impatience show because a new trustee knew so much less about schools than she did. Of course he knew less; it wasn’t his job. He hadn’t been at it for eighteen years.
Chandler, for his part, had agreed to be president in the hope of serving the community, and also, of course, for the pleasure of wielding a big stick. He had told the Sales that he would take care of this. Now what was he going to tell them? It was embarrassing, and Rue knew it.
46 / Beth Gutcheon
“Let’s talk about the auction,” he said.
“Let’s.”
“I’m concerned about the theme,” said Chandler.
“You are? Gay Nineties? I thought it was very clever. We’ve found a collector to lend us some antique bicycles, with the huge front wheels. The eighth-grade girls will wear leg-o’-mutton sleeves and bustles. Imagine how much they’ll learn about how uncomfortable women’s lives used to be, these little ones who spend their lives in sweat clothes.”
“I don’t like the overtone of homosexuality.”
“Chandler!”
“Well, I don’t. I asked my wife what she thinks of first when she hears the word gay and she agrees with me.”
“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard!”
“Thank you very much. It’s not a lifestyle choice that should be associated with The Country School.”
“It’s not a lifestyle choice at all! It’s a lovely word, with many meanings. This decade a hundred years ago was called the Gay Nineties, and that’s what it’s always been called.”
“What about Merry Nineties?”
“You’re not serious.”
“Do you realize that from the beginning of this lunch, you have brushed off or belittled every single thing that I came here to say to you?”
She paused. She could see that in fact she had but…but…did she really have to deal with this? Maybe she could get Ann and Terry to sit down with him and explain to him what the job was. Maybe she could talk Terry into taking it over next year. She said carefully,
“I can see that it seems that way to you, and I’m sorry. But the auction is run by the Parents’ Council. Firing is done by me. If you are going to overstep your bounds in areas like this, I’m going to fight you tooth and nail. It isn’t good for the school.”
“And you are the authority on what’s good for the school?”
“In this case, yes.”
“I think I better go,” said Chandler quietly, and he went. It was the first time in her seventeen years of leadership at the school that a Board president, man or woman, had stuck her with the check.
L ife had not been entirely fair to Catherine Trainer. It was not fair that Norman should have died the way he did. He never smoked. He didn’t drink, except a thimble of wine at Passover. And yet he got a ghastly cancer when he was only fifty-seven, and lingered, getting paler and thinner and less and less himself as his immortal spark was replaced erg by erg with man-made drugs. He lingered on in the hospital bed in the downstairs den long after he knew, where he was, or even who he was, and long after he lost all control of his bladder or sphincter muscles, which at least he never knew, thank god. Catherine used to race home from school at lunch and immediately after class to be with him. She started recycling lesson plans and putting off grading homework as Norman’s suffering grew, and she was the only one who could soothe him. It turned out not to make much difference, either the putting off or the soothing of Norman. School went on in a blur, and so did Norman.
Finally she had to have a nurse in the daytime, while she was at work, but she nursed him alone every night and all weekend. In the last months, he was so drugged that he could hardly be said to have slept night or day; he just slipped in and out of trances of pain. And she slept sitting up in a chair beside him. Once she let the doctors bully her into letting him be carried off to the hospital. But the minute he saw her in the morning, in his first lucid moment in
Chandler, for his part, had agreed to be president in the hope of serving the community, and also, of course, for the pleasure of wielding a big stick. He had told the Sales that he would take care of this. Now what was he going to tell them? It was embarrassing, and Rue knew it.
46 / Beth Gutcheon
“Let’s talk about the auction,” he said.
“Let’s.”
“I’m concerned about the theme,” said Chandler.
“You are? Gay Nineties? I thought it was very clever. We’ve found a collector to lend us some antique bicycles, with the huge front wheels. The eighth-grade girls will wear leg-o’-mutton sleeves and bustles. Imagine how much they’ll learn about how uncomfortable women’s lives used to be, these little ones who spend their lives in sweat clothes.”
“I don’t like the overtone of homosexuality.”
“Chandler!”
“Well, I don’t. I asked my wife what she thinks of first when she hears the word gay and she agrees with me.”
“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard!”
“Thank you very much. It’s not a lifestyle choice that should be associated with The Country School.”
“It’s not a lifestyle choice at all! It’s a lovely word, with many meanings. This decade a hundred years ago was called the Gay Nineties, and that’s what it’s always been called.”
“What about Merry Nineties?”
“You’re not serious.”
“Do you realize that from the beginning of this lunch, you have brushed off or belittled every single thing that I came here to say to you?”
She paused. She could see that in fact she had but…but…did she really have to deal with this? Maybe she could get Ann and Terry to sit down with him and explain to him what the job was. Maybe she could talk Terry into taking it over next year. She said carefully,
“I can see that it seems that way to you, and I’m sorry. But the auction is run by the Parents’ Council. Firing is done by me. If you are going to overstep your bounds in areas like this, I’m going to fight you tooth and nail. It isn’t good for the school.”
“And you are the authority on what’s good for the school?”
“In this case, yes.”
“I think I better go,” said Chandler quietly, and he went. It was the first time in her seventeen years of leadership at the school that a Board president, man or woman, had stuck her with the check.
L ife had not been entirely fair to Catherine Trainer. It was not fair that Norman should have died the way he did. He never smoked. He didn’t drink, except a thimble of wine at Passover. And yet he got a ghastly cancer when he was only fifty-seven, and lingered, getting paler and thinner and less and less himself as his immortal spark was replaced erg by erg with man-made drugs. He lingered on in the hospital bed in the downstairs den long after he knew, where he was, or even who he was, and long after he lost all control of his bladder or sphincter muscles, which at least he never knew, thank god. Catherine used to race home from school at lunch and immediately after class to be with him. She started recycling lesson plans and putting off grading homework as Norman’s suffering grew, and she was the only one who could soothe him. It turned out not to make much difference, either the putting off or the soothing of Norman. School went on in a blur, and so did Norman.
Finally she had to have a nurse in the daytime, while she was at work, but she nursed him alone every night and all weekend. In the last months, he was so drugged that he could hardly be said to have slept night or day; he just slipped in and out of trances of pain. And she slept sitting up in a chair beside him. Once she let the doctors bully her into letting him be carried off to the hospital. But the minute he saw her in the morning, in his first lucid moment in
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
