“Come on, Mel. You know better than that,” I said, tensing. “An outfit doesn’t make someone promiscuous. That’s almost like saying ‘She wore a short skirt, so she had it coming.’ ”
Melanie stared at me for a beat then said, “Okay. What’s going on? Why are you so Team Lyla? I don’t get it.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I just have the feeling she’s a nice girl who got caught up in something she didn’t ask for.”
“And why do you think that?”
“Because. I had coffee with Lyla’s father,” I blurted out, as my mind exploded with a flowchart of possible repercussions that came from Melanie knowing this. She was well intentioned in our friendship but had an absolute inability to keep much of anything to herself.
“You did?” she said, probably already mapping out who she would tell the second she left my house. “When?”
“Yesterday,” I said, making a split-second decision not to make it more irresistible by telling her to keep it a secret. “It was no big deal, really….It just felt like the right thing to do.”
She nodded. “So? What was he like?”
“You’ve actually met him,” I said. “His name is Tom Volpe. Ring a bell?”
She gave me a blank stare, shook her head, then said, “Wait. That does sound familiar. How do I know that name?” She repeated Volpe under her breath a couple times, frowning as if trying to place him.
“He did your butler’s pantry,” I said. “And your keeping room shelves.”
Her face suddenly lit up. “Oh yeah! That Tom! Right. He was hot. You know—in a scruffy, blue-collar way….”
The characterization slightly annoyed me, though I couldn’t pinpoint why, especially given that it was a pretty accurate description. In any case, I just nodded and said, “Yeah. I guess.”
“Wait. His daughter is Lyla?”
I nodded.
“That’s surprising,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Because he’s a carpenter, I guess? There aren’t a lot of carpenters’ kids at Windsor….She must be on financial aid.”
“Maybe. Who knows,” I said, resisting the temptation to add and who cares. Instead I said, “But if she came in the ninth grade, then she also must be pretty smart. Or supertalented in some area.”
Everyone knew that admissions standards became more stringent in high school, whereas the criteria for five- and six-year-olds were considerably broader and had much more to do with who your parents were. Nobody said it, but it seemed pretty clear that if two applicants were completely equal but for the ability to make a big donation, the big donation won. To Kirk, there was nothing troubling about that. It was just life.
“Or maybe she got in because of the mulatto thing,” Melanie said. “You know how Walter is about diversity.”
I shrugged, feeling intensely uncomfortable. To deflect, I pointed at a bottle of pinot noir that I’d opened with dinner and said, “Would you like a glass?”
“Maybe just a teensy one. I’m trying to cut down on sugar….I’m so fat. Ugh…” She leaned forward so that she could get a pinch of skin covering her washboard stomach as I poured a glass and handed it to her.
She took a sip, then said, “So? Details. Did he ask to meet with you or what?”
“No. I asked to meet with him,” I said, refilling my glass, too.
“Why? To talk him out of pressing charges?”
“No,” I said. “To apologize to him.”
“Oh yeah, of course. I just thought there might be something else,” she said, bouncing her foot again and looking wounded. It was an expression she wore often. In some ways, I loved this vulnerability about her, even when it felt misplaced. It was unlike so many of the other housewives of Belle Meade, who wore perma-masks of bliss. From those types, the answer to the simple and actually not very curious question “How are you doing?” was always a gushing litany of how wonderfully full and satisfying their lives were. Busy, busy, busy! Happy, happy, happy! All good! Busy, happy, and good! I had one friend who would actually answer with a chipper Better than terrific! Her marriage, her kids, her holidays, her summer—were all, always, better than terrific.
Even the breezy I can’t complain! grated on me. First of all, sure you can complain, and you do, and you will. You’ll complain about your kid’s teachers and coaches, your neighbors and your neighbors’ pets, your fellow committee members on whatever charity or school function you’re working on (whether it’s because they’re not doing their fair share or because they’re being too bossy and trying to take the whole thing over); you’ll complain when people don’t reply fast enough to your correspondence or when they hit reply all, giving you needless information that swamps your oh-so-important in-boxes; you’ll complain over your housekeepers and nannies and gardeners and anyone at all who comes into your home to do any kind of work for you. You’ll complain over everything and nothing unless it is any kind of reflection on you, your kids, your marriage, or your life. And if, God forbid, you or your children make a misstep, you blame everyone else and insist that you’re the victim from a “good family.” I knew the drill.
“Can I just say?” Melanie began now. “It hurts my feelings a little bit that you didn’t tell me. Especially since Beau’s involved.”
“But I just told you.”
“I mean, sooner. Right away. Before you even met with him.”
“I guess I forgot to mention it,” I fibbed. “I’m sorry, Mel.”
Her frown lines grew as deep as her Botox would allow. “Did he mention Beau? Or the party itself? Is he mad about that?”
“No,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that’s the least of his concerns right now.”
Melanie nodded, then took a deep breath. “Listen. I admire you, Nina. So much. You’re such a good person—and your heart’s in the right place….I admire the fact that you’re trying to make this right. But…I really think you’re being too hard on yourself. And Finch.”
