The Admissions (25 page)

It was five o’clock on the Friday after Thanksgiving. A quiet day, of course, but Arthur went in anyway. You never knew when something might happen. Grace came in for two hours and then slunk out.

Arthur was starving. After Grace’s departure, the office was empty. Only Arthur remained—Arthur, and the ghost of Jimmy Wainwright, Arthur’s business partner for so many years. The Jacob Marley to Arthur’s Scrooge, though Arthur and Jimmy were nice men, charitable men, men who contributed to the community and would never say an unkind or judgmental word about the poor. Linda dragged Arthur to the American Conservatory Theater’s production of
A Christmas Carol
at the Geary each December, and Arthur always felt a tear or two develop in his eyes during the first act, when poor old Ebenezer worked alone in his office. You weren’t supposed to feel sympathy for Scrooge in the first act, Arthur knew this, but he allowed himself the exquisitely painful luxury of it anyway. It had been ten years since Jimmy died and Arthur missed him like crazy. He couldn’t bear to remove his name from the business, and so he kept it there, as homage, faithfully, the way a hunter might display in his lodge a photo of a beloved and expired coonhound.

Tonight it would fall to Arthur to turn off the lights and lock the door. Two years ago, right before bringing Nora Hawthorne back on, Sutton and Wainwright had combined its original office space with the vacant office next door—a failed cupcake bakery—and renovated the office, adding exposed brick where there was none, and brushed metal signs with the firm’s name printed in a sophisticated-but-not-overly-trendy font, and a table with a top-of-the-line cappuccino machine.

Wow, he was really, really hungry. He felt a sudden and intense pang of nostalgia for the way Linda had cooked when they first met, six hundred and fifty-two years ago: spaghetti carbonara, rich with bacon fat and cream. Beef Wellington. Bourbon shrimp flambé. Linda had been an energetic and bold cook, not afraid of sauces or cream or butter. Especially butter. She’d try anything. She’d eat anything, drink anything, go anywhere. She was up for whatever.

Linda and Arthur Sutton spoke of baby Dawn only once a year, on her birthday, the fourth of December, and the rest of the year they said nothing. People who hadn’t known them then didn’t know about it. No need; Arthur Sutton didn’t want anybody’s pity. Life was hard on everybody, in one way or another. Who didn’t carry a little heartbreak around with them, tucked away somewhere? All things considered, he was fortunate. He had his marriage, which he treasured above and beyond everything else in the world. He still worshipped his wife’s body, all these years later, and making love to her, as he did often, and gratefully, still felt like the elegant magic it had been the very first time. He had his work, which he also treasured. He was a lucky, lucky man, living in the Bay Area, in a gorgeous home purchased three decades ago and renovated into urban perfection. He felt only occasional yearnings for Connecticut, where he had grown up, for his parents, long since passed away, for his old faithful golden retriever, for the playing fields at Brunswick School, where he’d come of age as a day student.

But sometimes, looking at Nora Hawthorne’s daughters, and at Nora herself (though of course Arthur wasn’t quite old enough to be Nora’s father), he imagined what could have been, and the sense of melancholy he felt for Dawn was nearly enough to undo him. Cecily in particular: there was a joy about her, a vivacity, that he knew Dawn would have had. Linda sensed this too, he was sure of this, though again they never spoke of it. Every Christmas, approximately one week after
A Christmas Carol,
Linda took Nora and her three girls to see
The Nutcracker
at the Opera House. After, they had hot chocolate at Tosca Cafe. It was one of the highlights of Linda’s year, and they had carried on with the tradition even during Nora’s hiatus from the job.

Arthur looked through the snack basket next to the cappuccino machine. Grace faithfully filled the basket each day before leaving, which was good, but she purchased the snacks on the advice of Linda, which was bad. Everything was all-natural, gluten free, sugar free, soy free. Taste free!

