A Good Cause

His plan was simple: Bid often but early, when he had no chance to win. For example, take this basket of outdoor grilling supplies. The asking price was seventy dollars, but it would go for a lot more than that by the end of the night. He printed his name on the bid sheet in capital letters, with plenty of elbow action: PETER CARDIN—$55.

The next item was a gift certificate to Marino’s, one of those fancy places with huge plates and tiny entrées you could finish in three bites. Peter took Susan there once for her birthday. The certificate was worth a hundred dollars; he bid seventy-five.

The other parents wouldn’t have a clue. They’d watch him bidding over and over, like he had money to burn, and he’d get out of there for free. It was brilliant.

There was just one hitch: Susan.

In two months, their son, Tim, would “graduate” from Garfield Elementary, so this was their sixth and final school auction. And Susan wasn’t leaving empty-handed, she informed Peter as they walked into Garfield’s cafeteria. “No one comes to their last auction without buying something,” she said.

Right, Peter thought. Nobody does that—unless they’d just gotten shitcanned by their twenty-eight-year-old boss, that is. Not that he’d broken the news to her yet; no point in ruining her evening on top of all the other misery he was about to cause her. Besides, he still had four weeks before he had to clear out his desk. Maybe he’d find another job by then, and he wouldn’t even have to tell her.

He knocked back the last of his Budweiser and approached the makeshift bar, a cafeteria table with one ice bucket for beer and another for wine. He’d already used his two free drink tickets, so the next one would cost him eight bucks.

“Peter! Back again.”

Peter had known Brian Salter since Tim was in kindergarten. His son was the best player on Tim’s baseball team, and Brian never let anyone forget it.

Peter tapped his debit card. “One more. For the kids.”

“You got it,” Brian said, handing him his beer. “See you at the game?”

“Can’t wait,” Peter said.

He took a swig and surveyed the cafeteria. Same set-up as last year, and the year before that. Classic rock played over the sound system while a giant banner challenged parents to “Support Your Garfield Turtles.” Green and white helium balloons decorated each table; Peter watched as one slipped away from its cluster and floated up to the ceiling, where it bounced around a few times and finally settled into a corner. All the parents had divided themselves up into groupings of one kind or another: herds, flocks, gangs, etc. (Peter’s favorite cable channel was Animal Planet.) Closest to him were a nest of lawyers, deep in conversation about tee times. A warren on his left were gnawing on carrots and celery; band parents, most likely. Near them was a hive of Garfield’s beautiful people, led by Lauren Deery, the school’s unofficial queen.

Peter bet that tomorrow during lunch, every student would be huddled in the same packs as their parents. Same cliques, thirty years apart. So where would that leave Tim, he wondered. Would he have a posse of friends to hang with? Or would he be alone, like Peter was right now?

Which reminded him to check on Susan. He spotted her at an auction table, appraising a necklace. Peter guessed it was one of Lauren’s “homemade” creations. Lauren supposedly designed her own line of jewelry, though Peter had his doubts. Susan had been trying to break into Lauren’s social circle for years, which probably explained her interest in the necklace, especially since the man standing next to her was the other half of Garfield’s royal couple: Lauren’s husband, Charles Elliott.

Peter hurried over to them just as Susan clasped the necklace around her neck.

“How are you, Peter?” Charles asked.

Peter tried to think of a clever response but failed and muttered hello. He hated how he always got flustered around Charles. He resented having to speak to him at all. Charles and Lauren should have sent their daughter to a private school with all the other princesses. But there, they’d have been just another rich couple. Here at the neighborhood public school, everyone worshiped them. So down to earth, everyone said. Well, they didn’t fool Peter.

Susan held up her phone in front of the necklace to see how it looked on her while Peter scanned the bid sheet. Six offers so far, the highest at three hundred dollars. He could buy a lot of groceries with three hundred dollars.

“It’s nice,” he said. “But kinda like the one your mom gave you, remember?”

