teased her at school, she sobbed into her grandfather’s lap, feeling like he was the only person in the world who loved her, who made time for her. “Don’t worry about any of them,” he said softly. “You’re different than everyone. You’re better. Someday, all this will be yours.”
“All what?” Sylvie had asked. But he hadn’t elaborated. Perhaps he meant the house, knowing even then that he would bequeath it to her, skipping right over his only son. Or maybe Charlie meant the school. Maybe he meant the whole world.
Now, Sylvie parked her car and turned off the engine. Her heels clicked across the parking lot. The flag in the middle of the lot was at half-staff, and there was a small, red ribbon tied around the pole, although she wasn’t sure what it signified. She looked around for other evidence of the boy’s death—a picture on one of the glass-paned doors that led to the lobby, for instance, or a collection plate in his memory on the arched, wooden sign-in desk. But there was nothing. Photographs of the class officers hung next to the flag. A large stuffed hawk, the school mascot, sat on top of the secretary’s desk. There was a big poster for an upcoming school play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Inside the auditorium, she heard a piano, then someone singing, probably a late choir practice. The song in the auditorium didn’t sound somber, either, but something Sylvie vaguely recognized from a Rogers and Hammerstein musical.
The others were already in the library. They were sitting on the leather couches, a pot of tea on the large, low coffee table. When they saw her, they stood.
“Sylvie.” Daniel Girard held out his arms. He was good-looking, tall with silver hair. He had come from work, presumably, still in his suit. Geoff Whitney stood, too, jowly and blustering, smelling a little like cigars. The other two stood as well. Jonathan Clyde, bookish and nervous-fingered, and Martha Wittig, plump and matronly, always wearing a different colored pair of glasses. Today’s frames were a warm pumpkin shade.
Sylvie kissed them all on the cheeks. She knew intricate details about each of their lives—Jonathan had bought an eighteenth-century historic Quaker meeting house that had allegedly once belonged to William Penn. He and Stewart, a man he always referred to as his friend, restored it themselves. The house had been featured in a splashy magazine, featuring just one photo of Jonathan sitting on the couch, his hand clenched nervously in his lap. Last year, Dan’s father had unexpectedly willed all his money to charity, forcing Dan to find his first job at forty-four. Geoff and his wife had divorced, and he’d married a much younger woman named Melinda two months later.
Of course they knew about Sylvie, too. That her children had gone to school here, that Charles had attended Cornell, that he’d married Joanna, and that Joanna … well, Sylvie knew that Joanna had held some sort of job before they moved out to the suburbs a few weeks ago, but she could never remember what that job had been, nor did she know what Joanna was planning to do with herself now.
They knew about Scott, too, though they never asked about him, as if it would be intrusive to do so. And they were around for James’s death. They’d paid their respects at his funeral and gone to the luncheon afterward.
They had all attended Swithin and so had their children. They’d worked together for years now, planning and debating and deciding. When they considered adding an extra member to the board, they pored over each potential candidate as if they were running for political office, examining tax records, properties owned, and extramarital affairs. They didn’t help vote for teachers or staff—which meant, thankfully, they hadn’t had to discuss Scott’s position as an assistant coach—although they did help to choose Michael Tayson as headmaster two months ago after Jerome announced his retirement. That meeting had been only
“All what?” Sylvie had asked. But he hadn’t elaborated. Perhaps he meant the house, knowing even then that he would bequeath it to her, skipping right over his only son. Or maybe Charlie meant the school. Maybe he meant the whole world.
Now, Sylvie parked her car and turned off the engine. Her heels clicked across the parking lot. The flag in the middle of the lot was at half-staff, and there was a small, red ribbon tied around the pole, although she wasn’t sure what it signified. She looked around for other evidence of the boy’s death—a picture on one of the glass-paned doors that led to the lobby, for instance, or a collection plate in his memory on the arched, wooden sign-in desk. But there was nothing. Photographs of the class officers hung next to the flag. A large stuffed hawk, the school mascot, sat on top of the secretary’s desk. There was a big poster for an upcoming school play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Inside the auditorium, she heard a piano, then someone singing, probably a late choir practice. The song in the auditorium didn’t sound somber, either, but something Sylvie vaguely recognized from a Rogers and Hammerstein musical.
The others were already in the library. They were sitting on the leather couches, a pot of tea on the large, low coffee table. When they saw her, they stood.
“Sylvie.” Daniel Girard held out his arms. He was good-looking, tall with silver hair. He had come from work, presumably, still in his suit. Geoff Whitney stood, too, jowly and blustering, smelling a little like cigars. The other two stood as well. Jonathan Clyde, bookish and nervous-fingered, and Martha Wittig, plump and matronly, always wearing a different colored pair of glasses. Today’s frames were a warm pumpkin shade.
Sylvie kissed them all on the cheeks. She knew intricate details about each of their lives—Jonathan had bought an eighteenth-century historic Quaker meeting house that had allegedly once belonged to William Penn. He and Stewart, a man he always referred to as his friend, restored it themselves. The house had been featured in a splashy magazine, featuring just one photo of Jonathan sitting on the couch, his hand clenched nervously in his lap. Last year, Dan’s father had unexpectedly willed all his money to charity, forcing Dan to find his first job at forty-four. Geoff and his wife had divorced, and he’d married a much younger woman named Melinda two months later.
Of course they knew about Sylvie, too. That her children had gone to school here, that Charles had attended Cornell, that he’d married Joanna, and that Joanna … well, Sylvie knew that Joanna had held some sort of job before they moved out to the suburbs a few weeks ago, but she could never remember what that job had been, nor did she know what Joanna was planning to do with herself now.
They knew about Scott, too, though they never asked about him, as if it would be intrusive to do so. And they were around for James’s death. They’d paid their respects at his funeral and gone to the luncheon afterward.
They had all attended Swithin and so had their children. They’d worked together for years now, planning and debating and deciding. When they considered adding an extra member to the board, they pored over each potential candidate as if they were running for political office, examining tax records, properties owned, and extramarital affairs. They didn’t help vote for teachers or staff—which meant, thankfully, they hadn’t had to discuss Scott’s position as an assistant coach—although they did help to choose Michael Tayson as headmaster two months ago after Jerome announced his retirement. That meeting had been only
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