True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA

I waver on this one and turn my back to her as I weigh the pros and cons of letting her stay home. But she must mistake my silence for an answer.

“God, Mom, why not? You’re so mean.”

Her words bore under my skin and threaten to push me into anger. But I won’t go there. The old me would have. She would have turned around and put that little girl in her place—let her know in no uncertain terms that her attitude is not acceptable, but I can’t do that now. I’m not going to start the first day in our new house with a fight. I can, however, insist it’s better to get into a new routine.

“Well, if you believe I’m so mean, I suppose you’ll have much more fun making new friends at your new school, than staying home with me.”

She rolls her eyes and shoves the cereal bowl away. It spins in the middle of the table as she scoots back her chair with an abrupt motion.

“Aren’t you going to eat? You’re going to get hungry before lunchtime.”

“I have no appetite.” She slams her bedroom door. “And I have nothing to wear,” she yells so I can hear it through the closed door.

I stand in the small kitchen straddling indecision. Am I doing the right thing? The movers won’t be here until tomorrow. Maybe I should give her a day to get acclimated. But somehow I know that if I do, it won’t make her any happier. Yes, better we both have some space today.

Twenty minutes later, we pile into Barbara’s Volvo station wagon.

She looks better this morning, rested and refreshed. Her thick silver hair freshly washed and framing her fleshy face. Her pretty blue eyes, rimmed in liner and mascara, sparkle as she bids us a good morning and tells everyone to buckle up.

Back in North Carolina I used to love to watch cooking shows. I thought she looked like that Food Network host Paula Deen. The resemblance really was uncanny.

The school is farther away than what I expected. Barbara says the county built it to accommodate the influx of nouveaux riches moving into this area that used to be exclusively old money. As we drive along, things look strange. Underneath, it’s the same place I grew up, but on the surface it’s different. As if a brand-new generation of inhabitants have invaded the place.

“They tore down the old Stratford Junior High where you went to school.” Barbara points at a vacant lot with a Conrad Contractors sign sticking out of the ground. “The city sold the property to a developer.” Barbara shakes her head. “That’s prime real estate. I heard he’s gonna cram a bunch of huge houses on that lot and sell them for millions. And people are buying them as fast as he can build them.”

I nod and gaze at the empty lot. If I squint my eyes, I can see ghosts of the past milling about the phantom buildings—the lockers, the old concrete basketball court. All gone now. Not that I’m nostalgic over it. In fact, it makes it a little easier to take Sarah to a different school. It just makes me realize how much Stratford has changed in my absence.

Barbara merges into traffic on Jewell Avenue. “It’s a long haul out to the new school, but Sarah can ride the bus with Mary Grace. They pick them up right outside the house.”

I glance back at Sarah, who is staring out the window as Mary Grace hums a little tune.

“The kids at school are mean,” says Mary Grace.

Barbara adjusts the rearview mirror toward the back seat. “What kind of thing is that to say on Sarah’s first day, missy?”

“It’s the truth, Mama.”

The school sits behind a tall brick wall with a wrought-iron gate. The two-story, early American architecture is unlike any public school I’ve ever seen; certainly a far cry from the concrete block, one-story institutions with open-to-the-element corridors that the county constructed when I went to junior high.

“We have arrived,” says Barbara.

And how.

She pulls into a parking space, then leads the way to the reception desk, just inside the front door like a sentry guarding the main hall. Anyone who wishes access to Stratford Middle School must first gain entrance.

The gatekeeper, a fine-boned woman with short dark hair, regards me suspiciously until Barbara introduces me.

Her name is Judy. She’s the school office manager. I have a feeling nothing gets by Judy.

Mary Grace hugs her mother and Sarah goodbye and kind of half waves at me, then heads to class.

“Have a good day, M.G. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Barbara laughs. “M.G.?”

“Yeah,” says Sarah. “She likes me to call her that.”

“Well, I think that’s just great.”

