Good Riddance(64)
“Are you saying this is a false accusation or mistaken identity?” the director asked.
“Both! And what do they think I stole?”
“A valuable book that was—I’d have to consult my notes—one of a kind and irreplaceable. Inscribed throughout. And the source material for many media projects.”
What hope did I have from a woman who’d never been a particularly sympathetic boss? I told her I wanted to talk to these accusers face to face! Like the U.S. Constitution guarantees, I improvised.
“Out of the question. I promised them my utter discretion.” The director consulted a peach-colored index card. “You do live on West Fifty-fourth Street, apartment 11-D, down the hall from the apartment of the aggrieved party?”
With all the dignity I could muster, I said, “The book in question belonged to me; actually, it belonged to my mother who bequeathed it to me in her last will and testament.”
That managed to evoke something that looked like uncertainty, so I embellished it with “In a handwritten codicil.”
She checked her notes again. “What about this part, that the book is the basis of a movie script and other media?”
“First of all, there’s no movie. And by the way, this source material? It’s a friggin’ yearbook, like fifty years old.”
“Then . . . I don’t understand.”
“Because whoever told you this is misinformed. How can you steal what already belongs to you? I’m the aggrieved party.”
“Daphne. I can hardly let this go. What would you do in my shoes if parents came to you with a serious charge against a teacher? They also said the police had been called—”
“I’d have heard if the police were called. More like the police were dialed. If anyone did the stealing, it was this crazy woman who—”
“Do you realize that if you’re arrested it would make the papers, and every article would identify you as a teacher at Belvedere Montessori? I shudder to think of the consequences.”
“Well, there was never anything to make the papers. And do you really think I’m capable of a felony—if you can even call the repossessing of a book that belonged to you in the first place a felony?”
“That’s your story: You repossessed the book?”
“Yes, because it’s not a story! The book belonged to me! And just in case you’re thinking breaking and entering, you should know I was able to return the book to my own possession because I was inside her apartment saving the alleged owner’s life!”
“Motive and opportunity,” said my director, as if I’d uttered the exact inculpatory thing she was hoping to hear.
What else did I have to shake her up with but “I’m guessing these snitches were Logan’s fathers?”
No affirmation or denial. What I next heard was “I’m sure you can appreciate that I have no other choice.”
I never liked this woman or this job. But still I said, “What about ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”
“It’s all about the children. If there’s even a scintilla of truth—”
“I’ll sue those parents for defamation. And Belvedere Montessori for wrongful termination!”
Judge and jury was shaking her head emphatically. “You misunderstand. Danielle is coming back from maternity leave. You were hired on a temporary basis to fill in for her during her confinement. She returns on Monday.”
“Since when? When you offered me the job, you hinted that Danielle might take a maternity leave that lasted until she had the next kid!”
“Then you misunderstood.”
Perhaps, in the interest of keeping my job, I should’ve listened respectfully, maintained my innocence, and asked for another chance. I didn’t. I stood up and stated with utmost dignity, “Well, fuck you, then.”
Who to call for commiseration? My dad? No. He already had enough to worry about in the Daphne department. Jeremy? Another no. We maintained that we were still friends, but that was only our going through the motions of civility due to geography. Attorney Cousin Julian? No, once again. Neither unfair termination nor defamation was his kind of law. There was only one avenue, one person, one target: Geneva Wisenkorn, bane of my existence, source of all misery in my life—not counting my ex-husband, my ex-boyfriend, Tina the interloper, my sister the memoirist, Peter Armstrong the statutory seducer, Maria Montessori, and my own self.
I still had Jeremy’s key. I found the yearbook nearly in plain view—if you’d call the top drawer of his bureau plain view. I took it, thoughtfully leaving a note explaining that I’d been fired and needed the yearbook for reasons I’d explain if our paths ever crossed again.
I Googled the service required and found a place right on Tenth Avenue. The pages of The Monadnockian were easy to rip out of their fifty-year-old binding. Without ceremony or regret, I shredded them, a handful at a time, and collected the fragments in a clear plastic bag. Even reduced to shreds, slivers of eyes, noses, ears, teeth, lips, bangs, pearls, headbands, bow ties, signatures, and ambitions made their source recognizable. My first thought was to leave the remains outside Geneva’s door, silently demanding, You wanted your precious stolen yearbook back? Well, here it is.
But it was mine to keep, and its destruction had given me solace after the morning’s indignity. Hadn’t this caused me nothing but trouble for months? So, like a good kidnapper, I photographed the bulging bag propped between its two covers lest there be any doubt as to its identity. I texted the photo to Geneva, unaccompanied by words. I did, however, put some time into choosing emoji, and settled on three: a scissors, the scales of justice, and a middle finger.