Helen of Pasadena (15 page)

I was propped up in bed, trying to transcribe the scanned documents. It was slow going trying to slop through Rudy’s century-old handwriting. I was about halfway through the first notebook, a fairly tedious description of the logistics of the trip to Troy. Train, boat, caravan. Even a detailed packing list, which I’m sure some scholar would find fascinating, but not me. It didn’t look that much different than Aiden’s list for summer camp.

Except the dried venison jerky that Rudy Schliemann was taking by the barrelful.

Though the transcription was painful, I was finally putting to use that typing course my guidance counselor had made me take in high school. “Just in case that Latin thing doesn’t work out,” Miss Tetherow had winked, bedecked in a burnt-orange pants suit, trying her Mary Tyler Moore best even in central Oregon.

I felt a little nauseated when I realized that maybe Miss Tetherow was right.

I closed the computer and shut off the bedside lamp. A glow came from the closet, now half empty. I’d taken to sleeping with the light on. I pretended that it was for Aiden, in case he wanted to come in at night and sleep on the floor. But it was for me, too.

Being scared of the dark was a new feeling for me.

I turned on the light, opened my laptop and started typing up more of the transcribed journal. What the … ? All of a sudden, Rudy’s description of packing lists turned to his fantasies about the young Sophia Schliemann and what she might be wearing when he arrived on site. Or not wearing, that is, as he described her “naked, slender ankles, absent of boot or stocking.”

Rudy, Rudy, Rudy, you bad boy, you.

CHAPTER 11

Aiden and I had debated the merits of a shirt and tie most of the morning. I thought he should wear one for the Ignatius interview. He disagreed. “Mom, it looks like I’m trying too hard,” he argued.

“A shirt and tie simply says you care. You’ll have to wear one every day for four years when you get in. What’s the big deal about wearing one to the interview?” I hissed in that special mother hiss. Honestly, his moods were all over the place these days—understandable, given what he’d been through. But why, why, why pick a fight over a shirt and tie? I pulled the car into the school parking lot, observing the high ratio of Mini Coopers and old Volvos in the student spaces.

Compared to the lush, green surroundings of Millington, Ignatius was as urban as Pasadena could manage. The old stone buildings, originally a Jesuit seminary and retirement home constructed in the 1920s, were covered in ivy and jammed up against a freeway onramp. A small chapel, with a stained-glass window featuring the names of Jesuit colleges, stood off to the right. The pool and sports fields rolled out beyond the chapel, an endless rectangular strip of green and concrete alongside the freeway. A brand-new football stadium, complete with a million-dollar turf field, press box and deluxe locker rooms, was at the far south end of the campus. (One very loyal, very successful former third-string quarterback had donated the entire stadium. Benchwarmer’s revenge, Merritt had laughed at the dedication ceremony.)

The campus was not beautiful, but it reeked of tradition: the broad stone steps in front where students gathered in the morning; the worn wooden crucifix touched for luck by a thousand boys a day as they entered the gates; the drafty dining hall where the seniors lead grace before meals. Ignatius, despite its Catholic heritage, was the closest Southern California came to the elitist prep schools in Massachusetts and Connecticut. The big difference was that it wasn’t actually elitist.

The children of the rich, the poor, the immigrants and the powerful of all colors and creeds came to Ignatius from all over Los Angeles County. Long before prep schools grew endowments to cover financial aid for needy students, Ignatius had prided itself on a “write the check” admissions policy. If the son of a gardener or cop or mechanic was deemed qualified to attend, some alum would simply write the tuition check on behalf of that student for four years. It started 60 years ago with Father Michael at the helm and continued today with Father Raphael. The beloved Jesuit would scan the alumni directory and pick up the phone. The lawyer or real estate mogul or judge would never meet the kid he sponsored. And the student hoped to someday repay the debt in the same way. It was quiet and discreet, and it built the most loyal alumni in the area. Most Ignatius Crusaders considered their high school allegiance to be even deeper than their college or fraternity connection.

I wanted Aiden to have that connection. I felt like I could still give him that, even if so much else in his life had changed.

As I redid my lipstick in the rearview mirror, I took one last stab at Aiden. What was wrong with him? “It would be a sign of respect to school tradition to wear a tie.”

“Fine. Just… whatever, fine.” And he put on the tie and a dramatic scowl.

Super, I noted to myself. Terrific day to come down with Attitude.

And it got worse from there.

Hank Pfister, the director of admissions, ushered us into his cramped office. Humility in all things, the needlepoint pillow on the couch advised. So I’ve learned lately, I thought.

“So Aiden, what are you reading in English this quarter?” Mr. Pfister offered up as his first question. I knew that he knew exactly what an eighth grade student at Millington would be reading this quarter:
Romeo & Juliet
and
To Kill a Mockingbird
. Twenty-five boys from Millington had applied to Ignatius; Aiden was the last to be interviewed. Only about a half-dozen would get in. Aiden was a legacy and a decent kid who had just lost his dad, but his grades were not good. He needed this interview. I got the sense that Hank Pfister knew that, too.

I appreciated the softball question.

“Umm, umm …” Aiden started, not looking up from the floor for a second of eye contact. Then the fidgeting began, leading to the chair twisting. “Umm, Romeo and, umm, Juliet. That’s pretty good. And then that one about the lawyer dude defending the African American guy. The Mockingbird one.”

The lawyer dude
?
Shakespeare is “pretty good”
? Who is this kid?

“Oh, Aiden,” I fake-laughed, hoping to diffuse the growing discomfort in the room. “I’m glad you think William Shakespeare is
pretty good
.”

“Tough audience,” Hank Pfister responded, playfully jerking his head toward my son. God bless you, Mr. Pfister.

