On Turpentine Lane(17)

“But the phone’s been ringing, right?”

I said yes, the landline, quite a bit.

“And you know it’s not Stuart because he always tries your cell?”

Always, except hardly ever, I didn’t say aloud.

“Okay. Listen, you stay here. Someone’s got to play back those messages. The school might have called. Have you had breakfast?”

I lied and said I had: oatmeal.

“Give me a few minutes. I’ll report back.”

What could I say? “I didn’t make my bed,” I called after her. “It’s kind of a mess in there.”

I heard the bedroom door close. Well, that made sense, protecting me in case one or all of the messages contained bad news. I dunked a tea bag in a mug of not-quite-boiled water and waited.

Was that her talking, or was it voice mail? I soon found out. Two charities were looking for donations, a dentist appointment reminder, and a carpet-cleaning business with an introductory offer. Thus the female voice I’d heard was my mother’s. On behalf of Team Frankel, she was alerting my father and brother to launch Operation Save Faith.





13





Collaborators


SOON ENOUGH I LEARNED that my newly collusive parents had conceived two campaigns, like something strategized at a war college. There was the Mrs. Hepworth Saturday mission and, if needed, the headmaster assault. Would I have sanctioned either if I’d known in advance about Plan A or B? I like to think I’d have argued for nonintervention.

As for visiting the unsuspecting Mrs. Hepworth, it helped that my father had sold insurance and had once run for Everton City Council. Knocking on strangers’ doors, asking for a vote or a few minutes of their uninsured time, was not something that gave my father pause.

My mother called me late Saturday afternoon as I was walking fast around Brown Slake Pond, music turned up but cell phone on alert. She began with “Good news! You may be all set.”

“In what way?”

“Don’t say anything until you hear the whole story. Where are you?”

When she heard “the pond,” she said, “Go back to your car while I explain so you don’t freeze.”

I ignored that, kept walking, and ten seconds later said, “I’m in the car now, nice and warm.”

“Let me begin this way. Your father’s argument was a thing of beauty.”

“Argument?”

“Not an argument, a presentation. He had perfect pitch, rhetorically speaking. I went with him just in case she was wary of a strange man ringing her doorbell. But it turns out, he’d once given her an appraisal on homeowner’s!”

“Who? Who might’ve been wary of Dad?”

“Didn’t I say that? Edith Hepworth.”

I yelped, “No, you did not! Tell me you two didn’t take it upon yourselves—”

“We didn’t just drop in! We called first. I said I was your mother, that we raised our kids on Waverly, and my husband and I wanted to pay our respects. From there, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to the big question. Had anyone told her that you would very likely lose your job at Everton Country Day because of a little miscommunication? At first, she insisted that she had not . . . Faithy? You there?”

“Barely.”

“You’re breathing hard. Are you sure you’re not still exercising?”

“I’m not exercising. I’m hyperventilating.”

“It’s all good. Dad said, along these lines: ‘Maybe someone from your husband’s beloved alma mater recently asked if you meant to write the check to Everton Country Day instead of Faith Frankel?’ So at this point, she said, ‘Now that you mention it . . .’ Dad helped her along with ‘You repeated that you wanted the money to go to Faith and her causes. Is that still the case?’

“Next thing we know, she’s hurrying off to another room and came back waving her checkbook. We said, ‘No, no. No need to write another check. Faith can endorse the other one over to the school.’?” My mother stopped there, surely expecting me to be in the throes of deep gratitude and relief.

I said, “Did you ever think that going directly to Mrs. Hepworth would get me into more trouble?”

“We fixed it! How could a friendly visit to a neighbor get you into any trouble?”

“Because I’m in the doghouse, and it’s just the kind of thing that would piss everybody off. Like I’m a baby whose parents have to fix her problems.”

“I’ve never heard such nonsense,” she said.



The next call was from my father, arriving in the time it took for my newest meltdown to boomerang from Brown Slake Pond to my mother to him, apparently in the next room.

“You have to give us more credit,” he said. “Mrs. Hepworth was so happy to have callers. I don’t suppose your mother told you that she promised she would not mention our visit when she remedied the situation?”

“Dad! Dickenson isn’t going to buy that she just woke up one morning, realized her mistake, and—what?—knew what to do and who to call?”

Did I say this aloud or only think, Am I the only one with any dignity in this family? Either way, the next thing my father said was “I’m putting Joel on.”