The Unfolding, page 8
“Tell that to the jerk with the gun,” she says before she realizes that he is the jerk with the gun.
“I didn’t know that you didn’t have the horse in hand.”
“Ranger was tied to a tree. If I had him in hand, it could have been a lot worse. When he reared up, he might have come down on me! It was a doe, a mother with her baby. Why didn’t you help her?”
“Protocol tells us that if wild animals are injured we euthanize them as safely and quickly as we can.”
“You shot her again and again.”
“How many shots?” the top cop asks.
“Two,” the officer says before Meghan can get a word out. “One to crack the skull, another to put it out. I was back about seven to ten feet so I didn’t get spatter.”
With that, Meghan starts sobbing. “Not okay. I am not okay. This is not okay.”
“Do you want to tell us why you ran away from school?” one of the officers asks.
“Why would I run away?”
“You tell me.”
“Wait, what?”
“You were upset this afternoon when you got back to school, and then you got on the horse and ran away.”
“That is not what happened.”
“One of the girls at school said she saw you and that you looked upset.” The officer is now standing with one hand on a hip and the other on his gun.
“I went out for a ride on my horse because that’s what I love doing most in the world. I came across a situation and I called for help because I thought you’re supposed to. And then your guy shoots Bambi’s mother like in a horror film. Did he tell you that her fawn saw the whole thing and now will most likely die in the woods alone? Did he mention the fawn?”
“You seem very upset,” the cop says, sounding more judgmental than nice.
“I am upset,” she says. “I feel like I’m losing my mind. This whole thing is crazy.” The circle of cops standing around her pulls closer.
“Really?” he asks. “Did you take anything?”
“Anything like what?”
“Drugs?”
“Oh my god, are you kidding me?” She stands there shaking her head. “This is beyond the beyond,” she mutters to herself. She turns away from the cop who has been quizzing her and takes out her phone. She calls Tony. She calls Tony because that’s what her parents would do. Whenever they are overwhelmed or in over their heads, they call Tony. That’s what best friends are for. That’s what fixers are for—repair work. Tony does the repair work for the White House.
Tony answers on the first ring. “Hi, kiddo, what’s up?”
“I don’t even know what to say. But something is wrong. Something is very wrong and I need your help.”
“Where are you?”
“I am by the side of the road with Ranger, surrounded by armed police officers who are asking me if I’ve taken drugs and a million other weird things.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Are you hurt?”
“I am not hurt. Although I easily could have been shot.”
“Can you give the phone to the police officer?”
“Who is in charge?” she asks, waving her phone at the group.
“Who wants to know?” the cop asks.
“Tony Armstrong, from the White House. Special assistant to the president.” She wouldn’t normally drop a line like that, but it’s all too out of control. “He would like to speak to whoever is in charge.”
The cops look at one another, and then Officer Robinson finally steps forward to take the call. “Hello, Mr. Armstrong . . .”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Palm Springs, California
6:15 p.m.
Three-quarters of the way through the meal, both of their phones ring. His is in his pants pocket, hers is in her purse—he didn’t even know she carried it with her. They look at each other—it can’t be good.
People in the restaurant glare. He pulls out his phone and flips it open.
“Meghan is fine,” a voice on the other end of the line says.
A cold sweat breaks out across his face.
“This is Mrs. Hayes from the Academy . . .”
The voice in the Big Guy’s ear, initially alarming, drones on as color first drains from his face and then slowly returns when it becomes clear that the news is not dire.
“Everything all right?” Charlotte asks, as he hangs up. She signals the waiter for another drink.
He nods. “When both phones rang, I was sure it was bad. I thought the plane had gone down. Maybe it was too much for her, the travel, the excitement of voting, and then the letdown. These are the years when all hell can break loose, when you can lose them for no good reason.”
“I thought they said she was fine?” Charlotte says. “You’ve done a good job with her. She respects you enormously.”
“Doesn’t matter how good a job you do; shit can happen. If anything, that’s what these last few days have taught me.” He signals for the check. “Clearly I’m not paying enough attention to you, to her, to whatever the hell it is that’s going on”
“Have a sip of water.”
He pays the bill in cash and adds a large tip. “Apologies for the kerfuffle,” he says to the waiter. “We had a bit of a scare.”
“No problem,” the waiter says.
“I’m shaken,” he says to Charlotte as they are leaving. “That’s the bottom line; I’m shaken.”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
McLean, Virginia
9:40 p.m.
The headmistress’s door is three-quarters closed, but Meghan can hear people inside talking.
“She is to be reminded that riding the trail is a privilege, and it is suggested that for now she confine herself to the ring,” someone says—she doesn’t recognize the voice.
“One is expected to follow the rules; we are a community, and in order to function, we must all commit to a code of conduct.”
