I'd Know You Anywhere: A Novel (16 page)

Now, at last, he was going to die. Once that was done, Trudy would decide how much she wanted to live, if she would throw away the cigarettes and reclaim the Lipitor. She had been stashing the pills in a piece of Tupperware, refilling the prescription to avoid discovery. It wasn't that she was vain, but—She reached a hand up to her hair. It was thicker. That wasn't her imagination.

On the way home, she varied her route and passed St. Mary's. She had attended once or twice after they moved here, and people were generically kind. Her preferred brand of kindness, truth to
tell. But the rift between her and her church remained irrevocable. Not that her priest back in Middleburg had ever been direct enough to argue against her desire to see Walter Bowman put to death. The Catholic Church may be opposed to the death penalty, but the issue wasn't a deal breaker, like abortion or same-sex marriage. No, Trudy had been the one who had tried to persuade the priest to change his mind. She hadn't been delusional enough to think that she could change the church, but it had seemed vital to her that at least one of its representatives should, if only in private, agree with her, endorse her decision on moral grounds. She had converted for Terry's sake, broken faith with her Huguenot ancestors, borne out the old saying about converts being the best adherents. A little disingenuous affirmation seemed the least the Catholic Church could do for her.

At the time of Holly's death, Father Trahearne was still in the parish, but he had retired before the trial. (Sent away, whispers had it, another problem priest, but Trudy couldn't believe his issues went much beyond drink.) His replacement was younger, dull and earnest. Father Trahearne, at least, would have enjoyed the argument. He might have even had a chance of changing Trudy's mind. No—no, he would not have been able to do that. But he would have understood that she needed to have the conversation, that she was confessing, in a fashion. The new priest squirmed, uncomfortable with a discussion in which he did not have the moral high ground.

Trudy didn't miss the church, although it had been central to her adult life. She missed Father Trahearne. She missed
her
church, the specific space, back in Middleburg. She missed the parish activities, which had filled her days. But she didn't miss The Church, which she felt had denied her empathy. Ah, well, it was composed of a body of single men who had never fathered children, at least not officially. How could they really understand her situation?

When she let herself back into the house, she was startled to see Terry there. Was it Friday? He often ended office hours at noon and played golf on Fridays, but she was pretty sure it wasn't Friday. Besides, he wouldn't come home first. He would go straight to the club.

“Is something wrong?” She could not remember the last time she had asked that question. Everything was wrong, always. Wrong was the status quo. Her life was wrong, with little slivers of okay.

“A development over at Sussex,” he said.

He took her hand. Trudy and Terry, Terry and Trudy. How cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute. They had been. They had been beautiful, with strong white teeth and broad-shouldered sons and the most gorgeous little girl anyone had ever seen. They had been invincible. That was why they called their farm T'n'T—nothing in the world was stronger than they were.

“Is he dead?” Even as she asked, she wasn't sure how she would feel if Terry said yes, Walter Bowman had died, found a way to commit suicide, keeled over from a heart attack. But he was only in his forties. His cholesterol was probably below 180.

“Our friend at the prison called me. Bowman's found Elizabeth Lerner, although that's not the name she's using now. She's been added to his approved contact list. At his request, but she agreed.”

“Is she going to attend the execution?” Even as she asked it, she realized the question was nonsensical, a non sequitur, but she couldn't think what else to say.

“Our friend at Sussex doesn't know.” They had befriended a secretary over the years, earned her confidences by proving themselves discreet. And by giving her gift cards several times a year. “It's her understanding that Bowman wants to talk to Elizabeth, and she agreed. That's all. For now.”

“For now.”

“But you know Bowman. He's always looking for a way to get a stay. He's always got an angle.”

Trudy wanted to say:
So does she.

Instead, she announced: “I have to take some things to the cedar closet.” She walked down the basement steps empty-handed, indifferent to whether Terry heard the snap of the match flint on the box, or smelled the heavenly tobacco that rose up and filled her lungs. She wrapped her arms around her middle, and she could swear they ached, from wrist to elbow. So close to the destination and she was still tugging, still trying to keep this plane aloft all on her own. Prove that she wasn't.

