“I heard Evita Perón telling Martine Filobeque in the Teacher’s Lounge she thinks the Hannah Schneider suicide verdict’s a load of dung,” reported Little Nose. “She said she knew for a fact Hannah didn’t commit suicide.”
“What else?” said Dee, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
“Nothing — they noticed me standing by the photocopier and that was the end of their conversation.”
Dee shrugged, looked uninterested and calmly studied her cuticles.
“I’m all sick of talking about Hannah Schneider,” she said. “Total media overexposure.”
“She’s out like carbs,” explained Dum with a nod.
“Besides, when I told my mom some of the films we’d been watching in her class, movies that were totally black marketed to us, never on the syllabus, Mom wigged. She said it was obvious the woman was captain of team nutjob, totally schizophrenical—”
“Mixed up,” translated Dum, “all jumbled inside—”
“Natch, mom wanted to launch a complaint with Havermeyer, but then she figured the school’s been through enough. Admissions applications are in a downward spiral.”
Little Nose wrinkled her nose. “But don’t you wanna know what Eva Brewster was talking about? She must know a secret.”
Dee sighed. “I’m sure it’s something along the lines of Schneider pregnant with Mr. Fletcher’s child.” She raised her head, throwing a grenade-gaze at the poor, unwitting bald man across the room. “It was going to be a carnie.” She giggled. “The world’s first living crossword omnibus.”
“They were going to name it Sunday Times if it was a boy,” said Dum.
The twins erupted into squealish laughter and slapped each other five.
After school, standing outside of Elton, I watched Perón making her way to the Faculty Parking Lot (see “Leaving Madrid, June 15, 1947,” Eva Duarte Perón, East, 1963, p. 334). She wore a short, dark purple dress with matching pumps, thick white tights and carried an enormous stack of manila folders. A lifeless beige sweater was knotted around her waist, about to fall off, one of the arms dragging on the ground like a hostage being hauled away.
I was a little afraid, but I made myself go after her. (“‘Keep tightening the screws on those chippies,’” entreated Private Peeper Rush McFadds to his partner in Chicago Overcoat [Bulke, 1948].)
“Ms. Brewster.”
She was the kind of woman who, when hearing someone shout her name, didn’t turn around but continued to charge forward as if riding a moving platform on an airport concourse.
“Ms. Brewster!” I caught up to her at her car, a white Honda Civic. “I was wondering if we could talk.”
She slammed the door to the backseat where she’d placed the folders and opened the driver’s seat door, brushing her mango-colored hair off her face.
“I’m late for a spin class,” she said.
“It won’t take long. I–I’d like to make amends.”
Her blue eyes pounced on me. (It was probably the same daunting stare she gave Colonel Juan, when he, along with the other flabby Argentine bureaucrats, voiced a lack of enthusiasm for her latest great idea, the joint Perón-Perón ballot for the 1951 election.)
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” she asked.
“I don’t care. I wanted you to help me with something.”
She checked her watch. “I can’t right now. I’m due at Fitness Exchange—”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with my Dad, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“What’s it have to do with?”
“Hannah Schneider.”
She widened her eyes — evidently that topic was even less favorable than Dad — and she pushed the car door wider so it hit my arm.
“You shouldn’t be worrying about that stuff,” she said. Struggling against the purple dress, which had the effect on her legs of a narrowed napkin ring, she heaved herself into the driver’s seat. She jingled her car keys (on the key-chain, a bright pink rabbit’s foot), jamming one in the ignition quickly, like she was knifing someone. “You want to talk to me tomorrow I’ll be here. Come to the office in the morning, but right now I do have to go. I’m late.” She leaned forward, grabbing the handle to slam the door, but I didn’t move an inch. The door hit my knees.
“Hey,” she said.
I stood my ground. (“‘I don’t care if they’re giving birth, don’t let a witness fly the coop,’” ordered Miami Police Detective Frank Waters to his immature partner, Melvin, in The Trouble with Twists [Brown, 1968]. “‘No brush offs. No rain checks. You don’t want them to reflect. Surprise a witness and he’ll inadvertently send his mother to the slammer.’”)
“For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” Evita asked with irritation, letting go of the handle. “What’s that look — listen, someone dying isn’t the end of the world. You’re sixteen for Pete’s sake. Your spouse left you, you got three kids, mortgages, diabetes—then we’ll talk. Concentrate on seeing the forest through the trees. If you want, like I said, we can talk tomorrow.”
She was turning on the charm now: smiling up at me, making sure her voice curled sweetly on the ends like gift-wrap ribbons.
“You destroyed the only thing I have left of my mother in the world,” I said. “I think you can spare five minutes of your time.” I stared down at my shoes and did my best to look miserable and melanchólica. Evita responded only to the descamisados, the shirtless ones. Everyone else was a complicit member of the oligarchy and hence, worthy of imprisonment, blacklisting, torture.
She didn’t immediately respond. She shifted, the vinyl seat moaning beneath her. She pressed the hem of her purple dress over her knees.
“You know, I was out with the girls,” she said in a quiet voice. “I had a few kamikazes at El Rio and I got thinking about your father. I didn’t mean—”
“I understand. Now what do you know about Hannah Schneider?”
She made a face. “Nothing.”
“But you don’t think she committed suicide.”
“I never said that. I don’t have a clue what happened.” She looked up at me. “You’re a strange girl, you know that? Does pa know you’re running around, intimidating people? Asking questions?”
When I didn’t respond, she checked her watch again, muttered something about spinning (something told me there was no spin class, no Fitness Exchange, but I had bigger fish to fry), then yanked open the glove compartment, removing a packet of Nicorette gum. She shoved two pieces in her mouth, swung her left then her right leg out of the car, crossing them and making a big to-do about it, like she’d just sat down at the bar at El Rio. Her legs were like giant thick candy canes minus the red stripe.
“I know what you do. Next to nothing,” she said simply. “My only concern was that it didn’t seem like her. Suicide, especially hanging yourself — I guess, I could understand pills, maybe—but not hanging.”