Black Mirror by Nancy Werlin
Saskia laughed. “I bet! Okay, we go through here, Frances.” I followed her through another door, but as I did, I glanced over my shoulder. Andy was just settling himself again into the chair. “Boring,” he repeated softly. “I could do something else. If there were something else.” His eyes were on mine. I thought he looked sad.
I shrugged helplessly at him. He shrugged back.
CHAPTER 15
“Okay,” said Saskia as we moved into a giant open room. I looked around with interest.
This space had clearly once been the factory floor. Although it had now been emptied of everything connected with its past life, you could still see marks on the wide-planked floorboards where heavy machinery had once stood.
I could easily imagine those machines because, unlike this place, Leventhal Shoes had not been so comprehensively stripped. One rainy afternoon, the summer after we’d moved to Lattimore, Daniel had broken a window and we’d sneaked in to gawk at the grimy, useless old machines. For an instant the scene was vivid in my memory. If I were to close my eyes, I could almost be with Daniel again on that day. The way the musty air smelled, the creaking of the planks beneath our feet …
I kept my eyes open.
Saskia was gesturing largely at the room. Her voice had slipped into a singsong that told me she’d given this talk countless times. “As you can see, Unity has grown into much more than a food pantry, though we still tend to call it that. In fact, there’s so much we do nowadays, the only real question is where to begin talking about it.”
I nodded and gazed around the room as she spoke.
The factory floor had been divided into lots of different sections, each labeled with a handmade poster board sign. I could see “Canned and Dried Goods,” “Women’s Clothing,” “Scholarship Program,” “Toys,” “Children’s Clothing,” “Shoes,” “Agency Referrals,” “Packing and Transportation,” “Emergency Cash Assistance,” and, more mundanely, directly to our left in an enclosed section, “Office.” There weren’t many people around, although I could see the backs of a couple working in the “Packing” area. And in the “Emergency Cash Assistance” area, I recognized George de Witt with a cellular telephone clamped to his ear. He was intently taking notes on a piece of paper.
“Frances, let’s dump our coats in the office before I give you the tour,” Saskia said. “The heat in this place is always either completely on or completely off, and as you can tell, today it seems to be on.”
It was stifling, I realized. Slowly I unbuttoned my coat, conscious that I was wearing what I suddenly thought of as an “Andy outfit”—an old flannel shirt and jeans. And Daniel’s salvaged gray scarf around my neck. Meanwhile Saskia had revealed a deep blue boucle sweater. Very cute.
Why was I noticing her clothes so much today? I didn’t know. She was always well dressed. It was nothing new.
Maybe she scavenged from the “Women’s Clothing” area.
I followed her into the office where, to my surprise, we found Patrick Leyden. Did he never work at his own company? He was on the phone and immediately said, “Can you hold?” then put down the receiver and nodded at Saskia and me. “Frances, hello. Yvette told me you were rethinking things. I take it Saskia is showing you around?”
Yvette. That would be Ms. Wiles. I nodded. I hated that he called her by her first name.
“Good for you,” said Patrick Leyden blandly. He turned back to his phone call.
“This way,” said Saskia, and I trailed, like a duckling, after her.
“We’ll start in the canned goods area,” she said, “because that was where Unity Service really began, as a food distribution pantry. And now, well, there are sixty-three branches of Unity Service at private high schools all over the country. And growing. All in just seven and a half years.”
“It’s all due to Pat—Mr. Leyden, of course. It wasn’t enough that he was applying to Harvard, but he had time during his senior year at Pettengill to found Unity as well. And now he’s a millionaire at twenty-four, with his own company. And he’s here quite a bit, as you just saw. Doesn’t it just blow you away.”
A statement, not a question. Her voice was so chirpy now that I thought I might have to throw something at her. I nodded instead.
“Anyway. Canned goods.” Saskia escorted me to several banks of industrial shelving, stacked high with cans of corn and soup and green beans and—I squinted—mandarin oranges, and who knew what else. I listened while she talked about needy families getting monthly boxes, delivered by student-driven vans. “That’s everyone’s first job here, sorting cans into boxes for delivery. You’ll do it too. Like starting out in the mailroom of a company, Mr. Leyden says.”
I couldn’t help myself. I said, “I suppose Daniel sorted cans here too, then?”
There was a short silence. Saskia reached up and wrapped a strand of hair around her finger. Finally she said, “Yes. We worked here together freshman year.”
“Of course.” I fixed my eyes on the stacks of cans again.
We moved on to some of the other areas. The clothing and toy areas were similar to canned goods; packages were made and goods went out, as needed. “Pretty basic,” said Saskia. She was speaking more rapidly now, again as if she’d memorized lines. “We act as a central clearing-house for donations and redistribution. Of course, these days we’re pushing people to donate plain cash. That way we can buy what’s most needed, and not be stuck redistributing useless stuff that people really ought to throw out. And the cash infusions have helped us open up the Emergency Cash Assistance and Scholarship Programs, which are the most exciting things we’re doing.”
She didn’t sound very excited.
