Page 116 of What Boys Learn

And another thing.Recently dropped by his publisher. Not for an illegitimate reason, but because of disturbing things Curtis had written. Things he didn’t even seem to recognize as disturbing. Girls and women as objects. Justification for nonconsensual sex. Possibly—and maybe Peggy Keller was misreading or overreacting—the normalization of violent, pathological behaviors.

Then again, it seemed like every notable pundit, even ones with PhDs, said outlandish things all the time now. Maybe Curtis felt he had to. Maybe he was one of those people who thought the best way to make people think was to say something shocking. Start a debate. It didn’t mean he had ever harmed anyone intentionally.

I had bad feelings, but no evidence, and furthermore, no way to confront him directly. Not that I wanted a confrontation. What I wanted most was to simply pick up my son and drive away, leaving Curtis’s provocative viewpoints for someone else to puzzle over.

I found a tissue in my jacket pocket and used it to wipe my forehead, which was covered with a sheen of nervous sweat. Glancing around Sister Lucretia’s office, my eye passed over cheerful framed photos of Grove girls doing elite girl things—riding horseback, sailing on a yacht—and stopped on a key rack, just above the nun’s desk. Each key had a colored plastic tag.

I stepped closer, checking over my shoulder with each step, until I was close enough to run a finger across several, turning over the tags, but they all seemed to be labeled things likeChemistry supply closetandBake sale cash box. Another step, and I was up against the desk, reaching for a drawer handle, when a voice stopped me.

“Raquel said you felt unwell.”

It was Sister Lucretia, staring at me through thick-lensed glasses, hands pushed down into the large pockets of a shapeless gray dress made of some coarse, thick material that looked too hot for a summer day.

“I do feel odd,” I said. “I had a nice rest but I should probably get home, where I have medication. It’s possible I’ll need a sick day tomorrow.”

“If you lived here on campus, you’d be back in a jiffy.” She pointed to the couch. “But you don’t. Not yet. Sit down, Ms. Rosso.”

“Sister, I need to—”

“Sit.”

I perched on the edge of her hard couch while she stepped closer to the desk, scanning its surface.

“Were you looking for something over here?”

“No, I was just admiring the photographs over your desk.”

Her mouth remained fixed in a grim line. “Yes, our students love sports. We find it’s a good balance. It was something I planned to ask—if you could coach something. Tennis? Cross-country?”

“Maybe cross-country,” I hedged. “Anything that doesn’t involve balls or nets.”

“Good. Dr. Campbell helped us with cross-country. And with swimming. And sailing. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do. So good with the students. What a lovely man.”

Listening to the praise was like chewing on glass. I did my best not to wince.

“I never had to worry when he was around,” she continued, hint of a smile forming. “If only we had ten more like him.”

Her continuing stare unnerved me, so I looked away, pretending to study the photos again. The girl in full equestrian getup on a dark brown horse jumping over a green-andwhite-striped pole. The sailboat, leaning into a brisk wind, the nameParadoxon its white stern. Monied leisure.

“Ms. Rosso, if you don’t mind me asking. Why did looking at photos require you to open my desk drawer?”

“I didn’t. But I was just about to when you walked in. I was only looking for a Tylenol. I hope you don’t mind.”

Sister Lucretia’s smile faded. “It’s not good to take acetaminophen if you’re a heavy drinker.”

“I’m not.”

Articulating carefully, she said, “Dr. Campbell warned me that you had some problems with alcohol, but he assured me they were all in the past. We’re strong believers in rehabilitation.”

“He said I was analcoholic?” The diagnoses were adding up. “And you were willing to hire me?”

“He promised to help monitor your sobriety.”

“Oh, did he?”

“Yes.”

I tried to rein in my indignation. It was getting harder to sort through all the strange things Curtis had said about me, some true and some not true, and that was actually worse. Pure lies wouldn’t be half as sticky as a mixture laced with truths that triggered my deepest anxieties. But alcohol was not one of them. That was a bad chess move.