Annie On My Mind (12 page)

“No!” I interrupted loudly, unable to keep still any longer. “No—not dirty, Annie, not … I don’t want to make you afraid,” I finished lamely. For a minute Annie seemed to be waiting for me to say something else, but I couldn’t just then.

“I really was praying there in the museum,” she said softly, “when you got so mad. I was praying that I could ignore it if you wanted me to—not the love, but the physical part of it. But having to do that—I think that makes me more afraid than facing it would.”

It came crashing through my foggy mind that in spite of everything Annie had just said I wanted desperately to touch her, to hold her, and then I was able to speak again. “It’s not true,” I said carefully, “that I want to ignore it. And I’m not going on happily not noticing.” I stopped, feeling Annie take my hand, and realized my fists were clenched. “It scares me, too, Annie,” I managed to say, “but not because I think it’s wrong or anything—at least I don’t think it’s that. It’s—it’s mostly because it’s so strong, the love and the friendship and every part of it.” I think that was when I finally realized that—as I said it.

“But you always move away,” she said.

“You do, too.”

“
I—I
know.”

Then we both looked out at the harbor again, as if we’d just met and were shy with each other again. But at least after that we were able to begin talking about it. “It’s timing, partly, it’s as if we never want the same thing at the same time,” I said. We were sitting on the sofa in my parents’ living room. My parents and Chad were out, but we didn’t know for how long.

“I don’t think so,” said Annie. “It’s the one thing we don’t know about each other, the one thing we aren’t letting each other know—as if we’re blocking the channels, because—because we’re so scared of it, Liza. The real question still is why.” She reached for my hand. “I wish we could just sort of—let what happens— happen,” she said. “Without thinking so much about it.” Her thumb was moving gently on my hand; her eyes had a special soft look in them I’ve never seen in anyone’s but Annie’s, and only in Annie’s when she looked at me. “I’ll promise to try not to move away next time,” she said.

“I—I’ll promise, too,” I said, my mouth so dry the words scraped. “Right now I don’t think I could stop anything from happening that started.” But a few minutes later my father’s key turned in the lock and we both jumped guiltily away from each other. And that was when there began to be that problem, too—that there was really no place where we could be alone. Of course there were times when no one was home at Annie’s apartment or mine, but we were always afraid that someone would walk in. And it wasn’t long before we began using that fear to mask our deeper one; we were still restrained and hesitant with each other. But maybe—and I think this is true—maybe we also just needed more time.

Finally the dreary cold winter warmed up and leaves started bursting out on the trees. Daffodils and tulips and those blue flowers that grow in clusters on stiff stems began to pop up all over the Heights, and Annie and I spent much more time outdoors, which helped a little. Annie discovered more dooryard gardens—even on my own street—than I ever thought existed. We managed to go for a lot of walks that spring, even though Annie was very busy with rehearsals for a new recital and I was trying to finish my senior project and was helping Sally and Walt with the fund drive—things really did look pretty bad for Foster.

Late one afternoon a week and a half before spring vacation, Mrs. Poindexter called me into her office. “Eliza,” she said, settling back into her brown chair and actually almost smiling. “Eliza, I have been most pleased with your conduct these last months. You have shown none of the immaturity that steered you so wrongly last fall; your grades have, as usual, been excellent, and Ms. Baxter reports to me that you have at last begun to show an interest in the fund drive. Needless to say, your record is now clear.”

“Mrs. Poindexter,” I asked after I recovered from the relief I felt, “is it true that Foster might have to close?”

Mrs. Poindexter gave me a long look. Then she sighed and said—gently—”I’m afraid it is, dear.” Mrs. Poindexter had never called anyone “dear” as far as I knew. Certainly never me. “Eliza, you have been going to Foster since kindergarten. That’s nearly thirteen years—almost your entire lifetime. Some of our teachers have been here much longer—I myself have been headmistress for twenty-five years.”

“It would be awful,” I said, suddenly feeling sorry for her, “if Foster had to close.”

Mrs. Poindexter sniffed and fingered her glasses chain. “We have tried to make it the best possible school. We have never had the money to compete with schools like Brearley, but …” She smiled and reached out, patting my hand. “But this needn’t concern you, although I appreciate your sympathy. What I need from you—what Foster needs from you,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “is a heightened participation in the fund drive. You as student council president have enormous influence—a certain public influence as well, I may say. If you could have, if you would use your position advantageously.” I licked my lips: if she was going to ask me to make speeches, I was going to have to use every bit of self-control I had not to say no. Making just the required campaign speeches after I was nominated for council president had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Even when I had to get up in front of English class and give an oal report, I always felt as if I were going to my execution. “The fund drive,” said Mrs. Poindexter, picking up her desk calendar, “must be speeded up—we have so little time now before the end of school. Mr. Piccolo and the fund raiser tell me we are still far short of our goal, and the recruitment campaign has not, so far, been a success. Mr. Piccolo says it is his feeling that interest will pick up in the spring, so there is hope.” She smiled. “Eliza, I’m sure you will agree that this is the time for student council to take an active part, to lead the other students, to give Sally and Walt, who are working so very hard, a real boost, so to speak.”

