A Changed Man (35 page)

“It’s worth it,” says Laura. “Worth anything.” Laura’s off the subject of fish and back on the foundation. “That’s why I want to support it. What better way to use Larry’s money? Whatever project Meyer was talking about, that outreach thing, for other guys like Vincent. Not that I would imagine there
are
many guys like Vincent. But hey, it worked once. Let’s try it again.”

“Let me tell you what we need,” says Bonnie, mindful of what she’s learned: the rich can be insulted if you ask for a sum that seems too low. Bonnie and Laura put their heads together, two friends, coconspirators whispering over the subject of money, tax credits, and budgets, as if they were having the girl chat that Bonnie imagined earlier. But this is so much better. This was worth holding out for.

Bonnie can’t believe she’s managed to get from there to here.
Here
being Laura Ticknor’s offer to donate three hundred thousand dollars over a period of three years to finance the One Heart at a Time program.

“Will you ladies be having dessert?”

“I’ll have the cannoli,” Bonnie says.

“Make that two,” says Laura.

When the check comes, Laura says, “Please. This one’s on me.”

Outside the restaurant, Bonnie kisses Laura good-bye, smacky kisses on both cheeks, a warm hug at the end. Bonnie practically runs down the street. She can’t wait to get to the office and tell Meyer what happened. She rehearses several different ways: Guess what happened, guess what happened with Laura Ticknor, guess how much Laura Ticknor is giving us for the One Heart program. Which is how she decides to phrase it as she walks into Meyer’s office.

Meyer gives her a strangely blank look. An alarmingly blank look. The man is over seventy. Anything could have happened.

“How much?” asks Meyer.

“Three hundred thousand,” says Bonnie “Over three years.” Suddenly, it sounds like less than it did at lunch.

“Excellent.” Meyer’s thoughts have already moved on to something else. “Bonnie. Help me out. Remind me. Who was in the office that first day Vincent came in?”

“The three of us,” says Bonnie. “You, me, and Vincent. Why?”

“The most upsetting thing happened today. According to Roberta, someone from
Chandler
called to ask if Vincent could wear a short-sleeved shirt. They seem to know about his tattoos. Roberta explained that Vincent was sensitive about the tattoos. It was part of how much he had changed. At this point he prefers to keep them covered, and being asked to display them on TV would hardly put him in a mood to show Chandler’s audience the changed man they want to see. The woman from the show said she understood. Then she said it was her impression that I also had a tattoo, from the camp. She said what exciting TV it would be if we both showed our tattoos. Compared them.”

“That’s disgusting!” says Bonnie. “I mean, doing it on TV.” Though of course, not in private. She remembers it as a powerfully moving moment. “I mean, it was really wonderful that first day Vincent came into the office….”

Meyer is beyond flattery, which isn’t Bonnie’s intention. “Roberta talked them out of it. She mentioned my wariness about cheapening the Holocaust. Cheapening the Holocaust. Those three words always do the trick. Later I began to wonder if Roberta told the TV people that something like that had happened in my office. And I wondered if she’d been there. Or if someone told
her.
”

“I don’t think I told anybody,” says Bonnie, immediately guilty. She remembers telling her kids. Could she have told Roberta? She can’t remember whom she told, and yet her shame is so intense, it’s as if she sold the story to the
National Enquirer.
She
didn’t
tell Roberta. Chandler’s people guessed, and guessed right.

By now she can’t recall what had seemed so important about Laura Ticknor’s pledge. She has to be patient and wait until this
Chandler
thing blows over. She knows that Meyer is concerned about appearing on the show. But why should a hero like Meyer be worried about TV? This too will pass. The TV show will be over and forgotten, but Laura’s donation will keep the One Heart program alive for years to come. Maybe Vincent can help run it.

These days, just thinking about Vincent can make Bonnie feel unsettled, as if she’s left the house and forgotten to turn off the stove. Today it’s not just the familiar nagging of general unease, the residual embarrassment from the night of the benefit dinner. Vincent is picking up her van. He should be home already. Did she tell him where the garage is? It’s probably fine. Knock on wood. He’s a guy. He can get there on instruments, flying on male radar. Should she invent some excuse to call? Would he think she was checking up?

“Bonnie, where are you going?” Meyer says.

“I need to get home,” says Bonnie.

