All We Ever Wanted

  “Definitely,” Mom says, scooping a generous tablespoon of coffee crystals into a University of Tennessee travel mug that I can trace back to the eighties. “I think Teddy would agree with that statement, too.” She looks up at me hopefully.

  “Mom,” I say, shaking my head.

  “What?” she says with wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just saying.”

  * * *

  —

  ABOUT TEN MILES outside of Nashville, I get a call from Walter Quarterman. “There’s been a development,” he says. “Can you please come in?”

  “What sort of development?” I say, my heart sinking, wondering if it has anything to do with Melanie’s voicemail.

  “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone,” Walter says.

  “Okay,” I say, then ask if he’s talked to Kirk.

  “No. I called you first,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say, then tell him that I’ll be there just as soon as I can.

  * * *

  —

  TWENTY MINUTES AND several traffic violations later, I park in front of Windsor and run into the school.

  “I have a meeting with Mr. Quarterman,” I tell Sharon at the front desk. “He’s expecting me.”

  She nods and tries to hand me that damn sign-in clipboard, but I blow her off, muttering that I’m already late and dashing down the hallway.

  When I arrive at Walter’s office, I knock, then walk in to a small crowd of people. Walter is behind his desk, and in front of him, in a semicircle of chairs, sit Finch, Tom, Polly, and Polly’s parents.

  My stomach drops as Walter stands to greet me, then points to the only remaining free chair, which happens to be right next to my son. As I sit, I acknowledge Tom, Polly, and her parents with a nod, glancing at Finch last. Everyone looks relatively composed except Polly.

  “Will Kirk be joining us?” Walter asks.

  “No, he won’t be,” I say. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  Walter nods. “Yes. As I told you on the phone, Nina, there’s been a development…and unfortunately, we have two very different versions of the story.”

  Polly lets out a sob, covering her face with her hands, as her father puts his arm around her and softly shushes her.

  “Can someone please…cut to the chase?” I say.

  “Sure thing,” Tom snaps, his voice cold and livid. “Someone wrote slut on our porch.”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tom ignores this and simply says, “Finch says Polly did it.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Finch nodding, while Polly wails in protest. “It wasn’t me! I swear!”

  Her father tries to soothe her again, as Tom continues, “Whether or not the artwork is, in fact, Polly’s, she did call Lyla a slut yesterday. At your house. Polly admits this much is true. Which is really lovely.”

  “She’s very sorry for using that word,” Polly’s dad says. “But she had nothing to do with your porch being vandalized. She was home all night with us.”

  Walter attempts to cut in, but Tom talks right over him. “Now Finch is also saying that he didn’t actually take the infamous photo of Lyla. That actually, Polly took it, and he’s been covering for her all this time.”

  “That’s not true!” Polly yells, her face covered with tears and snot. “It’s a total lie!”

  “You’re the one lying,” Finch says, perfectly calmly.

  Walter sighs and says, “Well, hopefully tomorrow’s proceedings will bring some clarity.”

  “Clarity?” Tom shouts. “The only clarity I see is that my daughter is getting victimized left and right and somebody here is lying. Maybe both of them are. Maybe this whole thing is an elaborate plot to make sure no one gets blamed.”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Volpe. That’s not what is happening here,” Polly’s dad says. “My daughter has admitted to calling your daughter a terrible name, but—”

  “But what?” Tom fires back. “But ‘no big deal’?”

  “Tom, please. I know it’s hard, but please try to calm down,” Walter says.

  “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! This is a circus. A total circus!” Tom stands suddenly, nearly knocking over his chair, before storming to the door. “Someone get my daughter outta class! Now!”

  Walter looks completely rattled as he grabs his phone, dials an extension, and says, “Can you please have Lyla Volpe report to the front entrance?…Yes. Right away, please.”

  Meanwhile, Tom is out the door, slamming it behind him.

  I jump, my heart racing, as I make eye contact with Finch. He stares back at me, with his hand over his heart. “I swear, Mom,” he whispers. “I didn’t do it.”