“That’s where the glamour is,” said Patrick Leyden behind us. I jumped, hearing his voice. Saskia, however, had already turned around, smoothly. I did too. “That’s where Unity’s future is,” he went on. “But of course I don’t need to remind you two of that. Without the Scholarship Program, neither of you would be here at all.”
I couldn’t help looking at Saskia. Was she angry to be lumped in with me? To be reminded of the scholarship?
She didn’t seem to be. “Absolutely,” she agreed.
Patrick Leyden looked at me straight on. “That’s why I’m glad you’ve changed your mind, Frances. It shows something good about your character. And if, as Yvette said, you might be willing after all to help out with the Daniel Leventhal Memorial Fund Drive, I truly think you’d be a big help. We’d like to expand forcefully into the middle schools, and the story of your brother presents a unique opportunity for publicity.”
I stood there.
Saskia was still smiling perkily.
“You don’t have to decide right away,” Patrick Leyden said to me. “I understand that you aren’t sure yet. But Yvette said that you were willing to give it some time, and trust.”
I thought uncontrollably of Andy’s advice. You can get up and go, Frances Leventhal. Nobody stops you.
But I wouldn’t leave. I had promised Ms. Wiles. She understood things better than I did. I would hold on. I would participate.
Saskia was looking at me. So was Patrick Leyden. I groped and said, “I’m really impressed with the, um, food pantry. With everything here.”
“Most people are impressed,” said Patrick Leyden calmly. “And the more they learn, the more impressed they get.”
I had heard James when he’d said not to create opportunities for violence. I believed in my gut that he knew, for whatever mysterious reason—a violent father? Some nasty situation at a previous school? A tough neighborhood?—exactly what he was talking about.
Nonetheless, for a moment there, my palm seemed to throb with need, and I’d have given anything to smack Patrick Leyden.
CHAPTER 16
I skipped dinner. I wasn’t hungry. Back in my room I kicked off my boots and curled up on the bed to breathe in the lavender scent of the pillows. Usually just being in my room, alone and quiet, would calm me, and after a while my pulse did slow.
I took a deep breath then, because the fact was, I wasn’t being reasonable, and I knew it. The Unity food pantry was impressive. They helped hundreds of people with all kinds of serious, everyday, wrenching problems. Problems of poverty, of despair. Was I heartless to look at all that and not leap to help? Was I heartless still, even after Daniel’s death? I had expected more from myself.
Patrick Leyden was actively doing something to help others. Who was I to question his methods? What had I ever done in my life? What did I want to do? Make art?
Art doesn’t help anyone, Daniel had said.
I curled into a tight ball on the bed. If it weren’t for Bubbe, who knows what would have happened to my own family after Sayoko left. Would my father have gotten some kind of job? Was he capable of that? It could be that the Leventhals had been, or at some point would be, only a breath away from needing services like the Unity food pantry. We had certainly needed the scholarships.
I sat up on the bed and leaned my back against the wall. Okay, the expansion of the scholarship program was a good cause. A great cause. There was no denying it. Patrick Leyden had talked on about it, his eyes fixed on mine. The dangerous environment in most urban public schools—even suburban schools—nowadays. Guns, violence, crowded classrooms, underpaid teachers, old books, and on and on.
“Maybe it will get fixed, Frances. Maybe the state and federal governments will move to save public education. Who knows? But it will take years, and every child we can help in the meantime—well, that’s a child we can help.”
Next to me, the telephone shrilled. I jumped. I never got phone calls; I conducted whatever small interpersonal business I had in person or via e-mail. The phone rang again while I stared at it; and then I picked it up as if it were a grenade. “Hello?”
“Frances?” It was Ms. Wiles. “I was just wondering how it went this afternoon.”
Relief filled me at hearing her voice. “Okay. Fine. I, um, I got a tour of the pantry. They do a lot of stuff there.”
“Yes, they do.”
“You’ve been there, haven’t you, Ms. Wiles?”
“Well, yes. Sometimes I pack boxes of food or clothes on Saturdays. I became interested right after I started here.”
I was suddenly curious. “How many faculty members are actively involved with Unity?”
“Um, five or six, maybe.” There was a pause, during which Ms. Wiles seemed to be counting in her head. “Yes, five. Oh, and Andy Jankowski. Not that he’s faculty. Or a volunteer.”
The number surprised me. “I thought it was bigger. From stuff Daniel said, I guess.”
“Well, people are busy. They come and go. I was only talking about the steady ones. Anyway, there’s a big impact for the small number of people involved, relatively speaking. And you know, there are only about a dozen students who are truly involved. With maybe another couple dozen on the periphery.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes. I see.”
There was a pause. Then: “Frances?” Ms. Wiles’s voice was heavy. “Listen, I can tell by your voice. You’re not going to do this, are you? It’s okay. It was just an idea, all right? If it doesn’t work for you, it doesn’t work for you.”
“Well, I—”
“People are different. I’m disappointed, of course. But I understand.”
I interrupted, hating the resignation in her voice. “Ms. Wiles, stop! I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it!”
Another pause. “Your voice said it for you, Frances. It’s fine, really. I just wanted to help you.”
