The Tutor (21 page)

Julian looked up. Whatever had opened was now closed. His eyes glittered a little, opaque like the sea on a cloudy day.

“Sorry, Julian,” she said.

“For what?”

“Messing with your poem,” Ruby said. “I didn’t mean anything—I was just doodling away.”

“Doodling?”

“You know. Fooling around.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Julian said. “And it’s not a poem. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“It kind of looked like the start of a poem.”

“It’s an SAT analogy,” Julian said. He pocketed the notepad. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“I thought you were mad there for a second.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know.”

“No reason,” Julian said. “And I’m not the type to do things for no reason.”

“I know,” Ruby said. That was probably what made him so reliable. She gave him a smile. He smiled back.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we check out the scene of the crime?”

“Great idea,” Ruby said. “But what about school?”

Julian checked his watch. “We’ve got to be rational about this,” he said. “Doesn’t there come a time when even the most diligent student might as well bag it?”

“Eight thirty-one,” Ruby said.

He laughed, that funny crow laugh but pretty soft this time. “On the other hand, we don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“I’ll just say I all of a sudden felt sick and stayed home.”

“Have you ever done that before?”

“No.”

“There’s a first time for everything, as folk wisdom tells us.” Julian dipped his biscotti in the jam jar, took a bite that left a tiny red smear at one corner of his mouth. “Unless, of course, someone was still home when you left.”

“I was alone,” Ruby said.

“Perfetto,”
said Julian. “Got your magnifying glass? Can’t sleuth around in the woods without that.”

“It’s at home.”

“Got a key?”

“Sure.”

“Then we’ll pick up the magnifying glass on the way. All set?”

Ruby drained her cup. Gritty chocolate particles from the bottom stuck to the roof of her mouth. They got up.

“After you,” Julian said.

They moved toward the door. It opened and someone came in, someone familiar.

“Hey, Jeanette.”

“Ruby?” Jeanette looked down at her, then up at Julian. “No school today?”

“Well,” she began, and turned to Julian. “You remember Julian?” she said.

“Yes,” said Jeanette.

“It seems the bus was a little too early for Ruby today,” Julian said, “and she set out on her bike. We ran into each other at the Shell station.”

“The Shell station?” said Jeanette.

“Exactly,” said Julian. “We’re on our way back now.”

“Back?” Jeanette’s gaze went to the little red smear at the corner of his mouth. Julian took note at once, wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“I planned to ride back to the school with her,” he said, “just to be on the safe side.”

“You’re on a bike too?” Jeanette said. “West Mill Elementary’s five miles from here. I’ll drive her.”

“But—” said Ruby.

“Excellent idea,” said Julian, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” Jeanette rumpled Ruby’s hair. “I’ll just throw her bike in the truck.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for going to school?” Ruby said.

“I’ll give you a note,” Jeanette said.

“That takes care of that,” Julian said. “See you, Ruby.”

“G
ot a little turned around there, Rubester?” said Jeanette as they went by the Shell station the other way.

“I guess.”

“And then you ran into Julian?”

“Yeah.”

“At the Shell?”

“Yeah.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Filling his tires. He’s a biking fanatic, or maybe he can’t afford a car.”

“Maybe. He’s tutoring your brother?”

“Yeah. And he helped out my mom on something at work the other day. He’s kind of a friend of the family. We had hot chocolate.”

“Your mom lets you bike to school?”

“No. This was kind of an emergency.”

“The kind that won’t happen again?”

“Right. You’re not going to tell, are you?”

“Not if you promise.”

“I promise.”

Jeanette turned into the school, parked by the front door. Recess already. Amanda had all the girls in the class playing some game with her in the middle. Jeanette found an old envelope on the floor, scribbled on it.

“Here’s your note, Ruby. Take the bus home. I’ll handle the bike.”

“Thanks,” said Ruby, getting out of the pickup. Now that she was there, it was actually good to be at school.

“Keep ‘em sharp,” said Jeanette.

