We were late, but it was only half past nine. We needed to be done setting up in two hours. The buffet lunch wasn’t due to start until noon, but hungry teenage athletes would be ready to eat at half past eleven, if not earlier.
Plus, I had to make sure I connected with Charlene Newgate at noon. I hoped I’d be able to find her in the gym.
Alas, the kitchen doors were locked. Yolanda guarded the van—in case someone came along and told us we had to move—while I went inside to hunt for the athletic director, Tony Ramos. Tony was supposed to have unlocked the kitchen doors, and I didn’t have his cell phone number.
A deafening amount of noise echoed off the tiled walls of the hallways. I checked Tony Ramos’s office: empty. I shot down the hallway and pushed my way into the gym, where the din was even louder than in the halls. Parents, students, doctors, nurses, and volunteers packed the space in a free-for-all atmosphere that was like a postgame celebration. The walls were hung with banners announcing championships the school had won in various sports. Someone with a bullhorn was trying unsuccessfully to impose order on the chaos. Parents called to one another in recognition, teachers made out name tags, and there was an excited buzz among the kids: Would the developing storm mean school might be canceled the next day?
While I was looking for Tony Ramos, I bumped into Sean Breckenridge. This was not a metaphorical bumping but a quite literal one, as my attention was focused on searching for Tony. Sean had been holding an oversize camera up to his eye, and neither of us saw the other until I’d whacked his lens and ended up on the gym floor. My elbow immediately screamed with pain, but I pressed my lips together.
“Oh, gosh,” he proclaimed. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s my fault,” I said after he’d helped me up. “Are you all right? Did I mess up your camera? I’m sorry.” As I said this, I pushed up my sleeve, which had torn. Blood spurted from my elbow.
Sean looked away quickly. “Did I, did I do that?”
“No, I did,” I said, pulling my sleeve down to my wrist. “Sean?”
He looked back at me cautiously. When he saw my sleeve was back in place, he used the long fingers of his free hand to brush his thinning dark hair over to one side. He glanced at his camera, which seemed to have weathered my impact. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
Embarrassment flooded Sean’s thin face. He cleared his throat. “Fine, thank you.”
He clearly wasn’t, but since the last time we’d talked he hung up on me, I said quickly, “Have you seen Tony Ramos? The athletic director?”
“Yes,” Sean said slowly “I just took a picture of him with the basketball team. I’ll show you where he was.”
I followed Sean’s tall, bowlegged body. The camera seemed to weigh him down, so that he listed like a leaking ship. At one point, he seemed to remember something and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a tissue and wiped his face.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, then hoisted his camera again and resumed his slow, tilted walk across the gym floor.
Wait a minute. Camera?
“Sean, what are you doing here?” I rushed up to his side. I mean, he was the senior warden of our Episcopal church in Aspen Meadow, and his only child was five. Marla had said the kid was precocious, but I doubted he was in high school already. “Are you the official school photographer?”
Sean shook his head as we threaded our way around clumps of students and parents. When we passed the entrance to the locker rooms, the odor of sweat almost knocked me flat. Sean said something unintelligible, and I hustled up to his side.
“I didn’t hear you,” I said.
“I’m the
He pointed at Tony Ramos, a short, muscular fellow with close-clipped gray hair straight as a bristle brush. Tony Ramos had been the subject of media coverage this summer, when a national sporting goods company had bought a contraption he’d invented for the CBHS girls’ fast-pitch softball team. Tony had christened it the Pitch Bitch, but when the sporting-goods company had bought the thing for an estimated eight figures, they’d vowed to change it to something more “acceptable to young women.” Tony, not the most garrulous of people in ordinary circumstances, had said, “No comment.” When asked if he would retire from CBHS, he said merely, “No.” Now he was listening to a very pretty woman whom I could see only in profile. She was making comments, bending in toward Tony, and then laughing flirtatiously. When she turned and put her hand on Tony’s arm, I cringed. I recognized her: Brie Quarles.
“Tony?” I said. Sean Breckenridge slithered away. “Sorry to bother you, but we need to—”
“The kitchen door!” he said, slapping his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Goldy. Brie,” he said, turning to her, “I’d love to hear more. Some other time, okay?”
“All righty!” said Brie as she caught sight of me in my workplace kitchen duds. Her smile faded and she turned away. Even though we were both parishioners at St. Luke’s, and we both ostensibly subscribed to the idea that being Christian meant, at the very least, being
“Hello, Brie,” I called after her. She stopped and turned around, giving me as blase a look as possible. Despite the weather, she wore a pink polo shirt, khaki shorts, and flashy metallic flats. I certainly hoped she had a good winter coat somewhere in the gym. I said merrily, “I’m catering the church fund-raising dinner at the Breckenridges’ place tomorrow night. You’re going to be a guest?”
“What is this,” she asked, “twenty questions?” And with that, she whirled on one of her flats and flounced away to talk to someone more important.
Tony, feeling remorseful about not being where he was supposed to be when we arrived, helped us schlep in all the boxes. The man was strong, I’d give him that. He then commandeered four athletes to move the two long tables we’d be using to serve food in the gym. In fact, Tony and his soldiers helped so much, our work took half the time I’d allotted.
And lo and behold, who should walk into the kitchen but Arch! I hadn’t seen my own sixteen-year-old son for two days. As usual, I noticed how he was becoming tall and gangly. Also as usual, his disheveled, toast-colored hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb lately. The gray circles under his brown eyes indicated he’d stayed up too late with his pals. But he looked happy.
“Hey, Mom.” A shy smile flickered across his face. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine, thanks.” I tilted my head at Yolanda, who was arranging the pork on large platters. “Yolanda and her great-aunt, Ferdinanda, are staying with us for a few days. They’re on cots in the dining room.”
Arch lit up as Yolanda walked over. “Cool! Is this the aunt who smokes cigars?”
Yolanda grinned at him. “Yup. But you’re not allowed to have any.”
“I’m in training,” Arch joked. “No smoking, no booze.”
“Arch!” I cried.
“Gotcha, Mom.” He surveyed the food. “Looks great. I need to ask you for something. One of the kids on our team? He’s been diagnosed with leukemia and started his treatment. Could I bring him some lunch?”
“I’ll do it,” I said, and swiftly put together cutlery and a dish full of food.
“He’ll never eat that much,” Arch warned as he blinked at the loaded plate. “He’s here because he missed being with the team. But he doesn’t want the other kids to stare at him in the gym, so the team is gathered in one of the halls with him, and his mom’s going to pick him up by a side door.”
“Just lead the way.”