“Well,” I said, “we could talk about it at the next meeting. But there isn’t another, is there, till after vacation?”

“There is now,” Mrs. Poindexter said triumphantly, pointing at the calendar with her glasses. “I have scheduled one—assuming of course that you and the others can go—but you will find that out for me, won’t you, like my good right hand? I’ve scheduled a special council meeting for this Friday afternoon—and because Mr. Piccolo and his publicity committee will be using the Parlor for an emergency fund-drive meeting of their own, and because my apartment is too small and the school dining room seems inappropriate, I have asked Ms. Stevenson as student council adviser to volunteer her home, and she and Ms. Widmer have very kindly agreed.” She leaned back, still smiling. “Isn’t that kind of them?”

I just looked at her for a minute, not knowing which made me madder—her calling a council meeting without saying anything to me first, or her making Ms. Stevenson and Ms. Widmer “volunteer” to have it where they lived. “You are free Friday afternoon, aren’t you?” For a second I was tempted to invent an unbreakable dentist appointment, but—well, if Foster’s really in trouble, I thought, I can’t very well go around throwing obstacles in its way. Besides, I felt pretty sure Mrs. Poindexter would go ahead with the meeting even if I weren’t there. “Yes,” I said, trying not to say it too obviously through my teeth. “Sure, I’m free.”

Mrs. Poindexter’s smile broadened. “Good girl,” she said. “And you will notify the others—or ask Mary Lou to do so? You shouldn’t have to, actually, being the president

...”

I think it was that last remark—her making a big deal of my being president after scheduling a meeting without even notifying me till afterwards—that made me storm over to the art studio. Ms. Stevenson was washing brushes.

“I’ve been working on the railroad,” she sang softly above the sound of running water, “all the livelong day—hello, Liza. You been working on the railroad too?”

“If,” I said, yanking out a chair and throwing myself down at one of the tables, “that’s a subtle way of making a comment about being railroaded into a certain council meeting, yes, I sure have been. I just came from Mrs. Poindexter’s officer. Only the spikes got pounded into me instead of into the railroad ties. Or something. I don’t know.”

“Well,” said Ms. Stevenson, carefully stroking a brush back and forth against her palm to see if the color was out of it yet, “I suppose I should point out that it’s all for a good cause. We need Foster; now Foster needs us. Mrs. Poindexter means well, after all.”

“I know,” I said, sighing, more discouraged than before, “darn it—it’s the principle of the thing. She might have asked me first—or even just told me—and she might have asked to use your place instead of making you ‘volunteer’ it. Volunteer, hah!” Ms. Stevenson laughed. “It was Ms. Baxter who asked, on Mrs. Poindexter’s behalf. I don’t think she enjoyed doing it, though. I don’t think she quite approves of students going to teachers’ homes.”

“I should think she’d love it,” I grumbled. “Disciples at one’s feet and all that.”

“Cheer up, Liza,” Ms. Stevenson said. “Except I warn you the feet part will probably be true. We don’t have all that many chairs.”

“Don’t you mind at all?” I asked incredulously. “Doesn’t Ms. Widmer mind? She’s not even on council. I mean, weren’t you even mad that Mrs. Poindexter just—just up and ordered the whole thing? Council’s supposed to be democratic for—for Pete’s sake!”

Ms. Stevenson’s face crinkled around her eyes. “Mind?” she said, pointing to the wastebasket, which I now saw was a quarter full of crumpled scraps of paper with angry-looking writing all over them. “The one thing that having a temper has taught me, Liza,” she said. “is that most of the time it’s better to do one’s exploding in private. But the thing is, we do have to remember that she is the headmistress, and she has done a lot for the school for many, many years, and—oh, blast it, Liza, not everyone can be as true to all the principles of democracy as you and I, can they?”

Well, that made me laugh, which made me feel a little better. None of us had ever been to Ms. Stevenson’s and Ms. Widmer’s house before—well, maybe Mrs. Poindexter had, or Ms. Baxter, but none of the kids had.

