The Headmaster's Wife(11)

“I have to go,” she says.

I nod. She takes one last look at me where I lie pathetically on the ground, my pants down around my knees. She breaks into a run, and I watch her until she disappears between two large trees.





“What do you think she saw in you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that you are, what, fiftysomething, and she is eighteen?”

“Yes, eighteen.”

“Well, that isn’t typical, right? Wouldn’t she be attracted to someone, I don’t know, closer to her in age?”

“You say attraction. What you mean is love.”

“She loved you?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugs. It’s an inane question. “How do you know your wife loves you? Or your children?”

The man sits back in the chair. He has a pen that he drums lightly on the desk, and he pauses for a moment and looks up at the caged light that hangs from the ceiling. “Okay. So she loved you. How do you explain it?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out my whole life.”

“Wait a minute. I’m confused. Your whole life? This happened just last year, yes?”

“Can I have more coffee?”

“You sure drink a lot of coffee.”

“It’s warm.”

The other man, the one who doesn’t talk, stands up and takes the mug off the table and leaves the room.

“But you said your whole life. What did you mean?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just tired.”

“Let’s take a break.”

“No.”

“You want to continue?”

“What choice do I have? I have to tell you eventually.”

“That’s true.”

“We go on, then.”

“Please, continue.”





The days merge into one, and there is a period of disquieting loneliness after we make love in the woods at the venerable Groton School. I do not see her. She skips my class first once and then twice. She doesn’t appear at lunch or dinner. I spend more time than usual walking around campus, but still I do not see her. I am losing my mind, to tell you the truth. I cannot think of anything else. I go through the motions of waking and dressing, sleepwalking through the meetings and phone calls that are supposed to be the substance of a life.

One afternoon I run into her dorm parent and inquire about Betsy, using the fact that she has not been in class to cover the nature of my interest. He tells me she is in the infirmary and may have mono, though he is not sure.

The infirmary is a nondescript one-story building on the edge of campus. The school nurses straighten up when I come in, and I do not blame them, for I cannot remember a time when I have shown up at the infirmary unannounced. I tell them I am there to see Betsy Pappas, and one of the advantages of being head of school is that no one questions you, even if your visiting a sick student is unheard of.

Betsy is in a hospital bed in a small room in the back. The shades are drawn, and though it is a bright, sunny day, it is dark in here. She is asleep when I come in, and I walk quietly to her bedside. She lies on her back, but her head is turned on the pillow, away from me. Her hair is down and messy where it falls against her shoulders. She has on a white hospital gown, and the covers come up and over her breasts. I sit down on the edge of her bed, and my weight shifts the mattress. She turns her head and opens her eyes.

She blinks for a moment as if trying to figure out who I am, and my heart goes out to the poor thing. She clearly is not well. You can see it in her heavy eyes and in the pallor of her skin.

“Hi,” I say. “It’s okay.”

She looks up at me. “Why are you here?” she says.

“That’s a silly question,” I say. “I am here for you.”

“This has to end.”

“What does?”

“Us.”

I shake my head. Her hand is next to me, limp against her side. I reach out and take it in my own. She squirms it away.

“Listen to me,” I say. “You need to get better, okay? First things first. There will be lots of time for us.”

“You’re f*cked,” she says rather loudly.

“Betsy, please,” I say. “Lower your voice.”

“What? You don’t want them to hear about us? You don’t want all of them to hear about us?”

“Now, now,” I say. “I see I have made a mistake. You are not well.”

“You remember what you said after you f*cked me in the hotel?”

“No reason to talk like that.”

“Do you remember what you said? You said, ‘You can’t fall in love with me.’”

“People say all kinds of things.”

“They do, do they? Well, I am not in love with you. It was fun. It was … interesting. But that’s it. I checked the box, remember? I am done checking it.”

“So this is it, then,” I say. “This is where it ends.”

She looks up at me with those green eyes. She is even lovelier when she is mad, if that is possible. There is iron in those eyes. “Yes,” she says.

I search for something to say, something to slow her down. I say, “What are they telling you about your illness?”