My Latest Grievance (29 page)

"I'm working on that," he said.

"Can she go back to Tibbets?"

"Conference call at ten this morning," he said.

"With whom?"

"Woodbury. O'Rourke. DePiero. Me."

"Not Laura Lee?"

"I hope you're joking," he said.

He kissed me good-bye, pulled my scarf up to my nose, and made me promise I would turn back if sidewalks weren't cleared and I had to walk on the street.

"Promise," I said.

I called that afternoon from Patsy Leonard's house and proposed I stay there for a few nights, that school was closer and easier from her Brookline Village street than from Dewing, and I needed a change of scenery. My father, sounding preoccupied, agreed too easily.

"Is Grace okay?" I asked.

"Fine," he said. "The nurse quit, but Bunny's back."

I made a second call, this one to Aviva's office, and found her in. I repeated: Was it okay if I stayed at the Leonards' for a few days? I'll be so much closer to school and, really, her mom says it's no problem at all—

"I think that's a fine idea," said my mother. "We'll keep in touch."

We'll keep in touch?
Something wasn't right when a Hatch parent said those words in distracted fashion to her beloved and only daughter.

"I can put Mrs. Leonard on if you want to talk to her."

"Won't be necessary," said my mother. "I'm sure it's okay. Have fun."

I called her back and said, "What's going on? Did someone die?"

She answered, finally, after a sigh that nearly stopped my heart. They had wanted to tell me in person. I was not to worry. They'd fight it, of course. They had due process on their side, not to mention tenure, and there was a question of whether Woodbury even had the authority—

"What?" I pleaded. "Just tell me. What did Woodbury do?"

"He fired your father," she said.

I
T HAD BEEN A LOVELY INTERLUDE,
lodging in a private house that wasn't a cinderblock dormitory, sleeping in a bedroom that had never known life as a utility closet. Further, I had enjoyed the new David Hatch, the one who wasn't railing against authority and had even started wearing a jacket and tie. Thirty-six hours after the axe fell, we hadn't done a thing that resembled moving back to Griggs.

"Is this a palace coup?" I asked. We were chipping away at the frozen front porch, transporting pots of steaming water from the kitchen sink to melt the treacherous stairs.

"No," he said. "This is me holding the rudder until he gets back. This is me going down with the ship."

"Can he arrest us for trespassing?" I asked.

"Let him try," said my father, waving to Grace inside, supervising us from a front window, her hair in rollers courtesy of Salon Frederica.

Dr. Woodbury finally returned, eight days after the first flakes fell and the first minute—or so he said—that the commuting ban was lifted in Providence. I was making myself useful, spotting my father as he shoveled snow off the presidential roof, looking none too sure-footed.

The first thing Woodbury said, alighting from the passenger side of a tow truck, was, "I fired you, Hatch. Do I have to call Security?"

"Security's busy," my father answered between grunts and pitches. "Security's a skeleton crew, like everything else."

"Don't have a heart attack, Dad," I called.

President Woodbury asked, "Don't you ever go to school?"

I said, "I went today. But I came right home after my last class. I have storm-related responsibilities."

He frowned at "home," then asked, "Why is your father shoveling my roof?"

I said, "Because roofs cave in when they have a ton of snow on them, and he happens to think of the house not as yours but as belonging to the People."

"Where's my wife?"

"Grace," I said coldly, "is doing fine. She's in the daycare center. It's her second day, and she's very happy."

"Whose idea was that?" he asked.

I said, "The Hatch family's. She was bored and needed more stimulation than she was getting—asleep."

He was, after all, a smart man, an educator, and a diplomat. He said, "I know you must think I've made some terrible decisions—"

The tow truck driver asked, "How's that cash comin', pal?"

Dr. Woodbury said, "Excuse me," and squeezed himself along the narrow path to the house. After a minute or two, the driver honked. Dr. Woodbury appeared and called from the front door, "Will you take a check? I thought I had cash on hand, but it's not where I left it."

The man jerked his thumb skyward. "Does your friend have cash?"

Woodbury looked up at the roof and back to the driver. "I'm afraid that would be very awkward."