Charles cleared his throat and retrieved his glass of wine from where he’d set it on the table. “I should go find Lauren,” he said. “Great seeing both of you.”

Peter braced himself as Charles walked away; Susan wouldn’t be happy. He remembered when Tim was in kindergarten, how excited she was to meet everyone. Tim was going to make so many friends. His friends’ parents would become their friends. The dads would play poker, the moms would drink wine at book club. They’d even take vacations together, rent a big house on the Outer Banks. Problem was, Tim didn’t exactly turn out to be the most popular boy in school, and he and Susan didn’t exactly turn out to be the most popular parents. But that didn’t mean she’d ever stopped trying.

She moved a few steps down the table, in front of a signed Washington Nationals jersey, and pretended to examine it. “I can’t believe you did that,” she said.

“It’s three hundred dollars. That’s insane.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

Peter knew that tone; arguing would only make her more determined. The situation called for a strategic retreat. “You’re right,” he said. “You should bid on it.” He tried not to sound too convincing. “Seriously.”

Susan didn’t answer, but he could tell by the way she unclasped the necklace and returned it to the table that she’d given up on it.

“Can I get you some wine?” he offered. Still no response. He debated whether to ask her for a drink ticket. She probably hadn’t used both of hers yet, and it would be a shame to spend another eight dollars if he didn’t have to.

Too soon, he decided. He’d ask for it later.

He was halfway through his next beer when he heard a knocking on the loudspeaker. Dr. Wilson, the principal, was standing on a raised stage, tapping on the microphone. He was wearing his I’m-the-most-important-person-here, green-and-white striped tie that he always saved for this occasion. Dr. Wilson wasn’t a real doctor—his degree was in physical education—but he still made everyone call him one. The auction was the highlight of his year.

“Only five minutes left, so place those final bids!” he said.

Peter sensed a subtle change in the air, like dusk settling over the Serengeti. The next few moments would determine who walked away with a prize and who left disappointed. He watched a married couple bicker over a family portrait by a studio photographer. The husband wanted it; his wife wasn’t so sure. “Fine,” she conceded. “But not yet.” Nearby, one of the lawyers stood guard over a gift certificate for a local spa, daring anyone to cross her.

Meanwhile, Peter strolled down the length of each table, checking on his bids. His plan had worked; all of them had come up short.

With ten seconds to go, Dr. Wilson began his countdown. The family portrait guy scribbled his name on the bid sheet and high-fived his wife; the lawyer, triumphant, relinquished her post.

“Pens down!” Dr. Wilson announced. “But grab a seat for the live auction!”

Peter groaned. This was when the night got really expensive. He bought a fresh beer and looked for somewhere to sit. Yellow plastic chairs, an auction program placed on each one, were lined up in rows. It reminded him of a school assembly, and he felt a familiar tightness in his chest as parents staked out seats next to their friends. Charles and Lauren had already claimed territory toward the front, confident that their admirers would follow. Peter felt like he was eight years old again, wishing he could disappear. Then he exhaled; he had a wife now. He found her near the back, next to her best friend, Celia.

He sidled down the row toward the open chair between Susan on his right and one of the band parents, Max Silver, on his left. He didn’t understand why the rows were so narrow. They weren’t third-graders anymore, for chrissake.

Max grabbed hold of his arm. “You okay, Peter?”

Peter felt something wet and sticky spread across his chest. He must have spilled beer on his shirt. Susan gave him a look but he ignored her.

“Celia,” he said. “So nice to see you.”

Dr. Wilson tapped the microphone again until the crowd quieted, then proceeded to the first item. “Six bedrooms, a swimming pool, and a private dock on the Eastern Shore. Wouldn’t that make the perfect weekend getaway? And it’s all thanks to Charles and Lauren, who have graciously donated the use of their lovely home.”

Peter pressed his beer bottle against his forehead as hard as he could, just to feel the pain. Within moments, the bids surpassed one thousand dollars. He peeked sideways at Susan. Her face wore a smile, but he didn’t buy it. With a different husband, she could have been bidding along with everyone else. But she’d made the mistake of choosing him.