Because of Linda’s latest cleanse, Arthur had no hope of a good meal at home. Linda had expunged from the house all grains and dairy, and she had relegated to the locked wine room anything remotely alcoholic. Thank goodness for Nora’s Thanksgiving meal the day before. Though Nora had been acting a little mercurial, had she not? It wasn’t just Nora, actually—the whole Hawthorne family had seemed a little off, not quite their usual sunny selves.

A complicated business, family life.

Not that he would know.

Arthur wanted a thick steak, a baked potato with butter, and a good Scotch followed by a glass of Cabernet. He wondered if he could get a seat at the bar at Alexander’s without a reservation. Worth a shot? Maybe. He was putting on his coat—the fall evenings were downright chilly now—when the office phone rang. He hesitated. He could taste the steak already, the Scotch, the Cab. But: five o’clock on the Friday after Thanksgiving. That wasn’t a typical time for the office phone to ring. It could be important.

“Sutton and Wainwright,” he said.
Scrooge and Marley.

“Arthur! Sally Bentley. I was hoping to reach Nora.”

Arthur said, “Sally!” with more enthusiasm than he felt. “Hello there. Nora’s off for the day from the office. Did you try her cell?”

“No, I didn’t try her cell.” Sally sounded as though she’d rushed to answer the phone, even though she was the one who had called. “But I wanted to catch up with her, about the Watkins listing. I know she must be feeling…ah, how shall I say it? Frustrated? Disappointed? Maybe a teensy bit envious?”

“Envious?” said Arthur. Why would Nora be feeling envious about the Watkins listing? Arthur waited, thought about the baked potato. Butter.
And
sour cream. It wouldn’t kill him to have both, this—

“Oh,
Arthur,
” said Sally regretfully. “I thought for sure you knew, about the listing. That Lawrence canceled with you all, and is listing with me. I’m so sorry, Arthur. I just
hate
to be the bearer of unwelcome tidings.”

Arthur experienced several undesirable sensations all at once: cold and hot, fury and indignation, a curious suctioning feeling in his gut that he recalled feeling only once before, when he and Linda did a wine tasting in Napa followed by a balloon ride (you were supposed to do it the other way around).

It was ruined now: the seat at the bar at Alexander’s, the Scotch. Even the goddamn sour cream was ruined. He had never lost a listing to Sally Bentley. She might have represented volume, but Sutton and Wainwright represented
class.
Look at the exposed brick in the office, look at the cappuccino machine!

“And I hate to kick a person when they’re down, Arthur.”

“Who’s down?” said Arthur. “I’m not down. I couldn’t be more up.” In fact he was starting to feel a little bit down.

“Why, about what happened at the Millers’ house, of course. Over on Sycamore. Last week.”

Millers, Millers. Rang a bell, yes, Nora’s listing, some time ago. Sycamore. Yes. Slightly difficult buyers, but nothing Nora couldn’t handle. She’d handled them beautifully, in fact. With grace and aplomb, typical of Nora. It was coming back to him now. The Millers on Sycamore. Beautiful home.

“Loretta didn’t call you? I thought for
sure
she’d call you. You know I’ve known Loretta forever, it’s just that I never got along with her husband—long story, Arthur, pretty hilarious, remind me and I’ll tell you sometime. Really just a big misunderstanding. In fact, that’s why they approached your office and not mine when they were looking to buy. Which was a blow to me, of course. I’ve always been in favor of letting bygones be bygones—”

“What on earth,” said Arthur testily, “are you talking about, Sally?” Forget the potato. Now he just wanted the Scotch, and the Cabernet. Maybe an order of the shichimi fries. His stomach muttered.

“I’m talking about Nora. At the Millers’ house. You know about this, right? Oh my goodness, Arthur, wait a minute, do you really not
know
about this?
Nora
didn’t tell you?
Loretta
didn’t call you? Well, they haven’t been back from Maui for more than three or four days but I thought for sure she’d call you immediately.”

