Genuine Fraud(56)

“I can’t go anywhere,” said Gil.

“He has kidney dialysis every other day. It’s exhausting. And he has to have procedures,” said Patti.

“All my insides are coming out soon,” said Gil. “I’m going to be carrying them around in a bag.”

Patti bent and kissed him on the cheek. “So we had the idea that maybe you’d like to go over, Jule. To the Vineyard. We thought of hiring a detective—”

“You thought about it,” said Gil. “A ridiculous idea.”

“We did ask some college friends of hers, but they didn’t want to interfere,” said Patti.

“What do you want me to do?” Jule asked.

“Make sure she’s okay. Don’t tell her we sent you, but text us so we know how things are going,” said Patti. “Try to convince her to come home.”

“You’re not working this summer, are you?” asked Gil. “No internship, nothing like that?”

“No,” said Jule. “I don’t have a job.”

“Naturally we’ll pay your expenses to the Vineyard,” said Gil. “We can give you gift cards for a couple thousand dollars, and we’ll pay for a hotel.”

The Sokoloffs were so trusting. So kind. So stupid. The cats, the dogs who pooped on the deck, Gil’s oxygen tank, the albums full of pictures, the worry about Imogen, the interference, even; the clutter, the lamb chops, the chatty way they talked, everything was wonderful.

“I’d be glad to help you out,” Jule told them.

—

Jule took the subway back to her apartment. She opened her computer, did a search, and ordered a red Stanford University T-shirt.

When it arrived a couple of days later, she yanked the neck until it was loose and sprayed the bottom edge with bleach cleaner to make a stain.

She washed it repeatedly until it was soft and seemed old.





STILL THE SECOND WEEK OF JUNE, 2016

NEW YORK CITY

One day before dinner at Patti’s, Jule stood on a street in upper Manhattan, holding an address on a scrap of paper. It was ten a.m. She wore a flattering black cotton dress with a square neckline. Her heels were black, too, with a sling back and a sharply pointed toe. They were too small for her. She had a pair of running shoes in her bag. She had made up her face in a style she thought of as college girl. Her hair was in a bun.

The Greenbriar School occupied a number of renovated mansions along Fifth Avenue at Eighty-Second Street. The stone facade of the upper school, where Jule was to work, stood five stories high. A curving set of steps led to statues by the entrance. Big double doors. It looked like a place where you could get a highly unusual education.

“Event is in the ballroom,” said the guard as Jule went in. “Staircase on your right to the second floor.”

The entryway had marble floors. A sign to the left read MAIN OFFICE, and a corkboard next to it listed the graduating seniors’ college destinations: Yale, Penn, Harvard, Brown, Williams, Princeton, Swarthmore, Dartmouth, Stanford. They seemed like fictional locations to Jule. It was strange to see them written down like a poem, each name on its own line, and each word speaking an immensity.

At the top of the stairs, the hall opened into a ballroom. A commanding woman in a red jacket came forward with a hand outstretched. “Catering? Welcome to Greenbriar,” she said. “So glad you could help us today. I’m Mary Alice McIntosh, the fund-raising chair.”

“Good to meet you. I’m Lita Kruschala.”

“Greenbriar was a pioneer in education for women beginning in 1926,” McIntosh said. “We occupy three beaux arts mansions that were originally private homes. The buildings are landmarked, and our donors today are philanthropists and supporters of education for girls.”

“It’s an all-girls school?”

McIntosh handed Jule a ruffled black apron. “Studies show that in single-sex schools, girls take more nontraditional courses like advanced science. They worry less about how they look, they’re more competitive, and they have higher self-esteem.” She recited it like a speech she had given a thousand times. “Today we expect a hundred guests here for music and passed hors d’oeuvres. Then a sit-down lunch upstairs in the parlors on the third floor.” McIntosh walked Jule into the ballroom, where tall tables were being covered with white cloths. “The girls come here for assembly on Mondays and Fridays, and in the middle of the week we use it for yoga and visiting speakers.”

Oil paintings decorated the walls of the ballroom. There was a strong smell of furniture polish. Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and a grand piano stood in one corner. It was hard to believe people went to school here.

McIntosh pointed Jule to the catering supervisor, and Jule gave Lita’s name. She fastened the apron over her dress. The supervisor set her to folding napkins, but as soon as he turned his back, Jule went across the hall and peeked into a classroom.

It was lined with books. There was a Smartboard against one wall and a row of computers against another, but the center of the room felt old. There was a rich red rug on the floor. Heavy chairs circled a wide old table. On the chalkboard, the teacher had written:

Free write, 10 minutes:

“The important thing is this: to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become.”