I nodded, torn. Her steadfast loyalty certainly felt better than Julie’s tough love. Yet I was also frustrated by her inability—or at least refusal—to see what was at stake. I guess my friends couldn’t win. I knew that’s what Kirk would say if he could read my mind now. He hated when I got this way, at least when my feelings threatened his agenda. You’re impossible to please, he’d tell me. Move on and stop obsessing.
Of course, he obsessed over plenty of things, too. But in his mind, those things were different. They were obsession-worthy because they were about the big financial picture—or another quantifiable issue. It was almost as if anything related to relationships or emotions was trivial to him. A disagreement with my mother? She’ll get over it. A friend getting on my nerves? Stop hanging out with her. A feeling that I wasn’t doing enough in the world or guilt about all we had? We give more than enough money away to charity. And now: our own son’s character? He’s a good kid who made one little mistake. Move on, let it go.
“Are you even listening to me?” I heard Melanie say.
“Sorry. I spaced out there for a second,” I said.
“I was just asking about Polly and Finch?”
“What about them?”
“How’s Finch doing? With the breakup?” she said, lowering her voice.
“They broke up? I hadn’t heard,” I said, feeling a stab of maternal guilt for being the last to know.
“Yeah. Honestly, though, I think Finch could do so much better than Polly. I’ve said that from the beginning. Everyone thinks so,” Melanie said.
Marveling that Polly’s inferiority to Finch could still be Melanie’s conclusion given recent events, I said, “I don’t know, Mel. I bet she broke up with him….I’d break up with a boy for doing what he did to another girl. It was so mean.”
“Please stop torturing yourself, honey. Kids make mistakes. Esp
ecially boys. Remember that psychiatrist who told us that the frontal lobe of a boy’s brain isn’t developed until, like, age twenty-five?…They use bad judgment without a fully developed frontal lobe.”
I shrugged, then reiterated the point I’d made to Kirk. To me, this wasn’t about judgment so much as morals.
“C’mon, Nina! You need to be an advocate for your own child!”
“What about Lyla? Shouldn’t we be advocates for all children?”
“Let Tom worry about Lyla. Let him be her advocate. You need to be Finch’s. You should always side with your kid. Always.”
“Without regard to his actions?” I asked. “No matter what?”
“No. Matter. What,” she said, crossing her arms.
“What if Beau killed someone?” I said, testing the theory.
“Well, then, we’d hire the very best defense lawyers. O. J. Simpson–type lawyers. And if we lost, I would visit him in jail every single day until I died.” She took a deep breath. “Beau will always be my flesh and blood. I couldn’t stop loving him. Ever.”
“Of course. I get that,” I said, feeling a wave of defensiveness. I mean, I, too, would love Finch no matter what. I could even see where she was coming from with respect to hiring the best attorneys and being hopeful that he might get a lighter sentence. After all, that is our legal system—which I do believe in.
But I also knew in my heart that I wouldn’t cover for my son if he committed a terrible crime. Any crime. I wouldn’t lie for him. I wouldn’t obstruct justice for him. I would stand by him, but I would also want him to confess and truly repent and bear responsibility for his actions. I would want him to earn and deserve his forgiveness.
I tried to summarize the distinction to Melanie, but she wasn’t having it, digging deeper with her next statement. “Well, I would do anything it took to protect Beau from pain. Anything.”
Our eyes locked as the truth slowly sank in—the fact that I just didn’t feel the same. I thought of a sermon I’d once heard at Teddy’s church, a long time ago. Pastor Sundermeier had said something along the lines of “Justice isn’t only about what a person deserves, but also about what a person needs.” It was a crucial piece of the puzzle that Melanie and Kirk seemed to be missing.
“Well, for what it’s worth, Kirk agrees with you,” I said.
She nodded, looking vindicated. “Of course he does. He has excellent instincts when it comes to these things.”
I thought about the fifteen thousand dollars, knowing that although Melanie probably would have approved of his ploy, she likely would also have scoffed at the amount, as she never minded overpaying, one of her mantras being Just throw money at the problem.
“Not always,” I said. “Sometimes he’s a little too…results driven. He always gets what he wants.”
“Yeah,” she said with a little laugh. “That’s sort of why you married him, isn’t it?”
She was referring to our “story”—the one Kirk loved to tell. How he had pursued me throughout our sophomore year at Vanderbilt, asking me out a half dozen times before I finally said yes. Of course he believed I was merely playing hard to get, which had raised my stock in his eyes. And I never told him the truth—that I’d been too scarred by the traumatic events of my freshman year to even consider dating anyone for a long time.
Looking back, though, maybe Melanie had a point. I did admire my husband’s tenacity, and it probably did have something to do with why we ended up together. If I’m being honest, I have to admit I also liked how much my friends liked him. How well he fit in with everyone. He took my mind off bad things. He made me feel safe. Like nothing bad would happen to me on his watch.
“I guess so,” I murmured as Melanie and I drank wine and I contemplated my own intentions.
