On Turpentine Lane(12)

“Found out what?” asked Nick.

“That Mindy and I hooked up.”

Reggie gave his shirt an unnecessary tuck into his chinos. “It’s over, trust me.” He smiled, man to man. “Make ’em and break ’em, right?”

“Ya, right,” Nick said. “Especially smart with a coworker.”

“It wasn’t always against the rules,” said Reggie.

Nick was twisting the cap off a bottle of Excedrin, then swallowing two pills in a gulp. “Even if you dumped Mindy, why is she taking it out on Faith?” he asked.

“Because she’s a crazy bitch!” Reggie said. “Faith’s here, head of whatchamacallit. Mindy’s still sitting at the front desk over in Finance, calling parents who are in arrears on tuition.”

“So do we think that Mindy marched into her boss’s office, and said, ‘Look what Faith Frankel thought she was getting away with’?”

“Probably.”

I said to Reggie, “I know you’re my boss, and I shouldn’t say this, but today, this”—I made a circle, indicating the inside of our windowless office—“is a free zone, right? Given what happened this morning?”

“Sure,” said Reggie.

“In that case, I truly hate you.”

“Fine,” he said. “I get it. My bad.”

“You better fix this,” said Nick. “You started it, and now you have to make it right.”

“Relax,” said Reggie. “We’re gonna make this happen.”

“Happen?” I shouted. “What’s going to happen? What about me?”

“I meant the money. It’ll end up in the capital fund. Even if it takes a little sweet-talking with the old lady.” He smiled. “That’s where I come in.”

I said, “You’re not getting credit for this donation.”

“Hey! Take it easy! I’m not gonna bogart someone else’s get. I’m just gonna take her to lunch.”

“Not without me.”

“You can’t,” he said.

“Why the hell not?” asked Nick.

Hand on the doorknob, Reggie threw back, “Why? She’s on probation. I thought that was obvious.”

“Probation!” I yelped.

Reggie said, “Gotta run,” then left without a word of explanation, without a grimace that might have been interpreted as regret.

Probation. Like a felon. Like a freshman caught smoking behind the chapel. I asked Nick, rather calmly, considering, “Now what? Do I go home? Do I take a mental health day?”

“Do not leave. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Nick,” I called after him. But he didn’t stop.



At times like these, even a mature adult woman tries to reach her parents. I had my cell phone in hand, about to call my mother, when I realized there was some emotional opportunism in play—a person does that sometimes, uses a bona fide crisis to reach a person who’s nominally disappeared.

I left a message, the urgent kind even a hermit father with an artistic temperament can’t ignore. “Dad! Call me back as soon as you get this! . . . Where are you? Call me. Something happened and I need advice. We’re all fine—I mean, no one’s hurt. It’s about work! Call me!”

Did he? Not immediately. Wondering what my particular probation meant, I considered e-mailing Human Resources. Simultaneously, and possibly in shock, I waited for Nick to return, or my father to call, or for one of the heretofore friendly security guards I’d known since my student days to escort me to my car like a company loyalist suddenly, unfairly, tragically sacked.





10





What Do I Do Now?


I REACHED MY BROTHER, WHO was in the process of towing a car that died on an off-ramp. As swiftly as I could, I summed up my predicament. After only “They thought I was raising money for myself!” he yelled, “What the fuck!” and then to an apparent passenger, “Excuse my language but my sister just got fired.”

I said, “No, I didn’t! They’re threatening probation,” then I supplied a few more details of my dilemma.

“Did you say the check was for a hundred grand?”

“I actually said a hundred thousand dollars, but yes.”

“I swear to God,” he said. “If I didn’t have a client in my truck and her SUV hooked up to the back, I’d race over there and—I don’t know—make somebody apologize.”

Next thing I knew, he was saying to his passenger, “You wouldn’t know a good lawyer, would you?”

“For what?” I heard.

“It’s my sister. She raises money for Everton Country Day and a big check came in made out to her instead of the school.”

I said, “Joel! That was confidential! She could be a reporter for the Echo for all you know.”

“I’m not,” a woman’s voice said. And then another muffled sentence, which Joel amplified for me. “Her brother-in-law and his wife are lawyers, both with fancy firms.”

“In Everton?”

“In Boston,” the woman said.

“Boston’s good. Big-city lawyers. That’ll scare ’em,” said Joel.