  Idon’t know if I’ve waited three seconds or three minutes, but when Lyla doesn’t immediately materialize in the lobby, I start pounding on the ledge of the check-in desk, yelling at that smug receptionist, and demanding that I get my daughter now. I even make a move down the hall in the general direction of the high school classrooms.

  “Mr. Volpe, you can’t go down there!” The receptionist stands up in a panic, as if I were an armed intruder.

  Sure enough, her voice trembles as she adds that she is going to have to push a button for the police if I take another step.

  I stop, turn, and walk back over to her. “Please don’t pretend you don’t know what’s going on around here. Because I’m pretty sure you know everything that’s going on around here!”

  I pound my hand on her ledge one more time for good measure, just as Lyla rounds the corner and rushes toward me, looking mortified.

  “Dad? What are you doing?” she says as I catch the receptionist staring nosily at us over her reading glasses.

  “C’mon. We’re leaving. Right now.”

  “I can’t leave, Dad!” she says, glancing around, looking desperate. “I’m in the middle of a science quiz! And I don’t even have my stuff.”

  “Now!” I yell.

  She starts to protest again, but I turn around and walk out the front door. I am nervous about what I’ll do if she doesn’t follow me. I feel pretty sure that it would involve that woman’s panic button. Fortunately, we don’t have to find out, because a few seconds later I hear Lyla’s footsteps on the pavement behind me.

  I only walk faster, my strides getting longer. By the time Lyla climbs in the car beside me, she is completely unhinged, crying so hard that she is starting to hyperventilate. Part of me wants to put my arms around her and calm her down. But my anger, along with my desire to get the fuck out of Belle Meade, outweighs any sense of compassion.

  So I start driving, passing countless motherfuckers in Range Rovers and BMWs and Mercedes. What in the world was I thinking sending my daughter to this neighborhood every day with these soulless, money-worshipping, lying sons of bitches? Why didn’t I learn my lesson when I was a bag boy at the Belle Meade Country Club? When I slept with Delaney and realized that she was using me as her pawn—a sick way to make a point to her daddy and her bullshit high society? Well, Lyla has become a pawn, too, and I’m not going to allow it any longer. Effective today, my child will not be attending that godforsaken school. No education is worth all of this. I mean, what’s the endgame? An elitist education gets you what, exactly? An elitist group of friends and a jackass husband like Kirk Browning? Fuck that. I’d rather Lyla grow up and live paycheck to paycheck like I do than turn out anything like these people. I’d rather she be lonely and alone than lonely with them.

  Us versus them.

  It is the drumbeat in my head as I drive. The entrance to 440 looks jammed, so I keep going through town, hitting stoplight after stoplight, Lyla’s tears never letting up. Every few minutes, I think of Quarterman and Nina, and know that I am brushing with too broad a stroke. Then again, they are right in the mix, playing the goddamn game. I mean, ho
w could Quarterman run a school like Windsor if he weren’t drinking the Kool-Aid on all the bullshit? And I really like Nina—I can’t help myself—but her son is shady. Maybe he didn’t take the picture or write on our porch, but he definitely lied at some point—and at Lyla’s expense.

  “Dad, slow down!” Lyla screams as I nearly slam into the back of a black Lexus. I hit my brakes just in time, my heart pounding, my hands sweaty on the steering wheel.

  “Sorry,” I say under my breath, telling myself to get a grip. To get help. Then I think of Bonnie and make a left where I should make a right.

  “Where are you going?” Lyla stops crying just long enough to ask me.

  “To see a friend,” I say.

  “What friend?” she asks.

  The question is telling. She thinks I have none.

  Without answering, I keep driving, weaving my way through historic Belmont, until I get to Bonnie’s quaint, old foursquare. Her ancient Volvo station wagon, covered with bumper stickers, is sitting in her driveway at a virtual diagonal. If it were any other day, her parking effort would have made me smile.

