Brunch at rubys, p.26
Brunch at Ruby's, page 26
“I appreciate the notice," I tell her. "It'll take a lot to replace you. Daddy really loves you. I know it doesn't seem like it, but he does.”
She chuckles, heaving the bag over her shoulder. “I love that old man, too.” She leaves through the front door. I'm alone with a demented man and a box of photos.
I love him, too.
Chapter Thirty-One
Debra
* * *
I awakened this morning, hoping for a calming feeling in my chest, some clarity to my thoughts, a directed path that my feet should take. Some words in my mind that might save me would be great.
So far, nothing I've hoped for has materialized. My heart feels like it's about to beat out of my chest, my thoughts are a tornado and I am direction-less. I meet with the Board of Education in a couple of hours and I'm sick about it.
I got through as much of my day as I could stand before I escaped to my office, shut and locked the door. I've no plans to open it until it's time to head to downtown Atlanta and the Services Center, where the School board meetings are held.
The letter I received said to arrive promptly at 7:30pm. I glance at the digital display on my desk phone. It's 2:45. I want to pass out when I think about time dragging on for five more hours.
My stomach rolls and I feel intense pressure in my chest. To my right sits a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, taken from the school nurse this morning. “Just a little sour stomach,” I told her. I uncap the pink peppermint elixir and down another mouthful.
I haven't eaten since last night. Roberta has mentioned more than once that I rarely eat and I can't seem to kindly brush off her observations. At first I really liked my smaller shape, but now my clothes are baggy, my pants sag in the seat, the backs of my shoes flop off of my feet. I look a mess, gaunt and pale. I don't really care.
Last night, Roberta made dinner–Meatball Parmigiana, and it smelled sinful. She cooked a pot of pasta, tossed a salad and baked a loaf of garlic bread in her bread machine. I detected the scent of garlic in the air from the driveway as parked next to her sporty Miata.
“Debra,” she called out, closing the oven door as I walked into the kitchen. She smiled that lovely grin at me, the chandelier glinting off her silver hair. “I cooked this evening. I hope you'll join me. There's so much food.”
I clutch my stomach and screw up my face. “It sounds delicious, Roberta. But I'm not feeling well. I have an important meeting tomorrow evening and I really need to prepare for it.”
“Is it that you're not hungry, or is your stomach upset from the alcohol?” The way she asks is so gentle and motherly, I almost don't notice how passive aggressive she is. “Come." She commandeers my arm and leads me to the eat-in kitchen table. “Set down your bags. There's no use hiding the bottles. I see them, you know.”
I'm forced to sit at the table, at a spot set especially for me. I tuck my bags just under the table, reach for the water and take a few gulps.
“That's a good girl. Drink up. Lots of water will be good to flush your system.”
She retreats to the stove and starts bringing dishes to the table. Decadent elements are arranged attractively in what must be antique china. Roberta must have noticed my admiration of them.
“I brought these over from Italy in seventy-four when I visited my Nonna. That's Italian for grandmother. It cost me so much to send them home that Ludo, my husband, said we may as well have bought a brand new set.”
I chuckled. “And what did you tell him?’
“He already knew he'd lost that argument I told him we could never buy a set with these memories. These dishes have been in our family for nearly a century.”
“And who will you pass them on to?”
She took a seat across from me and held out her hand. When I didn't understand what she meant, she pointed to my plate. “Your plate, honey.”
“Oh, I really—”
“Hand me your plate, Debra.” I don't know why, but I obeyed, passing it over to her. She was nice enough not to give me a portion that would feed an army; a spoonful of everything and a small slice of bread. She handed the plate back to me and I set it back in its spot on the mat. “Try that much. And if you want more, there's plenty.”
Roberta served herself, spooning up a generous portion of meatballs, pasta, bread and salad, then drizzled a generous serving of olive oil vinaigrette over the greens. I remember being able to eat like that. A home cooked meal, my family around a table, sharing the happenings in their day. The corners of my mouth pulled downward.
Not yet! I told myself. Do your crying when you're alone.
“That's an excellent question, about my dishes. One for which I have been trying to find an answer for some time.” She took in a bite of meatball, a pinch of bread and chewed, gazing at some spot above my head while doing so. “I have four daughters. The oldest should get the dishes. But she's already purchased a new set. She doesn't need two full sets of China. The next two in line are the most ungrateful children I've ever had the displeasure of bearing. And my youngest…”
She let out a brief huff of laughter as she reached for a glass of wine. “She's off backpacking through Europe or volunteering at a refugee camp in the Andes Mountains… or is she mining for gold in Rio? I never know. I can't keep up with that one. She owns nothing that doesn't fit in her backpack, so…” She sighed, shrugged her slight shoulders and sipped a little more. “Dishes probably won't be her thing. Maybe I'll give them to my nephew.”
“You think your nephew would want them?”
“Well, he's gay as broad daylight. He might.”
I'd been slowly chewing a piece of the meatball which was delicious. Tender and flavorful, it paired well with the light salted pasta and the crisp salad. I laughed at her comment about her nephew and took another bite. Eating is not so bad. It just has to be homemade, I guess.
