The Children (6 page)

“I run five miles, every day,” she began, wiping her forehead with a dish towel. “I'm sixty, but I still run every day.”

This is actually a setup, and sure enough, Laurel replied, “No, you can't be sixty.”

“I'll be sixty-one in August,” Joan declared. She acknowledged that this must be hard for Laurel to believe, but she's never lied about her age. She thinks it's exercise that keeps her so young. She runs every day, even if she also plays tennis, as she had that morning. Yes, five miles every day, unless the temperature is over ninety or below twenty degrees. Her resting heart rate is fifty-five. She ran the Boston Marathon several times, but that was long ago. She should have been a bi-athlete. She loves to swim as well. Her great-great-grandmother was one of the first female lifeguards in Massachusetts; that's where her family is from. They're an old Boston family. She was a Garrison. The Garrisons came to this continent on the
Mayflower,
which is probably why she and her family have always been so healthy and live so long. She comes from hearty stock—not many people survived that first winter in Plymouth. Joan believes in exercise, and she asked Laurel if she knew that exercise is what keeps your brain sharp. Before Laurel could reply, Joan informed her that indeed it is. It only makes sense, she explained. You need to keep pumping oxygen into your brain, or it will atrophy like any other organ. All Joan's friends complain of declining memories, but Joan never forgets a detail. She asked Spin if it isn't a fact that everyone knows her to be the one among their friends with the keenest memory, and Spin sort of shrugged, winked at me, and nodded. Yes, Joan assured us all, she's as sharp as a tack. Well, her bridge games help, too, and her volunteer work. She likes to keep busy, and she's competitive. She's not ashamed of admitting that. It seems that being competitive is out of vogue these days, but why? Isn't that, after all, what a capitalist system is based upon—healthy competition? Her father, William Garrison, was the headmaster at Holden Academy for twenty-five years. When she was eight years old, she was playing sports with kids twice her age, and these were boys, not girls—the school hadn't become coed yet—

“Joan,” Sally interrupted. “Laurel was training for the Olympics, so I think she knows about being competitive.”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Joan. “How exciting to be on the Olympic ski team.”

“I wasn't on the actual team. I was short-listed. I tore up my knee during the trials,” Laurel said. “Then, later the same year, I had my accident.” Her voice trembled a little when she said the word
accident,
but she smiled bravely.

“Oh, that's right, dear. Spin told us about that,” my mother said. “What a horrible thing.”

“No, everything happens for a reason. I didn't realize it at the time, but if it hadn't been for the accident, I probably never would have gone to college, let alone graduate school. And I'm fine now. I can't ski as fast, of course, but I actually enjoy skiing in a way that I never did when I was competing.”

“I'm so glad. I can see how skiing would become more enjoyable once it became a pastime rather than a profession,” said Joan, who has only ever known pastimes, never a true profession.

“Yes, and I never would have met Spin if I hadn't turned into a recreational skier. So it was all for the best.” Laurel turned to Spin, who looked at her lovingly.

I glanced at my mother. She was smiling. She was starting to like Laurel. I was, too. I couldn't help myself. She's pretty hard not to like.

“I'm gonna run over and say hi to Everett,” Spin said.

“I'll make some breakfast if you want, Spin,” I said. “Want some pancakes? Eggs?” But he didn't hear me. Everett's truck had started, and Spin ran out so that he could catch him before he left.

“I'll help you, Charlotte,” Laurel said. “I'm starving.”

“I never eat anything but toast for breakfast,” Joan said, as if any of us had asked. “Toast and a banana.”

“Is that right?” said Laurel.

“How about scrambled eggs?” I asked Laurel.

“Perfect,” Laurel said.

Joan went upstairs to shower and Sally came and stood next to me. She was leaning against the counter, drinking her coffee and gazing at Laurel.

“So you stayed at Perry and Catherine's, huh?” Sally asked.

When I didn't hear a reply, I looked over my shoulder at Laurel. She was tapping something into her cell phone and frowning.

“We don't have cell service on this part of the lake,” Sally said.

“Oh no,” said Laurel. “I'm expecting an important e-mail. Do you have Wi-Fi?”

“Yeah, Charlotte, what's the password here, again?” Sally asked. She pushed her elbow into my side.