  “Dad, whose house is this?” Lyla says. She is still upset, but her curiosity has dampened her hysteria.

  “I told you. My friend’s house,” I say, parking behind the Volvo. “Her name is Bonnie. I sometimes talk to her about things. About you…Come on and meet her.”

  We both step out of the car and close our doors as Lyla trails behind me to the front door.

  “Are you…dating her?” she asks, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  At that second, Bonnie appears through the glass door panes, wearing enormous glasses and a weird shawl that looks more like a blanket. Her gray hair is wilder than usual. I catch a fleeting look of disappointment in Lyla’s eyes.

  “Well, hello there, Tommy boy,” Bonnie says, as she opens the door.

  “Morning, Bonnie,” I say. “Sorry for the surprise visit.”

  “Well, it’s a nice surprise, Tommy. A very nice surprise,” she says, looking past me. “And you must be Lyla?” Her expression becomes even warmer.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lyla says, forcing the mandatory tight-lipped smile that comes with an introduction to an adult.

  “How positively wonderful to meet you. I’m Bonnie,” she says, one hand appearing from the depths of the shawl. She shakes Lyla’s hand, then pulls her into a half hug. “Come in, sweetie.”

  As Lyla takes a step into the house, and I follow, we are bombarded by the smell of baking, though I can’t identify the exact scent. Maybe cinnamon? By now, I can see that Lyla is intrigued, not only with the concept of me having a friend but with Bonnie herself. For once, it feels like I made a decision that my daughter and I can agree is the right one.

  Bonnie leads us onto her back sunporch, which is drenched in morning light and decorated with jewel-toned upholsteries. I take an emerald chair, and Lyla chooses the sapphire-blue one across from me.

  “May I make you a cup of mint tea?” Bonnie asks in her musical voice, which almost sounds Irish. “It’s delicious.”

  We both nod and watch her walk back toward the kitchen. Neither of us speaks for several minutes. We just sit there and wait until Bonnie returns with a small wooden tray. On it are three steaming teacups on mismatched saucers, along with pink Happy Birthday napkins. The tray also holds a miniature pitcher of milk and a bowl filled with sugar cubes that remind me of Lyla’s tea set when she was little. Lyla and I each take a cup before Bonnie places the tray on a wicker chest doubling as a coffee table. She then sits on the red chair beside Lyla’s, sharing her view of the backyard. She points out the window, up into the trees. My back is to the window, but I know what they’re looking at.

  “Do you see that marvelous tree house?” Bonnie asks Lyla.

  She nods, looking transfixed.

  “Know who built it?” Bonnie says, slowly stirring two lumps of sugar into her cup. She makes that tinkling spoon-on-china sound that is hypnotic.

  “My dad?” Lyla guesses.

  Bonnie smiles, nods, and taps her spoon on the edge of the cup before placing it back on the tray. “Yes. Your dad…I’m biased but I have to say—it’s the best tree house in all of Tennessee. Maybe anywhere.”

  As Lyla smiles back at her, my heart floods.

  “So tell me,” Bonnie says, furrowing her brow and putting on her shrink face. “Why aren’t you at school?”

  Lyla puts her cup down on her saucer, then says, “Ask my dad that question. He’s the one who made me leave in the middle of a science quiz.” She glares at me.

  “Does this have anything to do with the photo? Taken of you at the party?” Bonnie asks, looking directly at Lyla. I give her bonus points for being so straightforward.

  Lyla nods, then quickly and adamantly insists that Finch’s ex-girlfriend took that photo—and that he is innocent. Completely innocent. Without addressing her claims, I fill in a few important blanks—namely Lyla’s visit to Finch yesterday, and our vandalized porch. Lyla says Polly did that, too, then finishes with an account of this morning’s episode in the school lobby, calling it “humiliating” and accusing me of “always” making things so much worse than they have to be.

  “So Finch is innocent, and I’m the bad guy?” I say, Bonnie’s soothing effect starting to wear off.

  “Dad! I was in the middle of a test!”