“Your important meeting tomorrow?” I knew what she was asking and confirmed with a nod.
“I'm nervous. I don't know what they're going to say. I don't know what I'm going to say. I should have called an attorney.” I dropped my fork on my plate and anchored both elbows on the table. My face fell into my open hands and I sighed the longest, loudest sigh. I was hoping it would make me feel better, but it didn't.
“No matter what happens, honey, you gave Morningside your best.”
“The PTA doesn't think so.”
“Well,” said Roberta, picking up her wineglass again. “Fuck the PTA.”
Indeed, I think as I lean back in my office chair, close my eyes and wait for the Pepto to work.
At 7:20 pm, I pace the tile floors outside of the boardroom, not paying much attention to the strains of the Business Meeting on the other side of the door. Staff members are welcome but not required to attend the monthly meetings. Early in my career, I attended meetings like clockwork. Always present, taking notes, soaking in the atmosphere. After I got the job at Morningside, other things in my life took priority. I haven't missed it. It's as boring as it sounds.
The elevator down the hall chimes and David steps out of the box in a pair of black slacks and a long-sleeved, collared shirt. My eyes are drawn to the broad width of his shoulders, the bulges where his biceps fill out the sleeves, the way his shirt tapers at the waist where it's tucked into belted slacks. His shoes are shiny and black and click against the tile floors as he approaches.
“Mrs. Macklin,” he says, stopping in front of me. He's been growing a goatee since before the winter break.
“Mr. Loren.” I respond, tearing my eyes from him and issuing a brief nod before I step away from the door.
“Didn't see you around today. I wasn't sure if you'd make it tonight.”
“I didn't have a choice. I'd be here if I was on my deathbed.”
He snickers and leans against the wall. “I wouldn't.”
“Really? What would you do? Let them fire you? Let them take away everything you've worked for? Tell me, David Loren, Athletics Director for all of two years, what would you do?”
“I wouldn't let them make me beg for my job. You already said you know what's going to happen. I don't know why you're even here, trying to pretend like whatever you say in there will make a difference. What I would do is take my dignity and go to another school.”
“You don't care if they fire you too? You're the other half of this equation.”
He seems bored as he answers. “If they fire me, they fire me. I'll look for another job. I'll work at Home Depot. I'll do construction. I'll answer phones if I have to. But you want to keep this job. You need this job and that school needs you. So I'm here.”
“Yeah, well, don't do me any favors.” I draw my cardigan in and close it around my body. It's so big that I can practically wrap it around myself twice. “Just tell the truth, like I told you. And remember that someone saw us together, so don't go making things up.”
“I wouldn't dream of it,” he says, just as the double doors to the Board room open and people file out. When the pathway clears, I step in through the doors and approach the front of the room where two long tables are set with six spaces. Bernice is one of them. She smiles in my direction. I try to smile back.
I take a seat in the third row of chairs and look around. The room is dotted with people, most of them I don't know. David sits in a seat on the other side of the aisle.
Front and center, in the first chair in the first row on my side, is Charlotte Rogers, current PTA President. She's a shrew of a woman, with a dainty waist, platinum blond spiky hairdo and a ton of jewelry. Her wrists and fingers sparkle as she makes conversation with a few people. She seems, to me, to be one of those perfect moms. Time for the PTA and the kids' soccer practices and in-between makes her own baby food and fosters Corgi Puppies and volunteers at the hospital. All the while being evil and catty, deep down inside.
She stops talking when she turns far enough to see that I've arrived. Her face goes stone cold, and she whips around quickly to wait for the meeting to begin.
They call David to the front of the room. He is seated at a table and chairs directly in front of the six-member board. They pepper him with light questions before they get too deep: where did he go to school? What was his major? How did he end up at Morningside? Had he enjoyed his experience so far?
Charlotte had to muffle a smug chuckle with a cough at that question. To be honest, I mentally answered it for him. Yes. He enjoyed his experience quite a lot, thank you very much.
“How long did you and Mrs. Macklin have a relationship?” Bernice asks this question, as gently as she can.
“From start to finish, it was approximately one year.”
“One continuous year?”
“No, ma'am. Over one school year. Mrs. Macklin ended the relationship when the school year ended and did not plan to rekindle—”
“We're not asking you about what Mrs. Macklin intended,” interrupts an older man, balding, salt and pepper coloring the hair he had left. “Please answer from your point of view.”
I detect David taking a long, deep breath. “We broke up at the end of that school year. I restarted the relationship shortly after the new school year began.”
“Why?”
“It upset me that she broke it off. She was acting like we'd never been together. Extra professional, calling me Mr. Loren. I went to her office and restarted the relationship. I knew what I had to say and do and it worked.”
“And you kept this relationship going… again, for how long?”
“A week or two. Until we got caught. Then we were completely done.” Except for that time I went to his apartment, and we had sex.
“So the relationship ended when−and because someone saw you?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Loren,” says another board member, after a few more questions. “You're excused. You're welcome to stay if you like, but you won't be called back. Please take a seat or exit quietly.”
