On Turpentine Lane(10)

“Was it even addressed to me?”

“Of course it was,” said the headmaster. “But by a stroke of luck, your department secretary opened it before it got to you.”

I might’ve asked, Why the hell is Sheila opening my private correspondence? but it wasn’t the offense I needed to litigate at this juncture.

The lawyer said, “May we get back to the role of this Stuart?” With that, she reached for a manila folder and pulled out a photograph of the map of the continental United States, with one red pushpin designating his progress. “This would indicate otherwise,” she said.

Nick said, “Just because she was charting his progress doesn’t mean she was supporting this half-assed . . . I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Hegira,” I heard myself whisper.

“Ha-what?” Reggie asked.

“Look it up,” said Nick.

“It’s a journey to a happier place,” I sniffled. “It comes from Mohammed’s flight from Mecca . . . to escape persecution.”

“Mohammed?” snapped the lawyer, making a note without taking her accusatory eyes off me. “Are you a practitioner of the Muslim faith?”

I didn’t want to offend any Muslims who might be in the room, but I did say, “I’m not a Muslim.”

“What is Stuart’s last name?” the lawyer asked.

“Levine.”

She wrote that down, too.

“He’s Jewish.”

Nick said, “Isn’t it against the law for an employer to ask someone his or her religion?”

Reggie said, “I ask people that all the time, conversationally.” He grinned like the idiot he was, adding proudly, “People don’t have to ask an O’Sullivan that.”

“You think this is funny?” Nick snapped.

I whimpered, “I’m getting a lawyer, and I’m suing you back.”

“For what?” asked Reggie.

“For this. For traumatizing me . . . for accusing me of a terrible thing and giving me a heart attack.”

Nick jumped in again. “I repeat. Is this a kangaroo court? Because some dotty old couple writes a check clearly meant as a donation to Everton Country Day to a Development person, who, to them, personified ECD. Who did not cash this check. Who did not even know about it!”

“And if I had seen it, I’d have danced around the office and asked that we get a bottle of champagne because the Hepworths just made a gigantic major gift.” I returned to the logical solution—“Give me the check. I’ll endorse it over to the school!”

“That is not something Mrs. Hepworth is allowing,” said the CFO.

“She won’t know! She’ll just know that her check got cashed. I don’t want her stupid money!”

“It’s a delicate situation,” said the headmaster, drawing who-knows-what doodles on the edges of his folded Everton Echo.

“Apparently not when it comes to my feelings,” I said. “To my . . . reputation. To my pride and . . . and—”

“And impugning her character,” said Nick.

Character thoroughly impugned, it was then that I tried to make a dignified departure even with my navy blue Everton canvas bag slipping off one shoulder and my pocketbook left behind so I had to come back for it, silencing them mid–accusatory sentence. It was at this time that they said, “Sit down, Faith. We’re not finished.”

“I need to make a phone call,” I said, not knowing yet to whom. Did I have a lawyer at the ready? I did not. And I needed a specialist, someone who exonerated people who’d been wrongly accused of pocketing nonprofit funds they didn’t know they’d raised.

My cell phone was both ringing and vibrating. I fished it out of my purse, thinking it might be just the right savior at the right moment. It was not. It was Stuart.

I answered with a quick “Can’t talk. I’m in the middle of a crisis.”

He said, “Babe, don’t stress about stuff. About you and me. And I got a solar phone charger at a RadioShack!”

“I can’t talk.”

“Who was calling?” the lawyer had the nerve to ask.

I was exhausted and must have looked that way because Nick now stood up, and said, “C’mon, Faith. It’s way past time to leave.”

I turned at the door, and said, my voice shaky once again, “I graduated from this school. My parents were able to pay the full freight. So what I do all day long is try to get kids scholarships. You should be ashamed of yourselves for accusing me of stealing a hundred grand from a widow who mistook me for a charity.”

“I’m plenty offended, too,” Nick added.

“And he came here from Exeter,” I said. “Where they probably know what to do with a check made out to an innocent bystander.”

Nick actually laughed. Did it lighten the mood in the room? Not one watt.





9





Why Take It Out on Me?


I DID NOTHING but sit at my desk and stare at the stupid map of the United States. Across the room, Nick squirmed and muttered, taking phone calls but making none. After I’d stared at the wall for what he must have deemed far too long, he asked, “How about we rip it down?”