“Though,” he added with a rueful smile, “I won’t deny there is room for improvement. Actually, Mrs.—”
“Cordelia. Please call me Cordelia.” For some reason, she felt safe—comfortable, even—in allowing the familiarity with this boyish man who spoke with such polish.
He gave her a level look, his eyes dark with seriousness. “There was an incident the other day, involving Caroline and another girl. It wasn’t reported, but I thought you should know ...”
Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut, imagining Sissy cringing in a corner, the object of torment by some smarter, prettier, more popular girl.
“... It wasn’t what she did so much as what she said,” she heard him continue. “Caroline called her a nigger. ‘Stupid, monkey-faced nigger’ were her exact words, I believe. After Marvella accidentally knocked a book off her desk.”
Cordelia felt his words hit her like a stinging slap. Sissy? Her Sissy, who’d come home from grade school in tears almost every day over some classmate who’d called her fat or stupid? She, of all people, ought to have known how something like that would hurt.
Deep shame flooded through Cordelia. Thank heaven Eugene wouldn’t have to hear this.
“I’ll speak to her,” she said stiffly to this teacher who sat looking at her with such compassion she could hardly bear it. She felt as if he were seeing right through her, and knew exactly how awful she felt. “It won’t happen again.” She started to rise.
Gabriel Ross put out a hand to stop her. “Wait. I wish you wouldn’t. Speak to her, that is. I didn’t ask you here to tell tales, or to have Caroline punished. She punishes herself, far too much. That’s where it comes from, this lashing out, from her feeling she can’t be like the others, that she’ll never measure up.”
“She’s ... a good girl.” Cordelia wanted desperately to smooth things over, to make everything all right.
“She is,” Gabriel agreed. Then he smiled, that heartwarming, luminous smile of his that said, somehow, against all her worst fears, everything would turn out all right. “It’s the hurt ones we have to look out for in this world, Cordelia, because, if we don’t stop it where it lives, the hurt, it spreads, like a pebble dropped in a pond, to hurt others.”
Looking at him now, in his battered hat and dirt-stained trousers, seventeen years later, the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes visible against the deeper brown of his tanned cheeks, she was once again filled with a sense of his goodness, of the sureness of his footing ... and, at the same time, of her own helplessness ever to bridge the gap between them.
What would it look like—never mind to the small minds around here, but to her friends in New York, Washington, her colleagues on the boards on which she served—if she, the widow of the great Eugene Truscott, were to take up with a gardener? Not to mention the disparity in their lifestyles. Gabe, with his modest little house down on Oakview Avenue by the Kmart, how would he feel about sharing in all this—her enormous house, her generous income from the wise investments she and Gene had made? Knowing him, he’d want no part of it.
Still, what would be the harm in merely asking him to supper? She could use the company. It was as simple as that.
“Gabe, I ...” she started to say, but something made her change her mind—maybe it was the unsuspecting look on his face. “Shall we get to those herbs before it gets dark?”
Walking around the house toward the kitchen garden in back, Gabe pointed out where the paint was flaking off one of the dormers. “I’ll get up on a ladder and give it a lick with the paintbrush,” he offered, though, strictly speaking, his job didn’t extend to house repairs.
“Oh, this old place is practically falling down around my ears,” Cordelia sighed. “Sometimes I think the best thing would be just to sell it. Even the new dishwasher—Netta’s been complaining that
“Cordelia. Please call me Cordelia.” For some reason, she felt safe—comfortable, even—in allowing the familiarity with this boyish man who spoke with such polish.
He gave her a level look, his eyes dark with seriousness. “There was an incident the other day, involving Caroline and another girl. It wasn’t reported, but I thought you should know ...”
Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut, imagining Sissy cringing in a corner, the object of torment by some smarter, prettier, more popular girl.
“... It wasn’t what she did so much as what she said,” she heard him continue. “Caroline called her a nigger. ‘Stupid, monkey-faced nigger’ were her exact words, I believe. After Marvella accidentally knocked a book off her desk.”
Cordelia felt his words hit her like a stinging slap. Sissy? Her Sissy, who’d come home from grade school in tears almost every day over some classmate who’d called her fat or stupid? She, of all people, ought to have known how something like that would hurt.
Deep shame flooded through Cordelia. Thank heaven Eugene wouldn’t have to hear this.
“I’ll speak to her,” she said stiffly to this teacher who sat looking at her with such compassion she could hardly bear it. She felt as if he were seeing right through her, and knew exactly how awful she felt. “It won’t happen again.” She started to rise.
Gabriel Ross put out a hand to stop her. “Wait. I wish you wouldn’t. Speak to her, that is. I didn’t ask you here to tell tales, or to have Caroline punished. She punishes herself, far too much. That’s where it comes from, this lashing out, from her feeling she can’t be like the others, that she’ll never measure up.”
“She’s ... a good girl.” Cordelia wanted desperately to smooth things over, to make everything all right.
“She is,” Gabriel agreed. Then he smiled, that heartwarming, luminous smile of his that said, somehow, against all her worst fears, everything would turn out all right. “It’s the hurt ones we have to look out for in this world, Cordelia, because, if we don’t stop it where it lives, the hurt, it spreads, like a pebble dropped in a pond, to hurt others.”
Looking at him now, in his battered hat and dirt-stained trousers, seventeen years later, the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes visible against the deeper brown of his tanned cheeks, she was once again filled with a sense of his goodness, of the sureness of his footing ... and, at the same time, of her own helplessness ever to bridge the gap between them.
What would it look like—never mind to the small minds around here, but to her friends in New York, Washington, her colleagues on the boards on which she served—if she, the widow of the great Eugene Truscott, were to take up with a gardener? Not to mention the disparity in their lifestyles. Gabe, with his modest little house down on Oakview Avenue by the Kmart, how would he feel about sharing in all this—her enormous house, her generous income from the wise investments she and Gene had made? Knowing him, he’d want no part of it.
Still, what would be the harm in merely asking him to supper? She could use the company. It was as simple as that.
“Gabe, I ...” she started to say, but something made her change her mind—maybe it was the unsuspecting look on his face. “Shall we get to those herbs before it gets dark?”
Walking around the house toward the kitchen garden in back, Gabe pointed out where the paint was flaking off one of the dormers. “I’ll get up on a ladder and give it a lick with the paintbrush,” he offered, though, strictly speaking, his job didn’t extend to house repairs.
“Oh, this old place is practically falling down around my ears,” Cordelia sighed. “Sometimes I think the best thing would be just to sell it. Even the new dishwasher—Netta’s been complaining that
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