PEGGY LOOKED AT her watch. It was ten-thirty in the morning, and she had a meeting with Fred Kindler at quarter to eleven. She wanted to get there a little early because he’d told her that he had to leave at eleven-fifteen for a meeting downtown at noon. She was worried about how he’d react when, on only his second day in office, she would tell him about a problem that was going to make the budget crisis even worse. So she left the phone, stepped out of her house and across the thick green lawns of the campus toward the administration building. In the distance, at the campus edge, she saw the river gleaming in the sun.
The first thing she noticed about Fred Kindler’s office was the big clock on the wall behind his desk, an imitation of a Mickey Mouse wristwatch, complete with huge leather wrist straps that reached from ceiling to floor. It hadn’t been there yesterday when she glanced through the door. She smiled, getting his message right away, and wondered if Eudora Easter had had a hand in this. Maybe people would start getting to places on time now.
He smiled too, an easy greeting, and stepped from behind his desk with that ducklike, toes-out gait she knew she would never have noticed if Francis hadn’t pointed it out to her. When Kindler put out his hand to shake hers, she realized again how formal and old-fashioned he seemed. They sat down in front of his desk, facing each other.
“How’s Francis’s trip going?” Fred asked her.
“He’ll be in California by the end of the week.”
“I hope he’s having a great time.”
“I hope so too,” she said before she had time to think what this remark might reveal. She saw him look away from her for just an instant and knew that he was not hiding his surprise—there was no dissimulation in that not-very-handsome face—but being kind. Whatever else he is, he is a good person, she decided. One of the things she was proud of was her ability to size people up.
Fred wasn’t sure whether it was surprise flashing across her face as Peggy’s eyes met his and stayed longer than most people’s—maybe that’s why he already liked her so much—or whether she was about to ask him a question. If so, he knew what the question would be: are you considering allowing boys into this school? He wished she would ask it. He guessed she was the kind of person he could think aloud in front of.
But he knew that of course she wouldn’t ask. Not yet. She was too kind to ask so early. That she’d just admitted a hint of trouble between herself and Francis gave him a rush of sadness for her—and anxiety for himself. I need your husband too, he wanted to say. He’s the senior teacher. The most gifted on the faculty. Teaches both math and English beautifully. That makes him powerful. If he’s against me, I’m dead.
“We need more air conditioning in the Pequot Indian area,” he heard Peggy say. “We had a consultant tell us that the displays would deteriorate.”
“How much?”
“It’s a lot. The estimate’s for fifteen thousand.” If he said yes, then she knew he understood how important the display was; it would mean he “got” Miss Oliver’s School for Girls—and Francis would be wrong.
“Fifteen thousand!” Fred exclaimed; then to himself: What the heck. What’s another fifteen thousand to a deficit like ours?
“I know it’s not in the budget,” Peggy said. “It’s a lot to ask.”
He made a little motion with his hand in front of his face as if to brush her comment away. “When we get the budget to where it should be, you won’t have to ask.”
“Won’t have to ask?”
“Department heads’ll have their own budgets. They’ll have discretion,” he explained, discovering how easy it was for him to share his ideas with her. He wished he could tell her about the emergency meeting with the board’s executive committee that would start in just over an hour, where he was going to drop the bomb about the budget. He’d get her advice.
“Really? Discretion?” Peggy was surprised. “We always went to Marjorie for—”
“Well, anyway,” he interrupted, “you’ve got it. Fifteen thousand.”
“Really?” she said. “Wonderful!”
He saw relief flooding her face, felt her eyes on his. Then a worried frown.
“Where will we get the money?” she asked.
“I have no idea, but I do know what’s indispensable and what is not.”
Peggy sat very still, taking his comment in. See, Francis, you’re wrong, she thought while it dawned on her how different this was from her meetings with Marjorie, how tired she’d grown of sitting side by side with her headmistress on a sofa, having her arm patted every time Marjorie made a point. For that’s how it had always gone: Marjorie making the point, not the other way around. And now Peggy realized she had something else to say, she was going to make a point—because she knew he’d listen. “Just one more thing,” she said. “I know you’re busy.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Don’t you bring it up. You’ll get crucified if you do. Let the board do it.”
“It?” he said. “You’re being mysterious.”
“No, I’m not. You know what I’m talking about. If we have to let boys in here, let it be the board’s decision. Fight it. Even if you think it’s right. Fight it anyway. For a while at least. Otherwise—”
“I’ve thought about that,” he said, hearing again Melissa Andersen’s Don’t you fucking dare. “Still, it doesn’t quite feel right.”
“Of course it doesn’t. Do it anyway!”
“You’re a smart lady,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” she replied, standing up. He rose too and reached to shake her hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, realizing she’d just done what Francis should be here to do: give advice. Show where the land mines were.
“Thanks,” he said, tempted now to put his other hand out too, take her hands in both of his. But that was too forward; he hardly knew her.
RIGHT AFTER PEGGY left, Fred made the call to Mavis Ericksen that he’d been dreading.
“Hello, this is Mavis.” Her voice was cheerful.
“Good morning, Mavis, this is Fred Kindler.” Silence.
“How are you this morning?” he tried.
She still didn’t answer, and it came to him that maybe she thought his question was sarcastic, as if to ask, Are you still crying? “I called to follow through on our conversation about Ms. Saffire,” he said.
“I’ve been waiting,” she said, making it clear she didn’t like to wait.
Yes, for only twenty-four hours, Fred thought. “Earlier this morning I talked to Dorothy Strang—”
“I don’t care what Dorothy—”
“Ms. Saffire reports to Dorothy Strang,” he said. “Dorothy evaluated Ms. Saffire last November near the end of her first year as having done quite well. Like everyone else, she’s been given some goals and will be evaluated again this November.” Fred didn’t tell Mavis that one of the goals assigned to Joan Saffire was learning how to handle certain kinds of people, and that when he had asked Dorothy, “What kind of people?” she had whispered, “Assholes,” and then got red in the face and started to giggle. And then admitted that she shouldn’t have sent a beginner to see Aldous Enright. She would have gone herself, but she was on vacation.
“November!” Mavis’s voice was quivering. “It’s only July!”
“Yes.