Why did I so badly want to meet with Lyla, and talk to Tom again? Was it really just about Finch learning from his mistakes and my doing the right thing? Or was I seeking some sort of absolution—maybe even vindication for my younger self? I wasn’t sure, but I suddenly and desperately wanted to be alone.
“Oh, my goodness,” I said, forcing a fake yawn. “I’m so tired.”
“Yeah. Me, too,” she said. “I should go…”
I quickly stood, knowing how often I should go resulted in an additional hour of conversation.
“Hang in there, honey,” she said, giving me a big hug. “Get some rest. And leave this to Kirk. Trust me, it will all be over soon.”
As soon as Melanie walked out the door, I couldn’t get to my phone fast enough. Amid the usual mass mail, two emails jumped out at me. The first was from Walter Quarterman, the second from Tom Volpe. My heart raced as I opened Walter’s first and read the short message informing Kirk and me that Finch’s “closed hearing” before the Honor Council was scheduled for this coming Tuesday at 9:00 A.M. He apologized for the delay but explained that two faculty members on the council had been away at a conference. He added that we were welcome to come to school that day but would not be permitted in the room during the questioning.
“Okay,” I said aloud to myself, relieved to see the date finalized. Four more days.
I took a deep breath, then opened the second email.
From: Thomas Volpe
To: Nina Browning
Subject: Hello
Hi Nina, I think you’re right. It is a good idea for the four of us to sit down together. Does this weekend work? Tomorrow around 11? You are welcome to come to our house. I’d prefer that to yours. Our address is in the directory.
Feeling intensely anxious, but also grateful and hopeful, I composed a reply:
From: Nina Browning
To: Thomas Volpe
Subject: Thank you
Tom, I greatly appreciate your decision. Tomorrow morning absolutely works. We will see you at your place at 11 A.M. Thank you again so much.
I hit send just as Kirk’s name lit up on my phone. I answered as he barked into my ear. “That asshole took the cash and is still letting this go to trial! So much for a gentleman’s agreement.”
“A gentleman’s agreement?” I said, so aghast by this ridiculous spin that I further rationalized not telling him that Tom had returned the money. I knew two wrongs didn’t make a right, but he didn’t deserve the truth. He deserved to feel screwed.
“A settlement. Yes.”
“It wasn’t a gentleman’s agreement. Or a settlement. It was a bribe. You tried to pay him off to keep quiet. And it backfired,” I said.
“Try not to sound so happy about it,” he said.
“I’m not happy about this,” I said. “I’m not happy about anything right now.”
“Well,” Kirk said. “That makes two of us.”
* * *
—
A FEW MINUTES later, I went to Finch’s room. His door was closed. I stared at it for a few seconds, thinking of how much things had changed, both quickly and gradually. When he was a little boy, his door stayed open and he often ended up in our bed. By the time he reached late elementary school, he would occasionally close it, but I felt free to open it without knocking. When he was in middle school, I did a quick knock before walking in. Once he was in early high school, I awaited his permission following the knock. And in the last year or two, all bedroom chats had become nonexistent. I barely entered his room at all, as Juana did his laundry and put away all his clean clothes.
I knocked now, then opened the door to find Finch on his bed. He was on his laptop and wearing headphones. He looked up at me blankly.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” he replied.
“Can you take those off?”
“There’s no sound,” he said.
“Take them off anyway.”
He did, with no attitude.
“How’re things going?” I asked, my voice sounding stilted.
“Fine.”
“Good,” I said. “And how’s Polly?”
“She’s fine, I guess.”
“You guess?” I took a step inside his room. “You don’t know?”
“Not really,” he said, expressionless. “We broke up.”
“I’m sorry. Can I…ask why?”
He sighed. “I don’t really want to talk about it, if that’s okay?”
I bit my lip and nodded. “Well, I also wanted to tell you that your father and I heard from Mr. Quarterman. Your Honor Council hearing is scheduled for next Tuesday.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I got an email, too.”
“Oh,” I said. “Have you talked to Lyla?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Dad told me not to.”
“He did?” I said. “When did he tell you that?”
“Last week. After our meeting with Mr. Q.”
“Well,” I said briskly. “I’m overriding that. We’re going to see her tomorrow morning. You and I. Her dad will be there, too. It will be the four of us.”
I braced myself for resistance, but he only nodded and said okay.
“And in the meantime, I want you to think about Lyla. Her feelings. This is about her right now.”
“I know, Mom,” he said, looking a little like his younger, earnest self.
“Do you?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“So you understand that this meeting with Lyla is not a strategy for you. It’s an apology to her.”
He nodded again. “Yeah, Mom. I get it,” he said, holding my gaze.
Maybe he was humoring me or trying to avoid a lecture, but his expression really seemed sincere. It wasn’t quite a relief—I was still worried about his character—but it was a very small consolation and maybe even a source of hope.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about Polly? Or anything else going on in your life?” I gently pressed, feeling certain I knew what the answer would be.
“Yeah, Mom,” he said. “I’m sure.”