Meghan is standing outside the office, listening, twirling the phoenix on the necklace she bought this morning.
“She needs to know what is expected.”
Unable to bear it any longer, Meghan knocks on the door.
“Come in.”
“I’m not the one who fired the gun,” she blurts out.
“No one is blaming you,” a teacher says.
“Then why are you punishing me?” Meghan pauses. “I hate it here, I hate everything. I hate my whole fucking life.”
The headmistress and the others in the room stare at her.
“I’ve never done anything bad—ever. And now suddenly I’m in trouble because other people can’t do their jobs? I quit. How about that? I quit. Pardon my French. I certainly won’t have a day like today and then be punished for it. And I remind you, I don’t have to be here at this school. I am not obligated to stay. I am emancipated.”
“If you wouldn’t mind excusing us,” the headmistress says to the other two women in the room, who appear shocked by Meghan’s outburst.
“Of course.” They scurry out.
“Close the door?” one asks.
“Please.”
“Sit,” the headmistress tells Meghan, who doesn’t want to but does.
The headmistress sits at her desk thinking. She has no idea what to do.
“It’s unfair,” Meghan says. “The day can start in one place where it all seems obvious and end in another where nothing will be clear again.” There is no control, no certainty. That is the brutal awakening of this moment.
“Would you like something to drink?” the headmistress asks Meghan. Without waiting for an answer, she goes over to the little setup in the corner of her office and pours two glasses, one small, one large.
“This didn’t happen,” she says, handing the glass to Meghan. “Headmistresses do not pour drinks for their students. And there’s nothing you can say that will convince someone that it did.”
“It never happened,” Meghan says, taking a sip.
“I don’t think you should quit; you are just at the beginning. While your outburst was an earful, it seems you’ve found your voice and can do an excellent job advocating for yourself.”
Meghan shrugs.
The headmistress finishes the drink and pours herself a second. Clearly a second glass is not in Meghan’s future. “We were very concerned about you.”
“If people were so concerned, why did it take the police forty minutes to come to where I was?”
“Because, as you noticed, not everyone is a rocket scientist.” The headmistress finishes her drink and pours herself a third.
“What does it mean when the people you are supposed to count on for help don’t help? They show up and act the opposite of what you would expect. Instead of saving a life, they take a life. I don’t understand.”
“I suspect you do,” the headmistress says. “And that’s why you are so upset.”
Another virginity, Meghan thinks to herself but says nothing.
“Sometimes there is more to a story than one is aware of, information that has been left out.”
“I told them who I was and where I was.”
The headmistress takes a deep breath. “There is a story that will no doubt surface, so you’d better hear it from me. Actually, that’s misleading and makes it sound like a fairy tale when, in fact, it’s the opposite. I am telling you this not as an explanation or excuse but because it highlights the larger issue; there is often something we don’t know, a backstory.”
“Does it have something to do with me?” Meghan asks.
The headmistress shakes her head no. And over the next twenty minutes she tells Meghan the gruesome account of two girls—one who was attacked near campus and survived. The survivor was convinced that her attacker would return and kept telling people, but no one shared her concern; they wrote it off as a traumatic reaction. And then the man returned and grabbed another girl who looked just like the first one and murdered her.
“Where?”
“In the woods.”
“Those woods?”
The headmistress nods. “Yes.”
A brisk chill runs through Meghan. “She was murdered in the woods where I rode Ranger?” It was all fine until it wasn’t.
For the first time she feels the threat of outside forces. Is this what the headmistress meant by loss of innocence? “Suddenly things don’t make any sense. It’s like there’s something wrong with my brain.”
“There is nothing wrong with your brain,” the headmistress says.
Meghan is momentarily speechless. “I’m lost,” she finally says. There is a pause. “Did they catch the murderer?”
“Yes.”
“If I’d known, I might not have ridden into the woods.”
“Indeed,” the headmistress says. “That is the question. Does knowing empower or inhibit? Young women are prone to anxiety. Knowing what happened might make some feel unsafe; they might become trapped, entombed, by what they know.”
“History needs to count for something,” Meghan says.
“One would hope. In this case, the police did a poor job looking for the girl; if they’d done a better job, she might have survived. And today, did any of the people you spoke to know what had come before? One wants to believe that there are systems in place that protect us; but, in fact, we are all a little more on our own than one might realize.” The headmistress puts away the things on her desk. “It certainly has been a long day. How about I walk you back to the dormitory?”
“Fine, but I’d like to say good night to Ranger.” The headmistress nods.
“What was the girl’s name?” Meghan asks, as they walk toward the stable.
“Shh,” the headmistress says. “It’s enough for one night.”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Palm Springs, California
8:10 p.m.
