Trust Exercise(79)
Finally, the current principal, a slim, sleek woman in a sleeveless black sheath, took the stage a second time. “As our cherished alumni community, most of you already know that this beautiful building expresses so much of Bob’s vision. Working with our architects and designers, as well as with the Lewis Family Foundation, Bob was hands-on every step of the way, and it is difficult for all of us to lose him just on the brink of this amazing new phase of our school’s history.” Something in her comment had reversed the current and Claire realized that noises in the din she’d thought were hooting or cheering were actually booing. Seeming unsurprised the woman brought her face flush to the mic and her voice boomed out, drowning the others. “The conversation around the Lewis Family Foundation’s bequest, and around naming rights, has engaged our community in a lastingly valuable way. Debate and dissent are the hallmarks of any inclusive community.”
“Bob would have spared us the bullshit!” a male voice called out, and not just Claire’s head but every other swiveled to take in the densely packed tiers of the grandiose space, trying to pick out the heckler.
“And though we can never say that Bob’s death has a silver lining,” the principal shouted determinedly in her mic, “I think I speak not merely for our school administration, and the Lewis Family Foundation, but for all our community when I say how delighted I am that our school’s new name, at the suggestion of the Lewis family themselves, will not be the Lewis School for the Arts, as originally planned, but the Robert Lord School for the Arts.” In the pandemonium of approbation that followed, Claire could barely hear what her seatmate bent close to tell her although his hot breath crawled over her ear.
“Bob would have fucking despised that. Being used as political cover. Y’know?” Claire nodded energetically, and kept nodding energetically as the crowd-glacier slowly reversed direction, first squeezing her away from her seatmate, who seemed to be working up to ask for her number although he had to be, she was now sure, at least twenty years older than she was; then squeezing her through the lobby past enormous images of Robert Lord hung from filaments high in the vault of the cathedral-like space that would bear his name; and finally squeezing her back through the doors, where she might have stopped and reflected but the crowd’s force did not stop, it kept pushing her, down the sidewalk and across the parking lot until she was decisively at its far margins and then no part of it at all.
* * *
SHE’D VISITED THE old building almost three years before, on a day in June. She’d chosen the date carefully. She knew as well as anyone who’s ever gone to school that June is the victory lap, with everybody killing time. She’d called ahead for an appointment. She’d said she had questions about the program and repeated herself when the admin in the office asked Was she a prospective student or parent? A member of the press? Acquainted with Mr. Lord? Mr. Lord was very busy.
“I have questions about the program,” she’d repeated. She kept repeating the same six words not out of any courage but because she was so nervous she got stuck in the rut of the phrase. The admin put her on hold for so long that the line defaulted back to ringing again. The different voice that answered seemed completely unaware that Claire had not called that moment, but had been on hold for perhaps fifteen minutes. “Oh, of course, dear,” the second voice said, and gave Claire an appointment, twelve twenty-five on a Friday, presumably lunch hour.
Before the appointment she hadn’t known what kind of man he was. She hadn’t known he was a local celebrity; she hadn’t even known his name. She’d simply needed the head of the program for her own surely uncommon reasons. When the first admin had put up resistance, Claire had not been surprised because she always felt, when she called anyone, that she had to be bothering them. But arriving at the building she understood she’d accidentally been bold enough to ask for its king.
The women in the office traded skeptical looks when Claire said, “I’m here to see Mr. Lord. I have an appointment.”
“You have an appointment?”
“At twelve twenty-five.”
“Did you make it with one of us?”
“I’m not sure. I called—”
“What’s the name of the person you spoke to?”
“I didn’t ask—”
“Did she sound like an older woman?” Claire would have guessed both of these women were fifty or sixty or more. “It must have been Velva,” one said to the other with a roll of her eyes. “I’ll need to call Mr. Lord to make sure he’s here in the building,” she said reproachfully to Claire. “It’s his lunch hour and he’s very busy.”
To hide her flushed face Claire turned to a mosaic of photos encrusting the wall. Young people played trumpet, declaimed, did the splits in midair. Most wore haircuts and clothes of the past. Behind her Claire heard the woman murmuring into the phone and then calling, “Julie!” A bare-midriffed girl appeared and received from the woman a molded plastic comedy-tragedy mask with the word “Visitor” plastered on it in sequins. “Julie will walk you to Mr. Lord’s office,” the woman said, turning back to her screen.
The girl’s sneakers beneath her snug jeans landed flawlessly heel-to-toe as if on a tightrope. After many turns they stopped in front of a just-ajar door and the girl gave Claire the comedy-tragedy mask. “You’re supposed to return this to the office when your visit is over. Do you want me to knock for you?” Now that she’d stopped, Claire could see the girl was very beautiful. Her natural makeup and lovely winged brows appeared professional, the look of an off-duty starlet.