Sarah wanders over to look at some teacher photos hanging on the wall across from the desk.

The place still smells new—that freshly built smell of construction, paint and floor wax co-mingling with simmering school lunch. There’s a trophy case to the right down the hall a bit; on the left is a set of double doors with a brass plaque that says Library. At the end of the long main hall is an elaborate staircase with swarms of teenagers traveling up and down.

The place buzzes with snatches of conversation and laughter, movement and the sound of the glass front doors opening and shutting, letting in intermittent clips of car engines and the occasional honk of a horn. People are everywhere—kids hanging out and talking; adults who I assume are teachers rush about with purpose; a group of four blond women each wearing large diamond rings and expensive-looking tennis outfits.

My God, they all look alike. How do they do that?

Barbara follows my gaze to the women. “Oh, I see you’ve located the Stratford Wives.”

I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. “The Stratford Wives? Oh my God, that’s perfect. Who are they?”

“They think they’re the queens of the universe, if that tells you anything. In reality, they’re just a clique of spoiled rich men’s wives who don’t realize high school ended more years ago than they can probably count.”

“Barbara!” I am completely taken aback by this side of her. “I had no idea you could be so catty.”

Stratford Park was full of old money when I was growing up here, but we never had Stratford Wives. My, my, how things have changed.

“Oh, honey, stick with me. You ain’t seen nothing yet. Oh! Oh, that one over there.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially and nods to a heavyset mousy woman with brown hair and glasses who is logging something into a notebook on a table under a Volunteer banner. “That’s Connie Claxton, archenemy of the Stratford Wives and anybody else who dares look crosswise at her precious little brat.”

“Claxton? Any relation to the Claxton fruitcake empire?”

“No, I believe the Claxton company is actually named after the city in Georgia. But Connie Claxton is a fruitcake all right. Oh, and Chloe’s a seventh grader, you’d best warn Sarah to steer clear. She’ll probably try to glom onto her. She doesn’t have any friends.”

I raise my eyebrows at her and try to keep my voice light. “Isn’t that a little harsh?”

Barbara raises her eyebrows back at me. “Chloe and Connie are like pit bulls, they seem nice and maybe even playful at first, but they turn on you in a heartbeat. Believe you me, I am the first one to stand up for a child, but Connie and Chloe are a piece of work. The rules apply to everyone but them, but she’s the first to scream if she thinks she’s been wronged. I’ve had my share of Connie encounters and she got Anastasia Deveraux, the little neighbor girl who lives across the street, called down to the principal’s office claiming the girl was a threat to her daughter’s safety. You know once anyone raises the safety flag the principal has a duty to act on it. Ana may be a little full of herself because she’s a popular girl, but she’s no more a threat to anyone’s safety than you are. Her mother, Elizabeth, was mad as a wet cat. It turns out it was all over Anastasia not wanting to sit with Chloe in study hall. Anastasia simply doesn’t like that child because she’s a mean, spoiled little brat who always has to have her way. From what I understand, very few of the kids like her because of how she treats them. Her mother doesn’t help matters. Connie thinks she can bully her way to making people like Chloe. It’s really sad. Oh, God, here she comes.”

Barbara turns and busies herself, but Connie marches right up to her.

“Barbara, I need a word with you.”

I actually see Barbara bristle.

“Connie Claxton. What can I do for you?”

Connie pushes her glasses up on her nose. “You can get your daughter under control.”

Barbara cuts her gaze to me for an I-told-you-so moment then looks back at Connie. “What, pray tell, is Mary Grace doing that needs to be controlled?”

Barbara’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and I don’t know whether to laugh or turn and walk away, the scene is that unbelievable.

“She was laughing at Chloe in the library. If I didn’t know better, I might think this was harassment. But considering the source, I suppose that would be silly.”

My jaw drops at this dig at Mary Grace’s disability. I’m sure Barbara is seething.

“She’s a child, Connie. Children laugh. Laughter does not hurt anyone.”

