Authors: Mary Chase Comstock
Her
whole life was so woven with secrets she could almost hear them whispered in
the walls, rustling in the curtains, flickering in the candles at dinner. She
wondered if her father could hear them too, if that was how he found out. Maybe
he wasn’t listening at the door, but to the door.
He
walked toward her, softly as a cat, and touched the covers where she had pulled
them up to her throat. "You thought I wouldn’t find out, didn't you?
You're as much a fool as your mother and just as filthy. I thought you could be
my pure one, but no. You're a bleeding bitch."
Then he came for her and she could see what he was
holding: a small bright knife. He yanked at one braid and sliced it off,
grazing her scalp. She tried to escape, but he was too fast. He pinned her with
a knee to the chest, twisting her head as he pulled at the other braid. "This
is an old ritual for whores," he whispered. "This is how they'll know
you for what you are." Then he sliced again.
Her head reeled as a little trickle of blood found its
way to her neck.
He
looked back at her from the doorway. "Don't move an inch. It's your
mother's turn. I'll teach her a lesson she won't forget."
Outside a siren wailed in the distance.
“I don’t regret what I did,” she
whispered. “Not at all. But my mother . . . what I did broke her into little
pieces. That’s the sin I live with. And that’s what Freemont must know by now:
“I
was the girl who murdered her paragon of a father. I shot him in the heart and
watched as the light faded from his eyes.”
XXII.
Deirdre hurried along the hallway to class the next
morning. Freemont would be ahead of her, probably gloating over this small
offense, reading it as fear. This morning she would do battle armed with the
power of heaven-sent revenge: the manila envelope Bess had given her the
previous day. It contained a weapon she could use. She had found herself lost
in its contents since the early hours of the morning and now she was at least
five minutes late for class.
Taking
a breath, she slowed her steps. She might be late, but she wasn’t going to give
Freemont the pleasure of seeing her make a hurried entrance. From the door in
the back of the lecture hall, Deirdre surveyed the scene. Her students were
already assembled, eyes pointed to the front where Freemont Willard slouched
over the podium grinning, bantering with those seated in the front. Behind him
on the chalkboard, he had already scrawled a poem.
“Well, Professor Kildeer!” he greeted her as she made her
way down the aisle. “How nice that you could join us. I’ve just been chatting
with your students about the class. They’ve been pouring their hearts out.”
Deirdre refused to respond to his jeering tone. Instead,
she joined him at the front of the room and placed her books and papers on the
desk. She glanced up at her students. Most of them were opening their notebooks
now, but Todd sat with his closed, smirking, as usual. Some of the students
looked tense. Adam directed a distant gaze into space.
Freemont Willard cleared his throat. “I’ve taken the
liberty of starting your class, my dear. There’s already a poem on the board
for you to explicate if you choose. I’m sure you’re quite familiar with it.”
Deirdre didn't bother to look at what he’d written. Line
by line dissection of poetry was not what this class was about. Besides, if she
knew Freemont, he had chosen something charged with innuendo, just to unnerve
her. Two could play at that game, though. She opened a folder and pulled out
copies of the poem she had selected for discussion early this morning.
“How thoughtful, Professor Willard,” she said, pressing a
smile onto her face. “I’ve made other plans, however. Have a seat, please.”
Freemont laughed slightly, then sketched a mock stage bow
and retreated to the front row, taking a seat next to Todd.
“I’ve brought a poem today,” she began, “that has changed
a number of lives. That of the poet, certainly. My own life. And perhaps it
will change the lives of some of you here today.” She caught Freemont’s eye.
“That, after all, is the purpose of poetry, isn’t it? To evoke those emotions
that refine us or kill us, but do not allow us to stay the same. You can
measure real poets by the growth of their souls,” she went on. “And people
without souls can never be poets. Just imitators. Or worse.”
A smile slid across Freemont’s face. “So, by your
interesting definition, Professor, a plagiarist would be the ultimate damned
soul?” he asked.
She stepped past him silently and began handing out
copies to those in the back of the room. That’s what he was, she thought, a
damned soul. They both knew it. He had bartered his soul away for the power he
sought to hold over others. By God, he’d have no power over her, despite his
nasty little games.
She handed the last copy to Adam.
“I’m sorry, Professor Willard,” she said. “I don’t have a
copy for you. I think you’re familiar enough with the poet’s work to get along
without it, however.”
Deirdre took her place at the podium. “This poem is by
Diana Vibert.” She ran her eyes over the class. They looked back at her
blankly, except for Freemont Willard. The smile remained in place. His eyes
held no humor, though. His gaze reflected back at her with the dead, dull gleam
of a shark’s eye.
“Vibert died quite young,” Deirdre went on, "but she
was one of our own. She was a writer in residence here at this University.” She
glanced up at Freemont. “I believe you knew her, Professor Willard?”
He nodded, still smiling, but said nothing.
Deirdre turned her attention back to the class. “The poem
is called ‘Revenge,’” she continued. “I think you’ll find it powerful.”