“
Banjoguy
, no caps, two three,” I said.

Laurel tapped away at her phone. “It doesn't seem to be working.”

I was breaking the last egg into the bowl. I repeated the password. She couldn't get it to work.

“Here, let me try,” I said. “Let me wash my hands. Sally, hand me the phone.”

I washed my hands and Sally launched into an account of her night. She had been with some old friends. The town of Harwich is boring. The Pale Horse Tavern is the only place to go at night. I dried my hands and reached for the phone that Sally was holding. She had taken so long with her story that Laurel's password screen was up.

“Laurel, I can't get in. You need to put in your code,” I said. Most people will just tell you their password when this happens. Laurel asked for the phone back. I walked over to the fridge as she punched in a few numbers. Then she handed it to me.

I typed in our Wi-Fi password, and as I did, I said it out loud. “Banjoguy three three.”

“Oh, I think you told me two three,” said Laurel.

“No,” I said, laughing. “I'm sorry, I said two threes. Three three.”

We all had a little chuckle at the misunderstanding and Laurel sat back at the table to do her e-mailing. While I heated up some butter in a skillet, Sally casually wrote the numbers 7595 on a paper towel and handed it to me. It was Laurel's code. I stuffed it into my pocket. Sally and I have always done this. We love to spy on guests. We have since we were little girls. It was unlikely we would ever go into Laurel's phone. We just liked knowing that we could.

“We've never been to Perry's town house,” Sally said when Laurel had finished her e-mailing and I was putting toast on the plates. “Well, we saw it in
Architectural Digest,
didn't we, Charlotte?”

“Yes,” I said. “It looks really beautiful.”

“It's nice,” Laurel said, “but this house is much more comfortable. I was afraid to sit down on their upholstery, to tell you the truth. I can't believe they have those two adorable children and there's not a thing out of place in that house.”

“The children each have their own servants, so I think it's easy,” Sally said.

“They're nannies, Sal,” I said.

“I've heard so much about this place and all of you that I couldn't wait to meet you.”

“I wish Spin would get in here. These eggs are going to get cold. Should we just start without him?” I asked, putting the plates on the table.

Joan had come back into the kitchen, freshly showered, wearing shorts and a T-shirt—her gardening clothes.

“Just toast for me,” she said. “I only ever have toast for breakfast. Sometimes a banana.”

“What'd Spin tell you about us?” Sally asked, poking at her eggs with her fork.

“Well, not a whole lot. Not half as much as that old hunchback guy at the filling station I stopped at yesterday.”

“Hunchback guy?” Sally asked, amused. Laurel was talking about old Anson Bergstrom. He did have a bit of a hunched-up posture; we just hadn't really thought about it before.

“That's old Anson. Yes, he's like a little old lady with all the town gossip,” Sally said.

“I'm sure he's very nice. I just got a weird feeling. I tried to pump my gas, and he came running out and practically wrestled the hose out of my hand. ‘This here's a full-service shop,' he said. ‘If you wanna pump it yourself, you're gonna wanna go on up to Route 209. People who wanna get their gas a little cheaper go on up there, but yer gonna hafta pump it yerself.'”

She did an uncanny impersonation of Anson Bergstrom.

“And he kept trying to give me directions everywhere. I told him I have GPS, that I just wanted the name of a place to eat. ‘Now, what yer gonna wanna do is turn right out the driveway and then go, oh, I don't know, maybe about half a mile, then you'll come to a stop sign. Then after, oh, I dunno, another quarter mile…'”

“Yeah, well, Anson's an old family friend. He was just trying to be nice,” Sally said, sounding less amused. I shared Sally's defensiveness. Yes, Anson Bergstrom is a weird guy. But he's
our
weird guy. Laurel needed to shut it.

“I guess that's how he knew I was Spin's fiancée,” Laurel said. “Oh, by the way, Spin owes you thirty-five dollars, Joan.”

Joan had her back to us. She was standing at the counter, slathering her toast with jam. She paused for a moment when she heard what Laurel had said. When she turned and carried her plate to the table, I noticed there was a little hitch in her step, a slight limp, as if she had strained something.

“Thirty-five dollars?” she said, smiling at Laurel. “Whatever for?”

