Chapter 55
Italian poet Dante Alighieri, in the first part of his “Divine Comedy” from the 14th Century, describes the nine concentric circles of hell as limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, anger, heresy, violence, fraud, and treachery.
He forgot one: community.
Community Circle, that weekly event at the boys’ school where parents crowd the perimeter of the hot, cramped, and vaguely smelly cafeteria and wave like insane people as they try to get their kids’ attention during the macarena and bumbling renditions of songs like, “This Land is Your Land.”
Willa — being short, sweaty, impatient, and vaguely claustrophobic — would always arrive early to stake out her spot on these Friday mornings at 8 a.m., but inevitably a group of long-legged latecomers would stand directly in front of her, making it impossible to see. Which was really not the issue. The issue was making sure she was seen. Because if she wasn’t, the kids would give her endless shit for it.
In the Dante story, known as the “Inferno,” souls sent to the circles of hell were often given punishments to fit their crimes, a theory of divine revenge called contrapasso. So let’s say you purported to be a fortune-teller; you might be doomed to walk backwards in the afterlife so you could never quite see what was coming.
As Willa strained to see around a seven-foot-tall, husband-and-wife wall, she tried to figure out whether this was her contrapasso. Maybe punishment for always complaining that her Dad never showed up for anything?
She contemplated this as the children filed in from the hallway, waving and smiling and occasionally jumping out of line for an unsanctioned hug or high five. Willa squirmed and stood on her toes, calling her sons’ names and trying to catch their eyes as they marched past.
If they saw her, she could probably cut out of there early.
They didn’t see her.
“Is it 80 degrees in here?” whispered Vanessa, Willa’s 39-year-old friend who was a stay-at-home mom. She fanned her face with her phone. “Fuck. If they see me with my device out I’m gonna get a warning.”
The parents were supposed to be present, after all. Present for what, Willa wasn’t sure, as the principal told terrible jokes.
“I think it’s 82 degrees, actually,” Willa said, still straining to get her kids’ attention. She tried to crane around the human barricade but lost her balance and bumped into the wife.
She spun around and gave Willa a searing look.
“Sorry,” Willa said. “I just can’t see.”
“Yeah, it’s crowded in here,” the husband said, unhelpfully.
Willa whispered to Vanessa. “Shouldn’t there be a law that if you are tall you can’t stand in the front row? Don’t they realize they’re gigantic? I think I come up to that guy’s waist.”
Vanessa shrugged, clearly not quite on the same page, given that she was 5’9”. She waved to her son and then surreptitiously checked her phone.
“Hey,” Willa whispered to Vanessa as the kids started singing the school’s theme song, an unauthorized rewrite of “Jellicle Cats” that improved slightly on the song from the musical that held the Wintergarden Theatre hostage for 18 years (the ad slogan, “Cats — now and forever,” always sounded vaguely like a threat.). “Are you doing anything tonight? It’s been a long week, and I could use a drink or three.”
Vanessa continued to look at her phone as if the answer was on the screen. “Um, oh, tonight? Yeah, no, I can’t. I think Chase and I are doing something.”
Willa watched Vanessa’s face and could tell something was amiss.
“Oh, what are you guys doing?” she asked.
Vanessa pocketed her phone, then turned to Willa. “OK, here’s the deal. I can’t.”
“Right, you said that already,” Willa said.
“No, I mean I can’t hang out with you,” Vanessa said. “Like, anymore.”
Willa felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. “Wait, what? Why?”
Vanessa let out a big exhale. “Listen, I don’t agree with him, but he thinks you’re a little … I don’t know … wild? Like, when he saw you coming home drunk while he was out on an early run?”
Willa was angry. “So I come home drunk one time and that means you’re not allowed to hang out with me? Also, since when do you need his permission?”
Now it was Vanessa’s turn to seem peeved. “It wasn’t ‘one time.’ And I don’t need his permission. But for some of us, family is the most important thing in life. So I have to do what I can to keep things peaceful there. We could get coffee sometime, but he’s just worried about what could happen if I go out with you at night.”
Willa looked down at the scuffed rubber-tile flooring and said, “OK.”
Vanessa squeezed Willa’s arm, then snaked her way to the back of the cafeteria and out into freedom.
Willa’s vision was blurry with tears, but she didn’t blink, hoping that would keep her cheeks dry. Community Circle droned on.
“Hey, you’re Willa, right?”
Willa looked up to her right and saw a man, probably 45 years old, tall, kind of like a jacked Jason Bateman.
She croaked out, “Yes.”
“I took your class yesterday,” he whispered. “It was so much harder than I expected it to be. I lift, and I thought I’d have your class in the bag. Really humbling, actually.”
Willa turned to wipe away her tears. Yes, of course. He was a first-timer in her 5 p.m. last night.
“Oh hi!” she whispered enthusiastically, collecting herself and putting on a salesman’s smile. “Sometimes I have trouble recognizing people when they’re wearing normal clothes.”
He looked down at his basic khakis and white button-down shirt, then chuckled. “Yeah, this is about as ‘normal’ as it gets, huh?”
Willa smiled politely. She really just wanted to see her kids and get the hell out of there.
“I was kind of embarrassed by how much I was sweating all over that machine,” he grimaced. “I feel bad for whoever has to clean up.”
“We used to have towels for our clients to use, which helped with that,” Willa said.
“Oh, yeah, a towel would’ve helped,” he said.
“Now I do most of the cleaning,” Willa said.
His eyes went wide. “Oh. Shit. Sorry.”
“No apology necessary,” she said. “Can you remind me of your name again?”
He extended his hand. “Jeremy. My daughter, Hannah, is in second grade.”
“Nice to re-meet you,” Willa said. The two giants in the front row stepped apart from each other just enough to give Willa a chance to see the third graders, all crisscross-applesauce, and catch James’ eye. They waved at each other maniacally. Perhaps seeing this movement in his peripheral vision, Charlie looked over from the fifth-grade area and rolled his eyes.
Great, Willa thought. My job is done.
“I have to head out now,” she whispered to Jeremy. “But hopefully I’ll see you at the studio again soon.”
“I hope so too,” he said as she dashed out of the cafeteria.