David stands, and without looking right or left, heads straight out of the room. The door closes softly behind him.
I pass Charlotte on my way to the front of the room. I'd been hoping she'd get bored and leave, but she'd never give me that satisfaction. She wouldn't miss a front-row seat to my execution.
I hope my legs don't give out on me as I make my way to the seat up front, settle in and try not to look at Bernice. The board member in the middle begins with the straightforward questions.
“Mrs. Macklin, where did you begin your teaching career?”
“Tucker Elementary, fifteen years ago. I taught Language Arts and Social Studies.”
“And when did you move into Administration?”
“Five years ago. I was an Assistant Principal at Tucker. When Morningside was built, I started working part time as an Assistant Principal and I was a substitute teacher.”
“When did you work full time, administratively, at Morningside?”
“I was formally promoted two years ago.”
“How was your first year as a full time Principal?”
I smile, remembering the rush of excitement. “Exhilarating. Stressful. Lots of work. Never ending work, but I'm happy to be at Morningside.”
“Last year, you began a… shall we say, non-sanctioned relationship with a teacher. We've already heard from him — Mr. Loren.”
“Yes, I did.”
She holds up a bound book that I know well, forward and backward. The Rule Book. “Does this manual look familiar, Mrs. Macklin?”
“It's the Rules and Regulations Guide for the staff at Gwinnett County Public Schools.”
“Would it be safe to say that you've read this manual and know it well?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Then you should recognize this passage I've bookmarked.” She opens the book to a previously marked page and holds it up to show me the highlighted section. “Regulation 14, Part 12, Section A, under Conduct, it reads that no senior member of staff shall fraternize or otherwise become romantically involved with a junior member of staff. Should this occur, one member of the staff must transfer to another school so as not to be under direct command or undue influence.”
She looks up from the passage, her eyes full of questions. “Mr. Loren stated that the relationship between you and he went on for one school year. Then ceased and began again. Is this your statement as well?”
“Yes ma'am,” I answer with a nod.
“Knowing the regulations, as you say you do, why was this relationship allowed to continue? Why was Mr. Loren not transferred to a different school in the county?”
“I didn't really think about it. I knew that we shouldn't be together. But it took us a while to hire David. I wasn't willing to lose him. The school year was ending before things got to any degree of… inappropriate. As Mr. Loren submitted, I'd ended the relationship after that year.”
“But then allowed it to rekindle the following school year.”
I sigh. “Yes, ma'am.”
Bernice takes over, flipping through her notes again. “Tell us what happened the afternoon of August ninth.”
I fidget in my chair, pulling my cardigan around me again. I don't like telling this story anymore. “Mr. Loren and I were in my office. He'd stopped in to drop off a form that I require before school begins. We had restarted our relationship the week before, so the rekindle was very, very new−”
“And still very against regulations,” interrupts the older man again. I nod in agreement. I won't get anywhere fighting what's true.
“Mr. Loren and I were talking. I asked if he needed anything else, since I was heading home. He… he leaned in to kiss me. The kiss was… long—”
“You were in your office? On school grounds? Kissing a teacher, who isn't your husband, Mrs. Macklin?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Did you make a habit of kissing Mr. Loren in your office? On school grounds?”
“No sir, I did not.”
“And what happened?” Bernice picks up the questioning again, eyeing her colleague.
“I heard something at the door. I saw the shadow of a person run past the window. It was late in the day, so no one would have been at the school. Mr. Loren ran to catch them, but couldn't find the person.”
“So, someone at the school saw you together, and that's what started this whole thing.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I concede with a nod.
“And when did you know that this relationship seemed to be common, public knowledge?”
“When you — Superintendent Johnson called me to tell me that someone had lodged a complaint and she was looking into it.”
“What would be your best-case scenario for an outcome of these proceedings?”
I shrug, nearly speechless. “I… expect that all sides will be taken into consideration and dealt with fairly. I expect to be disciplined. I hope I can expect to still have a job.”
I catch myself before I tear up, before my voice quivers and I break down in front of six people who hold my fate in their hands. Maybe crying wouldn't be such a bad idea.
“Thank you, Mrs. Macklin. The board will discuss these proceedings and make our determination as to disciplinary action. Until such time, I hereby place you on Administrative Leave. I advise you to be present at Morningside tomorrow to pass along any duties or responsibilities to your most qualified Assistant Principal. After that, please refrain from visiting school grounds—”
“Byron, she's got a daughter at that school,” says Bernice. “I don't think that's workable. You want her daughter to meet her around the corner?”
He sighs, irritated with the subject and objection to his ruling. “Fine. Except for morning drop off and afternoon pickup, you will not enter the grounds at Morningside for any purpose that does not involve your child. Understood?”
I'm numb, so I hope I'm nodding as they continue to ramble. I'm handed a sheet of paper and asked to sign to acknowledge my Administrative Leave. I scribble my name on the line indicated and am told I'm free to go. On wobbly legs, I make my way to the door.