21

“G
ood things always happen fast,” Linda had said. Julian didn’t necessarily agree with that, was more interested in the corollary: bad things happening slowly. Probably not true either: take sudden death in a car crash, bad but quick. On the other hand, the bad might linger on long after the crash, possibly even grow, in the minds of the victim’s loved ones. Grow and metastasize, that insight reminding him of Adam, and thus the corollary seemed to suit Linda rather well. He copied it onto the page headed
Linda
.

Julian copied his corollary as neatly as he could, but the script wasn’t up to his standard, not near, because of the tremor in his hand. Artists were sensitive, vulnerable to deep upset, and he was an artist. Until that morning in the West Mill Starbucks, he’d had no idea that the auteur might have to fight his own characters for control of his own story. Plot development was his responsibility, his alone, certainly not this child’s, Ruby’s. Was it possible she would figure out some way to hear the 911 tape? That way lay chaos. His response must be to foresee and forestall her method. What method would he use in her position? Julian tried to put himself in her position, tried to bend his brain inside hers, found he could not. Did that make it impossible that she would succeed? No, only that he couldn’t imagine how she would do it. But the problem was difficult, the chances of an eleven-year-old succeding remote. Julian decided to keep worrying about it, but in a low-grade manner.

And what of other characters like Jeanette, not even belonging to the auteur, who nevertheless barged into the story, destabilizing its Aristotelian order? Intolerable: no auteur could work under such conditions. But what to do about it? Julian didn’t know. He settled for the temporary acceptance of another low-grade worry.

Something else was bothering Julian, something much higher in grade. He reached into his pocket, was taking out the notepad, when the phone rang. Sergeant D’Amario, he thought, and an icy charge passed through him. But of course it wasn’t Sergeant D’Amario.

“Hi, Julian. This is Linda.”

“Hello.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not in the least.”

“Thanks again for the help with La Rivière.”

Julian was silent. The help? What part of the idea was hers, exactly?

“But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“No?”

“I—Scott and I—have been thinking it might be a good idea if you came more often.”

“For what purpose?”

“Why, to tutor Brandon.”

“He seems to be doing well under the present arrangement.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. But frankly, the nonacademic side of things could be better these days.”

“Oh?”

“And we thought you might be a settling influence. Maybe you could add another night or two, helping with his academic subjects if necessary, even taking him out from time to time.”

“Out?”

“To a museum or something like that.”

“What does Brandon think of this idea?”

“He’s not in a position to argue at the moment.”

“You’ve got him bound and gagged?”

Linda laughed. “This time of day that’s up to his teachers.”

Julian laughed too. “Of course, they’d be in school now, the kids. I forgot.”

“It’s a funny thing—these are the times I’m most productive. In the hours I’m at work before and after school”—she lowered her voice—“I get almost nothing done.”

“That probably makes you a good mother,” Julian said.

Pause. “What a nice thing to say.”

He cringed; a very odd feeling, reminiscent to him of placing a coin on the fingerless palm of a begging leper at the Yaoundé marketplace. “In any case, if you think another session or two worthwhile, I’m happy to oblige.”

“Great. And what about that idea of helping Ruby with her math?”

Julian glanced down at his notepad, was reminded of what was really troubling him.

negligent is to forsake as

mendacious is to deceive

nothing you can’t depend on

will ever depend on you.

“Julian? Are you still there?”

“I’m not sure there’s any urgency on that score,” he said.

“Well, we can think about it.”

“If you wish.” But it was out of the question. The girl tested his self-control and self-control was the essence of dignity. Any further one-on-one sessions with her would be at his discretion.

“Shall I call Margie?” Linda said.

“I’ll spare you the trouble.”

“Thanks, Julian.” Now she would resort once more to a predictable metaphor. “You’re a gem.”

