The Chocolate Money (11 page)

Maybe we are going to visit Eudy and Mont. Leave the flowers on their graves. But when we had our picnic on their plot after our Tea House visit, Babs didn’t bring a bouquet. She thinks leaving flowers for the deceased is dumb. Dead people can’t enjoy them, and the flowers just wilt and die. So why am I carrying roses for Mack? No clue. We’re walking in the opposite direction of where my grandparents are buried. I can’t see precisely where we are going yet, but I just know.

Here we are. There is a white tarp surrounded by freshly dug ground. There’s a man standing over it, walking around the perimeter. As if it’s a swimming pool and he doesn’t want anyone to fall in. He’s wearing a short-sleeved checkered shirt, khaki pants. Has short gray hair, thinning a bit. Babs walks right up to him, puts her hand on his shoulder.

“Hello, Carl,” she says.

“Tabitha! Well, hello,” he says, glad to see her. His eyes get all soft and there’s a tenderness in his tone that surprises me. But there’s no way Babs has slept with him. He is way too old and not good-looking enough.

“How are you?” He reaches out with one hand, soft and wrinkly with age, and touches her. I have never seen someone so comfortable in her presence. He must remember when her parents died.

“They don’t often go two together,” he says to me, softly but kindly. I now realize he sees Babs as no one else does. Abandoned and lonely. An orphan. She holds Carl’s elbow and dabs a tissue at her eyes. But there are no tears.

“Mack and I were close. Especially after the sale of the house.” She says this like a normal person would, even, but tinged with sadness. “He was good to Bettina. I didn’t want to take her to the funeral—that would be too much—but I thought we could come and say goodbye before everyone else gets here, after the service. You know our parents were such good friends. He was the brother I never had.”

Carl nods. Like this is really true. He seems to be the only person in Grass Woods not to know that Babs and Mack had an affair. Or maybe he just has things in perspective. Knows how everything turns out in the end. He strokes her hand.

“Of course, Tabitha. Take your time. I’ll leave the two of you alone. I need to get a drink of water myself. I’ll be back in a bit. The rest shouldn’t be along for another half an hour or so.”

Carl gently pats my cheek and walks away. I’m still holding the bouquet. Am not clear where all this is going. Is Babs going to make some kind of weepy speech? Seems unlikely. Mack’s gone.
Time to fucking move on.
She looks at me.

“Put the flowers in the grave. This is much, much better.”

This seems easy enough. I bend down. Set the bouquet carefully on the white tarp that shields the hole, the six-feet-under. But the flowers look haphazard sitting there, like someone tripped and dropped them. Not at all deliberate.

Babs says, “No, not there.
In,
not
on
the grave.”

When I look up, she stands so tall, despite her sinking heels. For a moment, I am actually afraid she will push me in. That I will be stuck and Mack’s coffin will be lowered on top of me. I might scream, but no one will care enough to pull me out.

But Babs doesn’t touch me, just says impatiently, “Bettina, goddamn it, put the flowers in.”

I can tell Babs wants to be done with it and get the heck out of here. I slide back the tarp and drop the flowers in. I can’t see them land. Don’t even hear a thud.

Babs bends over me, hurls something in. Looks like a fistful of marbles, all attached. I look up and see that her neck is bare. The pearls. The flowers will rot, but the pearls will always be there. They will lie under Mack’s casket like tiny rocks. Irritate him forever.

We see Carl slowly walking back, shading the sun with his eyes. Babs strides to him. Grabs his hands.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, as if we had really just been standing there saying a prayer. Thinking sad thoughts.

“You’re welcome, Tabitha,” Carl says evenly. He looks at me a little too intently. Maybe he saw what we did. He gives us a little wave goodbye. Resumes his post by Mack’s grave. Babs turns and begins the walk to the stretcher. I follow. Then look back. Carl is still watching. Maybe he’s wondering which one of us is going to die next.

S
EPTEMBER
9, 1983, is a bright, crisp day in Cardiss, New Hampshire. The leaves are green and sharp. The trees robust, sturdy, and tall. The sky has none of the dampness or gray tones one might expect to find across the pond in an English boarding school. I am fifteen when I arrive as a sophomore, or a Lower, in Cardiss-speak.