Then playtime ended.

“If you can’t understand a single word the guy writes, how great can he be?” Aiden snapped, his voice full of defiant energy now. “I could read that crap all day long and still it wouldn’t make any sense. What’s the point?”

There is no sound in the world quite as deafening as the sound of all hope leaving a room.
Please, Aiden, please pull it together.
But I could see that he was just getting started with his Angry Young Man phase.

We struggled through another ten minutes of questions and answers. Even the routine questions about water polo failed to elicit a civil response from my son. Eventually, it was Mr. Pfister and me talking about Aiden while Aiden checked his imaginary watch. We carried on the charade, including handshakes and wishes of good luck, until the end of the interview, but we all knew one thing for sure: This Aiden was not Ignatius material.

My mother was very good at silence. It was her greatest parenting asset. Of course, it made me crazy as a kid when she would call out in front of my friends for “a moment of silence and meditation” if we got into an argument over the rusty trampoline in our backyard. “Let’s all close our eyes and take a deep breath. Exhale the dark energy,” my long-haired mother in the flowing skirt would instruct my bewildered church-going friends. “Breathe in the light.”

She would remain very still for about a minute while my friends tried not to laugh and I tried not to die of embarrassment. Then, she’d return to the moment with a big smile and a solution. I think the solution was that the horror of the mediation made everyone involved in the “dark energy” completely forget what the fight was about. Nevertheless, we were all calmer and the trampoline play continued without incident or need for further meditation.

But I was never more grateful for the lesson of silence then on the way home from Ignatius. The fifteen-minute drive felt like fifteen hours. Aiden and I did not exchange a single word. I did my best to breathe out the dark energy; he stared out the window, barely breathing at all.

Both Tina and Candy had texted me with the same “How’d it go?” message. I wasn’t ready to answer that question yet. I turned the phone off. I could hear my mother’s soothing voice, “Let it go. Breathe out and let it go.”

She had a point.

When we arrived back at our house, the “For Sale” sign was being hammered into the front yard in advance of the weekend open house by a couple of guys on Rita’s team. “Tasteful typeface and classy colors!” Rita had promised. I’m sure the neighbors would appreciate the art direction. I turned off the ignition and sat for a second. So did Aiden.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Aiden challenged me when we finally got out of the Audi.

I can’t remember a time when I’d ever had less to say, except maybe when Merritt told me about Roshelle Simms. Or when the accountant had told me about the money. I couldn’t possibly comprehend what had just happened, so I certainly had nothing constructive to say about it. I simply stated the obvious.

“I guess you really don’t want to go to Ignatius. I thought you did. We’ll figure something out.”

Aiden’s face registered surprise, as if he’d expected me to rip into him upon our arrival home. And certainly, if he’d behaved like that in front of Merritt, there would have been serious consequences: yelling, accusations of letting down the family name, no computer or cell phone for a week. But in the last few months, I’d lost all sense of how to measure the importance of events. Was blowing the Ignatius interview less important or more to Aiden’s life than having to sell his house? Who knew? I wouldn’t know for decades the impact of Merritt’s death on our lives, so I certainly wasn’t going to jump to conclusions now. “Let’s just order pizza so we don’t mess up Emilia’s clean kitchen.”

“Mom, I’m sorry. I messed up. Are you mad at me?” That was the most emotionally complex thought Aiden had uttered all afternoon. I got an acknowledgement, apology and acceptance of responsibility.

“No,” I said truthfully. Saddened, disappointed, scared, but not mad. “No, I’m not mad. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay.” The One-Word Wonder was back.

I knew we’d have to return to this conversation someday, like in a month when we got the rejection letter from Ignatius and the reality of the awful interview would sink in for Aiden.

In the meantime, I changed the subject. “Hey, can you take a look at a PowerPoint for me? It’s Dr. O’Neill’s, and he wants to make sure it’s cool enough for your class. Ten minutes while we wait for the pizza. Would you mind?”

A smile from the kid!

“Sure.”

Three hours and one mushroom and sausage pizza later, Aiden and I had transformed Patrick’s studious PowerPoint presentation about the Trojan War into a multimedia spectacular. The original was, as Aiden’s said, “lame.” Our version, with music, animation and moving graphic sequences was, as he said, “cool.”

We added in the action, mystery, romance and intrigue that Patrick had left out. And a few actions photos of Patrick on site that I’d found on Facebook, to please the female teachers and mothers who attended.

“E-mail it to your boss, Mom. Now.” Aiden was convinced I would get a huge promotion based on our soundtrack choices alone, from Green Day to The Weepies. I’d had just enough wine to think that he might be right.

I hit “Send.”

“Time for bed. Big weekend.”

“Yup.”

I meant selling the house. Aiden meant the water polo tournament.

As I watched Aiden drag his sleepy body up to bed, I made a decision. I would talk to Billy Owens, Esquire. He was an Ignatius alum, and he would make it right. Plus, after knowing about the money and the affair and saying nothing, he owed me one, and he knew it.

There is no better place to avoid your life than at a youth water polo tournament. In between the constant whistles, the over-enthusiastic crowds and the roar of the reverberating aquatics center, I literally could not hear myself think. (Which was perfect, considering what I was trying to avoid thinking about.)
So what
that hundreds of looky-loos were traipsing though my dream house, commenting on how sad it was that I had to sell?
So what
that my kid had blown his only chance at happiness and would undoubtedly begin experimenting with marijuana soon?
So what
that I had to cancel my gym membership, move to a cheaper hair salon and sell the R. Kenton Nelson oil painting of the Colorado Street Bridge that Merritt had given me for our tenth anniversary—just to pay the second half of the Millington tuition?