THE PRINCIPAL IS YOUR PAL.
The old mnemonic device sounded in Eliza's head as she walked down the halls of North Bethesda Middle, her footsteps echoing in the classes-in-session hush. She had always struggled with homonyms, and the dominance of spell-check had not been a boon to her. She had Peter run his eyes over the rare things she wrote, and he almost always found one
hear
for
here,
or a
too
for
two
. There were also certain names she found it hard not to flip. Thomas and Thompson, Murray and Murphy, Eileen and Elaine.
The principal is your pal
. Maybe once, but not these days, where principals were like federal judges, saddled with mandates that allowed them little discretion.

The principal here was Roxanne Stod
dard, a stylish, professional type who would not have been out of place in a K Street lobbying firm. And she had an almost rock star aura in the community. When people heard that Iso was in North Bethesda, almost everyone said, “Oh, Roxanne Stoddard. That's wonderful.” Or even: “I saw Roxanne Stoddard at Louisiana Kitchen at eight-thirty one night and she was clearly going over work even as she ate crawfish étouffée.”

Today, she wore a pea green suit and plum suede heels, making Eliza feel at once short and dowdy. But she was also warm, carrying her authority lightly.

“Iso,” she said to the angelic figure who was masquerading as Eliza's daughter, “I'd like to speak to your mother in private. Is that okay?” It was clear Iso had no say in this.

“Of course, Mrs. Stoddard.” Iso caught Eliza's eye as she left the office, her face all innocence, as if to say:
I have no idea what this is about. Must be some terrible misunderstanding.

“How is your family settling in?” Another round of polite preamble, only much more appropriate than Walter's. “It must be a big change.”

“More a large assortment of small changes, if that makes sense. But, yes, I think we're settled now. Children adjust so quickly.”

Please tell me that Iso is well adjusted. Please let this be an announcement of some prize she has won, or an amazing result on a standardized test.

“Iso is doing well here. She is popular with her classmates and, to my chagrin, a little advanced in some classes, although she has a lot of territory to cover in American history. But her math and English—it makes me wonder at the difference in educational standards. And, of course, she's an amazing athlete.”

Eliza beamed, even as she anticipated the huge “but” that she knew was about to drop on her head, like a cartoon anvil.

“I do wonder, back in England—was there much emphasis on bullying?”

For a bewildered moment, Eliza thought the principal was asking if the UK encouraged bullying.

“Oh! I think there were the same general concerns. Mean girls and the like.”

“And the problem of subtle bullying?”

“Subtle…bullying? Isn't that an oxymoron?”

Roxanne Stoddard frowned, and Eliza glimpsed her power, how awful it must feel to be one of her students or teachers and inspire her disapproval. “Not at all. It's an important distinction. Bullying is hard enough for teachers and administrators to detect, and students are loath to report it. But at least we can see the physical transgressions. Subtle bullying is all about exclusion, making other students feel not welcome.”

“Has Iso—?”

“It's unclear at this point. For now, we're willing to chalk it up to cultural differences between her old school and North Bethesda Middle.” She had a way of pronouncing the school's name as if it should be written in gold and heralded by angels with little trumpets. North. Bethesda. Middle! It was the only pretentious note in her otherwise down-to-earth demeanor.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I have some materials for you, the same ones our faculty use.” The principal passed Eliza a thick manila envelope. “As I said, we're not certain what happened. The girl involved—she swears it's a misunderstanding. But one of the conundrums of this type of bullying is that the victim mistakes it for hazing. The child—and they are children here, no matter how worldly they think they are—believes if she endures it with good grace, she'll be invited into the inner circle.”

“The girl—does she have some sort of disability?” Eliza was trying to remember Iso's story, about the girl in her class who was to receive an iTunes gift certificate for her birthday.

“What?”

“Never mind. Just thinking about a classmate that Iso described to me.”

“This girl is not disabled. She's not as bright and athletically gifted as Iso, but that's the point. Not everyone is going to be. The strange thing is that Iso, at heart, seems unsure of her own place within the circle of popular girls, seems more threatened, possibly because she's a newcomer. I think that's why she might have told the girl she wasn't allowed to sit with them.”

“That's…all? She told a classmate that she couldn't sit with them?”