B
ONNIE KNOWS IT’S
the second day in a row she’s left work
early, but she feels that Meyer’s lukewarm response to her success with Laura has given her license to take off. And she has to make sure that things have gone smoothly with Vincent and her van.

The train ride home is pure pleasure, and Bob, her favorite taxi driver, is waiting at the Clairmont station. On the way to her house they have an enjoyable chat about this spring’s spectacular bloom. As the cab rounds the corner onto her block, Bonnie spots her van in the driveway. Vincent has made it. The car is fixed. Everything has worked out.

Better yet, she finds Vincent and both boys downstairs, watching
Chandler.
Has Bonnie ever seen the show? Oddly, she can’t remember. It’s important to check it out. It’s a professional obligation. She’s not wasting time. She’s doing work-related research. Some time ago, Roberta asked Chandler’s people to send over a tape of the show with the former skinhead who went to work with the Wiesenthal Foundation. Bonnie’s eager to see it, as if it might explain everything, or
some
thing. But whenever Bonnie asks, it’s never a good time for Roberta, who seems to feel that the tape is in her sacred trust and can only be viewed in her presence.

Bonnie should watch
Chandler
now, just to see what it’s like. Sitting down would be a commitment, so she lingers in the doorway of what used to be Joel’s room, the space he claimed as his own and bequeathed to the kids in his ongoing campaign to make them love him more.

The program’s about orthodonture. A row of teenagers sit in brown leather club chairs and take turns describing what wrecks they used to be, while photos flash onto the screen—“before” shots of the same kids with disfiguring underbites and buck teeth. Each story is worse than the last, until one girl breaks down as she describes how her undershot jaw drove her to drink and drugs and prostitution. Now their teeth are white and straight, and the kids are happy, doing well in school. College bound.

“Hey, Vincent, man,” says Max. “Maybe you can get them to fix your teeth before you go on the show.”

“Nothing’s wrong with my teeth,” Vincent says.

“Maybe you can get them to fix what’s wrong with your head, Max,” says Danny.

Poor Max, thinks Bonnie. He was just trying to make them laugh.

Max says, “Nothing’s wrong with my—”

“Shut up and listen,” says Danny.

Chandler is telling the audience how sometimes a simple physical change can work miracles. Bonnie thinks the guy should be jailed for using these kids like circus animals. Still, she’s got to admit they look better with their new teeth.

“Hey, guys, how is everyone?” Bonnie chirps.

“Fine,” says Max. Danny’s got the remote. He hits it, and the image changes to a giant iguana swallowing a smaller lizard. The bottom half of the little lizard’s body thrashes between its predator’s jaws.

“Hi, Bonnie,” says Vincent, politely. He too is fixated on the screen.

“Gross,” says Max. “This is like one of those gross dinosaur movies.”

“
Jurassic Park,
” says Danny.

“This is real,” says Vincent. “That’s just special effects.”

“I realize that,” says Danny.

“How’s the car?” asks Bonnie.

Vincent, who’s lying on the couch, turns to look at Bonnie. She thinks he’s smiling, but she can’t tell. It’s dark in the basement. The only light comes from the TV.

“Great,” says Vincent. “Like new.”

The sated lizard lumbers off the screen, and now a Crocodile Dundee type in a safari suit, carrying a pole and a net, whispers as he creeps up on some hapless creature napping in the mud.

“Everything’s fixed?” says Bonnie.

“Totally. As far as I could tell. I only drove it from the garage to here.” Vincent and the boys turn back to the TV.

“How was school?” asks Bonnie.

Not a word.

“School? How was school?”

“It was okay,” says Danny.

“Was that so hard?” says Bonnie. Which usually makes them roll their eyes and smile. But right now they’re beyond that, spirited off on safari in giant reptile land. Okay. Bonnie can live with this. She’s had a productive day at work, and there’s been no disaster at home. What else could she ask for? To come home and find her kids
reading?

“What about dinner?” Bonnie persists, annoying even herself. “Are you guys going to be hungry?” She’ll keep this up as long as she has to.

“Can we talk about this later?” Danny says.

Bonnie goes upstairs and wanders into the kitchen just as the phone starts ringing. Four times in the past week the silent breather has called Bonnie at home. Obviously, it’s disturbing. Bonnie knows perfectly well that it could be Vincent’s former buddies from ARM, coming—after all this time—to get him. But her response has been to hope that the caller will tire of harassing them and give up. Too much else is happening right now, there’s too much else going on. Bonnie doesn’t have the time to wait on hold for two hours so the phone company can tell her there’s nothing they can do.

