no way I was letting her into my classroom,
or into any of the classrooms, for that matter. There was a reason I was assistantheadmaster. Emperor Barrow’s whims (and Emperor Barrow’s dick) would not dictate the changing of curricula unchecked.
But the main reason I went? For myself. I wanted to see her for myself. Before anyone else formed an opinion. I wanted to
see the kind of woman who would marry Elliot Barrow.
I WILL GIVE this story back to Helen in a moment. She had never been to the Pacific Northwest; her forays to the West Coast had been
the occasional trip to L.A., and twice she’d visited San Francisco. She was a victim of that kind of New York provincialism
that is blind. Let’s say someone out here rarely left the same ten square miles. That’s a very small space in which to spend
your entire life; even those of us for whom the United States government has ever so politely reserved completely useless
parcels of land usually cover at least twice this distance in our day-to-day lives. But Helen was the kind of woman who had
been born and schooled in Manhattan, the kind of intellectual elitist for whom the move across the East River—and the decision
to actually buy a home in an “up-and-coming” outer-borough neighborhood—had been wildly significant. Which is all to say that
Helen was a New Yorker, and as a New Yorker, she initially gave off the distinct impression that the rest of the world could
only ever be a kind of vacation from the real life that New York lived.
Helen, I would find out later, was scared. She had found her husband humping a bimbo, turned tail, and strode forth, his pleas
falling useless in their empty theater. She had called Michael Reid and told him she was being brave, and his applause, crisp,
over the line, was enough to make her even braver: she dialed Elliot Barrow’s number and into the whorl of his ear declared,
“I’m not asking. I’m telling you. I’m the one who can help. Do I have a job?” She had crammed her poor Ferdinand into a crate
and locked the door of her home behind her.
There were all sorts of complicated legal battles to be fought about the status of the theater, which entered exhausting realms
ofdebate over the disposition of intellectual property and the future of the company. Helen had chosen to ignore these particular
aspects of her life for at least a little while. She had not begun formal divorce proceedings. She was not yet ready to punish;
Duncan’s guilt, if he had any, would have to be enough for now.
She was asleep when the plane landed, so she missed the Columbia River, and she missed Mount Hood, and she missed the fringes
of Portland. When she awoke to the tires hitting tarmac, she was filled with excitement. Her throat thrummed with the words
she would say to Elliot when she stepped from the plane. He would be waiting at the gate, and surely they would touch, if
only for a hug. She dug into her purse as the plane taxied to the gate, and found a mirror and brush to try to tame her split-ended
mane. The teenage girl next to her smiled with young teeth and perfect bubble gum lips. Helen put on a lipstick one shade
too dark and frowned at herself in the compact mirror. Then the seat-belt sign dinged off and people leaped to their feet.
She was in a window seat, so she stood up halfway, her knee resting on the seat as though to hold her place in line. She wanted
to get off that plane, and to Elliot, as soon as possible.
Elliot was nowhere near the airport. Guess who was? Helen stepped from the jetway, and the anxious look on her face, peering
over the crowd as people spilled from the door, was somehow familiar to me. I held my sign up higher: HELEN BERNSTEIN.
She saw me. She felt as if she were sinking. She was wrong to have come, wrong to have insisted. He had sent someone else.
He did not want her here. He did not want her.
I did not see these particulars on her face. I saw her
or into any of the classrooms, for that matter. There was a reason I was assistantheadmaster. Emperor Barrow’s whims (and Emperor Barrow’s dick) would not dictate the changing of curricula unchecked.
But the main reason I went? For myself. I wanted to see her for myself. Before anyone else formed an opinion. I wanted to
see the kind of woman who would marry Elliot Barrow.
I WILL GIVE this story back to Helen in a moment. She had never been to the Pacific Northwest; her forays to the West Coast had been
the occasional trip to L.A., and twice she’d visited San Francisco. She was a victim of that kind of New York provincialism
that is blind. Let’s say someone out here rarely left the same ten square miles. That’s a very small space in which to spend
your entire life; even those of us for whom the United States government has ever so politely reserved completely useless
parcels of land usually cover at least twice this distance in our day-to-day lives. But Helen was the kind of woman who had
been born and schooled in Manhattan, the kind of intellectual elitist for whom the move across the East River—and the decision
to actually buy a home in an “up-and-coming” outer-borough neighborhood—had been wildly significant. Which is all to say that
Helen was a New Yorker, and as a New Yorker, she initially gave off the distinct impression that the rest of the world could
only ever be a kind of vacation from the real life that New York lived.
Helen, I would find out later, was scared. She had found her husband humping a bimbo, turned tail, and strode forth, his pleas
falling useless in their empty theater. She had called Michael Reid and told him she was being brave, and his applause, crisp,
over the line, was enough to make her even braver: she dialed Elliot Barrow’s number and into the whorl of his ear declared,
“I’m not asking. I’m telling you. I’m the one who can help. Do I have a job?” She had crammed her poor Ferdinand into a crate
and locked the door of her home behind her.
There were all sorts of complicated legal battles to be fought about the status of the theater, which entered exhausting realms
ofdebate over the disposition of intellectual property and the future of the company. Helen had chosen to ignore these particular
aspects of her life for at least a little while. She had not begun formal divorce proceedings. She was not yet ready to punish;
Duncan’s guilt, if he had any, would have to be enough for now.
She was asleep when the plane landed, so she missed the Columbia River, and she missed Mount Hood, and she missed the fringes
of Portland. When she awoke to the tires hitting tarmac, she was filled with excitement. Her throat thrummed with the words
she would say to Elliot when she stepped from the plane. He would be waiting at the gate, and surely they would touch, if
only for a hug. She dug into her purse as the plane taxied to the gate, and found a mirror and brush to try to tame her split-ended
mane. The teenage girl next to her smiled with young teeth and perfect bubble gum lips. Helen put on a lipstick one shade
too dark and frowned at herself in the compact mirror. Then the seat-belt sign dinged off and people leaped to their feet.
She was in a window seat, so she stood up halfway, her knee resting on the seat as though to hold her place in line. She wanted
to get off that plane, and to Elliot, as soon as possible.
Elliot was nowhere near the airport. Guess who was? Helen stepped from the jetway, and the anxious look on her face, peering
over the crowd as people spilled from the door, was somehow familiar to me. I held my sign up higher: HELEN BERNSTEIN.
She saw me. She felt as if she were sinking. She was wrong to have come, wrong to have insisted. He had sent someone else.
He did not want her here. He did not want her.
I did not see these particulars on her face. I saw her
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