Where'd You Go, Bernadette(20)

11:15—Closing remarks.



Gwen Goodyear will be stationed at the door, bidding adieux, and handing out Galer Street swag. There is no way to overemphasize the importance of this. Just because they’re Mercedes Parents doesn’t mean they’re not highly receptive to free shit. (Excuzey-moi!)

Cheers!



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From: Soo-Lin Lee-Segal

To: Audrey Griffin





GOOD LUCK TODAY! I just spoke with Pizza Nuovo. The rain doesn’t affect their wood-burning oven. They will set up a tent in the backyard. I’m stuck in Redmond because Elgin is making a presentation in another city and he wants me at my desk to troubleshoot any glitches. No comment.



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From: Ollie-O

To: Prospective Parent Brunch Committee





Crisis. Enormous billboard hovering over Audrey’s house. Erected overnight by crazy neighbor. (Fellow Galer Street parent?) Audrey hysterical. Husband calling city attorney. I don’t do black swan.



*

From: Helen Derwood, PhD

To: Galer Street Kindergarten Parents

Cc: Galer Street All-School List



Dear Parents,



I assume your little ones have told you snippets about the shocking events at today’s brunch. No doubt you are concerned and confused. As the only kindergarten parent in attendance, I’ve been inundated with phone calls asking what really happened.

As many of you know, I’m a counselor at Swedish Medical Center, specializing in post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I went to New Orleans after Katrina and still make frequent trips to Haiti. With the permission of Head of School Goodyear, I am writing both as a parent and PTSD counselor.

It’s important to root our discussion in the facts. You dropped off your children in front of Galer Street. From there, we boarded the bus, and Mr. Kangana drove us to the Queen Anne home of Audrey and Warren Griffin. Despite the rain, the setting was lovely. The planters were full of colorful flowers, and the smell of burning wood filled the air.

A gentleman by the name of Ollie-O greeted us and directed us to the side entrance, where we were asked to remove our raincoats and rain boots.

The brunch was in full swing. There were approximately fifty guests in attendance, who all appeared to be enjoying themselves. I noted palpable tension coming from Gwen Goodyear, Audrey Griffin, and Ollie-O, but nothing a kindergartener would be able to detect.

We were led to the sunroom, where Mr. Kangana had set up his marimbas the night before. The children who had to go potty did, then kneeled behind their instruments. The shades were drawn, leaving the room quite dark. The children had difficulty locating their mallets, so I began to raise the shades.

Ollie-O materialized and grabbed my hand. “That’s a nonstarter.” He turned on the lights.

The guests packed in for the performance. After a short introduction by Gwen Goodyear, the children started in with “My Giant Carp.” You would have been so proud! It was going delightfully. About a minute in, however, a commotion erupted in the backyard, where the caterers were.

“Holy s——!” someone shouted from outside.

A few guests reacted with good-natured titters. The children hardly noticed, they were so absorbed in their music. The song ended. All the little eyes were on Mr. Kangana, who counted them into their next song, “One, two, three—”

“F——!” someone else shouted.

This was not OK. I dashed through the laundry room to the back door, with the intention of shushing the raucous caterers. I turned the handle. A strong, dull, consistent pressure pushed the door toward me. Immediately sensing a terrible force of nature on the other side, I attempted to close the door. The inhuman force wouldn’t allow it. I stuck my foot against the bottom of the door. I heard an ominous creak. The hinges began pulling loose from the frame.

Before I could compute any of this, the marimba music suddenly stopped. A series of pops and pings erupted from the sunroom. A child squealed in distress.

I abandoned the threat at the door and hurtled to the sunroom, where I was met by the shattering of glass. The children were running, screaming, from their instruments. With none of their own parents to run to for comfort, the kindergarteners collectively burrowed into the crowd of prospective parents, who in turn were trying to squeeze through the one small door leading to the living room. It’s a small miracle nobody was trampled.

My daughter, Ginny, ran to me and hugged my legs. Her back was wet… and muddy. I looked up. The shades were now eerily raised of their own accord.

And then came the mud. In it sloshed, through the broken windows. Thick mud, watery mud, rocky mud, mud with beveled-glass shards, mud with window muntins, mud with grass, mud with barbecue utensils, mud with a mosaic birdbath. In a flash, the sunroom windows were gone, and in their place, a gaping, mud-oozing hole.

Adults, children, everyone, was trying to outrun the wreckage, which now included furniture. I stayed behind with Mr. Kangana, who was attempting to rescue the marimbas he had brought with him as a young boy when he emigrated from his beloved Nigeria.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the mud stopped. I turned. An upside-down billboard was flat against the hole in the sunroom, forming a dam. I have no clue as to where this billboard originated, but it was bright red and vast enough to cover what had been a wall of windows.