The Happiest People in the World (15 page)

M
atty was in his office, taking off his ad hoc umpire's gear, when someone knocked on the door. It was Kurt, standing there with a look on his face. Matty recognized it: it was the look you gave your principal when you needed to talk to someone about something important but didn't know who to talk to and then you remembered the mnemonic about the principal being your
pal
and so you decided to go talk to your principal. Except of course that Kurt wasn't only Matty's principal; the two of them had ample time outside school to talk as well. For instance, the night before, Kurt and Matty had eaten dinner together, during which Kurt hadn't said a word to Matty, or at least not a word that consisted of more than one syllable. After dinner they'd sat silently in front of the TV, Kurt flipping through the channels at superhuman speed until Matty had said, “Hey, buddy, slow down, I'm starting to worry about the well-being of your thumb,” and then Kurt had sighed, dropped the remote on the couch between them, and gone up to his room. And neither of them had talked during breakfast, nor during the ride in to school, which had ended not ten minutes ago. But at
school,
Kurt felt like he could talk to Matty. So this meant that Kurt trusted Matty as his principal, but not as his father? Wow, that was depressing, if you looked at it from one point of view. But if you looked at it from another point of view, hey, at least Kurt felt he could talk to his principal.

“What's up?” Matty asked, flinging his shin guards and his mask into the bottom drawer of his file cabinet. Kurt didn't answer at first. He wandered over to the wall where the extra bathroom passes hung on a hook, took one down, and began fiddling with it. Each pass was a wooden block with a chain hanging from the block, and a key attached to the chain. Nobody knew what the keys were for. The bathroom doors didn't even have locks. Matty himself had used these passes when he was in high school, in a different building, with different bathrooms. And even then the wooden blocks had seemed ancient, the keys meant for locks that obviously hadn't existed in forever. That meant that generations of Broomeville schoolchildren had been holding these things while going to the bathroom. The more you thought about it, the more disgusting it was. But that was school pretty much: you got through it, not by changing the things that were gross, but by not thinking about them too much. Which was of course the opposite of what they taught you at Cornell. Think, Cornell had taught him. Think about how everyone else thinks and then think harder and better than they think. But Matty was thinking less and less of Cornell these days. And when he did think of Cornell, he mostly thought of Locs wearing his Cornell hat, of whether she was still wearing it, wherever she was.

“You need to go to the bathroom or something, buddy?” Matty said, trying to tell Kurt to stop messing around with the bathroom pass but also trying to keep his tone light, making sure he called Kurt “buddy,” which was what Matty called him these days when he was trying to keep his tone light. He wasn't sure it was working: every time he called Kurt “buddy” he felt as if he was acting like someone else's father talking to someone else's son. Although maybe that was the point.

Anyway, Kurt put the pass back on its hook, sat down in the red plastic chair next to the door. “What's up?” Matty asked again.

Kurt told his father about how Jenny had interrupted Mr. L. and the stranger in Mr. L.'s office the day before; how the stranger had fled; how Jenny had told them the story at the baseball game; and how the cronies had come to one conclusion about Mr. L., but Kurt himself had come to another.

“A stranger?” Matty said.

“A stranger who was speaking another language,” Kurt said.

