There was a knock on our door, and without waiting for permission to enter, Reggie materialized. “Hey, guys,” he said.
Yes, he was the head of our department, but we enjoyed treating him like a fool. And never more than this morning. His outsize self-esteem was the result of having been a quarterback for Everton Country Day—“QB1” was how he signed notes to alums in graduating classes anywhere near his own.
“What do you want?” Nick asked.
Reggie held his hands up in an insincere gesture of surrender. “Just wanted to say something to Faith.”
“Such as?”
“It wasn’t my idea, this business about the check.”
“Business?” I repeated. “Business? How about witch hunt? How about crucifixion?”
Reggie had the nerve to perch himself on the corner of my desk and shake my Empire State Building snow globe. “I know in my gut that you’d never steal money from the school—”
“Wait! In your gut, you know that? Like you have to look deep into your soul to find me innocent? How about just on the face of it?”
Maybe this wasn’t the right response; maybe I was supposed to be showing gratitude for his ham-handed sympathy, because he stood up, and said, “Just trying to show some team spirit here, Faith. Sorry you can’t hear it.”
“Wait,” said Nick. “You can’t blame her for saying any of that. In the meeting you sounded very happy to be at the prosecution table.”
“And I have a question for you,” I said. “Who did Sheila give the check to when she opened the letter from Mrs. Hepworth?”
“Oh. I guess . . . moi.”
“And instead of breezing in here, and saying, ‘Whoa, a huge check just came in. Congrats. A hundred grand! Now just one minor housekeeping detail. The donor made it out to you, so you’ll have to endorse it over to the school. But well done!’?”
“I guess I could’ve,” said Reggie.
“I could’ve handled this myself—called Mrs. Hepworth and thanked her for the donation to the school. And she might’ve said, ‘The school?’ and I’d have said, ‘Of course! That’s my cause. That’s my charity. That’s my—’?”
“Fucking life’s work!” Nick supplied.
“Thank you. Then I’d say, ‘The pool will be such a tribute to Sandy. I mean, we could hold the next Junior Olympics here! And the lockers will be in the school colors and so beautiful.’?”
Nick asked Reggie, “So you got the check and you went running to whom?”
“I didn’t go running to anyone. I walked it over to Moose’s office—”
“Moose being?” said Nick.
“Mustafa Mahmoud, in Finance,” I told him.
“I gave it to the secretary over there,” said Reggie.
“Please tell me it wasn’t Mindy Rooney,” I said.
“Who else would it be?” asked Reggie.
“Why is that significant?” asked Nick.
“She hates me,” I said. “Truly. I don’t even know why. Well, maybe I do.”
“Why?” asked Nick.
“You tell him,” I said to Reggie.
When he didn’t, I explained, “You had a fling with her, remember?”
“And if I did?”
“Then it ended, and soon after that, I got hired. That’s all it took for Mindy to be—you’ll excuse the expression—jealous.”
Grinning, Reggie said, “She was a cheerleader when I was QB1.”
I said, “Yeah, like twenty-odd years ago. Maybe it’s time to stop calling yourself that.”
Nick asked, “That’s it? Misplaced jealousy?”
I told him that Mindy once applied to be Reggie’s assistant. No go. And then she applied for this job, the one I got. Again, no go.
Reggie said, shrugging, “She wasn’t my first choice, anyway. And HR woulda gone ape shit if they found out.”
“Found out what?” asked Nick.
“That Mindy and I hooked up.”
Reggie gave his shirt an unnecessary tuck into his chinos. “It’s over, trust me.” He smiled, man to man. “Make ’em and break ’em, right?”
“Ya, right,” Nick said. “Especially smart with a coworker.”
“It wasn’t always against the rules,” said Reggie.
Nick was twisting the cap off a bottle of Excedrin, then swallowing two pills in a gulp. “Even if you dumped Mindy, why is she taking it out on Faith?” he asked.
“Because she’s a crazy bitch!” Reggie said. “Faith’s here, head of whatchamacallit. Mindy’s still sitting at the front desk over in Finance, calling parents who are in arrears on tuition.”
“So do we think that Mindy marched into her boss’s office, and said, ‘Look what Faith Frankel thought she was getting away with’?”
“Probably.”
I said to Reggie, “I know you’re my boss, and I shouldn’t say this, but today, this”—I made a circle, indicating the inside of our windowless office—“is a free zone, right? Given what happened this morning?”
“Sure,” said Reggie.
“In that case, I truly hate you.”
“Fine,” he said. “I get it. My bad.”
“You better fix this,” said Nick. “You started it, and now you have to make it right.”
“Relax,” said Reggie. “We’re gonna make this happen.”
“Happen?” I shouted. “What’s going to happen? What about me?”
“I meant the money. It’ll end up in the capital fund. Even if it takes a little sweet-talking with the old lady.” He smiled. “That’s where I come in.”
I said, “You’re not getting credit for this donation.”
“Hey! Take it easy! I’m not gonna bogart someone else’s get. I’m just gonna take her to lunch.”
“Not without me.”
“You can’t,” he said.
“Why the hell not?” asked Nick.
Hand on the doorknob, Reggie threw back, “Why? She’s on probation. I thought that was obvious.”
“Probation!” I yelped.
Reggie said, “Gotta run,” then left without a word of explanation, without a grimace that might have been interpreted as regret.
Probation. Like a felon. Like a freshman caught smoking behind the chapel. I asked Nick, rather calmly, considering, “Now what? Do I go home? Do I take a mental health day?”
“Do not leave. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
“Nick,” I called after him. But he didn’t stop.