Then She Found Me (11 page)

“Of course you should marry him,” I said.

“He sure was crazy about you.”

“I tried. Did you give him an answer last night?”

“No!”

“Because he’s rushing things?” I asked.

“He wants to get engaged so he can fuck me,” said Bernice.

A warning flag flickered in the corner of my internal vision. “What do you mean?” I asked pleasantly.

“He’s from the old school. There are women you sleep with and women you marry, and never the twain shall meet. Except if you’re officially engaged. It’s very quaint.”

I said she must be mistaken. Besides, did she tell him it was okay with her to sleep with him before they were engaged? Maybe he was being chivalrous and thought she needed a commitment.

“It’s a health thing,” said Bernice. “Did you notice how meticulous he is? I think he’s got an AIDS phobia—like you could catch it from casual sex but not from your fiancée.”

I said slowly, “I think you should get engaged. Get tested for AIDS. Show him he won’t catch anything. Find out how he is in bed.” I said this with effort, with a Cosmo girl’s casualness forced for effect.

“I know how he is in bed,” Bernice said impatiently, as if we had been discussing an entirely different man.

“Oh,” I said.

“I meant he wanted to get engaged so he can fuck me on a regular basis and spend the night. Of course we’ve slept together. He’s a normal man, for God’s sake.”

I had no advice left. She asked me if I could see him as a father.

“Absolutely.”

Bernice was quiet for a few moments. “He’s loaded, you know.”

“I didn’t know, exactly.”

“Which doesn’t matter to me one iota.”

“I know,” I lied.

“Don’t humor me, April. I know you think I’m interested in appearances, but you don’t know me very well if you think I’d consider marrying someone just for his assets.”

“I know that.”

“Good. Because I meet rich men every day and I’m not impressed. I wouldn’t even wear a diamond if Ted wanted to get me an engagement ring. I’d wear a simple thin gold band, very understated.”

“That proves it,” I said. “True love.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I thought of Dwight?”

“No.”

I heard her take a drag on her cigarette, then exhale slowly. “You can do better than him,” she said.

I sat up straighter in bed, switched the phone to my right ear, looked at the clock. “That’s a nasty remark,” I said.

“Why? I thought he was just your friend.”

“You don’t think a friend would take offense at that remark?”

“I meant as a boyfriend you could do better.”

“You’re not listening.”

“He has no charm,” said Bernice. “I can get by without a lot of things, but I insist on a man being charming.”

“How deep of you,” I said.

“Do you find him charming?”

“Who cares? It’s not high on my list, especially for my librarians.”

“I see. And that’s the story you’re sticking with?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Would you tell me if you
were
involved with him?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t be embarrassed?”

“You’re ridiculous,” I said.

“Because I care who you go out with? All mothers care about that. At least I don’t object for boring reasons like he doesn’t make any money or he’s not Jewish.”

“We’re just friends,” I said again.

“What would your adoptive mother have said in this situation?”

“She wouldn’t have passed judgment,” I said.

“I can’t help it. I value your opinions and I assumed you valued mine.”

“Why do you care if a friend of mine is handsome and charming or not?”

She laughed. “It’s the producer in me: How will he play? How will he look on camera?”

I reset my alarm so it rang. I said I had to go, had to jump in the shower.

“What time is it?” she asked. I told her almost six-thirty. I also told her—not that I was redefining anything, not that it had any relevance to anything at all, but speaking objectively, as a platonic friend—I thought Dwight had been a little charming the night before.

Bernice groaned, said she had to get up, had to wake Ted, too, who wanted to be out the door by seven.

K
imberly Fusco dropped a stapled note on my desk at the beginning of second period and said smartly, “It’s from Mr. Willamee.” The oohs started in the back of the room and rolled toward me.

“That’s enough,” I said.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” asked Kimberly, who had sauntered to her desk but was still standing.

“You guys are nerds,” I said. “We used to do this to my teachers when
I
was in high school. It’s very passé.”

“Read it!” someone yelled.

I opened the note and said loudly, “Miss Epner, your library book is overdue. Please return it at your earliest possible convenience.” I reached behind me for my book bag and threw the note in. “Some of you might check your lockers for overdue books, too,” I said. “Kimberly, how would you say the nominative plural of ‘books from the library’?”

Charles Lopes, a chronic wise guy whom I actually found quite funny, hitched his shoulders up to his earlobes and lisped, “Please return it at your earlieth possible convenience, Mith Epnah.”

“What did you say?” I asked.

Charles’s buddies laughed.

“What
did you say?”

Charles stopped smiling. “Sorry,” he said.

“How would you like it if you heard that a classroom full of people laughed when your name was mentioned—not at one of your hilarious jokes, but at you. Something about
you
. Would you like that?”

“No, Miss Epner,” I heard, and at the same moment, “Faggot.” From another corner, from an unidentifiable male voice—faggot.

I looked to the approximate source. “Who said that?”

“I didn’t,” said Charles.

I made a face: Of course you didn’t, jerk. I was looking right at you. “I want to know who said that,” I repeated.

“What are you gonna do if you find out?” asked Kimberly.

“Kill ’em,” said someone.

“Make ’em suck Willamee,” said another ventriloquist.

I pretended not to hear. I went to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk to write, turned around, and said, “If anyone says one word, this entire class will get detention.” I turned back and wrote
“libri ēbibliothecā”
on the blackboard. There were murmurs, but no discernible epithets. The girls in front shushed the potential troublemakers and we continued.

At the warning buzzer I said, “I want you to be decent young men and women, even if it’s just for these forty minutes a day.” I thought about saying, “And furthermore, not that I should even dignify your name-calling, but Mr. Willamee is almost certainly not a homosexual.”
Of course, I didn’t. I waited for the bell to ring and the classroom to empty. I took Dwight’s note from my book bag and read what it really said: “A rare opportunity. Thanks. Dwight.”

