“I was doing Mars,” Heather began in a thin, superior tone.
“This is why she should be going to MIT, not Bennington,” interjected Audrey. Did this imply MIT students were like Martians? Best not to ask.
“It was an astronaut-training exercise,” Heather prattled on, “and I was working as an assistant to a programmer in the software department.”
“Isn’t this wonderful!” her mother exclaimed. “I told her to put this in the essay. They’ll have to take her. Second in her class. You know… now.” An awkward silence descended on us.
Heather said crisply, “Are you going to tell this story or am I, Mother? Because I wouldn’t want to interrupt you.”
“Go ahead, dear, I know Goldy really wants to hear it.”
Goldy really didn’t want to hear it, but never mind. There was a volcanic sigh from Heather. We were clearly testing her superior intelligence to the limit.
Heather rolled out the words quickly, as if she were a recording put on seventy-eight. “We used photographs taken by the Viking I and Viking II Mars Landers. We developed 800 gigabytes of video image data so that simulated real-time viewing of the Martian surface was possible when the virtual reality simulator display device was in place.”
“Simulator display device?” I ventured.
“We used a modified F-16 helmet,” she explained tartly. “Anyway, when you put on the helmet, you saw Mars. Look to the left, red rocks of the Martian landscape to the left. Look to the right, red rocks of the Martian landscape to the right.” She sighed again.
“Wow!” I said, impressed. “Then what?”
“The programmer was laid off while he was viewing the surface of Mars. The President postponed the project until 2022, when I’ll be forty-eight, the programmer will be sixty-eight, and the President will be dead.” Sigh. “I think I should go to Bennington.”
We all silently contemplated that brutal prospect. Then Audrey said miserably, “I can’t afford Bennington.”
Heather harrumphed. “You can’t afford MIT.” Audrey swung around and glared at her daughter. “Do you have to contradict everything? I think I should have a say in where my daughter goes to school. I’ve earned that, haven’t I?”
“Oh, Mother.”
16
When we arrived at the intersection of First Avenue and Milwaukee, I cast a fleeting glance across the street at Neiman-Marcus.
“Did you two know the bookstore building used to house a department store?” Audrey asked brightly as I. wound up the concrete ramp to the same entrance I’d used the night of the stir-fry.
Heather harrumphed. She hadn’t said a word since the flap over tuition money.
“Yes,” I mused, “I know about when this place was a store…” Did l ever. In fact, I’d often reflected that my acquaintance with different establishments of commerce depended on my financial status at any given stage of life. Neusteter’s had been an upscale department store during my tenure as a doctor’s wife. I had made frequent visits to the jewelry, cosmetics, shoe, dress, and suit departments. Not visits suffused with happiness, I might add, although, I used to think, for example, that getting my hair done for an astronomical sum in the top-floor salon would make me feel better. But it never did. On my last visit there, I winced whenever the hairdresser touched the back of my scalp, because that was where John Richard had slammed me into a wall the night before. Now I much preferred a blunt cut from Mark the Barber in Aspen Meadow. Freedom cost eight bucks.
I firmly put these memories out of my mind as we unloaded the first trays of concentrically arranged Chocolate-Dipped Biscotti and strawberries. Audrey said the doors were already unlocked, and led the way to the tiny kitchen. The whole area was no more than five feet by five feet, but it would do. In fact, it was so small, we could start the coffee brewing without extension cords. Thank God.
“What do I do if the lights go out?” I demanded of Audrey when I’d filled the large pot with water and fresh coffee.
“The lights?” Her look was puzzled.
“The last time you and I catered this group ? Just tell me if there’s an auxiliary lighting system.”
“Come with me.” Audrey spoke with the resigned tone people use to deal with needlessly worried bosses. She guided me through a maze of shelves to an empty clerk’s desk. The desktop was a jumble of books and papers. Set at an angle was one of those complicated phones with flashing buttons and finely printed instructions on paging and transferring calls. Audrey reached deftly under the desk, yanked, and brought out a flashlight. “There’s one under every employee’s desk in this entire store, in case a thunderstorm or power failure takes the lights out. Satisfied?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling dumb. “Thanks.” Before we could get back to the subject of food, the trade book buyer, a plump woman with papery white skin and curly black hair, came up and introduced herself; Miss Nell Kaplan. While Audrey replaced the flashlight, I invited Miss Kaplan into the kitchen to taste a biscotto. To be sociable, I had one too. Chocolate oozed around the crunch of almonds and cookie. Wonderful, Miss Kaplan and I both agreed.
“The chairs are all set up,” Miss Kaplan informed us. “Now all we have to do is find the books the author is going to autograph. You wouldn’t think this happens, but it does. Would you consider sharing that recipe for biscotti?”
“My pleasure.”
“You should write a cookbook.”
“One of these days.”
Miss Ferrell click-clacked into the tiny kitchen, wearing a black tent dress. A matching black scarf was wound around her bun of hair. I immediately worried how to keep her away from the wrath of Audrey, who was still Bennington-fixated, but was saved from that task by Miss Kaplan. They had found the books, she announced, and now she needed only a returning Audrey to help her open the chilled wine.
Her face bright with anticipation, Miss Ferrell said, “I’m so glad we’re finally getting back on track with our college advisory nights.” When I made a vague acknowledging gesture, she added in a lower tone, “Has Julian told you his news?”
“What news?”
She frowned and wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps Julian should be the one to tell you. We just found out this afternoon.” She giggled. “What a trick-or-treat!”
Worry nagged behind my eyes. I thought of Julian’s haggard face, the piles of review books. “You… wanted to meet with me tomorrow morning to talk about his college choices. If something has changed, I … think I’d like to hear about it now. If that’s okay.”
She put a finger mysteriously to her lips and guided me out to the open area where our meeting was to be held. Chairs were set in neat rows facing a table and podium. A bookstore employee was arranging bright, fragrant flowers at the table where the speaker, author of Climbing the Ivy League, was going to sign books. Apart from that we were alone.
Miss Ferrell leaned toward me. “He’s been given a full scholarship.”
I jerked back in astonishment. “Who? Julian? To what school?”
“Any school. He can go wherever he wants now. Wherever he gets in. Perkins just got the news this afternoon from the College Savings Bank in Princeton. Eighty thousand dollars wired to an account for Julian Teller.” She rolled her eyes. “From an anonymous donor.”
“Does Julian know who this donor is?” I said, confused. General Farquhar, who had given Julian the Range Rover, was in prison and unable to do anything with his money, which in any event had been largely spent on legal fees. I couldn’t think of any other potential benefactor, unless it was a wealthy person at the school. But why a scholarship for Julian? I was utterly baffled. Unless someone wanted something from him… My mind rocketed around wildly. Was Julian being bribed to do something? To keep something quiet? I closed my eyes to stop the chattering in my head. In the face of recent events at the school, paranoia loomed.
“Is Julian here?” I asked wishfully.
Miss Ferrell’s smile faded. Perhaps my response was not what she had anticipated. “I’m sure I don’t know.
