Good Riddance(36)

Geneva Wisenkorn, Gal Friday Films





Good thing I wasn’t holding mugs of hot water when I read this. I managed to ask if she’d distributed the questionnaire yet.

“Why?”

“Because I hate it! Asking for rumors and gossip? You don’t think that’s leading the witness?”

Geneva sighed at my obvious filmmaking na?veté. She said her work had a point of view. And a POV didn’t just appear without digging.

“You didn’t think to run these questions by me first?”

“This is basic research. This is how I find people to interview and ultimately film. And there’s a script that needs to be written. It isn’t all camerawork.”

I went back to the kitchen and made tea for one—me. And while it was steeping, I had an idea of how to frustrate, annoy, and torment Geneva in her quest for what was behind my mother’s overinvestment in a mildewed Monadnockian. I’d tell her outright that my mother had been having an affair for decades. I might even modify “affair” with “torrid.” But not until I uttered the phrase “off-the-record,” driving that home since Geneva was anything but a real journalist. She couldn’t use it! My reasoning: By swearing her to secrecy, I was handcuffing her. In the confines of my kitchen, it seemed logical: It was better to hand her the juicy missing link up front, accompanied by a gag order, than have her snooping around, reading between the lines of the questionnaire’s answers.

I returned to the living room. “I’ve given this serious thought, and I’ve decided to tell you something that is key.”

“About?”

“My mother. It would explain everything.”

Geneva visibly perked up. “Should I get my camera?”

“No. Because what I’m about to tell you is off-the-record. As I’ve explained before, it means you cannot repeat it, quote it, and—most important—you can’t put it in the documentary, should that ever get off the ground.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

“This better be good,” she said.

“This is strictly off-the-record. Do I have your word?”

“Yes! I get it! For Chrissake, just say it.”

“It’s come to light that my mother and one of her students—”

“Girl or boy?”

“Boy. But what difference does that make if you can never use it?”

“I bet it’s the one who was at our table, the senator.”

“Do you understand that none of that matters, not that I’m confirming a single thing, because it’s off-the-freaking-record?”

“Can’t I be interested? Is that against the law, too?”

I hadn’t yet told her anything. It was then that I came to my senses. I could not tell her something juicy on the theory that she’d drop the whole project if her hands were tied. So I said, “Oh, it’s nothing. It was about me.”

“But you were going to tell me something about your mother and one of her students.”

“Well, it was about her, but now I realize it was nothing, a stupid little story about”—What did I have? Oh, right, the Josh and Jason O’Rourke caper—“a set of identical twins in two different English classes, and she found out that the one who had the test in the earlier class took it all over again in his brother’s afternoon class!”

“That was it? Then why that buildup about off-the-record, never use, never film, never think about it?”

“I was babbling. I have nothing. Nada. Your questionnaire isn’t going to produce one juicy thing.”

“Even if it doesn’t, I have the yearbook. And I picked up a vibe at the reunion.”

“What kind of vibe? From whom?”

She said too smartly, “Oh, how about a former male student?”

Had my voice sounded strained? It must have. I tried reverse psychology in the form of “This is going to be the most boring biopic ever filmed.”

How was that working? If I thought that had deflated her, I was wrong. Just the opposite. What I heard was “You’re an open book. Your mouth is saying ‘most boring biopic ever,’ but your face is saying ‘I’m terrified.’”

“No, it’s not! You never met my mother! She was a stick-in-the-mud! She might’ve had a yearbook thing, but she certainly did not cross a line with any students if that’s what your questionnaire is trying to root out. I’m sure she didn’t even cross any lines with my father before they married! They had to be role models. They had to be discreet. They—”

“Trusted each other?”

“Of course. They taught together. They had two kids together. They were together until she died.”

“I met him, don’t forget.”

What was that smug smile for? “You had Thanksgiving dinner with him.”

“And all the eligible ladies—which was everybody, now that I think about it—were making a play for him.”

“Was that his fault? And even if he went out on a date with one of them, he was entitled.”

“New widower and all?”

“It was over a year since my mother died! Plus, I don’t like this line of questioning. My father is the dearest man. And a true gentleman. I can’t believe you’re implying that he did something wrong. You know what I think? I think you’re finally facing the truth: that all you have is a story with no payoff about a New Hampshire English teacher with a yearbook fixation.”