“A spy?” Matty said in a tone that was intended to let Kurt think that Matty didn't quite know
what
to think about this difficult-to-believe plot twist. By now, this tone came easily to Matty: over the past two years, he'd fired his guidance counselor, who had then killed herself; his new guidance counselor was internationally wanted for Matty didn't know what reason and had been sent into hiding in Broomeville by a CIA agent who'd been Matty's lover before he'd rejected her and turned her into a CIA agent and whom Matty then rejected
again,
regretting it the minute he had done so and then most minutes after that, too; and finally, Matty's wife had divorced him and in three days was going to marry this guidance counselor, who also was a fugitive of some kind or maybe even, as Kurt thought, a spy himself. For Matty, this last was the most difficult-to-believe plot twist of them all. This was what he'd been trying to say to Henry at the game today with his eyes: I cannot believe my wife is now my ex-wife, I cannot believe you are marrying my ex-wife, I can't believe I am not murdering you for marrying my ex-wife, I cannot believe I am not at least firing you for marrying my ex-wife, even though you are the best guidance counselor Broomeville Junior-Senior High School has ever had, by far, and I know that, and everyone knows that, and so everyone would know that I was firing you just because you were marrying my ex-wife, and if I were to tell everyone, You know, it might seem as though I'm firing him because he's marrying my ex-wife but in fact I'm firing him because he's not really a guidance counselor but instead an international fugitive of some kind and maybe even a spy, then you would have no reason not to tell Ellen and Kurt and
everyone
about why I hired you in the first place, and if you told them that, then you would tell them about Locs, and if you told them about Locs, if you told Ellen about Locs, if Ellen heard that I was
thinking
about Locs, let alone that I'd talked to Locs, let alone that I'd agreed to hire you as a guidance counselor because Locs wanted me to, let alone that I'd seen Locs, even though I'd seen her two long years ago, and only then to reject her again, which right after I'd done it I wished I hadn't done it, but even so, that wouldn't matter to Ellen, it would not matter, she would never take me back, even if she dumped you for lying to her about what you are, who you are, which admittedly would give me no little satisfaction, since she dumped me for being what I am, who I am, but even so, even if she did that, she would still never take me back, and then what would be the point, what would be the point in her not ever taking me back unless I could figure out a way to get Locs to take me back, Locs, wherever she is, however she is, how is she anyway, is she thinking about me, does she ever mention my name, do you think she's ever coming back to Broomeville, she's probably never coming back to Broomeville, and if you're not here anymore, then she's
definitely
never coming back to Broomeville, and if I fire you and Ellen dumps you, then you won't have much reason to be here, either, and then you'll leave, and if you leave, then Locs would never have a reason, a professional reason, to come back to Broomeville, to come back to me, her personal reason, and how awful would that be, for me to never see Locs again, Locs my love, Locs my true love, probably my truest love, and so maybe I wouldn't fire you after all, besides you're probably as decent and great a guy as everyone says you are, including my ex-wife, including my students, including my son, including everyone else, and since you're such a great guy, couldn't you do me at least one favor, couldn't you tell Locs that I'm thinking about her, that I still love her, that I want her to come back to me, depending on how everything else shakes out, and see, that's why Locs should never come back, why would she come back to me if I don't know how I really want everything to shake out, do you know what I need, I need someone who I can talk to, someone who can sit down with me and help me figure out how I really want all this to shake out, you know, a buddy, I don't have a buddy, maybe that's why I'm calling Kurt “buddy” now, because I'm grooming him for this job, this job as my buddy, although can you imagine a worse job than the job of being my buddy, Jesus, what an awful future to wish for my son, my only son, my God, any job would be better, even a principal, even a bartender, even a guidance counselor, even a spy, although speaking of being a spy, you know, Kurt is probably right, you probably are a spy, I can't believe I'm letting a spy counsel my students, I can't believe I'm letting a spy stepfather my son, I can't believe my son's stepfather-to-be is a spy, I will not let my son have a stepfather who is a spy.

In this way, the thought solidified in Matty's mind, became a fact: Henry was a spy. And then it was joined by another fact: Locs was not coming back; Locs was never coming back. Matty now knew that to be true, and therefore he resolved to put an end to all this and finally come clean about Henry to Ellen, but to do so carefully, in a way that would reveal Henry's true self but would somehow not incriminate Matty himself in the process.

“A
spy,
” Matty finally said, in a tone that was intended to let Kurt think that Matty really was starting to see things from his son's point of view.

“The minute I said it out loud, I knew it was true,” Kurt said. “It was my come-to-Caesar moment.”

Matty had heard this kind of thing from so many students during his time at Broomeville Junior-Senior High. A kid heard some adult say something, and tried to act as though it was something the kid himself said all the time, and then mangled the saying, thereby making himself sound even more like a kid. It was pretty cute, but you could not tell the kid that, and you could not correct his mistake, either. At least not if you were the kid's father. At least not if you were Matty. As a divorced father trying to convince his son that he loved him more than anything in the world, Matty could not afford to correct Kurt's innocent mistake. He had to just let it slide. And yet, as a principal, as an
educator
,
could Matty just let something like that slide?