Arthur listened. His stomach dropped down, then down again, into a place he hadn’t known it could go. He was no longer hungry and he wasn’t thirsty; he didn’t want the Scotch nor the Cabernet nor the shichimi fries.

Well, maybe the Scotch.

Definitely the Scotch.

S
TATE
L
ANDMARK
R
EPORT
By Cecily Hawthorne
Mrs. Whitney’s 4th Grade Class

The Golden Gate Bridge is one of California’s most famous landmarks. It is also one of the most famous bridges in the world. It opened to cars on May 28, 1937. The day before people were allowed to walk across it. There was a line of people waiting to cross by 6 a.m. that day. There were 18,000 people in the line. One man walked across the Bridge and back again on stilts the first day it was open! His name was Florentine Calegeri, and he was really good on stilts.

The Golden Gate is not golden. Many visitors to San Francisco think it is going to be and are surprised. The Bridge got its name because it goes over the Golden Gate Strait. The strait was named by a person in the United States Army in 1846.

Eleven men died building the Golden Gate Bridge. 96 men died building the Hoover Dam, which opened one year earlier, in 1936. So that is an interesting number. You would think a lot more people might die building such a big bridge. Ten of the men died in one single accident on the bridge when it was almost done. Everybody who worked on the bridge had to wear a safety belt and a hard hat. There was a safety net put under the bridge during the building and that saved 19 men. The net allowed the men to work faster than they would have because they were not afraid of falling and dying, which I would be if I worked on that bridge. The ten men who died were all on a piece that fell through the net. That must have been really scary.

The Golden Gate Bridge is a Suspension Bridge. The Golden Gate is not the longest suspension bridge in the world. But it used to be. Now it is ninth. The longest one is in Japan and other long ones are in China, Hong Kong, Denmark, and New York.

You can still walk or drive across the bridge. I have done it and it is fun. It is 1.7 miles long. It can be tiring if you have to walk back across. A good idea is to have someone pick you up at the other end. Some of the things that are not allowed on the bridge are electric scooters, roller blades, roller skates, and dogs unless they are service dogs. Also you can’t bring a wheelbarrow, not that you really would want to! You also cannot scatter ashes from the Bridge. You aren’t allowed to drop or throw anything at all. If you do you will get in big trouble.

The Golden Gate Bridge is one of the most popular suicide destinations in the world! But lots of people are saved every year by Bridge Patrol or by regular people who happen to be on the bridge. So that’s good. Sometimes people jump from the bridge and survive, but not very often. Usually if you jump you die. Bridge Patrol officers use patrol cars, bicycles, and motorized scooters to go back and forth across the bridge and to try to stop people from jumping.

The chief engineer of the bridge was Joseph Strauss. He died in Los Angeles almost exactly one year after the bridge was done. There was also another man that had a lot to do with the design of the bridge but he had a big fight with Joseph Strauss so Joseph Strauss got all of the credit. The other man finally got credit in 2007.

There are 600,000 rivets in each tower. A rivet is a pin or bolt that holds together two pieces of metal. The Golden Gate Bridge did not get damaged in the famous earthquake in 1989. The Bay Bridge did. That’s a different bridge that goes to Oakland.

The color of the bridge is called international orange. The bridge is always being painted a little bit at a time. The U.S. Navy wanted the bridge to be painted with black and yellow stripes to make it easy to see. But they didn’t get their way.

The Golden Gate Bridge is one of California’s most famous landmarks. To many people it is what they think of when they think of San Francisco.

December

It was five o’clock in the evening and Angela was parking (badly) on Fillmore Street. Her mother had wanted to accompany her—embarrassing, but kind of sweet—and now that she was trying to parallel park she sort of wished she’d taken her up on the offer. Angela had many fortes, but parallel parking was not one of them.

This was Angela’s interview with a Harvard alumnus.

“I can do this alone!” she insisted.

See me,
the note from Ms. Simmons had said on her extended essay, and she burned with shame, thinking about it. She couldn’t even meet Ms. Simmons’s eyes in class anymore.