“I know that. She’s a special child, she’s not capable of physically hurting anyone. What I’m saying, Barbara, is there’s no reason you can’t teach her some manners.”

For a second I fear Barbara is going to slug her. I want to slug her. I can’t believe someone could be so low.

“Why don’t you set the example and teach your little Chloe some manners? Maybe it will help her get along better, bless her little heart.”

Connie huffs off.

“So there you go,” says Barbara. “That’s Connie Claxton.”

I start the paperwork to enroll Sarah. But there’s a slight snag when Judy asks for an official document to prove that I reside in the school zone.

“Don’t you have a lease agreement or an electricity bill?” Judy says. “Something that shows you’re official?”

“Certainly not,” Barbara snaps. “I will not charge my niece rent to live with me. You’re just going to have to take my word for it.”

Judy smiles apologetically, clearly at a loss for what to do, clearly wanting to accommodate Barbara.

“I’ll have to make some calls. But let me see what I can do. Why don’t you and umm…” she glances at the paperwork “…Sarah. Why don’t you and Sarah have a seat over there? This may take a few minutes, Mrs. Woodall.”

Mrs. Woodall.

The words knock the breath out of me. Since Tim’s death, it feels as if Mrs. Woodall is someone else. I have no idea who I am. But I nod anyway.

Sarah sits on a sofa across from the desk.

Barbara touches my arm. “I have to go make some copies in the PTA office. Do you want to come with me?”

I glance at Sarah ensconced on the couch with her arms crossed defensively, her backpack at her feet.

“Thanks, but I’d better wait here in case they need some more information—”

“Good morning, Barbara.” The only blonde in the building who is not wearing a tennis outfit walks up and touches Barbara on the arm. She’s dressed in a smart black pantsuit and carries a slim briefcase, which is not big enough to hold a racket. She’s almost pretty—if not for the pallor of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes that she’s trying to cover up with thick concealer.

“Oh, Elizabeth, you’re here. Good. I want you to meet my niece, Margaret Woodall. She and her daughter just moved here yesterday from Asheville and will be living in the carriage house.” Barbara turns to me. “Elizabeth Deveraux and her husband Andrew live across the street. They have a seventh-grader named Anastasia. I’m sure she and Sarah will just love each other. We’ll have to get them together once you’re settled in.”

Elizabeth smiles. “We’ll have you all over for dinner next week.”

“Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

“Barbara, do you have a minute for me to go over something before tonight’s meeting? The music department changed their request for funds and I want to make sure you agree with my counterproposal before we put it to a vote tonight.”

“Sure, I do. Margaret, honey, I’m going to talk to Elizabeth and then go make my copies. Hopefully, by then they’ll have everything in order. She’s enrolling Sarah in school. You know how those things go nowadays.”

The two women disappear behind a door that’s next to the front desk. I sit down next to Sarah, who is busy watching Stratford’s middle schoolers stream down the main hall. My daughter looks so fragile sitting there in her pink blouse and slim denim capris; her fine-boned features devoid of makeup and enhanced by the way she’s swept her blond hair off her face into a ponytail.

I have a sudden flashback of what it’s like to be thirteen years old, on the outside looking in. It wasn’t until Tim and I moved to Asheville that I began to feel part of something—part of a community. I want to hug her and tell her it won’t always be this painful.

But I don’t dare.

Soon enough she’ll be in the flow, right there in the thick of things.

The kids at school are mean.

I blink away Mary Grace’s words, but find myself scrutinizing the children as they walk by: a group of five girls dressed cute—one in a Hollister T-shirt, another in a Roxy—walking shoulder to shoulder, sporting pastel messenger bags slung across their chests, rather than backpacks.

They whisper and giggle.

One squeals, “No way!”

Then they whisper and giggle some more.

Mean or nice?

They’re just girls. Girls being teenage girls.

Two boys stop five feet in front of us. I look to see if they notice Sarah— Hey, she’s cute and she’s the new girl. There’s value in being the new girl whether she realizes it or not—but they’re too busy play-punching each other to look in our direction.

