The Bowl with Gold Seams. Ellen Prentiss Campbell

you. We’ll meet with him on Monday. At eight, in my office.”

      I called Sally. “Basically, they want me to accept his resignation. Course of least resistance.”

      “Maybe you should. There might be a lot of suffering for him and Angelique.”

      “Maybe Rosa Parks should have moved to the back of the bus. Maybe William Penn should have taken off his hat to the king.”

      “Don’t lecture me,” she said. “I’m just saying I’m worried—about the girl, Jacques, Angelique. You.”

      “Thank you. Sorry.”

      “Do you need me to call Jacques?”

      “I already did.”

      “And?”

      “I told him I want him to stay. He wants to resign. We’re meeting with Abel Monday morning at eight.”

      “Do you want me there?”

      “No, thanks. Maybe I should skip the conference tomorrow.”

      “Go. Let this settle. Clear your mind.”

      I threw my things together—nightgown, toothbrush, outfit for tomorrow. Spritzed Aliage, perfume Ted had given me, which I never wore at school. I drove too fast down the driveway between our playing fields and hit a speed bump. My car is low slung; I’m still getting used to the extravagant red Toyota Celica. The first new car I’ve ever owned. Ted calls it my late mid-life crisis car. It’s a bit embarrassing to park it among the Volvos at Meeting. But driving through the dark night toward Washington with the top down, I pressed the accelerator to the floor.

      The carpet at the Shoreham Hotel is deep as moss, and the chandeliers sparkle. It’s the grande dame of Washington hotels. We didn’t need to worry about running into any of our colleagues here. No one but Ted on his Maplewood expense account could afford it. I rode the glossy wood-paneled elevator up. Ted greeted me at the door in his boxers. He’s a small, compact man—a runner.

      “It’s good to see you, doll,” he said, kissing me. He’s a good kisser. “Hungry? Want room service?” he asked when we broke apart.

      “I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”

      “Sounds good to me,” he said, and ran a finger tenderly down my face, my neck, along my clavicle.

      The sheets were heavy and smooth. He gave me a massage, kneading the tight muscles in my back, lavishing attention on my buttocks. We made love.

      Afterward, lying beside him, I began to cry.

      “What is it?” he said. “You never cry.”

      “This thing at school.”

      “Tell me.”

      “I’d rather hear what’s going on with you. Did Jack like Bowdoin?”

      “I don’t want to talk about that, either,” he said with a rueful laugh. “His mother went off her meds again. Went to bed. He had to go on the visit by himself. She wouldn’t do the hospital. Or day treatment. She’s seeing the shrink twice a week. It’s better. For now.”

      I met his wife once, long before Ted and I were lovers, back when we were all teachers, attending a Friends Council for Education conference.

      “Your turn,” he said.

      “I don’t want to talk about it.”

      ”You’re crying again.”

      I told him.

      “Oh, Hazel,” he said. “Shit. As if the job weren’t hard enough, and then something like this blows up.”

      That’s part of what works between us. We both get it, about the job. We sustain each other, even if it’s just on the margins of our lives. I’m married to my job; he’s married to his job and his wife and has had to be father and mother to Jack. We’ve been lovers ten years, longer than I’ve ever been with anyone. Years and years longer than my marriage.

      “Abel wants me to take his resignation.”

      “Maybe you should. The kid is definitely lying?”

      “I’m as sure as I can be. You know—it’s that instinct thing.”

      “Are you sure this is worth going down with the ship?”

      “You mean there’s not much of a market for elderly head mistresses, if I lose the job?” Ted’s five years younger than I am: fifty-five. We both know you can’t do this job forever. It’s a tough gig, but most days I feel like I’m doing what I was put on earth to do. I love it.

      “Hazel—it’s just your best interest I have in mind.”

      “Best interest! I’d be happy never to hear those words again.” I went to the window. He came and put his arms around me.

      “Come back to bed.”

      “Soon,” I said. “Go to sleep.” I stayed there for a long time, watching the car lights twinkle across the bridge over the ravine.

      The next morning, we ate breakfast in bed.

      “Eat hearty,” Ted said. “You know it’s going to be the eternal chicken salad today at Penn House.”

      I took his advice and enjoyed my brioche, the butter curls on ice, the coffee from a silver pot. It was good, being beside him, warm animals in a burrow. We ate; we read the Post, the Times.

      “Here’s a story for the kids in your seminar,” he said. “Reagan’s so-called peace proposal in Nicaragua.”

      My Peace Studies seminar is the only course I teach now. I tie history to current events.

      “Mark it for me. How about seeing this, next time we can meet in the City? New Neil Simon. Biloxi Blues.”

      “What’s it about?” he asked.

      “Soldier on the G.I. newspaper. Guilty about how the war is helping him.”

      “Speaking of guilty—come here.”

      Afterward, we dressed.

      “That a new jacket?” he asked.

      “An early birthday present. The weaving teacher made it. She says when you turn sixty you have to start wearing purple.” My birthday wasn’t until June but the teacher (also my friend as often happens at Clear Spring) understood the approaching milestone felt significant, even a little frightening. Both my parents died young; far younger than I am. For years I have had an increasing sense of being on borrowed time; everything I do must matter. The weaving teacher’s frivolous gift and fashion advice had cheered me.

      “You’re getting a head start on this birthday. I’d better start planning.”

      We shared the mirror. I did my makeup, enjoying the neat economy of his gestures as he tied his tie, fastened cuff links.

      “Leave your stuff. I have the room tonight.”

      “I should get back.”

      “Tomorrow. You’ll think more clearly after a break.”

      “Won’t think at all, if I spend the night.”

      I gathered my things, packed my bag. I did stick to my resolve. I did not spend the night with him. But although I had no way to know it then, the conference would disrupt everything. The past was about to grab me by the throat and drag me away from the crisis at school.

      We travelled separately to the conference at Penn House on Capitol Hill. I parked on C Street. I come into the city as often as I can, on field trips. Soon, we would make our annual school bus pilgrimage to see the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin. Vigilantes tried to destroy these trees after Pearl Harbor, I tell my kids in Peace Studies, because the Japanese gave them to Mrs. Taft.

      But the trees didn’t