True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA. Nancy Robards Thompson
and Sarah goodbye and kind of half waves at me, then heads to class.
“Have a good day, M.G. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
Barbara laughs. “M.G.?”
“Yeah,” says Sarah. “She likes me to call her that.”
“Well, I think that’s just great.”
Sarah wanders over to look at some teacher photos hanging on the wall across from the desk.
The place still smells new—that freshly built smell of construction, paint and floor wax co-mingling with simmering school lunch. There’s a trophy case to the right down the hall a bit; on the left is a set of double doors with a brass plaque that says Library. At the end of the long main hall is an elaborate staircase with swarms of teenagers traveling up and down.
The place buzzes with snatches of conversation and laughter, movement and the sound of the glass front doors opening and shutting, letting in intermittent clips of car engines and the occasional honk of a horn. People are everywhere—kids hanging out and talking; adults who I assume are teachers rush about with purpose; a group of four blond women each wearing large diamond rings and expensive-looking tennis outfits.
My God, they all look alike. How do they do that?
Barbara follows my gaze to the women. “Oh, I see you’ve located the Stratford Wives.”
I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. “The Stratford Wives? Oh my God, that’s perfect. Who are they?”
“They think they’re the queens of the universe, if that tells you anything. In reality, they’re just a clique of spoiled rich men’s wives who don’t realize high school ended more years ago than they can probably count.”
“Barbara!” I am completely taken aback by this side of her. “I had no idea you could be so catty.”
Stratford Park was full of old money when I was growing up here, but we never had Stratford Wives. My, my, how things have changed.
“Oh, honey, stick with me. You ain’t seen nothing yet. Oh! Oh, that one over there.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially and nods to a heavyset mousy woman with brown hair and glasses who is logging something into a notebook on a table under a Volunteer banner. “That’s Connie Claxton, archenemy of the Stratford Wives and anybody else who dares look crosswise at her precious little brat.”
“Claxton? Any relation to the Claxton fruitcake empire?”
“No, I believe the Claxton company is actually named after the city in Georgia. But Connie Claxton is a fruitcake all right. Oh, and Chloe’s a seventh grader, you’d best warn Sarah to steer clear. She’ll probably try to glom onto her. She doesn’t have any friends.”
I raise my eyebrows at her and try to keep my voice light. “Isn’t that a little harsh?”
Barbara raises her eyebrows back at me. “Chloe and Connie are like pit bulls, they seem nice and maybe even playful at first, but they turn on you in a heartbeat. Believe you me, I am the first one to stand up for a child, but Connie and Chloe are a piece of work. The rules apply to everyone but them, but she’s the first to scream if she thinks she’s been wronged. I’ve had my share of Connie encounters and she got Anastasia Deveraux, the little neighbor girl who lives across the street, called down to the principal’s office claiming the girl was a threat to her daughter’s safety. You know once anyone raises the safety flag the principal has a duty to act on it. Ana may be a little full of herself because she’s a popular girl, but she’s no more a threat to anyone’s safety than you are. Her mother, Elizabeth, was mad as a wet cat. It turns out it was all over Anastasia not wanting to sit with Chloe in study hall. Anastasia simply doesn’t like that child because she’s a mean, spoiled little brat who always has to have her way. From what I understand, very few of the kids like her because of how she treats them. Her mother doesn’t help matters. Connie thinks she can bully her way to making people like Chloe. It’s really sad. Oh, God, here she comes.”
Barbara turns and busies herself, but Connie marches right up to her.
“Barbara, I need a word with you.”
I actually see Barbara bristle.
“Connie Claxton. What can I do for you?”
Connie pushes her glasses up on her nose. “You can get your daughter under control.”
Barbara cuts her gaze to me for an I-told-you-so moment then looks back at Connie. “What, pray tell, is Mary Grace doing that needs to be controlled?”
Barbara’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and I don’t know whether to laugh or turn and walk away, the scene is that unbelievable.
“She was laughing at Chloe in the library. If I didn’t know better, I might think this was harassment. But considering the source, I suppose that would be silly.”
My jaw drops at this dig at Mary Grace’s disability. I’m sure Barbara is seething.
“She’s a child, Connie. Children laugh. Laughter does not hurt anyone.”
“I know that. She’s a special child, she’s not capable of physically hurting anyone. What I’m saying, Barbara, is there’s no reason you can’t teach her some manners.”
For a second I fear Barbara is going to slug her. I want to slug her. I can’t believe someone could be so low.
“Why don’t you set the example and teach your little Chloe some manners? Maybe it will help her get along better, bless her little heart.”
Connie huffs off.
“So there you go,” says Barbara. “That’s Connie Claxton.”
I start the paperwork to enroll Sarah. But there’s a slight snag when Judy asks for an official document to prove that I reside in the school zone.
“Don’t you have a lease agreement or an electricity bill?” Judy says. “Something that shows you’re official?”
“Certainly not,” Barbara snaps. “I will not charge my niece rent to live with me. You’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
Judy smiles apologetically, clearly at a loss for what to do, clearly wanting to accommodate Barbara.
“I’ll have to make some calls. But let me see what I can do. Why don’t you and umm…” she glances at the paperwork “…Sarah. Why don’t you and Sarah have a seat over there? This may take a few minutes, Mrs. Woodall.”
Mrs. Woodall.
The words knock the breath out of me. Since Tim’s death, it feels as if Mrs. Woodall is someone else. I have no idea who I am. But I nod anyway.
Sarah sits on a sofa across from the desk.
Barbara touches my arm. “I have to go make some copies in the PTA office. Do you want to come with me?”
I glance at Sarah ensconced on the couch with her arms crossed defensively, her backpack at her feet.
“Thanks, but I’d better wait here in case they need some more information—”
“Good morning, Barbara.” The only blonde in the building who is not wearing a tennis outfit walks up and touches Barbara on the arm. She’s dressed in a smart black pantsuit and carries a slim briefcase, which is not big enough to hold a racket. She’s almost pretty—if not for the pallor of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes that she’s trying to cover up with thick concealer.
“Oh, Elizabeth, you’re here. Good. I want you to meet my niece, Margaret Woodall. She and her daughter just moved here yesterday from Asheville and will be living in the carriage house.” Barbara turns to me. “Elizabeth Deveraux and her husband Andrew live across the street. They have a seventh-grader named Anastasia. I’m sure she and Sarah will just love each other. We’ll have to get them together once you’re settled in.”
Elizabeth