A man dressed in a white polo and khaki pants—probably a teacher—breaks up their roughhousing.

“Don’t you boys have somewhere to be?” he says. “First bell rings in seven minutes. If you’re not in your seats, you’re tardy.”

Strict. Not necessarily a bad thing.

The boys move on.

As the throng of children starts to thin, I can see out the glass doors to the car line where parents are dropping off the last-minute arrivals.

Mercedes.

BMW.

Jaguar.

Lexus.

This is public school? A different breed than I’ve ever known.

“Mom, if they don’t hurry and figure this out I’m going to be tardy.”

I touch Sarah’s arm—that soft, smooth skin. “It’ll be okay. The teacher will understand since it’s your first day and all.”

She yanks her arm away. “How would you like it if you had to walk in in the middle of class?”

She’s so angry and I don’t know how to help her. It breaks my heart a little more because I know that feeling of just wanting to disappear. I wish there was something I could do to comfort her.

“I’ll check on things.”

By the time the administrators figure out what to do with us, school’s been in session for more than an hour.

“You’ll go right to second period since first hour is already over.” Judy glances at Sarah’s list of classes, then hands her the schedule. “Geography is your second class. It’s in room 234. Just go upstairs and turn left, you’ll see the room on the right. Your mom can walk you to class if you want.”

Sarah flashes me a don’t even think about it look. My heart sinks, but I bolster myself with the thought that at least she has enough confidence to navigate these strange halls alone.

“See ya.” She turns to go without a hug. I reach out for her, but she’s already gone.

“I’ll pick you up right here after school, okay?”

She doesn’t look back. Just walks straight ahead down that long, empty hallway.

CHAPTER 5

Elizabeth

I hadn’t planned on telling Andrew about the baby today. But I awoke this morning knowing I couldn’t put it off. Just as this child is growing in my belly, the need to tell him has gotten so huge, I feel as if I’m about to burst.

Before he left for work I told him I was going in late because I had some PTA business to take care of at school and asked him to meet me for lunch.

“What, like a date in the middle of the day?” he says, kissing me on the neck.

“Yeah, like a…date.”

He slips his hands inside my robe. “Or maybe I could come home for lunch.” Kisses me full on the mouth. Queasiness crests and rocks me like a little boat on the ocean. I pull away, weighing whether I’ll need to make a run for the bathroom. But the rebuffed look on Andrew’s face jolts me back to level ground.

Why wait until lunch to tell him? Just do it now.

But he’s already walking out the door, murmuring, “See you at eleven-thirty.”

I arrive at Dexter’s a little early, feeling a little better until I get a whiff of the catch of the day. The lunchtime din is at an all-time high and I wonder if I’ll be able to last. The server brings a basket of bread and water with the menus. I nibble on the bread and try to tell myself that it’s mind over matter. I didn’t have a lick of morning sickness with Anastasia. She’s been a model child. I wonder if the way I feel is any indication of this child’s personality—

The thought floors me and I realize that this is the first time I’ve actually thought of this little interloper as a…human being.

Oh, God, what are we going to do? I don’t want another child.

I sip my water and watch Andrew materialize through the crowd.

Okay, here we go. This is it.

Two women at a nearby table turn their heads to watch him as he passes. They have good taste.

With his thick, dark, curly hair and lithe runner’s build, he just seems to get better looking with age. People have said he looks like a mature Orlando Bloom. I can see the resemblance in his handsome face.

“Sorry I’m late.” He kisses my cheek and pulls out the chair across from me, glancing around the crowded restaurant as he sits down. “I was tied up on the phone. Clients in Paris.”

He waves at a man across the room.

“Jerry Singer with Nicholas and Anders,” he says looking at Jerry not me.

For a moment, I’m afraid Jerry Singer is going to come over to our table, but the woman he’s sitting with says something and draws him into the conversation.