When they’d first met, he could at least make her laugh. There was a market for that back then, even among women who were way out of his league—which Susan definitely was. But that was a long time ago. He set his bottle on the floor next to his chair and closed his eyes. Just another half-hour, forty-five minutes tops, and it would all be over. He could go home and put this shitty day behind him….

The next thing he felt was an elbow in his side; he must have been dozing. Susan shook her head at him, irritated. Even asleep, he’d found a way to disappoint her. He looked around and wondered how long he’d been out. Five minutes? An hour? He faced the stage and tried to catch up.

“As you know,” Dr. Wilson said, “there’s nothing I enjoy more than serving as Garfield’s principal.” He paused for dramatic effect. “But for one day, and one day only, I’m willing to yield the reins of this magnificent school. That’s right, parents, your lucky child could be Principal for a Day!”

Peter sat up straight, suddenly wide awake. For the first time, Dr. Wilson had his attention.

“Just imagine. Your son or daughter could deliver the morning announcements, raise the American flag, even go first in the lunch line!”

Peter had a few better ideas. Tim could start by getting rid of these stupid auctions. Same with the school assemblies. And there’d be a new seating policy during lunch: no cliques. Everyone would sit in alphabetical order—except for the daughters of the beautiful people, who’d have to take turns next to Tim.

The bidding opened at two hundred dollars. A woman raised her hand, then another, but the offers soon stalled and the mood grew restless. Celia removed her phone from her purse and checked the time. Dr. Wilson tugged on his tie uncomfortably.

“Anyone? Three hundred dollars for the memory of a lifetime?”

Peter almost felt sorry for him; not everyone wanted the good doctor’s job after all. Then, toward the front, an arm in a blue blazer rose in the air. Of course, Peter thought. Because how else could this night get any worse?

Dr. Wilson clapped his hands together like a seal begging for a treat. “Thank you, Charles! Emma would make an outstanding principal. But can I get three fifty?”

Peter thought of something else Tim could do as principal: send Emma packing off to private school, where she belonged.

“Remember,” Dr. Wilson said, “every dollar supports educational programming right here at Garfield.”

Peter looked to either side, then behind him. No movement. He wasn’t surprised. No one wanted to get in a bidding war against King Charles. It’d be suicide.

“Did I mention the morning announcements?” Dr. Wilson asked. “And ringing the class bells?”

Screw it, Peter thought. He raised his hand.

Susan stared at him, shocked. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“It’s for a good cause, remember?”

Dr. Wilson hesitated. He seemed unsure whether Peter meant to place a bid or was simply stretching. Peter extended his hand higher.

“Three-fifty,” the principal said at last. “Do I hear four hundred?”

Once again, Charles raised his blazered arm. So predictable, Peter thought. Maybe no one else had figured it out, but he knew exactly what was happening. Charles couldn’t care less about Garfield or its educational programming; he just wanted the glory that came with throwing his money around. Well, maybe Charles would have to share the spotlight for once.

“Peter?” Susan asked, with concern this time.

But before he could answer, he heard someone clap, then a few cheers, as a ripple of excitement spread through the crowd. Peter was confused; had he missed something? Then it dawned on him: the cheers were for him. Not for Charles. They were rooting for him. For Peter Cardin. No one had ever done that before.

“This is more like it,” Dr. Wilson said. “Anyone for five hundred?”

From where Peter was sitting, all he could see of Charles was the back of his head—and then his finger flicking in the air, as if summoning a waiter.

And so it went, back and forth, mano a mano: five hundred fifty, six hundred, six hundred fifty. But when Charles offered seven hundred, Peter’s chest began to tighten again. He hadn’t planned this far ahead. He’d just wanted to knock Charles down a peg; he never expected the bids to go this high. Seven hundred dollars might not be much to someone like Charles, but it was a hell of a lot to him.

