On Turpentine Lane(13)

Next I heard this passenger ask therapeutically, “What’s her name?”—the prelude to Joel passing her his phone.

“Faith? It’s Paula Gabriel. My car died coming off 495. Sorry to hear about your troubles. One question re the hot water you’re in. Forgive me, but . . . did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Arrange for the check to be made out to you? I have to ask because neither my brother-in-law nor his wife are criminal attorneys.”

I sputtered, “I’m not a criminal! I worked and worked to get this donation, and the husband died and the wife—because she was grief stricken or just in a fog—wrote a check. To me. Because she was confused. She just copied the name from my business card!”

And then, as if we were acquaintances or even intimates, she announced, “Your brother seems upset. I don’t think he should be talking about this while driving.”

Joel yelled, “You’re damn right I’m upset.”

I asked if I was on speaker.

“It’s okay,” he said. “What’s said in my cab, stays in my cab. Right, Paula?”

I said, “I hope so. The whole day has been a nightmare. A meeting in a fun house . . . in an insane asylum.”

That last reference inspired Paula Gabriel to confide that she was a psychiatric social worker specializing in family counseling.

Though ten seconds earlier Joel had been spitting mad, he now let out a hoot of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“This! My sister’s flipping out, and whose car breaks down but a shrink’s?”

“I am not flipping out and you have no discretion. None!”

I detected a change. Joel’s voice was now sounding closer. “It’s just me,” he said.

“Good! Did you hear what she asked me? Was I guilty?”

“Sorry,” he said.

“I have to go. I don’t know why I called you.”

“I’m your big brother. I beat people up for you. I bet it’ll be settled without a lawyer. Are you on paid leave?”

“I don’t know anything.”

Paula was expounding again. Joel translated. “She’s asking if you’re faculty and if there’s a faculty union. Because then you’d get representation.”

“No, I am not. I’m not faculty, and FYI Everton faculty isn’t unionized. I’m getting off.”

“Look . . . sorry. It’ll be okay. I’ll call you tonight. Wanna do dinner?”

I said, “I guess so. Not in public, though. Come down.”

“I’ll bring pizza.”

Paula was talking again, but I only caught “relationship.”

“Did you hear that?” Joel asked. “She said she envied our relationship.”

“I couldn’t care less what she thinks.”

“Roger that,” said Joel.



Nick returned, looking anything but victorious. I asked where he’d been and whom he’d talked to and . . . anything good? Anything?

He shook his head sadly and plopped into his chair.

“Speak,” I said.

“I went to see Dickenson. He was in a meeting, which I barged in on, and it was totally unrelated . . . architects . . . additions . . . so I had to back out, apologizing, looking like an idiot. Then I went looking for the chaplain. Good idea, right? Did you know he teaches two classes every morning?”

“Meaning you didn’t speak to him?”

“Correct. But I thought he’d be sympathetic . . . would want to do the right thing. Ethics and all that.”

“What about Reggie?”

“What about Reggie?”

“You left here chasing after him.”

“I caught him. He’s not the one who can fix the probation part of it. That’s only Dickenson.”

“I’m fucked.”

“No, you are not fucked. Did you do anything about getting a lawyer?”

I told him I’d made a call, which went nowhere.

“Okay. Time for some tough love. You, miss, have to get your shit together.”

“Where’d you learn that lovely expression? Phillips Exeter Academy?”

In decidedly un-Nick-like fashion—tentative and apologetic—he said, “Maybe this is the right time to tell you that I didn’t leave Exeter voluntarily.”

Did I just hear that Nicholas Franconi, the jewel in our crown, the man with the golden résumé, had left Exeter involuntarily?

He repeated, “Did that penetrate? I said I didn’t leave Exeter voluntarily.”

“Fired?” I whispered.

“They whitewashed it. If I quit on my own, they’d call it a resignation. And give me good recommendations without mentioning my Achilles’ heel.”

“Which was what?”

“Too embarrassing,” he mumbled.

“You brought it up. You have to tell me.”

“I will. But first I have to tell you that I’m cured,” he said. “I’ve fixed the problem.”

I was expecting something confessional or criminal or pharmaceutical, but his hands were over his face covering an unexpected grin. The answer that escaped between his fingers was “Time management. Aaargh!”