He hung up and his eyes were immediately drawn to the poem, as if it contained some hidden force, some mental gravity. The poem: yes, matter-of-fact, the poem; the girl had begun its transformation into art. Doodling, as she’d put it. He placed his hand on the page, ready to crumple it, rip it apart or burn it, as she had burned “The Speckled Band.” But he couldn’t. It was good. And mostly his own work after all. He counted the words that were his: ten. And hers: nine. And felt a little better. Perhaps he could build on her contribution, quite possibly a stroke of pure luck, or maybe not even hers at all, but lines stolen from a published poet, a talented one, whose work he didn’t know. Yes, that must be it. He got the feeling that the next line was about to come to him, leaned forward in anticipation.

It did not. Her big loopy letters maddened him.

He called Margie.

“Isn’t that funny?” she said. “I was just going to call you.”

“Yes,” said Julian. “It’s funny.”

“I’ve got two more jobs for you,” Margie said. “The Wexlers in West Hartford—they’ve got twins at Williston—and the Mandevitches in Manchester, plus there’s a possibility of—”

“I’m afraid not, Margie.”

“What was that?”

“Much as I’ve enjoyed the experience, I’m retiring from A-Plus Tutorial, at least for the moment.”

“Retiring? I don’t understand.”

“I’ve taken on a rather large project.”

“A tutoring project?”

“Nothing like that. This is more in the artistic line.”

“You’re writing a book.”

“I wouldn’t want to jinx anything by saying yes or no.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Margie. “And good luck. But what about the Gardners?”

“Naturally I’ll continue those lessons,” Julian said. “I’m committed to the Gardners.”

“Thank you, Julian.”

“And if you could just send me the letter?”

“Letter?”

“From the master of Balliol.”

“I’ll get it out today.”

“You’re very kind, Margie. It’s been a pleasure.”

“There’s always a place for you here,” Margie said.

Julian called Linda at work. She answered her own phone, rather disappointing.

“Is there really a need to inform Margie about the extra sessions?” he said. “Keeping this between ourselves would allow me to cut the rate in half.”

“I wouldn’t want to—”

“It happens all the time.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Julian.”

Some things were easy.

And some were not. Julian turned to the empty page headed
Ruby
. The auteur must fight for control of his own story. Julian leaned over the page and fought with all his might. He fought to understand her, to see her whole—like a specimen in a jar—the way he understood all the others. Time passed, how much he didn’t know. The texture of the paper seemed to come alive, patterns of off-white fibers changing shape under his gaze. Changing, even writhing: at last, Julian wrote,
“The Speckled Band.”

J
ulian gift-wrapped a jar of that strawberry jam from France, wonderful strawberry jam, thick and plasmal. It was important to give good presents, to wrap them nicely, to tie a proper bow with matching ribbon. Women liked that sort of thing. If it was true that women had a special talent for speech—not thought, but speech—then perhaps that included a talent for symbolic speech as well. It made them vulnerable to thoughtful gifts.

Gail’s eyes were wary when she opened the door. That was too bad. Julian wanted good landlord-tenant relations. Perhaps their last encounter hadn’t been entirely smooth. On the other hand: a few drinks, a woman’s bedroom, two recent acquaintances, misconnection—surely part of the American experience, like a trip to Disney World. He gave her a big smile.

“Here’s a little something,” he said.

Gail took it, with some hesitation. Those little details—hesitations, inward looks, lower lip softly bitten—couldn’t be said to make life worthwhile on their own, but they added to the enjoyment, like
amuse-gueules
in a good restaurant. The symbolic conversation was off to a good start.

“This is nice of you,” she said. “But really, there’s no need to—”

“It’s nothing,” Julian said. The vocalized conversation was rockier, but moving in the right direction—two civilized acquaintances intent on burying a little past unpleasantness. “I’ve also brought the rent.”

“It’s not due till next week.”

He handed her the money envelope, perhaps the only symbolic transaction understood equally well by women and men. “Maybe the J. P. Morganettes will capitalize on the extra days.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Gail said.

“Oh?”

“Do you know much about investing?”

“Not a thing,” Julian said, the soul of affability.

She relaxed a little, seemed rounder and shorter almost at once. “That’s how I was before the Morganettes. It’s like anything else. You have to do your homework. We outperformed Warren Buffett last quarter by almost two percent. On a smaller scale, of course.”