“My credit card was blocked. It happens all the time when I travel—security fraud protection or something. I have to remember to call the bank, tell them my card's not stolen. I didn't have any cash at the station, so the guy said that you have a house account and I should put Spin's gas on your account and then he can just pay you back.”

“Oh,” Joan said. She forced another little smile at Laurel. “That'll be fine.”

“Spin doesn't have an account there,” Laurel said. “I asked, but the guy said he always pays cash.”

We heard Everett's truck drive off, and a moment later, Spin pushed open the screen door.

“Philip, toast with your eggs?” Laurel asked.

Joan, Sally, and I looked at one another.
Philip?

Philip is Spin's real name. We had just never heard anybody use it. He was supposed to be named George, but his mom, Marissa, scrawled the name Philip on his birth certificate a few moments after he was born. She casually informed her errant husband of the name change when he held his son the following day. Whit always hated the name Philip. It had been the name of a very unattractive and awkward classmate from his boarding-school days. Marissa knew that, and he took her insistence upon the new name as a parting blow.

Now Spin was sitting at the table, devouring his breakfast. “I have dorm duty tonight and again on Thursday. We still have a few international students on campus.”

“You couldn't get somebody to take your place? Laurel just got here,” Sally said.

“No. I swapped with somebody the other night so I could go to the airport. I have to do tonight. All the kids'll be gone by the end of the week. Then I'm free.”

Laurel said, “I had no idea that teaching at a boarding school is almost like going to one. So many rules, and so little time to yourself.”

“You'll get used to it,” Spin said. “Hey, did I tell you guys that Laurel applied for the job in the English Department that's opening up? I'm pretty sure you have it, Laurel-lee.”

“Really?” Laurel said, excited by the news. “How do you know?”

“I've got a few friends in the dean's office,” Spin said.

“It's such a beautiful campus,” said Laurel. “I knew a few kids from Sun Valley who went to Holden, and of course I've read about it over the years. I always wanted to go to boarding school when I was a kid, but by the time I was old enough, I was on the ski team and training during the school year. I suppose you and Charlotte must have been day students, living here, so close,” Laurel said to Sally.

“No,” Sally said. “We went to public school. Harwich High.”

“Have you had a chance to see the whole campus?” I asked Laurel. I didn't want Sally to get started, but she ignored me.

“Yup, Harwich High,” Sally continued. “What a dump. When we went there, they couldn't even get certified by the state. Has that place finally been accredited, or what, Joan?”

“Sally, it most certainly was accredited. It was … well, I believe, there was something to do with the old gym. Anyway, Harwich is an excellent school,” Joan said. “It was just listed as one of the top twenty public schools in the entire state, as a matter of fact.”

I was clearing the plates and repeated my question to Laurel about whether she had seen the entire Holden campus.

“Not really. It was almost dark when we got there last night,” she replied.

“I'll show you around now,” Spin told Laurel. “You'll love it.”

 

FIVE

It seems that Holden students and faculty either love it or hate it; there's really no middle ground. Spin loves it. He started spending summers there when he was very small, attending soccer and tennis camps, hanging out with the kids who lived on campus. He boarded there during his high school years, went off to college, and then moved back upon graduation. He teaches science. He's the varsity hockey coach, and he gives private music instruction: piano and guitar. Like most of the faculty, Spin lives in an apartment attached to one of the dorms.

By today's standards, Holden is a traditional prep school, but in its early years, it was a rather progressive institution. The school's founder, William Fenwick Holden, was an outspoken abolitionist, and the first two African-American boys ever to enroll at a private boarding school were admitted to Holden in the 1880s. W.F. paid their way himself. Holden Academy was a place where the freethinking sons and nephews of our country's great industrialists went to learn, and where a number of well-known writers, artists, designers, and architects went as young boys. Of course, some Holden students went on to become bankers and lawyers, but compared to, say, Exeter or Groton, Holden placed as strong an emphasis on the arts as it did on the more practical academic applications of science, history, and mathematics. Many of the boys went on to study painting at the Hudson School, for example, or sculpting in Paris. Like Whit, they were funded by enormous trusts set up by their fathers. And like Whit, they probably referred to their ancestors as “robber barons.”