of them here.”
“Why wouldn’t there be? This is where the money is.”
Rachel shook her head. “Don’t be sarcastic.” She turned to Sylvia. “Is he?”
“He is.” Sylvia seemed resigned.
Rachel nodded. “I can see why you were disturbed,” she said. “It is very disturbing.” Sylvia didn’t answer. Elizabeth stared at Sylvia. “We’ll put some money in his cup,” Rachel said. “And give him some hot chocolate.”
Sylvia shrugged.
“Yeah, I know. What good will that do? But get the hot chocolate for him anyway, all right?” Rachel said, wondering whether she wanted this for the benefit of the homeless man or Sylvia—or herself. She pointed to the dispenser and its array of throwaway cups. “I’ll get the ice cream.”
Rachel went to the counter and bought a gallon of Rose’s vanilla ice cream, famous for the little black beans of vanilla that looked like pepper. She paid for that and the hot chocolate and they went outdoors. Sylvia carried the hot chocolate.
He wasn’t there. They looked right and left and across the street. Light from the shop windows made silhouettes of people passing on the sidewalks, hunched over against the rain. There was no way to tell if he was one of them. “He must have gone to wherever he sleeps,” Elizabeth said. Sylvia stared at her.
Rachel shivered. A bridge, a culvert, a doorway?
Sylvia poured the hot chocolate out, a misdemeanor in Fieldington to sully a sidewalk so. She watched the little steaming puddle form, then headed for the car. Rachel and Elizabeth followed.
A few minutes later, they pulled into the Head’s House driveway and saw the rain on the black shiny surface of Bob’s BMW glistening in the light pouring from the kitchen windows. They found him in the kitchen making martinis for Rachel and himself. He’d done even better than he’d promised and left a whole day earlier. Not three but four days away from his work to spend with his family!