True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA. Nancy Thompson Robards

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СКАЧАТЬ She needn’t put herself out by driving us.

      And she needn’t make such an effort to fill the silence. Those quiet spaces in between sentences are my favorite part of the conversation. I’ve always thought the truth lies in those rests. It’s in these quiet spaces that the truth manifests, that the mind registers a pure thought—I agree with what she said, or That person is lying, or Yes, there’s definitely tension in that marriage—even if it’s for a nanosecond—before decorum wrestles it to the mat and truth is replaced by what is socially acceptable.

      Pinned by decorum, I decided Barbara and Burt’s marriage was none of my business and that it would be rude to refuse her offer to drive us to school.

      So here we are the morning after the first night in our new home, doing our best to establish a new routine—much to Sarah’s dismay.

      “Mom. We haven’t even been here twenty-four hours. Why can’t I wait until next week to start school?”

      I pour some cereal that Barbara left us into a bowl and set it in front of Sarah for her to add her own milk. “Because today is Tuesday. You shouldn’t miss an entire week.”

      She frowns. “I could help you put things away.”

      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 СКАЧАТЬ