Turn of Mind

But this one was different, more extreme. It concerned an eighth-grade history teacher. A plausible rogue. Stocky and shorter even than some of the students, he nevertheless charmed. A thick mop of ragged black hair and dark eyes to match. Refined features and a low, thrilling voice with which he told delightful stories about authority subverted, injustices corrected, wrongs revenged. Even Fiona, as world-weary as she was at thirteen, had been enthralled when she was in his class.

Parents watched him carefully, especially around girls, but there was never a hint of impropriety. He always left his door open when with a student, never contacted one outside of school by phone or by e-mail. Never touched a student, not even a casual hand on the arm.

Why had Amanda disliked him so much? Perhaps only because he took the easy way out as a teacher, choosing popularity over her more rigorous and less appreciated pedagogical methods. And then, acting on an anonymous tip, the police raided his classroom, found pornography on the computer. A terrific scandal ensued, but the fact that it was a school computer, left mostly unattended in an unlocked room, made the police hesitate to prosecute. He still quit. My guess was that he couldn’t bear his students looking at him as anything but a hero. But soon after he left, the rumors began. That he had been set up, that it had all been engineered. That someone powerful wanted him out. No one actually said Amanda’s name.

I asked her about it. I remember that day, the day of the photograph. She’d stopped by to say hello, was waiting in my vestibule to be asked in. I kept her waiting.

Did you have anything to do with Mr. Steven’s ouster? I asked.

To my surprise, she looked uncomfortable. Extraordinary, really. There was a pause before she answered.

Do you believe I would do such a thing? she asked, finally.

That’s not an answer.

There was another pause.

I don’t think I’ll give you one, she said. After all, whoever actually put the pornography on that computer would face federal charges. I think I’ll take the fifth.

She started to smile, but then stopped. What are you doing? she asked.

Getting the camera.

Why?

To capture the expression on your face.

Again, why?

It’s an unusual one. One I’ve never seen before. There. Done.

I’m not sure I’m pleased about this.

I’m not sure I care, I said. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some paperwork to do.

And I closed the door on her face—not something I had ever dared to do before. As I recall, we left it at that. We never referred to it again, as was our way. But I thought the interchange significant enough to print the photo and put it in my album. Amanda, accused. I might have added, Jennifer, marginally victorious. For once.

Dubuffet. Gorky. Rauschenberg. Our eclectic tastes in art amused the people around us. But James and I were always in absolute agreement. We’d see a print or lithograph and would know without even looking at each other that it must be ours.

It was an obsession that grew with our means, became an addiction. And sometimes there was the pain of withdrawal. There was that Chagall we saw in a Paris gallery: L’evenement. Love and death, love and religion. Our favorite themes. We talked about it for years, I even dreamed about it, became the bride in the chicken’s belly, was seduced by the tunes played by the levitating fiddler, drifted in a glorious world of deep blues and warm reds. So far above us, yet like spoiled children, we longed for it.

They tried, of course, to conceive, Peter and Amanda. My guess is that no egg was tough enough to implant itself into her impenetrable womb. For she was hard through and through. A tough old bird, I overheard a neighbor say at a party. A prize bitch, was the response. But not always. No. There was how she treated Fiona. She took her role as Fiona’s godmother seriously. Even though it started as a joke.

Fiona was never baptized, we had no intention of ever doing such a thing, heathens that we were. Yet the day after I brought Fiona home, and Amanda and Peter came over with a bottle of champagne, I announced that I wanted Amanda to be Fiona’s godmother.

A fairy godmother? Peter had teased.

I dipped my fingers into my champagne glass and sprinkled some of the bubbles onto Fiona’s tiny wrinkled red forehead. She awoke and let out a piteous wail.

Amanda was taken aback by these developments.

And what if my christening gift turns out to be a curse? She did an imitation. On your sixteenth birthday, you will prick your finger . . .

We all laughed. No, give her a real blessing, James urged.

Well then, Amanda said, and cleared her throat. Became solemn, to all of our surprise. Serious she was frequently; solemn, never.

Fiona Sarah White McLennan. You will inherit the many strengths of both your mothers, she said. Both your birth mother—she raised her glass to me— and your godmother. Here she toasted herself, took a sip. And you will have the love and support of both of us no matter what happens. Nothing except death can or will separate us from you. Never forget that.