“Ms. Wiles, it’s just …”
“What?”
I blurted it out. Well, part of it: I couldn’t talk about Saskia. I said, “I can’t stand Patrick Leyden!”
There was a moment of incredulous silence, and then Ms. Wiles began to laugh. And then to roar.
“Ms. Wiles?”
“Oh, God, Frances—who can?”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “You don’t like him? But I thought you said …”
Ms. Wiles calmed down finally. “Frances, sweetheart, I love you, but you’re so naive. No one with any sensibility at all—and you have lots—could possibly like Patrick Leyden. On the personal level, he’s a complete dickhead.” I heard her chuckle again.
Dickhead. I was stunned. “I don’t understand. Everybody loves him—”
“No. Everyone pretends to love him,” Ms. Wiles said. “Okay, who knows, maybe some people really do. I sure don’t, though.”
“But everyone acts like he’s God.” And Daniel had truly thought so, I added silently. I couldn’t have been mistaken about that. Daniel had adored and admired Patrick Leyden. Although I wondered if Saskia honestly did too …
Ms. Wiles was replying thoughtfully. “Well, there are different rules for the rich and successful, that’s all. Behavior gets tolerated, even lauded, in rich people that wouldn’t be in ordinary people. Maybe some even fool themselves. They kiss ass but tell themselves that’s not really what they’re doing.” She laughed again; a quick gurgle. “I have to admit, it can be amusing to watch.”
My bewilderment was beginning to change into some kind of relief. If Ms. Wiles agreed with me about Patrick Leyden, then all was well. I was still a bit confused, though. “But you recommended I work with him. With Unity.”
“Yes.” Her voice was suddenly serious and firm. “And I still do.”
“But if he’s such a—” I discovered that I couldn’t say dickhead to my teacher, even though she had used it herself a moment ago. “Such a jerk, then I don’t understand.”
“The best leadership doesn’t always come from the people you’d pick as your friends, Frances. Sometimes you have to be able to work with—and for—someone you dislike, for the purpose of a higher goal.”
“Oh,” I said, then we both fell silent.
When Ms. Wiles spoke again, her voice was very gentle. “But more importantly, Frances, I think you need to participate in something. Even if you have to force yourself a little bit. You need to be part of something that involves other people. It will do you good.”
“Oh,” I said again, cringing. Beneath her words, I heard all kinds of things that she hadn’t actually said. Did she see me as a pathetic loner too, then? I supposed she must.
Another long silence.
“Well,” said Ms. Wiles finally. “I need to go now, Frances. But think a little more about what I’ve said, okay?”
I couldn’t bear to have her think me pathetic. I needed—needed—
If it ought to be done, then apply yourself to it strenuously, Daniel said in my head. I could almost see him, looking down at his folded hands and with that supercilious Buddha-quoting expression on his face.
“Wait,” I said. “I’ve thought enough. I know you’re right. I’ll join Unity and help out all I can. I’ve made up my mind.”
And I felt a great peace sweep over me. This, at long last, was the right decision.
CHAPTER 17
I was looking at Beloved, which I still hadn’t even begun reading, when the phone rang again. Twice in one evening? Maybe it was Ms. Wiles calling back. I answered tentatively.
The voice was feminine, sweet, assured—and somehow also tense. “Frances? I’m in your dorm right now. Downstairs. I want to talk to you. Can I come up?”
She hadn’t identified herself, but then, she didn’t need
I reminded myself that I was going to join Unity and that, as Ms. Wiles had said, I’d need to work with people I maybe didn’t like.
“Yes,” I said. I cleared my throat and said it again more strongly. “Yes, sure.” And then, hating myself but feeling it was best to start on a friendly note, added sweetly: “Please come up.”
“See you in a second, then,” said Saskia.
Numb, I put down the phone. Frantically my eyes scanned the room and my heart rate increased again. My place, mine—private! I was stupid and slow. Why hadn’t I just said I’d come down?
Then I heard an imperious triple rap at the door. It was too late for second thoughts. I tried to relax. I moved to let Saskia in.
In my room the jarring effect (which I love) is caused by the way the “normal” things—the quilt, the pillows, the rag rugs—clash with the ferocity and darkness of the acrylic paintings on the walls.
My paintings.
There are three of them. One is relatively large; the others smaller. I can’t describe them well, except to say that I’m still not the Picasso fan that Ms. Wiles is. I have no desire to emulate him in any way. It’s not that I don’t agree he was a genius. It’s that—well, he was a little too deliberate, a little too controlled, for my taste. He always knew what he was doing.
Me, I like it when artists just throw things into their paintings. I like a sense of danger and risk; a lack of control. It’s hard to explain, especially since achieving that particular effect in a piece of art actually requires a tremendous amount of control. Of your medium. Of your hands. Of yourself. You create, very precisely, something that is—wild.
At least, that’s how it is for me.
Not that I think my paintings fully achieved that wildness. I’m not good enough yet; that’s the simple truth. But there’s definitely something there, on those canvases. Ms. Wiles said it best.
Nightmares.