If he quit now, he could still hold his head up. He’d made his point, and everyone knew how money Charles had. But then he looked around the room. Brian and the other jocks were chanting his name and pumping their fists. They wanted him to win. How could he let them down?

He waved to Dr. Wilson, and the cafeteria erupted. Max clapped him on the shoulder. “My man!” he said.

But seconds later, Charles raised his bid to eight hundred, and Peter realized the seriousness of his position. Charles could do this all night. But Peter was alone, exposed, in the grassland. Charles was the lion, he was the zebra, and things rarely went well for the zebra. He’d watched this scene unfold dozens of times on Animal Planet, but now he was living it.

Susan placed her hand on his. “Please,” she said.

To Peter’s surprise, her touch was gentle. He remembered what that used to feel like, back when they were dating. Before she figured out what a loser he was.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said. “You’re a good father.”

Peter wanted to believe her, but he knew better. Would a good father get himself fired? Would a good father pick a fight against the richest man in town?

“Eight hundred fifty going once?” Dr. Wilson asked.

There has to be a way out, Peter told himself. Not every zebra gets eaten every time it encounters a lion.

“Eight hundred fifty going twice?”

A zebra’s only hope against a lion is to outlast him, Peter remembered. Lions are faster, but they have no endurance. If he could somehow convince Charles that he’d never give up—

“One thousand,” Peter said.

There was a collective gasp, then a wave of hurrahs. Brian sprang out of his chair, made his way to Peter, and gave him a high five. “For the kids!” he said.

Everyone turned their attention back to Charles and Lauren. They seemed to be arguing. Peter lifted himself halfway out of his chair to get a better view. Lauren shook her head; then Charles whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Charles stood up, pointed to Peter and gave him a thumbs-up.

Peter collapsed back onto his chair. He’d won! He’d done it! The zebra had survived!

Dr. Wilson pleaded for order but no one heeded him, least of all Peter. Everyone around him, from every clique, even the beautiful people, patted him on the back and congratulated him. Susan was right: It wasn’t too late for their family. They could still have the book clubs, the poker games, the beach vacations—all of it. And just imagine what this would do for Tim. It’d change everything! He’d be amazing as principal; Peter would make sure of it. They’d plan out the whole day together—games, costume contests, the best school assembly ever. All the other students would see what a great kid Tim really was. He’d be the most popular boy at Garfield. Sure, the victory had come with a cost—a thousand dollars, to be exact. But spread out over a lifetime, it would be worth every penny.

When Dr. Wilson finally had everyone’s attention, he beamed at Peter. “I’m so happy for Tom,” he said. Then, addressing the assembly, “One thousand going once?”

Wait, what? Peter looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but there was no sign of it. Everyone was acting normally, like nothing had happened.

He grabbed Susan’s wrist. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” she asked. But Peter was sure: Dr. Wilson had said Tom. Not Tim but Tom, with an O. That fucking principal knew Emma’s name but not Tim’s? What kind of bullshit was that? Tim had attended Garfield since kindergarten. Six years!

Peter rose, so everyone could see him. “Tim,” he said. “His name is Tim. Tim Cardin.”

Dr. Wilson smiled at Peter again. “Right. Our next Principal for a Day. Congratulations!”

“No, you said Tom. His name is Tim. My name is Peter. This is my wife, Susan. Our son is Tim.”

“Yes, of course. Tim. That’s what I said.”

Susan pulled on his arm. “Peter, let it go. It was a simple mistake.”

“Dude,” Max said. “It’s cool.”

Peter sat back down, still angry. Just because he didn’t have an extra house to give away for the weekend or wear a blazer to events that were supposed to be casual, as the invitation clearly stated, didn’t mean his kid mattered any less than that Elliott girl.

“One thousand going twice?” Dr. Wilson said.

People began gathering their belongings as the chairs scraped against the floor. But Peter didn’t move. This wasn’t over. No way. No one was leaving until Tim got the respect he deserved.

