Today Will Be Different(6)
“Hey,” I said before I could think it through. “Why do you have a Louisiana driver’s license?”
“It’s where I grew up.” Alonzo handed over a long-haired version of himself. “New Orleans.”
With those two words: the sucker punch.
“Are you okay?” Alonzo asked.
“I’ve never been to Louisiana” were the words that came out, a bizarre nonanswer and a lie. Now I needed to say something true. “I have no connection to New Orleans.”
Just hearing myself speak the name made me drop my fork into my breakfast.
The waitress bounced up with a gift basket the size of a car seat. “Someone’s gonna be happy today!” Seeing my face, she quickly added, “Or not. We good here?”
“I’m good,” Alonzo said.
“I’m good.” To prove my point, I lifted my fork out of my eggs and gave the handle a defiant lick.
The waitress pivoted on her heel and scrammed.
“A question,” I said, fumbling for the poem. I needed to get this morning back on track. “‘Spar spire.’ Would that be the steeple?”
“A spar is a ship’s mast,” Alonzo said. “So probably—”
My phone jumped to life. GALER STREET SCHOOL.
“There is no way,” I said.
“Is this Eleanor? It’s Lila from Galer Street. Everything’s fine. It’s just Timby seems to have a tummy ache.”
Three times in the past two weeks I’ve had to pick him up early! Three times there was nothing wrong.
“Does he have a fever?” I asked.
“No, but he’s looking awfully miserable lying here in the office.”
“Please tell him to cut it out and go back to class.”
“Ooh,” Lila said. “But if he is sick…”
“That’s what I’m telling you—” There was no arguing. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” I slid out of the booth. “That kid. I’ll show him fear in a handful of dust.”
I bade adieu to Alonzo, grabbed the gift basket, and split. As I opened the door, I glanced back. Alonzo, bless him, seemed more disconsolate than I that our poetry lesson had come to such an abrupt end.
I walked up the steps, between the thickset columns, and into the impressive foyer of the Galer Street School. It was underlit and cathedral cool. Framed photos told the story of the building’s transformation from a home for wayward girls to a single-family residence (!) to today’s ruinously expensive private school.
A little about the building’s restoration. On the floor, in wood inlay, BECAUSE STRAIT IS THE GATE AND NARROW IS THE PATH WHICH LEADETH UNTO LIFE AND FEW THERE BE THAT FIND IT, dated to 1906. One hundred and fifty rubber molds were created for the intricate plaster work. Colorado alabaster was cut paper-thin for the clerestory. The mosaic of Christ teaching children to pray required flying in a seventy-year-old craftsman from Ravenna, Italy. When the restoration began in 2012, the big mystery was what had happened to the brass Art Deco chandelier from the early photos. It was found by the guys blowtorching blackberry vines out of the basement. Large blindfolded pigs were lowered in on ropes to chew the chandelier free.
How could I possibly know this? As I entered, the chic architect in charge of the restoration happened to be leading a tour.
On my way to the administration offices: “Eleanor!”
I turned. For the past month, the conference room had become auction central, abuzz with parent volunteers.
“You’re just the person we need!” said the woman, a young mom.
Me? I mouthed, pointing, confused.
“Yes, you!” said another young mom as if I were a silly goose. “We have a question.”
When I graduated from college it never would have occurred to me not to work. That’s why women went to college, to get jobs. Get jobs we did and kicked some serious ass while we were at it, thank you very much, until we realized we’d lost track of time and madly scrambled to get pregnant. I pushed it dangerously close to the wire (no doubt because Catholic Joe, the oldest of seven, was in no hurry himself, having changed enough diapers for a lifetime). I gave birth to little Timby, thus joining the epidemic of haggard women in their forties trapped in playgrounds, slumped on boingy ladybugs, unconsciously pouring Tupperware containers of Cheerios down their own throats, donning maternity jeans two years after giving birth, and sporting skunk stripes down the center of their hair as they pushed swings. (Who needed to look good anymore? We got the kid!) Was the sight of us so terrifying that the entire next generation of college-educated woman declared “Anything but that!” and forsook careers altogether to pop out children in their twenties? Looking at the Galer Street moms, the answer would be: Apparently.
I hope it works out for them.
I entered the conference room with its giant beveled windows overlooking the play yard and Elliott Bay. A massive table (cut from the center of a maple tree salvaged from the property or some such trendy nonsense, according to the architect) was piled with file boxes and cascading manila folders. I weaved my way through hip-height cardboard cartons with Galer Street T-shirts hanging out, red like tongues. The air crackled with efficiency and purpose.
“Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?” the young mom muttered.