“You mean ‘come to Jesus,' ” Matty said.

“Huh?”

“You mean, ‘It was my come-to-Jesus moment,' ” Matty said, and then he smiled in a way that was meant to communicate, But hey, buddy, I like
your
saying, too, and anyway, don't let my setting you straight ruin our father-son time together. But too late: Matty watched the look on his son's face go from embarrassment to resentment to defiance, and could tell that Matty's setting Kurt straight had ruined their father-son time together.

“I don't believe in Jesus,” Kurt said.

“But you do believe in Caesar?” Matty said.

After that, they didn't say anything. The wall clock ticked loudly in the way of school clocks. It was getting late. Matty needed to get down to the bar to address the troops, give the toast, buy the drinks. He could picture everyone waiting for him:
Dr.
Vernon; his brother, Lawrence. Henry, Ellen. Matty was kind of dreading it. He'd even considered skipping the whole thing. But now, he was reconsidering. At the very least he'd ask Henry about this mysterious stranger. Who knew? Maybe the mysterious stranger would be there, too. “I promise I'll look into it,” he told Kurt.

“Sure, OK,” Kurt said, getting up, obviously not believing his father would look into it.

“I mean it,” Matty said.

“Sure, OK,” Kurt said, again. He had turned his back on his father and was now walking out the door.

“You can trust me, Kurt,” Matty said. He could hear how lame that sounded. But maybe Kurt had heard it differently. Because Kurt turned and looked at Matty like he really wanted to believe it.

“OK,” Kurt finally said.

“Good,” Matty said. “I promise I'll figure out what's going on here. But I could use your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“I don't know,” Matty said. Because really he had no idea. He searched for the vaguest phrase, the one most easily reached for, then reached for it. “Just keep your eyes open.” More lameness. But Kurt nodded seriously. “I can do that,” he said.

Wednesday, October 6, 2011, 11:49 p.m.

From: undisclosed sender

To: undisclosed recipient

Subject: Re: Broomeville

“Is this the nature of plans?” You're pretty philosophical for a terrorist-arsonist-murderer.

I hope you know what you're doing.

H
enry entered the Lumber Lodge just before six o'clock. He'd been walking around town—west along the river, south on the logging roads through the quasi national forest, north on the old canal that was now a walking path, then finally east, back to town, walking in only barely lit darkness through the neighborhood adjacent to the railroad tracks where the poor people lived, the neighborhood that, for some reason, was called the Flats, even though the whole town was flat—walking for almost three hours, trying to figure out how he was going to tell Ellen the truth about himself. No matter how he conceived of the plan, it began with his saying, My real name is Jens Baedrup, and it ended with Ellen saying, You lied to me. Now go away forever. He had made himself so exhausted with his lack of options and his future grief that he didn't think he could go on contemplating them without seeing Ellen first. This, Henry thought, is how you know when you're in love: when you're so worn out thinking about the woman you love leaving you that you need to be in the restorative presence of the woman you love before you start thinking again about her leaving you.

When Henry walked into the Lumber Lodge, it was full. Normally when the bar was full, it was a chaos of spilled drinks and yelling and darts and someone playing music on the jukebox and someone complaining about the music playing on the jukebox and people cursing at each other as though they were in a cursing competition—in general the noise of people who might have done some real damage to each other and the bar had they been just a little bit younger. But there was none of that now. There were forty or so people in the place. Most of them were Henry's colleagues from school. There were Matty and his brother, Lawrence. There were
Dr.
Vernon and Grace, his wife. There were Ms. Andrews, the English teacher, and Ron Ferraro, who taught music and band. There was even the janitor sitting across the bar from Ellen, that strange Ronald Crimmins with his strange hand and his dead sister, Ronald who was clearly watching Henry, watching Henry, watching him, always watching him, so obviously spying on him that Henry wondered whether he actually
was
a spy. Had Locs put Ronald in charge of keeping Henry safe? Henry had wondered many times over the past two years. In a few seconds he would no longer wonder that. But anyway, Henry saw that Ronald was watching him now and so was Ellen; she waved him over. He walked slowly toward them, and as he did, Henry felt a prickling around his collar; he had the distinct feeling that they had just been talking about him.

