All We Ever Wanted(31)

“That’s wonderful,” he said. “Just wonderful.”

“Which part?” I asked.

“All of it,” he said. “That her mother came here. That Windsor has this kind of diversity—”

“I actually don’t think it’s all that diverse….But it is a great school. I’ve been very impressed with the academics. And the headmaster,” I said purposefully.

Kirk nodded. “Yes. Walt’s very good at what he does. And I recognize that he’s in a tough position now. With this incident…And I think for everyone’s sake, he’s hoping we handle it privately….”

“Privately?” I asked, knowing exactly where this was going.

“Yes. Between the two families. I can assure you that Finch is being severely punished…and we would like to compensate you both for your…your time from work…and also any distress this may have caused you and your daughter.”

   I stared at him in disbelief as he walked over to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a white business-size envelope. As he returned to hand it to me, I could see my name written on it, and I was overcome with a fight-or-flight feeling. Should I punch this guy in the face? Or should I take the money and run? At the very least, I wanted to know how much this joker thought it would take to buy us off. Maybe he had done his research after all and already knew I was a carpenter. Maybe he even assumed I was a “Hispanic” carpenter. Maybe he had multiple envelopes in his desk. Envelope number one for the minority laborer. Envelope number two for the blue-collar white guy. Envelope three for a fellow suit. Fight or flight, flight or fight? Wasn’t it supposed to be an instinct, not a choice?

In any event, I decided to flee, standing to take the envelope from him. As I put it in my back pocket, I could tell it contained bills. A lot of bills.

A look of palpable relief crossed Kirk’s face. “I’m really glad we could have this talk, Tom,” he said. “I think it’s been very, very constructive.”

“Yes,” I said. “It really has.”

“And if you’d just let Walt know that we settled this…” His voice trailed off as I guess even he wasn’t brazen enough to actually spell it out: I’m paying you off.

In the ultimate head fake, I nodded, smiled, then allowed myself to be cheerfully shown to the door.





Kirk returned home from the airport only thirty minutes before his scheduled meeting with Lyla’s father. As he unpacked his roller bag, moving back and forth between his closet and our bathroom, I tried to engage him in conversation. I asked him what he planned to say to Thomas Volpe—and if he was sure he didn’t want me to join them. To my guilty relief, he said he was quite sure—then added that he’d rather not discuss the details.

“I don’t want to sound too rehearsed,” he said. “It needs to be natural.”

I nodded, not quite buying it but once again relieved.

A few minutes later, I left the house in a low-key panic. As I tried to distract myself with mindless errands, I thought a lot about my husband, how what I’d once loved most about him was now what frustrated me to no end. He had to be right. He had to be in charge. But in our earlier years, I was occasionally the exception to the rule. I could persuade him when nobody else could. At the very least, we had once been a partnership. Equals.

I thought of an earlier childhood crisis, when Finch and another boy had dipped the ears of a neighbor’s cocker spaniel puppy in blue paint. He’d denied it, despite overwhelming proof to the contrary, including the blue paint I’d found on the treads of his small Nike sneakers. Kirk and I had argued about how to handle it; he was in favor of brute force to extract a confession. But I’d convinced him to let me try my way first. The three of us sat at the kitchen table together as I told Finch we would always love him, no matter what, and how important it was to tell the truth.

   “I did it, Mommy,” Finch finally said, breaking down in tears. “I’m so sorry!”

I still remember the way Kirk looked at me, the way we later made love and he told me that he’d picked the most wonderful mother for his son.

It had been a long time since he’d looked at me like that.



* * *



—

ABOUT AN HOUR later, as I was still running errands, Kirk called, asking if I wanted to meet him for lunch.

“Oh, no. Was it that bad?” I said, thinking that Kirk never had time for lunch. At least not a lunch without a business purpose.

“No. It wasn’t bad at all. It went great, actually,” he said, his voice notably chipper.

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah. We had a good talk. I like him.”

“And…did he like you?”

“Of course,” Kirk said with a laugh. “What’s not to like?”

I ignored his question and asked for more details.

“I’ll tell you everything over lunch. Meet me at the club?” he said, referring to Belle Meade, the country club to which we belonged—and his family always had.

“Um, can we go somewhere else?” I said, remembering how I’d felt about the club when I first started to go with Kirk and his family. It had made me uncomfortable—the fawning staff in their stiff white jackets, the formal rooms filled with Oriental rugs and antique furniture, and most of all, the lily-white membership. There were no black members at all until 2012, and almost all the staff were people of color, though to be fair and as Kirk had pointed out, plenty of African Americans had been approached to join but had simply declined. I couldn’t say I blamed them.