Meanwhile, she’ll let the machine answer. She hears her professional voice, “Hi, you’ve reached the Kalens. Leave a message after the beep.” Thank God she was never one of those mothers who let the children record their cute baby-talk greetings. She’d hate to hear their sweet voices, and then the hostile silence that will signal the breather’s presence, and for which she braces herself now as a man says:

“Hi. This is David Armstrong? I’m the assistant principal at Clairmont High School? I’m trying to reach Mrs. Kalen. Er, Bonnie Kalen—”

It’s five-thirty on a Friday evening. No one from school would be trying to reach her now unless Danny was being expelled, or if he’d been exposed to some deadly disease. But then the nurse would be calling.

Bonnie picks up. “Oh, hi,” she says. “I was just walking in the door.”

“I’m so glad you’re there,” says Armstrong. “Is this an okay time to talk?”

“Okay as any.” Bonnie wants and doesn’t want to hear what he’s got to say.

“I know we’ve met—” says the assistant principal.

“Of course,” says Bonnie. If what he means by
met
is Bonnie’s having seen him speak at PTA meetings.

“I imagine you’re just as upset as we are about what happened today with Danny.”

If Bonnie admits she doesn’t know what he means, what kind of mother will she look like? But if she pretends to know, Armstrong will call her bluff. “What happened? I mean, I just walked in. I haven’t seen Danny yet.” Which is, literally speaking, true. It was dark in the basement.

“Danny wrote a paper that some of us found disturbing.”

“What paper?” Bonnie’s stalling for time. She knows.

“Danny’s paper about Hitler.”

“Oh, that paper,” says Bonnie. Has he turned it in already? How could she not have read it? She should have kept in closer touch, checked to find out how he was doing. Vincent talked about it with him. She’s been so proud of herself for what she accomplished with Laura Ticknor. And all hell’s broken loose for her child, and he didn’t tell her.

“I’m sorry to inform you,” Armstrong continues, “that Danny’s received a temporary suspension as an interim measure until we decide what further action to take.”

“Are you kidding?” says Bonnie.

“I’m afraid not,” the assistant principal says.

“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You’ve suspended my son because he wrote a paper about Hitler?”

“Mrs. Kalen, believe me, there were serious problems with the paper. Which we’d be happy to discuss with you—”

“
What
problems?” Bonnie hears her voice get shrill, but there’s nothing she can do. It’s pure maternal instinct singing out those high notes.

“We felt that his paper had elements that were, shall we say, homophobic.”

“Homophobic?” says Bonnie. “
What
elements? What are you talking about? I read Danny’s paper, and I thought it was brilliant!” Bonnie’s taking a chance here. In fact, she’s outright lying. But she’s following her heart. She knows her son. She trusts him. Danny would never have written anything that was bigoted. Or would he? If something like that happened, it could only be her fault for neglecting him, or bringing a Nazi home. “And what do you mean, you
suspended
him? What about his right to a fair hearing? What about the First Amendment? What about—”

“Mrs. Kalen,” says Armstrong. “Please. You’ve got to calm down. I’m sure something can be worked out.”

“Worked out? What do you mean,
worked out?
”

There’s a long silence. Then Armstrong says, “I’m sure we could reach some arrangement. Because actually, the truth is…I know this may sound a little strange, but Danny’s situation is not the main reason I’m calling.”

That isn’t the main reason he’s calling? Danny’s been suspended, and
that’s not why the guy called?

“Excuse me, Mr. Armstrong—”

“Please. Call me Dave.”

Dave?
“Dave. I’m confused. Then why
did
you call?”

“We’ve got a bit of a problem here at the school, as you may be aware.”

Bonnie isn’t aware. If she doesn’t know that her son has been suspended, she isn’t going to be aware of the bit of a problem they’re having at school.

“Well, as I’m sure you know, our graduation speaker was supposed to be Brad De Vito.”

The name is intended to ring a bell it isn’t ringing for Bonnie. Armstrong’s sigh conveys his opinion that her not recognizing Brad De Vito’s name is almost as bad as her being unaware that her kid is in trouble. It’s probably sufficient cause to make Armstrong call social services. And she’d rather not have her domestic situation scrutinized at the moment. What happened to the woman who today, at lunch at Scopello, talked one of New York’s richest women out of a good chunk of change? That woman has slipped into the phone booth and reemerged as her true self: an irresponsible, clueless mother.

