I pour a glass of wine, all the way up to the rim, and drink it down an inch. Maybe I’m building up some Dutch courage. Maybe I want to piss off Malcolm. “Bullshit. Don’t give me that ‘everyone is equal’ crap.”
Anne comes into the kitchen with a bowl of ice cream that’s melted into soup. “What’s going on?” she says. “You guys having another husband and wife fight?”
She gets a sour smile from her father and an exasperated sigh from me.
“We’re leaving,” I tell her, changing the subject. Let Malcolm deal with that hardball. Let him figure out who the “we” is.
“What?” Anne spits the word. “Leaving for where?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “But I’ve got homecoming in a couple of weeks. And the math club. And the forensics team finals. And—”
I cut her off. “And your sister isn’t going to a federal boarding school. Period. The end.”
Her mouth opens, the jaw working up and down, up and down, while not a sound comes out of it.
“Go to your room, Anne,” Malcolm says, then he turns to face me, placing a hand on my arm. It’s not a gentle touch but a restraining weight. “Do you have any idea how much jeopardy my job would be in if we took off? I’m supposed to set an example, not be a poster boy for rule dodging. I work in the goddamned Department of Education.”
“I meant the girls and me.”
What emerges from his throat is a bark of a laugh, an explosive negation of my statement.
And then, less explosive and more sinister: “You’re not taking my daughter from me.”
Daughter. Singular.
“You don’t want Freddie here anymore, do you?” I say. “You don’t want her here at all.”
Malcolm says nothing, which really means he says it all.
I pull my hand away and drain my glass of wine. Malcolm gives me the eye, and I pour more until the bottle is nearly empty and the glass is brimming again. “Do you know how much jeopardy our family will be in if you don’t work this out, Malcolm?”
But my words have no force in them, and Malcolm only smiles.
FOURTEEN
I leave Malcolm stewing in the kitchen and go to Freddie’s room with my wineglass and a mountain of chocolate-vanilla-strawberry. If only it were that easy, leaving. Walk out the door with a few suitcases and a credit card and the keys to the Acura. And Freddie and Anne, too.
Nothing is easy these days. The Fitter Family Campaign created obstacles I never saw coming, which is a testament to my own optimism. Or stupidity. Who knows? Maybe optimism and stupidity are siblings.
Headlines from the past decade flash in front of me in the dark of the hallway.
STUDENT PERFORMANCE UP SINCE INTRODUCTION OF TIER SYSTEM
DIVORCE RATES PLUMMET—INCREASED WAITING TIMES TO THANK—KIDS SPEAK OUT!
EDUCATORS ENJOY INCREASED JOB SATISFACTION, SAYS NEW STUDY
COUNTRY ON FAST TRACK TO HIGHEST HAPPINESS QUOTIENT IN OVER A CENTURY
PRENATAL Q + REPRODUCTIVE FREEDOM =
INFORMED CHOICES FOR WOMEN!
STAND BACK, CHINA—AMERICA SOARS LIKE AN EAGLE
And so on, and so on, and so on.
No one remembers anymore how bad things had gotten, how we’d nose-dived into a second-rate economy, how college degrees had become as worthless as the fake sheepskin they were printed on, how the elementary schools had stagnated through years of anorexic budgets and overcrowding and teachers’ union strikes. They need reminders.
That’s where Madeleine Sinclair’s monthly State of Education addresses come in handy. Where Petra Peller’s ever-evolving genetic testing propaganda helps to squelch any fears before they boil up to the surface. Where the Fitter Family Campaign’s endless rallies and public service announcements—Do you want to go back? Do you want single parents and latchkey kids again? Do you want to worry about your children’s future while paying for other people’s children?—serve as frequent pokes to anyone who might require a refresher course in how far behind we fell in the game and how far we’ve come.