When Women Were Dragons(46)
Since all our mail for school went to my father’s house (no one knew about our strange arrangement with the apartment, of course), I didn’t see the letter from the principal right away. Instead, my father slipped it into our mail slot at the apartment, already opened, with his careless scrawl across the front of the envelope.
“I expect you to take care of this,” it said.
I called right away, and we were scheduled for the Wednesday before school began.
“But your father will be in attendance as well?” the secretary asked. “It is imperative that Mr. Alphonse speak to him.”
“Of course,” I lied. “He wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
Wisconsin is merciless at the end of August. The days swelter and the nights simmer. Not even the wind gave us any relief. Beatrice and I walked slowly toward Saint Agnes, pausing in every available patch of shade. The air was thick and hot and damp. Our bodies tried to sweat but it didn’t do much good—nothing evaporates in a steam bath. The school’s brick walls shimmered in the heat.
“Come on,” I said.
I walked up the stairs to the school with as much purpose and determination as possible. Beatrice skipped, unbothered by the heat, and when that got boring, she attempted to ascend the steps by hopping on one foot. She missed a step, which sent her sprawling, squealing with laughter.
“Will you please focus?” I hissed. “This is serious.”
Beatrice tilted her head. “How can it be?” she asked. “I thought you said it was stupid.”
“I probably shouldn’t have said that out loud.” I sighed and sat down next to her. “Are you sure you don’t know what this is about? This behavior that’s got everyone so worked up. Letters and urgent voices and all.”
Beatrice shrugged. She looked genuinely baffled. “I really don’t, Alex,” she said. “I thought I was a good student. I mean, I mostly am. I get in trouble sometimes, but so does everyone else. Maybe everyone has to go to the principal’s office.”
I patted her on the back and gave her a kiss on the top of her head.
“Don’t worry, Bea. I’m sure it’s nothing. Come on.” I offered her my hand, and we pushed through the door.
The building smelled like floor cleaner and oil soap and mothballs and summer dust and sweaty adults. I sneezed. Our footsteps echoed on the tile floors. Teachers were in their rooms, airing out their spaces, setting up, or pushing carts between the supply room and the library and back down the hall. I held on to Beatrice’s hand very tightly as we walked down the long corridor to the main office. The secretary—an ancient woman named Mrs. Magin—squinted at me over the rim of her glasses.
“Oh,” she said, clearly not impressed. “It’s you.” She looked at Beatrice and looked back at me. “Where is your father?”
I already knew what to say. “He’s in a meeting,” I said smoothly. “He told me to take excellent notes and report back. He said he’ll race over if his meeting ends early, and I’m hopeful that will happen. My stepmother would have come, but the baby is sick.” In my various excuses, the baby was often sick. This baby who, I guess, was my brother, and who I had never met. This baby who had an older sibling, who I also had never met.
Mrs. Magin narrowed her eyes. “The letter was very specific.” She gave Beatrice a hard look. “That one . . .” She turned her gaze on me. “Some behavior is intolerable. And inappropriate. Her father needs to intervene.”
“And he will,” I said. “He always does. But as you know, my father never intended to become a widower, just as Beatrice and I never chose to become motherless girls. But we do our best to step up to life’s adversities with determination and grace, as we have learned through our fine educations at this wonderful school.”
It was my go-to line, and a little overused at that point, I admit, but it certainly got the job done. People seemed to enjoy telling me how very brave I was. I gave her what I hoped would be a winning and noble smile.
The secretary pursed her lips together tightly, her lipstick accentuating the ridges and creases, like a bright pink accordion. She tapped her nails on the desk. She saw right through me.
“Well,” she said with withering sweetness. “Everyone does love a brave orphan. Why don’t you have a seat.” With a pink-nailed hand she indicated the hard bench off to the side, and then she returned to her magazine.
We sat, and Beatrice fidgeted. I had attempted to tame her wild curls by harnessing them in the bounds of French braids, but already much of her hair had escaped, and erupted around her head like a fiery halo. I reached into my bag and pulled out her drawing notebook and a pencil, just to keep her occupied.
Mr. Alphonse was late. That was unusual. He was obsessively punctual and expected the little children in his school to be the same. I tried to relax, but my eyes drifted to the clock and marked the time.
Beatrice fiddled with the embroidery along the bottom of the dress. It was dragonflies, originally stitched in gold and iridescent red and pink and green, because I loved dragonflies when I was little and my mother wanted to make me happy. As with every other dress she made for me, as soon as I outgrew it, she carefully washed, ironed, and wrapped the garment in tissue with dried rosemary sprigs and laid it in a box along with the other clothing I had worn that year—all handmade, all with special knots in the pocket, all with a little piece of embroidery in a corner, or on the sleeves, or covering the whole thing, because my mother loved beauty and wanted it to appear everywhere. Now my clothing came from secondhand shops (I was not yet able to bring myself to wear any of my mother’s old clothes), and there was little that was beautiful on any of it. I always had Beatrice wear what my mother had made for me, all from boxes from our old basement, with my mother’s careful handwriting on the outside: “Alexandra, Age 7.” “Alexandra, Age 8.” My father mailed each box on Beatrice’s corresponding birthday, with a card that simply said, “Many happy returns.” It didn’t even say Beatrice’s name. He gave her no other gifts.