“Our state prosecutor. Former state prosecutor. You know.
Brad De Vito.
” Armstrong clears his throat. “The guy who just got indicted in that child porn Internet sting.”

“Oh, that’s right. I
do
know.” Can he tell Bonnie doesn’t? If she lied about having read Danny’s paper, she might as well keep lying.

“Brad was a local boy, a Clairmont High graduate. He was scheduled to speak this year at our high school graduation. But in light of the current…um…seeing as his court case is now pending…Well, the fact of the matter is, we’ve found ourselves without a speaker. Graduation wouldn’t be graduation without someone to set the tone. Our seniors will be so disappointed. We’ve already pushed the ceremony up two weeks. Well into summer vacation.

“And then this afternoon—unfortunately, just after we sent Danny home—someone brought me a copy of
People
magazine. That marvelous article about the foundation and you and…I’m so embarrassed. I should have known about the wonderful things that a Clairmont parent was doing. But gee, I’m so busy. It’s so hard to keep up…. It was pointed out to me that you’re Danny’s mom. And we want to tell you how terrific we think it is. What you’re doing, and everything you and Meyer Maslow stand for.”

“Thanks,” Bonnie says. How amazing, the power of the media, the ability of fame to transform her from Neglecto Mom into a celebrity hero.

“And we were tossing some ideas around this afternoon, and some of us wondered if you might consider filling in as our graduation speaker. We realize you must be terribly busy, but…”

So this is why the call wasn’t about Danny
exactly.

“I’m sure it would be wonderful for Danny to have his mother address the school community. It’s so important to our seniors. I’m sure that next year, when Danny graduates, you’ll see how much it matters.”

Next year. When Danny graduates. That’s the deal-maker, right there. Armstrong’s laying his cards on the table. A little civilized blackmail. All right. She gets it. She
gets
it.

“Gosh,” says Bonnie. “Sure!” Only after she’s agreed does she begin to wonder how Danny will like his mom giving a speech at school. And what kind of speech could she give? Bonnie doesn’t much like talking to groups. Part of the torture of those garden-party benefits for the Clairmont Museum was flushing the partygoers out of their spots on the beautiful green lawn and making them listen to her thanks for the donations they hadn’t given. But after a few times, it wasn’t that hard—surprisingly, for an anxious person like herself. She got up and said what she had to say. That was for etchings of steamboats. And this is about Danny’s future. Armstrong has essentially guaranteed that when they get around to deciding on Danny’s case, they won’t be able to bring themselves to expel the graduation speaker’s son. Talking at graduation will be easier and less complicated than what she really should be doing: arguing with them about Danny’s paper.

“That’s great!” says Armstrong. “Honestly, I’m delighted!”

“I’m delighted, too.” Bonnie can’t stop lying. Suddenly light-headed, she leans against the kitchen counter.

“Hello? Mrs. Kalen? Bonnie? Are you still there?”

“I was wondering what I could say…what could be…useful…”

“Just talk about what you do,” Armstrong says. “And more important,
why
you do it. And maybe about the sorts of ideals we all associate with Meyer Maslow.”

“Sure,” says Bonnie. “I can do that.”

Armstrong says, “There’s one more thing I want to ask. And you should tell me right away if you think it’s a bad idea. But we were wondering if Mr. Nolan could come with you and say a few words, too.”

It takes Bonnie a while to remember that Mr. Nolan means Vincent. It takes her even longer to figure out what Armstrong is asking. There’s no time left to consider her answer.

“Sure. He’d do a terrific job.” Actually, he would. Bonnie imagines herself and Vincent doing a kind of road show, going from school to school, showing kids what can happen to you, and how you can change if you want to. Which will eventually mean more attention for Brotherhood Watch and more great things they can accomplish. This could be the first phase of the One Heart program. If that isn’t outreach, what is? It will be helpful for Vincent to have the experience of talking to kids whose lives he
can
help turn around. Not that the Clairmont High senior class includes that many future Nazis. But this is what Bonnie has always hoped, and what Vincent promised that first day. I want to help you guys save guys like me from becoming guys like me.