I will haunt him
down the back roads of his soul,
I
will turn his days of flesh to nights of fear,
I
will hack his little joys to bleeding sorrow,
And
feed his heart to dogs without a tear.
Ghosts
and vengeful angels rend his soul!
Leave
no moist, hateful scraps for Hell to cherish!
Wither,
wane, decay and crumble,
Void,
erase, unmake, purge and perish!
Deirdre let the silence hover for a moment after she had
finished. No one said a word. Freemont Willard shifted in his seat.
“Comments, anyone?” she asked quietly.
When Adam Watts raised a tentative hand, she nodded.
“It’s really different from the other poems you’ve given
us to read,” he began. “I mean the emotion comes through. It really comes
through, but . . .”
“Yes?” she prompted.
“But, I don’t think it’s very good poetry.” He shrugged,
and added lamely, “Just my opinion.”
“You’re entitled,” she responded briefly. “Anyone else?”
A girl raised her hand. “I agree with Adam,” she said.
“It’s angry, but it isn’t polished. Too much rhyme. Not enough weight. Why
would it change anyone’s life?”
Deirdre felt herself smile. “You’re right. It’s not a
good poem. It’s raw. In fact, Vibert never finished it. It’s never even been
published.” She looked at the faces before her, and forced herself to hold
Freemont’s eyes for a moment. He licked his lips and grinned. Deirdre felt a
wave of triumph wash over her, because she knew her next words would wipe the
expression from his face.
“This poem was Diana Vibert’s suicide note.”
The reaction from the class was what she had hoped for.
They leaned forward in their chairs, almost as one. Freemont’s expression
froze. Now she felt the sweet taste of revenge for herself and for Diana
Vibert. It might prove fleeting, but for the moment, it was enough.
“The poem was clutched in her hand when they found her,”
Deirdre continued. “At the bottom, she had written,
I have not the strength to pursue him here. But I will haunt him and
hunt him in spirit
.”
Lisa raised her hand. “Who was he?” she asked.
Deirdre shrugged. “It’s difficult to say. Vibert lived
alone at this point in her life. There seems to have been no one she shared her
thoughts with. There are a number of clues, though. There’s a journal that’s
revealing in many ways.”
“Whoever she’s talking about made her kill herself then,”
Lisa said grimly. “Someone should find out. He’s a murderer.”
Deirdre nodded. “Thank you, Lisa. Now you’ve brought us
to how this poem has changed my life. I’m going to put my current projects on
hold for awhile and study the last years of Vibert’s life. I’m going to find
out who did this to her, and publish the ending to this particular murder
mystery.”
Freemont Willard shifted his weight in his chair.
“Do you need help?” Adam asked. “It could be like a class
project or something.” Several other students nodded in agreement.
Todd glanced derisively at Adam and snorted. “Don’t you
think you’re carrying this whole thing too far? Poets off themselves all the
time. So what? This chick was following the stereotype. She probably just got
dumped and couldn’t take it. What do you think, Professor Willard?”
Willard glanced briefly at Todd, then met Deirdre’s gaze.
“I think it would be an extremely poor scholarly choice,” he said evenly.
“Speculation of that sort is anti-intellectual at best, and criminally stupid
in terms of promotion and tenure at a university of this standing, even for one
so honored as you, Professor. I would advise you against such a pursuit most
strongly.”
“Your advice is noted,” Deirdre returned with a smile. “I
may even be able to include it in the introduction –”
Before she could continue, Todd broke in again. “Can we
look at the other poem? The one that Professor Willard put on the board?”
“Why not?” Her mission for the day had been accomplished.
Her heart was pounding the rhythm of revenge. “I’ll be curious to see what he
has to share with us today. Would you like to take over for a bit, Freemont?”
He rose slowly from his chair and slouched toward the
front of the room, as she took a seat next to Adam. An echo rang in her ears as
the blood rushed through her veins. The feeling was far too close to fear and
she was too close to trembling. As she settled herself, she pulled a sheaf of
papers from the manila envelope that held Vibert’s last journal entries and
scanned them again. She had almost memorized them by now, but seeing the words
again would strengthen her resolve.
He has taken that
part of me I love and made it into his own creature, Vibert had written. It
lives in me now and feeds on my heart, my soul, until there is nothing left. I
am already dead, so what is there left to do? A simple a decision and a great
relief now that I have arrived at it. Poor Bess – I have no heart left to love
her with. She will hear of it in some casual way, will appear untouched
perhaps. But she will die a little too, I fear. So . . .
Deirdre bit her lip as she read, the sound of Freemont’s
voice droning in the background. Such a wrong, such a needless end to a
beautiful soul. The idea to pursue a study of Diana Vibert’s last years had
occurred to her only moments ago, and the words had formed without
consideration, but it felt right. She would be an avenging angel for the dead
poet.
Suddenly she felt a light touch on her shoulder and she
looked up to see Adam gazing at her with the beginnings of tears in his eyes.
It was clear he had been reading over her shoulder. In her surprise, the papers
dropped from her hands and fell to the floor. Immediately he stooped to
retrieve them for her and shuffled them into an unwieldy pile.