“I won’t come
in
with you,” her mother said. “I’ll just make sure you make it there safely, and then I’ll leave you to it. I’ll go get a cup of coffee.”

“I thought you didn’t drink coffee after one in the afternoon.”

“I’ll get a decaf.”

Maya, piping up from the living room: “You could have wine.”

“I don’t drink wine at five o’clock on a Wednesday.”

“Yes, you do. Sometimes you drink it earlier.”

“Okay, Maya, that’s enough out of you.”

Angela wanted to go it alone. She wanted it to be perfect. She dressed carefully, in an outfit she’d chosen from J.Crew earlier in the fall for exactly this purpose—gray toothpick pants, an embroidered tank, and a matching cardigan, all of which she would probably never wear again. Wasn’t her style. She could hand it down to Cecily, except it
definitely
wasn’t Cecily’s style. Also Cecily was almost as tall as Angela. Maybe one day it would be Maya’s style. Did Maya have a style? Not yet, but she’d get one. Everybody did, eventually.

Nope, she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t parallel park in the city this close to rush hour. She pulled out of the space—only the nose of the car was in there anyway—and found a garage, forking over thirty-three (?!) of the forty dollars her mother had given her for this very reason.

Susan Holloway, class of ’76, was a partner at an environmental law firm: Bennett, Collins, Holloway. All of the names seemed very lawyerly. Angela understood only in a general sense what environmental lawyers did; she hoped it didn’t come up. She was ushered from the main lobby, which was decorated with tastefully framed photographs of waterfalls and breaching humpback whales, into Susan Holloway’s office by an assistant with a perfect blond bun and a tasteful suntan. She must, Angela decided, following her down a long bright hallway, use one of those doughnut things to get the bun so perfect. Angela had tried to use one before but could never get it right. Cecily was really good at using doughnuts; she used them with her Irish dance wig. Back when she used to wear an Irish dance wig.

“Okay,” said the assistant, letting air out through a space between her front teeth. “She’ll be with you in just a moment.” Angela sat in the chair the assistant pointed to and braced herself. She pictured Susan Holloway, class of ’76, as tall and sternly Scandinavian, maybe like an Old Norse princess. Watching through the fog while the ships rolled in.

Deep breath. She dug her fingernails into her palms. She felt like she was waiting for a doctor to examine her.

“
Hello.
You must be Angela. Who else would you be!”

Angela turned, rose. Susan Holloway, class of ’76, turned out to be one of the few adult females over whom Angela towered. It was refreshing. She had tight little dark curls
(a crown of curls?)
and thin lips that disappeared when she smiled. She looked like a friendly hamster. She looked like the one Cecily had brought home that one weekend.

Angela cleared her throat, channeled her mother, and said, “It’s so, so nice to meet you, Ms. Holloway. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”

If it was possible, Susan Holloway smiled harder; the smiling looked almost like physical exertion. A little vein popped out in the center of her forehead.

“That’s a nice firm handshake you have there, Angela. Who taught you that?”

“My father.” Angela thought of her father’s giant rancher’s hands, brown and strong. He used to birth calves with those hands. Disgusting, of course, but also fascinating.

“Well. Good for him. Thank you for coming out to my office. Any trouble finding the place?” Angela shook her head, trying not to think about the botched parallel parking job. “No? Just shot right over the bridge from Marin, did you? I love Marin. I always said if I ever leave the city that’s where I’d land. But I never left, so I never needed to land!” She paused, and into the space she left Angela inserted a noise that was supposed to be a laugh but that sounded like
humpgh.
“Anyway, I really do appreciate it. I used to conduct these interviews from my home, in the evening, but I think the office just makes so much more sense. People tend to be a bit more at ease in a formal setting, ironically enough. And now I don’t have to make sure the kitchen is cleaned up!”

Susan Holloway sat down and Angela regained her seat in front of the desk. “I’m so sorry,” said Susan Holloway, “that I have to sit behind this giant desk. I used to have two chairs in front of the desk but it seems as if someone has absconded with one of them.”