  “You said it was a quiz.”

  “Same difference!”

  Bonnie gives her a compassionate nod, then says, “Okay. So, Lyla? How would you have preferred your dad handle this situation today?”

  Lyla sighs, then gives a long-winded, rambling answer, covering everything from the orange paint on my clothing to the way I was shouting in the lobby. “Like, couldn’t he have just called my headmaster and not made a huge scene? Covered in paint?”

  Bonnie looks at me. “Do you understand how she feels?”

  “Sure. I guess,” I say. “And she’s right that I shouldn’t have lost my temper…but I had to do something. And sometimes it feels as if Lyla is more concerned with little details…and appearances…than the bigger picture….For example, I really don’t think it matters that I have a little paint on my clothes.”

  Bonnie gives me a hint of a smile, then looks at Lyla again. “Do you know what he’s trying to say?”

  Lyla shrugs, then grants Bonnie the same answer I gave her. “I guess,” she says.

  Bonnie clears her throat and continues, “And don’t you think he’s trying to do the best he can to help you?”

  “Yes, but this actually isn’t helping me,” Lyla says. “At all. He has no clue what it’s like to be me…and this is my school he’s barging into. My world.”

  “Not for long, it isn’t,” I say under my breath.

  Lyla makes a loud huffing sound, points at me, and says to Bonnie, “See? See! He wants me to leave my school over this! Tell him that’s ridiculous. And soo unfair! This isn’t Windsor’s fault.”

  “Okay. But do you understand why your father feels some animosity toward Windsor? After all, someone from the school took that photograph of you. And no one has yet been punished for it. All these days later,” Bonnie says, articulating the reasons for my anger and frustration so beautifully and succinctly that I want to high-five or hug her.

  “Yeah. Okay. I get that,” Lyla says. “And I appreciate that he’s a really good father and stuff….But…he’s always so angry at everyone….It’s like he thinks the whole world is against us or something. And they’re not. They’re just…not.”

  The truth of her statement hits me hard, and I feel them both staring at me as I catch my breath.

  “Tom?” Bonnie says softly.

  “Yeah?” I ask, my head spinning.

  “Does Lyla have a point here?”

  I slowly nod. “Yeah. She does.”

  H
olding my gaze, Lyla says, “I mean, Dad, some people in Belle Meade do suck. Some people are huge snobs and look down on us. But a lot of them aren’t like that at all. Some of them are just like us, only with more money…and if money and appearances and stuff like that don’t matter, then they shouldn’t matter either way.” She looks so earnest and emboldened.

  I nod again, hearing her and feeling the truth of her words on a level deeper than I thought possible.

  “I just want you to trust me sometimes,” she continues. “To make my own judgments about people…which might not be the same as yours. Whether that’s Grace…or Finch…or anyone else. And yeah, I’m going to make mistakes…but now it’s time to trust me. If I mess up, I mess up. But I want—and need—your faith in me.”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding and blinking back unexpected tears. “I’ll try.”

  “And, Lyla?” Bonnie says. “You’ll try, too? To cut him some slack? And understand how hard it must be to raise you on his own?”

  “Yes,” Lyla says, first looking at Bonnie, then shifting her gaze to me. “I’ll try, too. I promise, Dad.”

  Her answer pushes me closer to the edge of crying, though I manage to keep it together by taking a sip of tea.

  “Well,” Bonnie says. “This is a really good start.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Lyla echoes.

  “Now,” Bonnie says briskly. “What do you say we take a little tour of the world’s finest tree house?”

  After Tom’s grand exit, Walter dismisses Finch for the rest of the day, instructing him to return to school in the morning for his scheduled hearing. I don’t speak to him until we get outside, telling him to go straight home. That I’ll meet him there.

  Finch nods, then turns toward the student lot while I walk straight ahead to my car. I get in, put on my seatbelt, and take a few deep breaths. Before I start the ignition, I make myself call Kirk, knowing that I can’t drive and talk at the same time. Not to him. Not about this.