"He fired that friend," I announced.

The driver asked me, "So what's he doin' up there, workin' away?"

I said, "He's very dedicated. He didn't want the roof to cave in." I lowered my voice to confide, "We're sort of ignoring the dismissal due to the emergency blizzard crisis."

The driver squinted through the front windshield, assessing the property. "Do they have a union at a place like this? What is it? A school?"

I said, "A college. They certainly do. In fact, the guy with the shovel is the union president."

"Him?" asked the driver. "On the roof?"

"That's my dad," I said. "And your passenger is the president."

"What're they allegin'?"

I said, "It wasn't for cause. It was personal. Very." I whispered, "He ran the college single-handedly while this guy was twiddling his thumbs in Rhode Island."

Dr. Woodbury interrupted from the top step, "If you're worried that my check isn't good, I can assure you that it is."

"They say the banks ran out of money," said the driver. "The actual green stuff. 'Cause the Federal Reserve Bank was closed, and that's where the cash comes from."

"That's ridiculous," said President Woodbury. "And I'm afraid you don't have a choice, sir."

"Is there a problem, brother?" my father called down.

"Dr. Woodbury doesn't have cash to pay the driver," I said, "and the driver doesn't want to take a check."

My father said wearily, "There was cash in your top desk drawer, Eric. I moved it to the bottom drawer, under the Yellow Pages; it's in a manila envelope marked 'Instruction Manuals.'"

"He was protectin' your money," said the driver. "He could have stolen it with you out of town. You've got yourself an honest caretaker there, no matter what else he did to piss you off."

Woodbury didn't answer. He went back inside and returned with the envelope—no thanks, no pardon. Slipping and sliding in only tasseled loafers, he made it to the truck and counted out twenties until the driver nodded.

"Receipt," said Woodbury.

"Long gone," said the driver. "I'll mail ya one, in care of management." He winked at me.

"Bye," I said. "Drive carefully."

"Good luck to the little guys," he answered, raising two fingers in a V.

"Now get the hell down from there, Hatch," Woodbury yelled up to my father. "And take your smart-mouth daughter back to whatever you call home when you're not squatting at someone else's."

I said, "Grace gets out of school at five. She's expecting me to pick her up."

"That won't be necessary," he snapped.

I added, "There's nothing wrong with her. She's just a little ... simple."

"I don't take advice from children," he said. "Especially children named Hatch."

"Where's your car?"

He was on his way back inside, but I thought I heard him say, "Irretrievable."

"Couldn't they just give you a charge?"

He didn't answer, but slammed the door behind him. Later my sources would tell me that he'd left the Cadillac on the street like a rookie, and it had been totaled by a plow.

That night we sat around our kitchen table, reunited in Griggs Hall because our fellow pariah, Laura Lee, had restored herself to housemother status in Tibbets. The atmosphere was nerve-wracking and World-War-Two-ish with us speaking in hushed tones, waiting for the enemy's knock on the door.

"What if he just sends a moving van," I said. "What if some new family shows up and says, 'Excuse us. We're the new houseparents. What are you still doing here?'"

"I'm teaching my classes tomorrow," said my father. "And holding office hours. It will be like any normal Wednesday."

"And you'll go to school," said my mother. "You have to get back into your routine. The subway's running. Food's being delivered. There's nothing else that needs your exclusive attention. David and I are absolutely fine."

"What about Grace?" I asked.

My mother said unconvincingly, "Grace is going to be fine too. They're going to research the adult equivalent of daycare for her, and I'm sure it'll have the same activities she likes so much."

"Who's 'they'?" I asked. "Who's been looking around for a program?"

My mother paused. "We are."

My father added, "We thought if we found the right place for her, we could recommend it to Eric—"

"Who's too overwhelmed and distracted to give it his proper attention," my mother finished.

"And incompetent," said my father. "Not to mention unprincipled."

Unexpectedly, my voice choked as I tried to say, "It's the saddest thing."

"We know," said my mother.

"All she wants is a friend. And she's gotten kind of ... lovable," I managed.

"You'll visit her, sweetie," said my father.

"Where?" I snapped. "At the house? I'm sure he's got armed guards at every door."