“That's more than enough,” Roxanne Stoddard said with stern disappointment, as if Eliza had asked:
“That's all? Just one joint in her locker? That's all? An oral sex party with the boys' wrestling team?”

“Obviously, I haven't read the material yet.” Eliza gave the envelope a friendly pat, as if it were a novel she couldn't wait to be alone with. “But, surely, cafeteria cliques are as old as time, and not something likely to change.”

“Mrs. Benedict, we have a zero-tolerance policy on bullying. Because there is some ambiguity here, we”—a royal we? a committee? a tribunal?—“have decided not to invoke the minimum punishment. If Iso had been determined to be in violation, she would have been given after-school detention and prohibited from school activities for a month. That's the minimum penalty. The maximum is suspension.”

Eliza was torn. She understood that the policy was humane. She knew firsthand that her daughter was capable of an imperious indifference toward others. She was appalled that Iso was one of those popular girls who derived power by excluding others. But, still—was this grounds for suspension? Children needed a little grit in their lives, environments that fell somewhere between velvet-lined egg crates and
Lord of the Flies
.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Stoddard. Iso's father and I will make sure she understands the policy, and the consequences of violating it. It is subtle, as you say.”

The principal smiled, her pal again. “She is, at heart, a sweet child. And, however quickly children adjust, she has been through a big change. I wouldn't wonder if she's a little homesick for London, her old school. That would go a long way, I think, toward explaining her moods.”

“Her moods?” Eliza had thought that cranky Iso was a family phenomenon. She was sunny and generous with her friends, her teammates.

“She seems a little distracted at times. But, as I said, I'm sure it's just the dislocation. She's doing really well in her classes.” The principal looked at her watch. “Speaking of which—there are only forty-five minutes left in the day. Why don't you take her home? If I send her back to class, it will disrupt the teacher's lesson.”

Eliza left the principal's office, her homework tucked under her arm. She had to stop herself from reaching for her daughter's hand, stroking her hair, fashioned in a perfect ponytail today. “Let's go,” she said. And then, once out of the building: “We have time to get ice cream, if you like, before we pick up Albie.”

Iso regarded her mother suspiciously. “Ice cream?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Iso thought about this. “It wouldn't be fair to Albie.”

“Not everyone has to get the same things all the time in order for life to be fair.”

Eliza had undermined her own sales pitch, referenced too directly to what was happening at school.

“I have a lot of homework. If we go home now, I could get started and you and Reba could walk up to Albie's school as usual.”

“How about we all go to pick up Albie, then make a Rita's run?”

“All the way over to Grandmother's?” It was funny how Iso and Albie unconsciously referred to the house as Inez's, never Manny's, but then—it was Inez's domain. Eliza's father would live anywhere, happily, as long as he was with Inez. He cared nothing for his physical surroundings.

“I'm sure there's one closer. And if not, there's always Gifford's or Baskin-Robbins.”

Iso gave a tiny nod, conferring her favors on Eliza. It was a win-win for Iso. She got a treat, but Albie's presence would ensure that Eliza didn't press her. She was a shrewd girl, and Eliza couldn't help admiring that trait, which she had conspicuously lacked at the same age.

Then again, it was Holly—golden, self-assured Holly, not even a year older than Iso was now—who had gotten into Walter Bowman's truck for the promise of fifteen dollars, while Eliza was the one he had to drag in by the wrists. Frankly, Eliza didn't give a shit if Iso had hurt some girl's feelings by denying her a place at a lunch table. Her fear was that this very same confidence could lead Iso into a situation that she wouldn't be able to control.

 

BUT LATER, AS THE WATCHED
Iso and Albie eat dinner-spoiling double scoops at Baskin-Robbins, she realized that Walter Bowman, held within a cell and his own parentheses, was not the problem. The problem was the other Walters, all the Walters who sprung up from the soil no matter how many times you mashed them flat, like the army of skeletons that grew from dragon's teeth in the story of the Golden Fleece. The commonwealth of Virginia was
going to kill her tormentor—Eliza was startled to consider that word, to see for the first time the hidden
mentor
inside the sadist—but she couldn't begin to find and punish all the people who might hurt her children.

And yet, somewhere else in their own town, perhaps at this very moment, there was a mother who was comforting a child who believed Iso was the enemy.