“I do,” I say, my heart thumping wildly. “I do. So do you mind if I go?”
The weekend is quiet. In fact, the entire next week is quiet. I don’t know if Marta is more distant at work or if it’s me, but we don’t speak to each other unless there is something specific to say. I’m still agog that she’d think vibrators were a solution to anything.
But the office isn’t the only quiet place. Life at home is more silent, too. The phone doesn’t ring as much, and I’ve realized that in the last month people don’t invite us over or out as often, either.
After having so many friends and such a busy social life for so many years, it’s hard to believe my world has shrunk so dramatically.
What are people afraid of? Nathan isn’t dead or dying. We’re not getting divorced (at least not that I’ve heard). We just sold the house. Downsized. Tightened the belt, so to speak.
It shouldn’t matter to anyone but us. Money troubles aren’t contagious. You aren’t going to lose your blue-chip stocks just by having dinner with us.
But people are scared anyway. They stay away. They don’t call, they don’t return my call, leaving the girls and me more isolated than ever.
It’s so confusing, too. You’d think people would want to rally around, give us the good old pep talk, the one about life being difficult but you can do anything if you just set your mind to it.
People don’t give that pep talk here.
Maybe for most people life isn’t so difficult here.
It had never been difficult for us, either. Maybe that’s why Nathan couldn’t come to me when he lost his job. Maybe he didn’t expect that he—the golden boy—would ever have anything bad happen to him, and maybe he thought if he didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t be true.
It’s finally Friday noon, and I leave Z Design for the post office, where I mail all 350 cards now that they’re signed and sealed.
I have an auction chair meeting at Tully’s at one.
I arrive early, and as I always do, I grab chairs and create a little cluster. It just seems easier to have everything ready when everyone arrives. I suppose it also gives me something specific to do. I like having something specific to do. Gives me a sense of purpose.
As I wait with my coffee for the others, I spot a group of women at the conference table. I’ve seen them before, they gather here on Friday afternoons once or twice a month. They’re former teachers and librarians, smart women who love books and ideas and living. I never paid them much attention in the beginning—they weren’t dressed to the nines and didn’t care about good wine or the newest advances in technology—but today they’re discussing the movie Thelma & Louise.
“A cop-out, the ending was a cop-out. Just going over a cliff like that.”
“It’s because they made so many mistakes.”
“Too many mistakes. They made mistakes all along the way.”
“But you don’t drive off a cliff just because you screw up.”
“No, but they should have reported the rape. That’s the thing.”
“Driving off the cliff holding hands. Ridiculous. What a waste.”
“I thought it was funny. I laughed the entire movie.”
“Laughed because it’s foolish,” another shot back.
My attention is interrupted by the arrival of the committee. They’ve come in one big group, and I smile and greet everyone enthusiastically. Kate’s here, too, and I rise to give her a huge hug. God, I’ve missed her. I’ve missed everyone.
“How was everyone’s Thanksgiving?” I ask, smiling and looking around.
“Good, good,” they answer, but it doesn’t take me long to realize that no one’s making a lot of eye contact. In fact, no one’s really looking at me at all.
I feel a pain in my gut, a sharp pain that makes it hard to breathe. “Everything okay?” I ask quietly.
My question is greeted by silence. There’s my answer, I think as the pain in my gut spreads, radiating out, making me feel sick. Panicked.
Finally Kate looks at me. “The PTA board is worried about this year’s auction. The auction is just three months away, and the board is concerned that the auction is floundering.”
“But everything is right where it should be,” I answer, a little surprised by Kate’s comment but not unduly troubled. The auction’s stressful. Every year we have little dramas and disappointments during the planning. “Our procurement is right on target, and when the invitations go out in the mail after the holidays, we’ll work with the PTA board to push the ticket sales.”
No one says anything. These women, people I think of as friends, just stare into their coffee cups.
“Taylor, they’ve asked me to step in.” Kate sits tall. “They want me involved.”
I try to overlook the vote of no confidence. “That’s great, Kate. I’d love to have your help. The auction’s a huge project, and with Patti gone, I could use a co-chair—”
“They’re not talking co-chair.”