"We'll work something out," said my mother.

"In the manner of a custody arrangement," said my father.

"He should be reported," I said.

"To whom?" asked my mother.

"Someplace. Some bureau. Some state office that watches over retarded women with asshole husbands."

My parents nodded as if I'd said something not only wise but devout.

"He shouldn't get away with any of this," I said.

My mother said, "I know you think we can fight every battle—"

"You can! I've seen you and Dad handle, like, ten grievances at once."

"Not like this," she murmured.

"This is different," said my father. "This is my own neck on the chopping block."

"And you know what that means," said my mother.

I did: Hatch solidarity. Three necks for the price of one.

David called the union's counsel, an old shop steward turned lawyer, who sounded almost gleeful at the meaty news that management had dared fire its faculty union president.

"I know," I heard my father say to him. "I know it gets your
juices flowing, but it feels a lot different when you're the hunted." After a series of, "Okay ... okay ... right ... will do," he handed the phone to Aviva, and said to me—as I chewed my ragged cuticles in my bedroom doorway—"Saul thinks everything's going to be okay."

"Oh, sure," I said. "Like I don't recognize when you're sugar-coating the truth."

"Shhh," he answered, pointing to Aviva, who was shushing us with flaps of her wrist. I moved closer to her, listening for the true measure of the trouble we were in.

"Not yet," she said. Then: "If it comes to that." I studied her face. She reacted to something Saul said by pinching the bridge of her nose. Her voice was unsteady when she replied, "I don't know if we can accept that, Saul. But I'll never forget that you offered." She said good-bye, hung up, left her hand on the receiver.

"What?" I asked. "What did he say?"

"Are you okay?" my father asked. "Aviva? Honey?"

She walked to the sink, turned on a faucet, turned it off, finally said with her back still to us, "Saul said ... because it was us. Because it was David ... there wouldn't be a bill. He'd waive his fee."

"Because he thinks Dad won't have a job?"

"No," my father said too quickly.

"We only spoke for a minute," said my mother. "He was between sessions with an arbitrator."

"But he's not worried?" I asked.

David said, "He wants us to stay put, at least till I get something in writing."

"From whom?" I asked.

"From the college. A termination letter."

My mother turned around, smiling too bravely. "Who at Dewing would sign such a thing? No administrator that
I
know. I don't even think Bunny would
type
such a thing. She'd quit first, after all we've done—"

I said, "Ma! You wouldn't type such a thing, but other people aren't like you! People do what they're told. They follow orders. They name names. They don't stick up for their friends, they don't go out on strike, they don't wear black armbands. They collaborate with the enemy and then get decorated."

"Frederica's right," said my father. "No one is going to stick their neck out. I've been a pain in the ass to pretty much everyone at one time or another. I have to save myself."

"You have Saul," I said. "He'll yell and scream and go to the newspapers."

My father smiled a grim smile. "Right. With Laura Lee. We can hold a joint press conference."

We sighed heavily at the mention of Laura Lee—another problem to be solved, another broken axle in our crisis caravan. Or so we thought.

T
HE KNOCK WE'D BEEN EXPECTING
did come, one night later, on February 14, 1978. It wasn't Dewing Security or Mayflower Transit, but Laura Lee French—ex-wife, nuisance, and family embarrassment—wearing a sly smile that seemed, for once, more outward than inward. "Could you come out to the quad for a minute?" she asked. "You, too, Frederica."

We put on our coats, our hats, our scarves, our gloves, our boots. All the while she ducked our questions—
Is anything wrong? Is it a student? Should we get coverage?

"Nothing's wrong. Hurry up," was all that she would say.

Did we notice that the foyer, the lounge, the living room, were empty? That no work-study student sat at the bell desk, and no roommate kept her company? "Wasn't Claudia on duty a minute ago?" my father asked, his head swiveling left and right.

"Bathroom break," said Laura Lee. "Now march."

One of us must have opened the front door. I heard my father, in the lead, mumble, trancelike, "Oh my lord" and "Could this be...?" I elbowed myself forward for an unobstructed view of whatever was paralyzing my parents.