Souvenirs of Starling Falls

“We just moved here ourselves in May.”

“April thirtieth,” Priscilla corrected him, with tender breathiness.

“We’re from Tulsa,” Barnaby continued. “For the past nine years, that is. I grew up in Springfield, Missouri. Priscilla’s from St. Louis. I’m the new director of the Wayward Academy. I just finished up my first week there.”

“What’s the Wayward Academy?” I asked, feigning polite interest. In my peripheral vision, Tom was taking a bite of banana pie and trying not to gag.

“Do you want a little cream on it?” Priscilla murmured to Tom. Though I hadn’t detected the slightest bulk to her, she pulled a can of Reddi-wip from yet another fold of her kaftan and splurted a raspy, hissing plume of it onto Tom’s pie.

“Thanks,” he said, wiping some rogue splatters off his face.

“Sorry about that. I got a little messy, I guess.” She smiled from under her long eyelashes at my husband. I felt my mouth twist in annoyance. “Anyone else want some cream?” she asked quietly to no one in particular, before tucking the can back into her pocket.

“You mean to tell me you haven’t heard of the Wayward Academy?” Barnaby looked so puzzled by this. He tilted his head left and right, and shoved his cap back so he could scratch his head. His tall forehead was wrinkled in incredulous confusion. He looked from me to Tom and back to me, before finally resting his bug-eyed gaze just on Tom. “You haven’t heard of the Wayward Academy?” he repeated. Priscilla smiled benevolently.

“Nope. We haven’t,” I said, since Tom’s mouth was full. I looked down at my pie for a moment then, at the warm yellow puddle leaking from the perfectly flakey crust. The sea of drowned raisins. What the hell kind of a pie was this? At the perfectly crimped edges and the W and E, because ladies first. The plates looked like family heirlooms and the napkins were monogrammed with artfully embroidered M’s for McGhee. The flatware appeared to be real silver. It was a mix of everything lovely and terrible a pie could be. I wondered if it had been some kind of an inside joke. Some kind of a dare.

I looked up and said, “The Wayward Academy. It’s kind of a funny name.”

“No, actually, it’s perfectly fitting. The Wayward Academy is an acclaimed, respected establishment,” said Barnaby. “It’s a year-round institution. You’ve probably already heard it mentioned, but you just didn’t pick up on it. It’s between here and Cotswold.”

“Don’t know it,” said Tom.

Barnaby’s voice took on a tone that bordered on whining: “That big yellow brick building out on the hill on Highway 29? It used to be a foundry? Now do you know what building I’m talking about?”

“We haven’t gotten much of a chance to explore the area yet,” said Tom.

“It’s just past the stables where we board our horses,” said Barnaby.

“Chestnut, Delphi, and Parnassus are their names,” said Priscilla. “Courtney, do you ride?”

“I don’t. And I’m afraid we don’t know much about this area yet. Like where the Wayward Academy is. In fact,” I added, “you’re the first people we’ve met.”

“Well,” Barnaby continued, “the Wayward Academy is a school and boarding facility for troubled kids. One of the most renowned institutions of its kind in the whole country. Until four years ago, it was boys-only, but now it’s co-ed. It’s for ages nine through eighteen.”

“Wow,” I said. “And you’re the director. That sounds like a challenging job.”

“It’s a school and rehabilitation facility for troubled children,” Priscilla added, for further clarification. She was nodding, her eyes big and sad, emphasizing the seriousness and importance of her husband’s career.

Along with the deed, house keys, and desire to shop for mulch, an unwavering Eisenhoweresque determination to support our husbands came quickly and naturally to all us transplanted wives. On this evening, though, I still had the antibodies I’d built up in my former life protecting me from the virus that would one day have me, too, baking odd pies from scratch.

“The director. That’s cool,” said Tom.

Barnaby scraped his fork against the plate, getting the last of the slimy banana sauce. “Mmm, nanners…” he said in a quiet, sing-songy baby voice, sneaking a quick smile at his wife. Then he turned to us, his brow forming a concerned crease and his voice lowering importantly once again. “Yeah, I’d say it can be challenging. It’s nothing I can’t handle, of course. Let me just tell you, we came here thinking I had a lot to teach these kids. You know, small town, small minds, troubled teens, all of that. But already, I’m the one who’s learning things. I mean, we just settled in here ourselves—it’s only been ten weeks or so since we moved in, and then the first three weeks we were down in Guatemala doing missionary work—but already I can tell that Starling Falls is going to educate me in ways OBU couldn’t. It’s like, I came here thinking I had so much to offer Starling Falls, but really Starling Falls has so much to offer me.”

“It’s amazing that you could have that kind of epiphany after just a couple of weeks on the job,” said Tom.

“It is, it sure is,” said Barnaby.

“And it’s only been one week that he’s been on the job,” said Priscilla.

“Then it’s even more incredible,” said Tom.

“What about you two?” asked Barnaby. “Any kids?”

“No,” we said in unison. “Not yet,” I added.

“Look at you two,” Barnaby continued, shaking his head in an appreciative sweep. “You could go anywhere in the world. You said you’re a writer. Right, Tom?”