On the way home, his phone rings; he pulls onto a residential street and parks under a streetlight. “Hello, Pigeon,” he says, calling Meghan by an old nickname. “You okay? What the heck happened?”
As she’s telling him the story, a coyote crosses the street about fifty feet in front of the car. He points it out to Charlotte. The coyote goes up a driveway. And then there are a lot of squeals and cats come flying out of the driveway and scramble up the tree overhead. The coyote skulks back down the driveway into the street—looking. He beeps his horn long and hard.
“Are you in traffic?”
“No, honey, I’m here in the car with Mother; we’re just driving home from dinner. Your mother wants to know, is the horse okay?”
Inside one of the houses someone turns on a light and presses their face to the glass. He blinks his high beams, shining light on and off the coyote.
“Ranger is amazing,” Meghan says. “The icing on the cake.”
“She wants me to tell you . . . Here, why don’t you tell her yourself.” He hands Charlotte the phone and gets out of the car to check on the cats in the tree.
“In the morning, check the horse’s legs; make sure he doesn’t have any scratches,” Charlotte says. “Sometimes when you go off trail, you can get scratches or abrasions that can get infected if you don’t keep them clean. You’re a good girl. Get some rest.” Charlotte holds the phone out the car window.
“Sleep well, honey, and let’s talk tomorrow,” he calls out.
“Now what?” Charlotte asks.
“The cats are up a tree and the coyote is over there, lurking.”
“And is your plan to stand in the middle of the street and see what happens? Are you sure it’s a coyote and not a raccoon? Are you going to climb the tree?”
“Very funny.”
He walks to the front door of the house where he thinks the cats belong and rings the bell. No one answers. He rings again.
“I’m not answering for a reason,” a female voice says from behind the door.
“Okay,” he says through the door. “I was just trying to tell you that your cats are up a tree and there’s a coyote out here.”
“This isn’t a prank, is it?”
He can feel himself being watched through the peephole. “Do I look like a prankster?”
The door opens.
“Your cats are in the tree,” he says, pointing. “And the coyote is there.” His pointer finger pivots toward the neighbor’s house.
The woman steps out, puts two fingers in her mouth, and gives a loud, sharp whistle. “Ginger, you come here,” she calls out. “Right now, git over here.”
And the coyote comes out of the dark and slinks toward the house. Overhead, the two cats hiss.
“Ginger, tell this man you are no wild animal.”
Now that his eyes have adjusted and his pulse has settled, he can see that the coyote is no coyote or raccoon but a thin shepherd with tall ears and a long tail.
“All right then,” he says, backing away from the house. “You have a pleasant night.”
In the car Charlotte is laughing.
“Not funny,” he says, getting in. “Not funny at all.”
She puts her hand behind his head, tickling him on the back of the neck, a gesture of affection that’s not been had in years. Blood changes direction in his body.
“You looked very good out there,” she says. “Strong and authoritative.”
When they get home, he impulsively wraps his arms around her and buries his nose in her neck. Orange blossoms. Hurriedly, he leads her down the hall to the guest room.
“The guest room?”
“Things have to change,” he says.
It is less an act of passion than urgency, the need to relieve a cacophony of chemical surges, from the sickness of the phone call and the adrenalized response to the dog, from his rage and all else that has been unsaid for so long. Bang, bang, bang, it’s like a mafia hit. Primal, hard, fast, like nothing that’s happened between them in years. They have at each other and then collapse deflated, drunk on the bed.
It happens as though it were independent of either of them, as though they were overcome.
And then they are apart—strangers, stupefied. They remain dazed for an hour or so, and then he helps her up to the bathroom and down the hall to their room.
“I feel like a used condom,” she says. “What did they used to call it—a johnny.”
When she is tucked into bed, she rolls toward him of her own accord and they go at it again, this time slower, filled with familiarity, one might even say contentment, but that would be an exaggeration. That would be like the middle-aged word for passion. They made love contentedly—how awful.
They make love slowly because that’s the best they can do. It’s the first time in forever that they’ve done it more than once in a go-round. That’s what they used to call it, a go-round. They make love slowly and whatever it was or isn’t, it makes clear that what happened before was not just a fluke or an oddity. There is something one might call tenderness or appreciation, mutuality, stopping short of desire or, god forbid, lust.
Then inevitably, awkwardness, retreat. Neither wants to ask what it means or what turn in the relationship it might present. But it’s a personal victory for each of them that neither wants to risk upsetting.
“I just want you to know I’m here,” he says, wrapping his arm around her.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Do you find it ironic that we were talking about things and then something happened?”
“Sex?” she asks.
“No. The phone call. I find it difficult. She’s changing.”
“She’s becoming a person in her own right. She won’t always be in love with you; she won’t always do what you want.”
