When Women Were Dragons(47)

Beatrice fiddled at the embroidery with one hand and drew with the other as we waited for Mr. Alphonse to meet us. Sister Saint Stephen the Martyr had passed away the year before, and her replacement as head teacher, Sister Therese, had been Beatrice’s kindergarten teacher. Everyone loved Sister Therese, which made me suspect that her appointment to the head teacher position had not been Mr. Alphonse’s idea. Nuns, after all, sometimes do as they please.

“Stop fidgeting,” I said to Beatrice.

Finally, I could hear Mr. Alphonse and Sister Therese making their way down the hall. Their footsteps were quick and clipped and they were speaking to each other in low, terse tones.

“Surely, it won’t be hard to find a replacement. There are plenty of you,” I heard Mr. Alphonse say.

“Nuns don’t grow on trees, Leonard,” Sister Therese shot back. “Honestly.”

Nuns are not required to use proper salutations when addressing laymen. I had witnessed this before. And I did like the sound of it. I heard her footsteps—small feet in sensible shoes—squeaking away.

Mr. Alphonse strode in and went directly to Mrs. Magin and rested his hands on her desk, leaning low.

“There’s been another. . . . incident,” he said.

Mrs. Magin said nothing and instead gave a pointed look in my direction as though to discreetly indicate that children were present, but Mr. Alphonse did not pick up on her hinting.

“Teacher’s lounge. She’s still there—or was when I left—and we lost one window, but nothing else so far. Call the fire department. Nothing’s burning, but they will want to be notified.”

“Beatrice Green is here with her sister,” Mrs. Magin said in a rush before he could continue.

Mr. Alphonse remained perfectly still for a moment before whipping around to look at us. His face was still quite red, but he knew how to let people know he was in charge. He took a step closer and loomed aggressively.

“Where’s your father,” he said, without a question mark.

“At work,” I said. “He’s so busy these days, and just couldn’t be pulled away. Don’t worry, though. I have my steno pad, and I take excellent dictation.” At school, all the girls were required to take secretarial training as well as home economics classes. And it was true—I was extremely good at taking accurate and fast notes relaying exactly what was said. It’s a skill, I must admit, that I have found useful throughout my life, even though I complained about those classes at the time.

“My letter was very clear—”

I nodded sympathetically. “It was,” I agreed. “You’re so right. And of course my father should be here. He’d say so himself. If he was here. But, unfortunately, I’m afraid it simply wasn’t possible for him to come today. There is no one more disappointed than he is. Shall we begin?” I pulled out my pen and paper to show how ready I was.

“Hi, Mr. Alphonse!” Beatrice said brightly. She sat at cheerful attention on the edge of her seat, her hands folded calmly in her lap. Beatrice was never one to feel cowed in the presence of adults. Even when she was in trouble. Especially when she was in trouble. “Is Sister Therese coming?”

Mrs. Magin sat with her fingers hovering over the phone. She looked anxiously at the principal. “Should I call now, sir?” she said, giving yet another pointed look in our direction.

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Alphonse grunted. “Tell Sister Therese that we will be starting without her. This way.”

And he ushered us into his office, pushing the door shut with his heel.



There are different sorts of men in this world, I’ve learned since that meeting. Mr. Alphonse, for example, was the sort who would intentionally put short-legged chairs in front of his desk for visitors, while he cranked his own desk chair as high as it would go. I believe he felt that this made him look magisterial. I felt—and still do—it made him look ridiculous. And, even worse, it made him look like a bully. I helped Beatrice into her chair, and as I did so, made sure to inch her chair backward and mine forward—just slightly, and at an angle. I sat primly at the front edge of my chair, my back straight and my chin inclined, using my body to absorb Mr. Alphonse’s perpetual glare and deflect it away from Beatrice. My anger at the situation, I noticed, was strangely calming. I took a deep and slow breath through my nose as I smiled sweetly, as I sharpened my tongue.

Mr. Alphonse sat silently for a moment, steepling his fingers under his chin. He waited for me to speak. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. I was my mother’s daughter, after all. I knew how to wait. Finally:

“Did Beatrice admit to you what this meeting is about? Did she say what it is that she has done?” A fire engine’s siren howled in the distance and grew closer. Mr. Alphonse’s eye began to twitch.

“I don’t think she knows what this meeting is about,” I said.

“That’s impossible,” Mr. Alphonse said. The ligaments in his neck bulged slightly. “I was very clear with her on the last day of school. She knows, but she is not saying, which frankly is typical. I have been trying to arrange this meeting all summer. Where, again, is your father?”

I laid my hands on my knee, one on top of the other. I blinked my eyes slowly, with deliberation, the way my mother used to do. I turned to my sister. “Do you know what this is about?” I asked Beatrice.