“Henry, we were just talking about you!” she said. Her eyes were wide, like she was trying to tell him something. But what? On the one hand, it might be: I am so happy to see you. Or, on the other: I can't believe I used to be so happy to see you. “Where've you been?”

“I took a walk.”

“With your friend?” Ronald said.

“My friend.”

“Ronald said he saw someone walk out of your office today.”

“A stranger,” Ronald said. “And actually, he didn't walk. He ran.”

The two of them waited for Henry to say something, and when he didn't, Ellen said, “I was wondering who he was. Was he someone you invited to the wedding?” They'd agreed to keep the wedding small, but still Ellen couldn't quite believe how small Henry was keeping his side of the wedding. He hadn't invited anyone. His parents were dead; he had no siblings. There was no one from his previous life that he cared more about than the people in the present, no one from his past that he wanted at the wedding. That was what he told her. It was all true enough.

“No,” Henry said.

“See, I didn't think so,” Ronald said. “He didn't seem like a guy who was about to raise a toast to the happy couple.” But Ronald did seem happy, and so did Matty: he was sitting at a table with his brother, Lawrence, watching Henry with great interest, his eyes smiling as he took a sip of his beer. Matty worried Henry even more than Ronald. As an ex-husband of his future wife who also knew something—Henry didn't know exactly what—about Henry's past, Matty was uniquely qualified to do great harm. I'm watching you, Matty's eyes seemed to say, but pretty soon I'm going to do more than just watch you.

And that's when Henry knew that the time had come to tell the truth. Henry knew this because he couldn't think of anything else to tell.

“I was going to tell you,” he said to Ellen, but she was already gesturing to
Dr.
Vernon, who had just walked up with two empty glasses. Ellen took them and said, “But Barry here had his own nutty idea.”

“Not nutty,”
Dr.
Vernon said. His eyes were red; he smelled somehow both earthy and clean, as though he had just tilled the patch of dirt where toothpaste grows. He took the two full beers back from Ellen and drank the head off one of them and then the other. “I was just saying that you'd mentioned a Danish cartoonist at the baseball game. And then later on I was talking to some of the kids, and they said they'd heard you were talking to a guy in your office, and that he spoke Danish. Or said he was from Denmark. Anyway, I figured that's who the guy was.”

Everyone looked at Henry, and he frowned, not because he didn't understand
Dr.
Vernon's nutty idea, but because he suddenly had his own. Am I really going to do this? he thought, and then, before he could ask himself that question again, he did it.

“That's right,” Henry said. “The man told me he was Jens Baedrup, the controversial Danish cartoonist.”

“Oooh,” someone said softly. It was the sound you make when someone hits you in the stomach: more air than word. It had come from the part of the room where Matty was sitting with Lawrence. Lawrence had a carefully trimmed blond beard, which he would stroke in times of contemplation. He was stroking it right now. Just stroking that beard, and stroking it, and staring at Henry, as though assessing his worth. Lawrence had always seemed to distrust Henry; Henry knew this from students who said that Lawrence sometimes referred to him as “the
Swede,
” with the italics. But then again, Henry was marrying Lawrence's brother's ex-wife. Of course he would treat him that way. There was a good reason for everything. Meanwhile, Matty was looking completely baffled. There was a good reason for that, too. Perhaps Matty had made that noise, and perhaps the noise was not “Oooh” but “Who?” That question made more sense. In any case, Henry repeated the name, “Jens Baedrup,” and when he said it, he could feel a ridiculous, optimistic smile commandeering his face. Henry recognized it by feel. The smile was his. Or had been when he was still Jens Baedrup.