Their house was in Cobble Hill, which is separated from Brooklyn Heights by Atlantic Avenue. Cobble Hill used to be considered a “bad”

neighborhood; my mother never let me and Chad cross Atlantic when we were little—but I don’t think it was ever that bad. People have fixed up a lot of the houses there now, and it’s a nice mixture of nationalities and ages and kinds of jobs. Unpretentious, I guess you could call it—something the Heights tries to be but isn’t. The house where Ms. Stevenson and Ms. Widmer lived was just that—a house—which is unusual in New York, where most people live in apartments. It’s a town house, attached to a lot of other houses, so it’s technically part of a row house. There are two long row houses, containing ten or so town houses each, facing one another across a wonderfully tangled private garden.

Ms. Baxter, Ms. Stevenson told us that day, lived on the other side of the garden, and about three doors down. Behind each set of houses was a cobblestone strip with separate little garden areas, one per tenant.

Everyone’s back door opened onto that strip, so people sat outside a lot and talked. Everyone was very friendly. The special council meeting was the afternoon of the night of Annie’s spring recital, and she was resting, so I went right down to Cobble Hill after school. I was the first to arrive. Ms. Stevenson and Ms. Widmer showed me around and kidded me about my “professional interest” in the house.

There were three floors. I didn’t see the top one, where the bedrooms were, but I saw both the others—basically two rooms per floor, and very cozy. The bottom floor had the kitchen, which was huge and bright, with gleaming white-flecked-with-black linoleum, copper-colored appliances, and dark wood cabinets. The back door, leading out to the cobblestones and the garden, was off that. There was a tiny bathroom off the kitchen and a little hall at the foot of the stairs, with a bare brick wall covered with hanging plants. The dining room was off that, with more exposed brick and a heavy-beamed ceiling. “This is our cave,” Ms. Widmer said, showing it to me. “Especially in winter when it’s dark at dinnertime.” I could see that it would be cavelike, because of the heavy low beams and the little window. Also, the ground was higher at the front of the house than at the back, dropping the dining room below ground level so its window looked out on people’s feet as they passed by. Two of the walls were lined with books, which added to the cavelike atmosphere. Upstairs on the second floor were the living room and a sort of study or workroom. A steep flight of steps led from the front garden area to the front door, which led directly into the study. There was an old-fashioned mail slot in the door, and I thought how much nicer and more private that must be than getting one’s mail from a locked box in the entryway as we did. “Here’s where your fates are decided.” Ms. Widmer laughed, pointing to the pile of papers on her desk, topped with her roll book. Ms. Stevenson had an easel set up near the window, and art supplies neatly arranged on a shelf against the wall. The living room was on the other side of the stairwell, comfortable and cozy like the rest of the house. There were lots of plants around, records and books everywhere, nice pictures on the walls—many of them, Ms. Stevenson said, done by former students—and two enormous cats, one black and one orange, who followed us everywhere and of course made me think of Annie and of her grandfather, the butcher. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with them this spring vacation,” Ms. Widmer said when I stooped to pat one of the cats after I’d told her and Ms. Stevenson about Annie’s grandfather. “We’re going away, and the boy who usually takes care of them is also.”

I’m not as fond of cats as Annie is, but I certainly like them, and I knew I wouldn’t mind being able to spend a little more time in that house. “I could feed the cats,” I heard myself say. Ms. Stevenson and Ms. Widmer exchanged a look, and Ms. Stevenson asked how much money I’d want and I told her whatever they gave the boy. They said a dollar-fifty a day, and I said fine. Then the other kids began arriving for the meeting. It was funny, being in their house and seeing them as people as well as teachers. For instance, Ms. Stevenson lit a cigarette at one point, and I nearly fell off my chair. It had never occurred to me that she smoked, because of course she couldn’t at school except in the Teachers’ Room, the way seniors could in the Senior Lounge. Later she told me she’d tried to quit once, because it had begun to make her hoarse, which wasn’t good for her singing in the chorus or for coaching the debate team. But she’d gained so much weight and had been in such a rotten mood all the time that she’d decided it would be kinder to other people as well as to herself to go back to it. I’d never thought much about Ms. Stevenson’s and Ms. Widmer’s living in the same house, and I don’t think many other people at school had either, but that afternoon it seemed to me that they’d probably been living together for quite a long time. They seemed to own everything jointly; you didn’t get the idea that the sofa belonged to one of them and the armchair to the other or anything like that. And they seemed so comfortable with each other. Not that they seemed uncomfortable at school, but at school they were rarely together except at special events like plays or dances, which they usually helped chaperone. Even then, they were usually with a whole bunch of other teachers, and Sally had always said that at dances one or the other of them was usually whirling around the floor with one of the men teachers.