“I’m impressed,” said Julian. “And it’s all about homework?”

“Almost always. Very occasionally we get a tip, but then we still go to work on the fundamentals the way we would with any other stock.”

“For example?”

“Are you really not into the stock market, Julian?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Because you’re acting like a tip seeker.”

Julian laughed. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“The fact is, we did learn something interesting at the last meeting. It’s not inside information or anything like that—we wouldn’t act on inside information even if we had it, much too risky.”

“Who wants trouble?”

“Can you imagine? The feds swooping down?” Gail glanced up at the sky. Julian followed her gaze: no feds, but a wave of starlings in a single formation, like a giant stealth bomber coming over the trees.

“The feds,” said Julian. “What a thought.” He almost managed a shiver.

“But there’s no law against keeping your eyes open,” Gail said. “Not yet, anyway.”

Ah, a nice libertarian component. “Thank God.”

Gail gave him a look: two acquaintances with more in common than she’d thought. “One of our members was out visiting her sister in San Francisco a couple weeks ago when her nephew—the sister’s grown-up son—came over for dinner. He was driving a brand-new sports car, right out of the showroom—”

“A Boxster?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s de rigueur.”

Gail blinked.

“Just a lucky guess,” Julian said.

“Oh,” said Gail. “And he came racing in to tell his mother that something great had happened that he wasn’t allowed to talk about yet. But the whole family knows he’s been working on some revolutionary gizmo—he’s got a computer-engineering Ph.D. from Cal Tech—for years. So we did our research and found that the company’s solid, with or without this gizmo, and we’re placing an order tomorrow for three hundred and twenty-five shares.”

“You’ll be running the country soon,” Julian said. Could he have been more convivial?

“You’re just teasing,” Gail said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Her gaze dipped to the tiny beard under his lower lip; very brief, but Julian caught it. They were back on an even keel, all patched up, perhaps even steaming forward on their previous course.

A whistle, a steam whistle, went off inside the house, an appropriate confirmation of their rapprochement. “I’m just making tea,” said Gail, “if you’d care to—”

“How kind,” said Julian. “Another time, I hope. But work calls.” He stepped back.

“Thanks for the present.”

“Don’t mention it,” Julian said. He turned, paused. “If you don’t mind my asking, how much would say, ten shares of the stock you mentioned cost?”

Gail laughed. “Hooked,” she said, “just like that.”

Julian shrugged helplessly.

“It closed at eight dollars and change yesterday,” Gail said.

“Thanks,” Julian said, and started walking away.

“Don’t you want to know the name of the stock?”

Julian slapped the side of his head.

Gail laughed again. “Codexco,” she said. “On the Nasdaq.”

W
as it difficult to go into the Old Mill Library, sit at a computer, learn the name of this happy nephew, only Cal Tech Ph.D. on the Codexco payroll? No; so quick and easy that Julian had extra time to read a little in Conan Doyle, skimming here and there, lingering over “The Speckled Band.” Was it then difficult to find the bar Mickey Gudukas liked to visit on his way home from work, to dress in the manner that would impress him, to slide onto the vacant stool beside him, to lay a folder bulging with papers on the bar and exhale deeply, a hard worker laying down his burden at last? No; all very easy, and fun, too.

“Tough day?” said Mickey Gudukas.

Julian turned to him. He’d already smelled the pine forest. Now he took in the other basics, and how basic they were: big mustache, little eyes, a bald pate divided into two regions, the natural horseshoe-shaped one shiny, the shaved sides and back dull, as though some designer had treated them with two different finishes for sadistic effect. “Boy oh boy,” said Julian.

Gudukas nodded. He took in the suit, the tie, the folder.

“If business is slowing down,” Julian said, “why aren’t I?”

Little eyes got littler. Too complex, somehow. He would have to ease off on the mental throttle.

“What can I get you?” said the bartender.

Julian glanced at Gudukas’s drink, something blue in a martini glass. He wasn’t going to go that far. “Single malt,” said Julian. “Highland Park, if you’ve got it.”