“This was a good idea.” Andrew smiles, finally focusing his attention on me for the first time since he arrived. “I’m glad you suggested it.”

All traces of this morning’s misunderstanding have vanished and that puts me at ease. Well, until his brows knit and he touches my hand. “Are you okay?”

I smooth my hair with my free hand. “I’m fine. Why?”

He picks up a menu and opens it, glancing up at me. “I don’t know. You just look a little pale, I guess. A little tired.” He pulls his hand away and picks up the menu. “What are you going to have?”

“Your baby. I’m going to have your baby.”

I can’t help it. The words rush up my throat and into my mouth, the same way the bagel I tried to eat for breakfast came right back up and I couldn’t stop it.

Andrew looks momentarily amused, but all too soon that melts into confusion, as if he doesn’t understand.

I sit frozen. Oh God, why did I do that? I didn’t want to say it like that. I close my eyes a moment, trying to get my bearings.

“We’re pregnant, Andrew.” The words are softer this time. I open my eyes to gauge his reaction. “We’re going to have another baby.”

He closes his menu and lays it down. His entire face is now a dark, defensive question. “There’s no way. This can’t be.”

He sits back hard in the chair, turns to the side, rests his arm on the back of the chair and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I know,” I say, trying to comfort him. “I had the same reaction because of your vasectomy.”

I’m suddenly aware that a woman who is dining solo at the table next to ours is listening. I glare at her. She has the decency to turn away.

But my husband won’t look at me. Still, I know that look, that closed body language. He’s not just mad, he’s livid.

I didn’t expect him to jump for joy. I’m not exactly thrilled either, but I never imagined he would act this way. As if it’s my fault.

“Andrew, come on. I’m just as shocked as you are, but we’re in this together. Talk to me.”

His expression is as hard as stone. “How can we be having a baby if I’m shooting blanks?”

“What? What are you saying?” The pitch of my voice rises, but I don’t care. “Of course we’re pregnant. Do you think I’ve been having sex with another man?”

He finally looks at me. Stares me straight in the eyes and shrugs.

The server arrives at our table, and I sit there flabbergasted as Andrew gets rid of him. The woman next to us is looking at us again, but this time I don’t care. All I can focus on is the way my husband is looking at me as if he’s caught me in the act of infidelity.

Something inside me snaps.

I stand and grab my purse. “I am not going to sit here and plead with my husband to believe that I’m carrying his baby.”

Maggie

After we leave Stratford Middle School, Barbara drops me off at home and goes to run errands. I hope she doesn’t think I’m unsociable for not going with her. I just need some time to put away the things we brought with us from the car and make arrangements for a storage shed before the moving van arrives tomorrow.

I’ll have to store the majority of our furniture because the carriage house is furnished. I just don’t feel right asking Barbara to move her things out.

Besides, it’s better this way because it reminds me this arrangement is temporary. Sarah and I can’t stay here forever. Just long enough to figure out what we’re going to do.

It’s the first I’ve been alone in days and I take a moment to savor the freedom. I walk through the rooms of our little three-bedroom dollhouse, getting a feel for our new home, letting it speak to me the way old houses do.

There’s no foyer. The screened front door opens right into the living room, which is complete with polished hardwood floors and a fireplace, though why one would need a fireplace in Florida baffles me. Off to the left is a tiny galley kitchen and dining alcove; to the right, a squat hallway holds the lone bathroom and our bedrooms.

It’s about half the size of our house in Asheville, but the place is bright and cheerful, furnished in white wicker and shades of yellow. Generous windows in the living room invite in an abundance of light.

I’m soothed by the hominess of the place.

It’s such a beautiful day, I open the front door and windows to air out the closed-up musty smell places take on when they haven’t been lived in. My bedroom window looks out toward the lake. I open the blinds and stand there a minute enjoying the quiet of the house, the way the green lawn slopes down to the lake. I love the huge live oaks, the way the Spanish moss that’s draped on the branches dances in the wind.

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