I wrote back on yellow math paper, “A rare
ordeal
is more like it. I owe you one. April.” I walked mine to the office and put it in Dwight’s mailbox. He would realize by example that this was the only safe way for innocent parties to pass notes. I would tell him in a nice way that confident and popular students could not be trusted, that the Kimberly Fuscos of the world didn’t understand the finer points of friendship.

I went to the cafeteria for lunch and found the usual fourth-period crowd in the faculty room. I sat down between Kiki Broustas, adviser to the cheerleading squad, and Frank Scanlon, a fussy English teacher with a bad chestnut brown toupee. Frank asked me without greeting if I remembered Kyle Bui, class of eighty-five, maybe eighty-six; a Vietnamese boy? He’d just sent Frank a letter from Notre Dame—the damned nicest letter—saying Honors English had been a good foundation and he was majoring in English.

I said I’d had him for three years, was disappointed he chose Notre Dame over Columbia, but I was glad he sounded happy.

“Kyle Bui?” Kiki asked, frowning. “Did he play any sports?”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“Notre Dame’s a big jock school,” Kiki informed us.

Frank looked distressed that Kiki was of his school, his profession, his species. “Kyle was a reader,” he said, again to me.

I reminded him that Kyle had won the Latin prize his senior year. Frank smiled. He knew I was the only judge,
and grade-point average was the only criterion. He had come to the right place. There was a lull in conversation that made me look up. Dwight Willamee was in the doorway with his industrial thermos and his lunch, staring at the nearly full table.

“Dwight!” I said, his only greeter. He hesitated before walking slowly to the one empty seat. Before he reached it Kiki said, “Lou sits there every day. He’ll be down in a sec.”

“Sorry,” said Dwight.

I stood up and moved my chair to one side. “Here,” I said. “Pull one over and squeeze in.” My colleagues picked up their chairs by the seat and put them down again one inch farther away. “More,” I said. “Norman, Chuck, you, too, please.” No one stood to say, Never mind, I’m just about to leave. You can have my seat. Or How ya doing, Dwight? I motioned again for him to bring a chair from the other table and sit with us. Look—all the room in the world.

Dwight hesitated. I could tell from his pained expression that he was about to back out of the lunchroom murmuring, No. Please. I’m disrupting you. I’ll go back to the library. I’m obviously not wanted.

“I was going to find you for a postmortem on last night,” I said loudly.

“You were?” said Dwight.

“Are you going to sit?”

He hoisted a chair up in the air, landed it in the negotiated space, and sat down. He took a sandwich out of his bag and removed the plastic wrap. People were listening, waiting to hear what Mr. Willamee could possibly have to say to me about the evening before. He shook his head very slightly and smiled, just shook his head and smiled as if he needed more time and fewer interested parties.

I said to the table, “Dwight got dragged to a family
dinner last night, which turned out to be excruciating.”

“Whose family?” asked Kiki.

“Mine.”

“What was the occasion?” she asked.

“No occasion,” I said.

Kiki looked around to see who was catching this. She squinted at me—C’mon, April. Are you serious or what? “Are you two on a committee together?” she asked.

“Sort of,” said Dwight.

“Dwight’s been helping me research something about my family.”

“That’s nice,” said Kiki. She stood up, cocked her finger at two phys ed teachers in windbreakers. “See you guys.” She walked away, tray in hand, the green soles of her aerobic shoes flashing against their white uppers. I pushed her chair away from the table and claimed the space.

Frank Scanlon spoke around me to Dwight. “What kind of research is Miss Epnah doing on her family?”

Dwight reached for his thermos and unscrewed the stopper. “Miss Epnah can probably tell you herself,” he said.

“Genealogical,” I said.

“A new hobby?” asked Frank.

“Coffee?” Dwight asked. I nodded.

“What are you?” asked Frank.

“Jewish,” I said.

“I mean your nationality.”

“American.”

“And before that?”

“Nothing,” I said.

Frank said, “We all came from somewhere, even the Indians.”

“Except me,” I said. “I didn’t.”

Dwight leaned forward and said, “April’s a little discouraged with our research.”

“Everyone comes from somewhere,” Frank repeated. “Even the Jews of Eastern Europe who made their living as peddlers and owned no land.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. I took a sip of coffee from the cup Dwight offered and asked if I could get a Styrofoam one for him. He shook his head.

Frank squeaked his chair back noisily as he rose to leave. “Nice to hear an update on Kyle Bui,” I said.

“Don’t be discouraged about your roots,” Frank counseled.

At the other end of the table, the phys ed teachers were discussing a cretin football player who was being heavily recruited by midwestern universities. Closer, a white-haired teacher of shorthand was discussing early retirement incentives with a bald man I didn’t know.

“Sorry,” I said to Dwight.

“About what?”

“Your first trip down here in fifteen years and there’s no seat.”

He reached in his bag and brought forth a second sandwich. “A bit territorial when you’re not in with the in crowd.”

“I’m not in with the in crowd,” I whispered. “I don’t even like anyone at this table.”

“It’s all right if you do. Frank’s a decent guy.”

“He was done eating. He didn’t have to sit around for another ten minutes and fiddle with his tea bag while you rearranged the furniture.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big boy.”

“They’re jerks,” I said.

He smiled at something but didn’t explain.

“What?”

He shook his head no, but spoke after a few moments. “I’m fascinating and they’re jerks?” Bernice’s words; her emphasis.

I opened my mouth to protest, but Dwight said, “You’re not like her. It was just that one word. You spit it out with the same … distaste.”