The Headmaster's Wife(13)
For a moment, you see, I am nervous that they know about Betsy. But if they did, the conversation we would be having would be very different. To the extent there is a third rail in our business, a relationship with a student is it. I am assured that they know nothing about it. Which raises the question, what the hell are they talking about? Who out there is chattering about me? The academic dean who, like all academic deans, secretly covets my position? Some brave member of the faculty? Certainly not Mrs. LaForge, who is far from perfect but who, over the years, has developed the utmost sense of discretion in all matters. It is the most important part of her job, and one that I have never questioned.
Penny Wilton says, “Arthur, let me ask you something directly. I am sorry if this is uncomfortable, but how much are you drinking?”
I can feel my face growing red. I am indignant. Even my servitude to the board has certain limits. “Friends,” I say, my voice rising a little bit. “If there is something concrete related to school you would like to discuss, then I am happy to do it. But a spurious conversation built on innuendo I will not engage in.”
“We have an obligation,” Penny says, “a fiduciary responsibility to—”
Dick Ives cuts her off. “Okay, everyone. I think Arthur has a point here.”
Mark Saltonstall speaks. He leans forward and says, “We all just want to help, Arthur, if we can. You’ll let us know what you need, right? What we can do?”
“Naturally, Mark, “I say. “But I am quite fine.”
Mark nods and settles back in his seat. He is a handsome man with large features. He is over six foot five. Both our families go back to New England’s founding, though I am from a branch that chose to serve, you could say, rather than to lead.
“I think we’re done here,” Dick Ives says. “We have a busy weekend in front of us. Plus, if we hustle we can make the end of the football game.”
Penny Wilton looks positively furious as we file out of the room. Outside on the walk, Brian Corcoran catches up with me. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Arthur,” he says. “I think you’re holding up pretty well. Not sure I’d be as strong as you, frankly. And don’t worry about Penny. You have a lot of friends on this board.”
“Thank you, Brian,” I say to him. “I appreciate your support.”
We walk together in silence toward the football game. The day is bright, and the foliage in the faraway hills is a stunning mix of reds and yellows. I think about asking Brian what the hell they think is happening here, since all this talk, if they are not aware of Betsy, confuses me. But I know from working with a board for as long as I have that there is always politics. Or, as my father used to say dismissively, the politics at elite secondary schools is so bad because the stakes are so low. Maybe so. I just need to be on my guard.
Elizabeth does not attend any of the board functions with me. She used to be a staple at the Saturday night dinner and cocktail party. She never enjoyed the banal conversation, and in recent years she just stopped coming. I know there is an expectation at some schools that the wife be an extension of the head, always on his arm, perhaps hosting some events in her own right. Some of the other elites have even begun to provide the head’s spouse with a salary and a budget for just such work. As if it were the White House.
That is the new model, if you will. Elizabeth and I do things the old-fashioned way. She’s always had her own position at school, her own interests. Nowadays they hire heads who do not even come with a history of the school or come out of the faculty. They are mercenaries, you see, who know only how to cut costs and raise money. They will gladly switch ties for the right paycheck. The whole thing sickens me.
Nevertheless, one of the advantages of having Elizabeth at my side is that she is accomplished at moderating my behavior. No more wine, dear, she would say, and like the loyal boy, I would obey. Now, you would think, given the tenor of the conversation earlier this afternoon, that I would be on my best behavior, but the whole thing is nagging at me, and looking across the cocktail party at Penny Wilton whispering in the ear of Dick Ives, I see conspiracy all around me, and in truth, I drink more than I should. The glasses of wine cannot be refilled fast enough, and by the time we sit down for dinner I am pretty much in my cups.
I manage to dump a full glass of red across my table, sending Dick Ives’s wife, Rose, scurrying out of her chair for safety. I plead clumsiness, but everything is seen through a different lens now, and I of all people know that, and if I don’t, it is clear in the look Dick gives me as I do my best to mop up the spill and then signal the waitress for another glass.
I am out of sorts. That much is certainly true. There is a lot weighing on me right now, and while the conversation flows around me—many of the same old stories we tell every meeting—my mind is across campus. I am thinking of Betsy Pappas, and the more I think of her, her pretty eyes, that angled face out of antiquity, the more I look around this roomful of cultured, wealthy people, middle-aged and older, overweight, the more all of it, all of life, seems so arbitrary to me. Why does any of this matter? This in which I used to put so much import? These men on their fat haunches in their tweeds, and their wives with their plump pearl necklaces? How could any of it even approach what I have come to know in recent weeks? How could any of it hold a candle to the feel of Betsy Pappas asleep in my arms in that hotel room? Studying her body while she slept, seeing where her neck met her shoulder, her shoulder met her arms, her torso curved out to meet the embrace of her hip?