Peter raised his hand again. “Twelve hundred dollars.”

The scraping stopped. The only sounds were murmurs of disbelief.

“Um,” Dr. Wilson said. The knot in his tie had gone askew; he tried unsuccessfully to straighten it. “You already have the high bid.”

“Twelve hundred,” Peter repeated.

Dr. Wilson looked to the left of the stage, then to the right, hoping for someone to tell him what to do—no luck. “Twelve hundred it is,” he said. “Principal for a Day is quite the honor, after all. Twelve hundred going once?”

No response. A few more belongings were gathered.

Peter waited for Dr. Wilson to ask a second time. Then he stood and said, “One thousand five hundred.”

The cafeteria got very quiet. Peter didn’t care. Everyone could wait. They could all wait here together.

“Twelve hundred dollars is more than generous,” Dr. Wilson said. “Why don’t we stop there. In fact, for twelve hundred, Tim can be principal for two days.”

Peter scanned the crowd, row by row. No one was cheering for him now. Their faces were cold and hard. Brian had folded his arms across his chest. The family portrait woman was pointing her phone at him, recording him on video. So that’s how it was. Peter understood now. Dr. Wilson was mocking him, and so was everyone else. They were all in on the joke together. They didn’t think he could afford to donate fifteen hundred dollars—which was true, he couldn’t. But no one here knew he’d gotten fired that morning. They just assumed he didn’t have the money. So now they were making fun of him, like people always did. His whole life, he’d taken their shit. But no more. He was done with that. Who was he kidding? These parents weren’t his teammates. They hadn’t been rooting for him against Charles. They’d just wanted to be entertained. They were like ravens, staring at him with their dark eyes, acting superior, saying nothing. Just waiting to feed on his corpse. He tried to remember the name for a group of ravens. It was a strange one. Congregation? Conspiracy? He’d look it up later.

“Fifteen hundred,” he said, resting his hand on Susan’s shoulder. “Our son Tim”—he let that sink in for a moment—“has been so happy here at Garfield, it’s the least we can do.”

Dr. Wilson opened his mouth but nothing came out. Then he said quickly, “Fifteen hundred going once, twice, three times, sold,” and walked off the stage.

All around Peter, parents rose from their chairs, this time without stopping. A few spoke in hushed voices, but most left without a word. “Congrats,” Max mumbled.

Peter, still standing, picked up his auction program—he’d want to save it, as a souvenir—and waited for Susan to join him. But she stayed seated. She leaned forward with her eyes shut and her hands balled into fists on top of her knees. Celia pulled her close and gently rubbed her back.

“Susan?” Peter said. “Ready?”

Celia said, “I think she needs a minute.”

Peter nodded. He could understand that. Tonight had been a lot to take in. But Susan would come around. She’d see he was right. From now on, everything would be different. For the rest of his life, Tim would remember how he raised the American flag and delivered the morning announcements and got his lunch before everyone else—all because his dad had stood up for him at the Garfield Elementary School auction. Had things turned awkward there at the end? Possibly. But Tim would get his day, and that’s all that mattered.

The more Peter thought about it, Tim really was lucky to have him for a father after all.

Susan still hadn’t moved. It would be good if she came around soon, Peter thought, because he still had to tell her about his job. Let’s say she got over the drama of the auction by Monday. He could wait a couple of more days, act like everything was normal, then tell her on Thursday. Or Friday.

Thursday or Friday, he’d play it by ear.

The three of them were almost alone now, Susan and Celia still huddled together while Peter stood to the side and waited. A handful of parent volunteers disposed of the leftover refreshments and collected the balloons, all except the green one still hiding in the corner of the ceiling. When everything had been put away, the parents gave Peter a wide berth as they departed. Fine, he thought. Let them go. People like that would never be his friends.

Watching them leave, he remembered the word he’d been searching for.

Unkindness. Yes, that’s what it was. An unkindness of ravens.