Angela laughed agreeably. Susan Holloway sort of scared Angela. She was like a hummingbird on Red Bull—even when she was sitting still she gave the impression of darting about.

“Can I offer you anything? Water? Tea? Or did Alva already offer you something?”

Alva.
So she was the Scandinavian one, the assistant. “No, thank you, Ms. Holloway. I’m goo— I’m fine, thank you.” Ms. Simmons:
You are good, in general. At least I hope you are. But in this situation you are fine.

“Oh, let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we? Although I do appreciate it. Just Susan, please.”

“Okay.
Susan.
”

“What a sweet smile you have, Angela, and beautiful blue eyes. I couldn’t say that if I were a man interviewing you, could I? But here I am, a woman, so I am free to comment. Doesn’t seem quite fair, does it? I came of age—
professionally speaking
—in the late seventies. Where nothing seemed quite right. These interviews are often as much of a learning experience for me as they are for Harvard, you know! Though I do tend to babble on. You must let me know if I’m babbling, will you do that? Yes? No? I hope you will. I’m just looking through your file here, Angela. I reviewed it before you came in. The academics are stellar, of course. No surprise there. We don’t get many early-action applicants who are not. In some sense you’re all starting from the same place in that respect, are you not?”

Ooof. True enough, but Angela didn’t need to hear it. She leaned forward in her chair and tried to appear alert but not overly eager, the way she’d rehearsed in the mirror at home. This in itself was difficult; she almost tipped right out of her chair.

There was that voice again, sniping at her.
Higher, Angela. Faster. More more more.
There were the voodoo-doll pinpricks. There she was, wanting it so much it literally hurt.

“So why don’t you tell me about your extracurricular activities. That’s always the first question they like us to ask. They’re stricter about the format here than you might guess. We have meetings and so forth where they tell us how to do this, check in with us. Give us tips. Make sure we’re still
worthy.
So far I’ve passed the test, I guess. Which is good for me. I like to keep tabs on what the younger people are up to. Anyway, I have it all here on my sheet, of course. But I like to hear you tell it to me yourself. So I get a real sense of things, of what’s important to you. So anytime you’re ready. Why don’t you start with your varsity sports.”

Deep breath. Deeper. She’d practiced this one. “Well. My sport is mostly…I mean, these days, it’s running. I used to swim and play lacrosse and soccer. But it got to the point where I had to pick one. So I picked running.”

Susan smiled again, the lips pulled tight across her front teeth. “A runner! I was a runner, back when I still had my own knees. The artificial ones just don’t
bend
as much, you know?”

Angela didn’t know, but she nodded and smiled as though she did.

“But they are supposed to be astonishingly enduring. This last one should take me almost to the end.”

Another smile: her politest, smartest, Ivy Leaguest smile.

“Wonderful sport,” said Susan. “Best distance?”

“Cross-country. Five kilometers on the track.” What a nerd she was. Nobody liked a 5K on the track; it was simply the ugly truth that she didn’t have the speed for anything shorter.

“A distance runner! I was a sprinter, myself.” Angela was surprised that Susan Holloway’s hummingbird legs had enough muscle to get her through a sprint. “Never quite had the endurance for the distance. Seemed like a lot of pain for not much reward. Although I’m sure you feel differently.”

Actually, Angela didn’t. “I’d be a sprinter if I could. But I don’t have the speed.”

“Grass is always greener,” said Susan. “Am I right?”

Damn straight,
thought Angela.

“What else? Music?”

Practice, Angela, practice.

“Well. I’ve been in the all-county band for three years now.”

Did you practice?

“Instrument?”

“Flute.”

“Wonderful. A beautiful instrument.”

Angela, don’t forget your music book. Don’t forget your cleats. Your bathing suit. Your book report, your science fair project, Angela. Your lunch.