My heart hammers harder. My smile slips. “I don’t understand.”
“Taylor, you don’t have the big corporate sponsors yet, and usually at this point we have the corporate under-writing in place.”
I look steadily at Kate. “I’m confused. You and your husband are usually the auction’s biggest underwriters. You’ve underwritten the auction for the past five years. Are you saying you’re not underwriting the auction this year?”
“No, we’re not.” Kate gives me my answer while looking past my shoulder rather than in my eye.
“Why not?”
Her eyebrows pull. She looks pained that we’re even having this conversation. I’m pained, too. Kate’s my friend. We’ve been friends for years. “It’s a lot of money, Taylor.”
I know it’s a lot of money. It’s close to twenty thousand dollars. But they do it every year. They’re our Gold Sponsor, our Points Angel, every year.
When I say nothing, Kate is forced to continue. “Bill and I have discussed it, and we’re not comfortable underwriting the auction as it stands. We’re not sure it’s a wise investment.”
“What?” I choke, flushing.
“Taylor, there’s concern about your ability to manage such a large fund-raiser—”
“That’s absurd. I’ve been involved with fund-raising for years.”
“People are talking, Taylor, you might as well know it. The consensus seems to be that if you can’t manage your personal finances, how can you be responsible for the school finances?”
“But we’re working as a group. We work by committee.”
Amelia now clears her throat. This is Amelia’s first meeting. “The board felt it wasn’t wise to have you chairing an auction of this size.”
“What?”
Amelia presses on. “Now if Patti were still here—”
“But she’s not,” I interrupt fiercely.
For the first time, Kate looks sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Taylor, the board is asking that you step down as chair and allow someone else from the committee to assume the leadership role.”
I can’t believe it. Can’t. Kate’s my friend. She’s been my friend for years. “And if I don’t?”
Amelia, Kate, and Louisa exchange quick glances. “The committee chairs met last night, and we put the issue to a vote. The school administration has already been notified. You’ve been removed from your position.”
“So it’s done? Decided?” I look at them, not able to believe that women I know, women I cons
ider friends, would go behind my back to have me removed in a vote of no confidence.
“If we can just have your binder and notes,” Barb says terribly gently, “it’ll help the transition process and ensure we don’t lose further momentum.”
I still haven’t accepted it. I can’t accept it. This is such a huge power play, and I won’t be played. “No momentum has been lost. We’re still right on target, if not ahead—”
“We need the Gold Sponsors.” Amelia cuts me short. Her tone is crisp, no-nonsense, and I suddenly remember where we met and why I’m not comfortable with her. Her husband works at McKee Holding Company, Nathan’s former company. Her husband may have even replaced Nathan.
“Without the Points Angel,” she continues, “we don’t have a successful auction.”
I look at Kate. Her expression is pinched. “Kate,” I say softly, pleadingly, “you’re the underwriter, you’re the Points Angel. Work with me.”
Kate shakes her head. “I would, but Bill won’t. He’s not comfortable.” Her voice drops. “Taylor, you must understand . . . so much has happened in the past few months, so much has changed . . .”
I reach for her hand, clasp her fingers. “But I haven’t changed. I’m still me.”
Kate squeezes my fingers. “People are worried.”
“About what? That I’d embezzle money?”
“No, God, no.” Kate looks stricken. “It’s just that to effectively chair the auction, one has to be a good leader.”
“I’m not?” When she doesn’t answer, anger surges through me. Nathan and I are trying to be responsible. We’re trying to do the right thing. How else would people have us handle our mistakes? What would they have us do? Just continue to fake it? Digging deeper and deeper into debt?
Maybe the right thing doesn’t look all glossy and interesting, but it’s real.
Kate squeezes my hand again. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I am. If it were me, I’d do things differently.”
Louisa puts her hands on the table. “I think that covers it.”
Amelia nods, rises, and, as she leaves, nods at me again.
The meeting ends and they go, but I don’t. I sit at the small rounds I pushed together earlier, back when I was excited to see everyone and anticipating a good meeting.