Cardiss presents the same front to everyone who arrives there. It is beautiful in this way. It looks like a college, only smaller. The buildings are red brick with white marble steps. There are Latin sayings over most of the doorways. Lawns sprawl for the mere experience of sitting on them. Attractive boys and girls lounge, books and binders open, as if they were sunning themselves on an academic beach.

I don’t go back to Chicago before starting Cardiss. Babs says,
It’s your deal, babe, you are too old for me to unpack your clothes, help you with your bed.
She has no interest in watery coffee and meeting all of the chipper parents who want to make small talk. But she does buy me a silver-and-gold pen from Tiffany. Has it engraved with my initials. I plan to save it for exams. She also hands me a large check for tuition and airfare, and a wad of traveler’s checks to cover expenses for the whole year. It makes me feel independent. And sad.

After three months in France with Cécile, I fly directly from Paris to Boston. I take a cab to campus, about forty-five minutes away. Most new students arrive with their parents. I worry people will feel sorry for me, coming alone; will wonder about the cab. But the driver takes me right to the front gates of campus and pulls away before anyone can notice.

I have one small bag. A Louis Vuitton duffel I bought on rue Georges V. Babs hates LV. Thinks it’s tacky to have logos stamped everywhere. Makes you look like you’re trying too hard to prove you can afford something expensive. But I like the bag. It’s completely incongruous with the things the other kids bring. Trunks filled with new sheets, down comforters, flannel PJs, stereos. My duffel, I hope, makes me look cool. Like I have purposely opted out of such teenage clutter. Chose to bring a few pants and tops from agnès b. and Petit Bateau because that’s what I like. But the truth is that I don’t have a clue what you’re supposed to wear at boarding school. I don’t know anything about the bluchers, rag socks, flannel pajamas that the others have. I didn’t have the catalogs to order them from. I do bring the silver medallion of my father’s that Babs gave me. I have yet to try to find him, but maybe I will now that I am at Cardiss. Who knows. It will change things between me and Babs and I’m not sure I am ready for that.

I check out the map of campus that’s just past the front gate. According to my acceptance packet, I’m not assigned to a dorm but instead to a house called Bright. The idea is appealing: a small cluster of girls living in a real house with one female faculty member, generally a younger woman without a spouse or kids. Just starting her tenure at the school. The problem with the houses is that, unlike the dorms, they have a small number of students living in them, between four and six per house. Less margin for social errors.

Bright House is a two-minute walk from the front gate. I find it easily. It is white, two-storied, with black shutters. The front door is propped open. Just a screen door divides the inside from the outside. I walk into a living room that looks like it belongs in a tired B & B: dilapidated couches, worn shag carpeting, and a TV. There is a woman standing in the middle of the room tapping a clipboard with a pen and, as I soon find out, waiting for me.

Miss McSoren, whose power over me is also explained in my acceptance packet, scribbles something on the paper attached to her clipboard. She looks about twenty-seven and has short brown hair. I know instantly (the rigid way she holds the clipboard?) that she will never have any children. She sports a khaki skirt, open-back clogs, and a pink-striped oxford shirt that has been ironed. She wears small crescent-shaped earrings. No makeup.

I expect her to smile but she approaches me briskly and sticks out her hand. Firm, businesslike.

“Bettina, you’re the last to arrive.”

It’s just after three. I thought we had all day to get there.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“I’m Miss McSoren. Head of Bright House. I also teach French and coach field hockey.”

I want to like her, but I don’t. I know Miss McSoren has probably learned French at some all-women’s college and spent her junior year abroad in some provincial town like Rennes. I bet she can expertly navigate all of Molière and Camus but has never bothered with
Paris Match,
my favorite mag. I know Babs would laugh at her, and this makes me want to too.

One of my French teachers at Chicago Day, Madame Coutu, wore blouses so sheer we could see her nipples, the skin of her back. Our fifth-grade class was shocked and embarrassed. Babs was thrilled. Now that I am older, I can see what Babs was getting at. Can you really be a good French teacher if you have
zip sex appeal?

“So, you’re from Chicago,” she says.