“I’m an officer in my school’s chapter of the National Honor Society.” (
See me,
in Ms. Simmons’s felt tip.)

“Position?”

“Secretary.”

“Okay. Well, still counts as a position, right?”

She should have gone for vice president. There was a sensation in her stomach she couldn’t put a name to. Not exactly nausea, but maybe nausea’s younger cousin.

“And, let’s see, French Club. Any officer position?”

“Vice president.”

So there.

“That’s fine. Next?”

“Senior-class president, this year,” said Angela, wondering what, exactly, Susan Holloway meant when she said, “Fine.” Also, she should have led with senior-class president. What was wrong with her. What was
wrong
with her? Was she flubbing up the interview? Her heart was starting to race. Also, there seemed to be a small creature (a woodland fairy?) inside her skull, banging on it with a mallet.

“Wonderful. That’s the big kahuna, as they say. Maybe not as big as student government president.”

That was Henrietta. Damn it.

“But still, big. If I were you, I would have led with that. But never mind. It all comes out in the wash, doesn’t it?”

Does it? And a woodland fairy wouldn’t be mean enough to bang with a mallet, would it? She’d have to ask Maya. Maya knew everything about fairies.

“What else?”

Angela, did you find a charity organization yet? Harvard’s going to want to see that, you know. Start thinking about it. Two charities, if you can.

“Student Sharing—that’s where we do volunteer outings. For example, ah, last month we attended a Justice Education Day at the Saint Anthony Foundation in the Tenderloin. In the spring we’re planning a fund-raiser for the new dining room they’re building.”

“Very rewarding, I’m sure.”

“It was. And…let’s see. Speech and Debate.”

“How did you find that?”

Angela scratched her palm. If her mother had been here she would have said,
How did I find it? I looked it up on Google. Ha ha ha.
Her mother loved a corny joke. And her dad liked her mom’s sense of humor. But maybe the intern was funnier.

Duh. Even Angela knew that people did not generally begin affairs because the new person was
funnier
than the person they were married to.

Angela hated Speech and Debate. “Well. I liked it. I get nervous, sometimes, talking in front of people. But my aunt in Rhode Island is a lawyer, she works with some really tough cases, and so I guess I try to imagine sometimes that I’m her when I’m up there. That someone’s life depends on how I do, you know? That helps. She’s a really good lawyer.”

When was she going to say something to her mother about the intern? She’d told herself it would be after she submitted the Harvard application, but now she realized she was waiting to find out if she got in before she stepped up her investigation.

“I like that. I like that answer very much. Very honest. Just hang on a second while I note that down…Okay, noted. Please go on.”

Angela felt extremely pleased by that, the noting down. Excellent sign.

“The last three years I did Best Buddies, but not this year.”

“Is that some sort of a dog charity thing? You’d think I would know every activity out there, having done these interviews for so long. But every school does things differently.”

Angela smiled. “Um, no, it’s not a dog charity. It’s working with disabled students. Sometimes, um, before or after school, but sometimes having lunch with them, that sort of thing.”
Stop saying um.

“I see. Did you like it?”

“I loved it.” This was one hundred percent true. There was a girl in their school, Mary Lou Wilkerson, with cerebral palsy. Angela ate lunch with her twice a month junior year. She had terrible depth perception, the worst. It killed Angela every time she helped her with her lunch tray, it just about did her in to watch what a mess Mary Lou was, and how she just kept trying anyway, just kept keeping on, smiling her lopsided smile, eating her French fries.
God.
Poor Mary Lou. Angela had to blink rapidly a few times to get herself back into interview mode.

“What did you like about it?”

“I, ah, well.”
Don’t say ah, either.
“I liked helping. I liked trying to see my world through their eyes, and their world through mine. It’s so competitive at my school. It was really nice to step away from that for a little while, and just
be,
you know? Just try to make someone laugh.” She thought,
Nailed it,
and then instantly felt like the worst person in the universe. Using Mary Lou Wilkerson for her own gain like that. She was definitely a monster.