The Better Half(38)
In the midst of my moment of adoration, the door to the conference room flings open and a breathless Winn Hawkins stumbles into the room. “Sorry, sorry, so sorry, Nina and everyone. Oh, hey Andrew, good to see you, missed you at men’s night at the tennis club last week.” Winn is quick to reach for a handshake from a fellow Royal-Hawkins alum. While he’s making his round of hellos and apologies for his tardiness, I get a nose full of Winn’s scent, and it’s not Downy fresh. Not to mention he’s styled in some dressed up, dressed down attire, a light-blue pressed button-down with purple-and-gold basketball shorts.
“Traffic from Staples Center was awful. I thought I left plenty of time to be back to Pasadena by five thirty, but no such luck,” Winn says, addressing the entire board with the assumption everyone cares where he’s been and why he’s late.
“Were you checking out a Lakers practice?” Andrew asks, taking our night further off track.
Sitting down in his seat to my left, Winn rounds out his mystery day with an entire board share. “Nah, a few months back at a silent auction for the children’s hospital, I won two entries to a three-day basketball camp with the Lakers. There was no way I wasn’t going to win those tickets, and let me tell you, I paid a pretty price for them. It was worth it, though, to get to spend three days playing hoops with the boys on the team.” I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from saying out loud, You were not playing basketball with them, Winn. They were passing the ball to you because the insane amount of money you pay for your courtside seats pays their inflated salaries.
“I invited the new basketball coach with me for some hang time, and we had a blast. Best couple of days I’ve had in a long time.” Andrew and a few other men on the board vigorously nod their heads in manly agreement. I don’t have time for the testosterone musings of the ultrawealthy. I’m not sure I heard a part of Winn’s sports fantasy correctly.
“Excuse me, Winn. Who did you say went with you?” I ask, the muscles in the back of my neck and shoulders starting to spasm.
“Jared Jones.” That’s what I thought he said.
“The kid played b-ball at Harvard, started all four years. As soon as I got the tickets, I told him to mark his calendar, he had to go with me.” If I weren’t aware of twenty-two people staring at me waiting to bring our meeting back on track, I’d be busy picking my jaw up off the floor.
“Nina, before you keep going on the agenda, I want to throw out there that I’d like twenty minutes to share with the board my thoughts on the Royal-Hawkins athletic program.”
I look right at Winn. I don’t think I even blink, I’m so stunned by his bravado. First, he takes one of my teachers out of the classroom to relive their childhood aspirations, and then he wants to replay their fun back in my board room? I don’t think so.
“I want to share my thoughts tonight while my thinking is still fresh after three inspirational days with the Lakers.” Winn finishes his demand, smiling at me and then the rest of the board to seal the deal.
“No, Winn, you cannot.” And with those four words, I’ve done what no Royal-Hawkins head of school has ever done before. I said no to a Hawkins descendant. How’s that for sealing my legacy?
THIRTEEN
With Xandra in her sophomore year at Pemberley and my intense year of weekend classes at UCLA over, I have taken to staying in bed late on Saturday mornings. Under my snuggly goose down duvet, I sip coffee and catch up on nonemergency school issues that could wait until now. After five days of nonstop talking and decision-making, I cherish the quiet and comfort this new weekend routine promises me. Or I would cherish it if not for my father’s meticulous morning habits set to Jimmy Cliff’s “I Can See Clearly Now,” the Jamaican version of reveille. My whole life, Fitzroy has been the early bird pushing his family to get out there and catch the worm.
“You know, Nina,” Dad says, sidling up to my open bedroom door like a geriatric hit man, “my father used to have a saying he’d wake us kids up with on a Saturday morning, ‘If you’re up in my house then you’re UP in my house.’ And we knew that meant out of bed, wipe the crust from our eyes, and get to work.” Dad’s posture reads disappointment having to wait on me like a princess even though he’s a guest in MY house.
“Wait a minute. Why aren’t you at the Y? Shouldn’t you have left an hour ago?” I ask, startled by the change in plans by a man who NEVER changes his plans. “Won’t the boys send out a search party if you’re not there to claim your locker?” For forty-five years my dad drove the MTA bus route from Queens to midtown Manhattan. His ten-hour shift started at 6:00 a.m., by choice. Every morning, on the way out the door, Dad would leave a handwritten list of chores on the kitchen table for Clive and me to finish before school started. He would double-check that the alarm in our shared room was set for 5:30 a.m. and then be on his way. Fitzroy believes the most important work in life is accomplished before the sun comes up.
While Mom got Clive and me off to school and herself to the St. Regis Hotel for a 9:00 a.m. start, Dad chose the early shift so he could be home to supervise us after school. Not helpful with our intense academic load, he did ensure our bottoms were planted at the kitchen table, books out, snacks ready, study on. There was no such thing as “free time” in the Morgan house. There was only chores, homework, music practice, and church attendance. Even the importance of sleep ranked low on the family to-do list because it was not considered productive. I’m still catching up on my z’s from childhood.