I’ve been too busy with my critical assessment to offer up any pleasantries. I smile, but again, I’m disappointed. I never know what people expect me to say to that. I don’t really consider myself
from
anywhere, at least nowhere anyone else lives. Babs is the country I come from. That’s the only way to explain it. I gather up my hair, which is now far past my shoulders, and tie it on top of my head in a knot. I nod and say, “Yes. And you?”

“Bangor,” she answers, but it’s clear from the clipped reply that I’m not supposed to be asking her personal questions. She gestures for me to follow her up the stairs.

“Your roommate, Holly, is already here. Dinner’s at six and we’ll be having a house meeting afterward, at eight. You still have some time to unpack.”

Holly, I know, is Holly Combs from Iowa City. There was a tiny index card in my packet with this scant information about the girl I will be sharing a room with for the next nine months.

Miss McSoren talks over her shoulder as she climbs the stairs. Her bare legs are perfectly smooth and have the sheen of carefully applied lotion. I bet she shaves them on a schedule. Never nicks herself with the razor. Never has to scramble for toilet paper or Band-Aids to stop the bleeding. I have been using the same disposable razor for about six months and it never gets all the hairy patches. I just can’t keep up with my body.

We reach the landing. The door to bedroom number one is open. There’s a man in there, wearing khaki pants and a blue golf shirt. Must be Holly’s dad. He’s tightening the screws on the legs of her desk chair. He is large and mostly bald, working up a good sweat. A woman has her back to the door and is arranging things in a closet. Must be Holly’s mom. She hangs dresses with dresses, skirts with skirts, so that Holly can find things easily when she gets ready each day. She arranges clear stacking boxes that hold coiled belts, socks, tights, and hair accessories. I have never seen a couple working together on behalf of their child. Holly’s mom is about the same width as Holly’s dad. She has shoulder-length brown hair kinked from a perm. She turns when I reach the bed that is to be mine. She has already finished making up Holly’s. There’s a large blue dolphin on the comforter, and sheets with waves on them. (I later find out that Holly was a star on her swim team back home.) In the middle of her pillow there is a ratty teddy bear wearing a T-shirt that says
GO HAWKEYES!

Holly’s mom wears a pink pantsuit and white Keds. Opaque pink lipstick that makes her look like she has been eating Cray-Pas.

“Bettina!” she says with such friendliness that I am completely bewildered. She pulls me to her, and her body is big and soft, like a sofa. She is not shy about smothering me with it. Holds the back of my head and presses me even closer to her. I’m sure I will leave an imprint once she releases me.

“We have been waiting for you! What a wonderful time you girls will have!”

I look for Holly, who is nowhere to be seen. Holly’s mom looks around me as well. I, too, am missing a person.

“Where are your folks?” She says this in such a way that it’s obvious she has no doubt they will be along shortly. I just need to place them somewhere on Cardiss’s campus, attending to something else.

“I came by myself,” I say. Leave her to make up a reason why my parents aren’t there.

Holly’s mom eyes my solitary duffel. Sees the standard-issue sheets folded on my bed, grayish white with
PROPERTY OF CARDISS
stamped on them. There are two maroon blankets next to the sheets that seem to promise all the comfort of burlap sacks. The LV bag does not register. For all she knows, I bought it at Kmart. Given these facts, Holly’s mom makes a quick calculation. It is the wrong one, but generous all the same.

“Oh, lots of students come by themselves. Airfare can be expensive, as is renting a car. We drove our own. I’m so relieved that we all have the same
values.
Holly didn’t know what kind of roommate she would get. There are so many students here that come from important families, and Holly was worried she wouldn’t fit in. I said that everyone was just here to get an education, that having money or not doesn’t matter in the end. That there is just too much work for people to care about things like that. But I must say, I am more than a little relieved that you are from the Midwest too.”

It’s funny the way she says it. Like the Midwest is a small town where no one has any real money and everyone gets along. I nod in reply, though it is completely untrue. But I am certainly not going to bring up the chocolate money. Only Babs can be a
fucking chocolate heiress
with impunity. It would be social suicide for me to bring it up.

Holly’s dad stands up from his crouch by the chair. He strides over, pumps my hand.

“Tell her, Donna.”