The Ghosts of Lovely Women (16 page)

His sentence said, “I am comparing
The Stranger
to
The Great Gatsby
.” I sighed, then touched his hand. “I know where you want to go here, but your reader won’t really see it. The thing is, you have to put what you’re thinking down on paper. And get rid of the word
I
. What do the two books have in common?”

Javier rambled for a couple of minutes, trying to put his thoughts into words. He did a pretty good job, considering that he probably hadn’t read either book very carefully. “So what you’re saying, if I hear you right, is that both characters were isolated from their societies. Could that be the theme that you want to express?”

His face brightened. “Yeah. And they’re both, like, lonely and misunderstood. And they both die.”

“Okay, then. Three supporting points — perfect. So let’s make a tiny outline here. See? Now I want you to try to put these three points into a sentence. Do that now while I check my e-mail.”

Javier worked at a desk and I read some basic work e-mails. Nothing from Derek, thank God. I didn’t even know if he had come to school today. I had skipped my usual stop in the mailroom. I wanted to meet no one, talk to no one.

Javier came back and showed me his thesis statement: “Jay Gatsby and Monsieur Meursault are both isolated characters; this is evident in their loneliness, in the way they are misunderstood, and in the way that they die.” I looked up at him, shocked.

“Oh my gosh, Javier, I think you have a thesis!”

He clapped his hands. “Yes!”

“But let’s be clear: you are way behind. I want you to bring me the whole first paragraph by period five, and then try to have your first two points written out in a draft by tomorrow. I also need to see the notecards you’ve written up until now.”

“Okay. I will. Okay,” he promised.

“Javier?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you be a pal and run to the teacher mailroom? Tell them I forgot mine and ask them to hand it to you.”

“Sure,” he said. He left; minutes later he returned with a small pile of mail. There — problem solved. I wouldn’t have to see anyone for today. But what about tomorrow? And the day after? How was I supposed to face Derek or deal with the reality of Jessica’s necklace?
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
…

The bell rang then, and my first period class filed in. Rosalyn walked up to me. “I have a reading question,” she said. “Oh my gosh, Miss Thurber, you look so tired!”

“I never got my coffee today,” I said feebly. It seemed utterly sad, that fact. “What’s the question?”

“Oh — okay. Is Porfiry Petrovich the same as Ilya Petrovich?”

“No. Remember what we said about the patronymic? It’s a middle name, derived from the father’s first name. What’s your dad’s name?”

“Stephen.”

“So your name would be Rosalyn Stephanovna Baxter. That’s the feminine. If it were Danny, he would be Danny Stephanovich Washburn. See? The Petrovich patronymic just means both men had a father named Petrov.”

“OH!” she said, as realization dawned. “Thanks, Miss Thurber.”

“Rosalyn?” I asked. The second bell hadn’t rung yet, so the class was still talking noisily. “Can I ask you a question about Jessica?”

She leaned closer, but looked reluctant. “I guess.”

“Did you see her on the day she died?”

Rosalyn nodded. “Yeah. That morning. We were hanging out in her back yard, because it was kind of warm out. She was painting her toenails and stuff.”

“This will seem like a dumb question, but what was she wearing?”

“Just jeans and a T-shirt. She was usually pretty casual.”

“Remember that necklace she had? The one with the stone from England?”

“Yeah.”

“Was she wearing that?”

Rosalyn shook her head. “Nah. That was like a sort of memento, but she didn’t really wear it. It was kind of big and clunky, and it didn’t really go with any of her clothes. She wore it around her mom and stuff.”

“Okay, thanks.”

She looked curious, but she didn’t ask me why I cared. She went to her desk and the bell rang. I made an effort to keep my eyes open and said, “Quiet down for the morning announcements, class.”

After the prayer and the pledge I passed out the vocabulary test and walked up and down the aisles so that I didn’t doze off at the podium. When the last test was turned in, reluctantly, by someone who obviously hadn’t studied, I went to the board. “Okay, some good reading again, huh? And here’s today’s topic!”

On the board I wrote PARANOIA. I turned and saw Derek standing in my doorway.

“Miss Thurber? May I see you in the hall for a moment, please?”

Derek made his tone very boring and official; even the most gossipy student in the room didn’t seem to think anything was amiss. I struggled for an excuse but could think of nothing. “Class, I want examples when I come back in. Raskolnikov being paranoid. Look back at your highlighting.”

I went into the hall. We moved a few paces away, where no student could see us through the doorway. Derek’s expression was closed, but his voice was gentle. “You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep,” I said.

“Teddy, are you going to tell me what happened in my kitchen last night?”

Our voices were quiet — so quiet we could barely hear each other. “I can’t, Derek. I— there’s something I have to work out. And I don’t know how. I don’t know how.”

He touched my arm. “Teddy, anything — you can tell me anything, you know that.”

“Not anything.”

I sensed his growing frustration, almost sympathized with it. He was trying to rein in anger when he said, “Whatever this is, it is obviously festering, and it is going to explode unless we deal with it. You look tormented, for God’s sake.”

I sighed and stared at the wall. “Derek, I suppose it will be up to me when that explosion occurs.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Should I be?”

“What does that
mean?
Is it because I told you how I felt about you? Is it because I practically said I loved you after just a short acquaintance? If so, I’m— I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not really sorry, but—”

“I have to get back to class.” This was impossible. I was going to start crying. How would I explain this to my students?

“Wait.”

I pressed my hands to my face, which felt numb. “I’m so tired,” I said. It sounded pathetic.

“Teddy,” he pleaded.

“I have to go.”

I went back into my room, faced the class, and burst into tears. I was aware of several things simultaneously: that Derek still hovered in the hallway and was witnessing my horrifying display; that my students, who had never known me to be anything other than jocular, were staring at me open-mouthed, uncertain how to process the idea of a sobbing teacher; and that someone on the P.A. was talking.

I grabbed a tissue and dabbed at my eyes as I tried to tune in to Anthony Fairchild’s voice, as I scrambled for some explanation of my odd, gasping behavior. “St. James students and faculty,” said Anthony smoothly, “there is one announcement we did not make with the morning prayer, mainly because we needed more information. But now it is our sad duty to inform you that a beloved member of our school community passed away over the weekend.”

Kathy. In my terrible selfishness I had forgotten,
forgotten
that they were going to announce this today. I blew my nose and took a deep breath, trying to focus on Anthony’s information about the times for Kathy’s wake, her funeral. I jotted it down and then stared at my silver paperweight, engraved with my favorite sonnet by Shakespeare:

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken…”

I made myself look back into the hallway, where Derek still stood, ostensibly so that he could listen to the announcement. He seemed concerned, but more than that he seemed lost, as though he’d forgotten where he was supposed to go.

“Miss Thurber,” Chris Angelini said, “I’m sorry about Miss Olchen. You guys were friends, huh? And you just found out from Mr. Jonas?”

I clung to the excuse, dishonest as it was. “Yes, we were friends. Thank you so much. I apologize for breaking down like that. Excuse me for one moment — I need one more piece of information,” I offered as a vague reason, and I went back into the hall.

Derek stood there, mute.

“All right, I’ll talk to you,” I said. “I don’t know what else to do. Come back here during my free period. Period three.”

“Fine,” he said. He walked away stiffly, abruptly.

I watched him. Then I sighed hugely and pasted on a smile. I walked back into my classroom feeling like the worst sort of liar or the best sort of actor.

“Oh, to have to say this to someone I’ve loved so much!
Well, that’s over with.”

—Torvald,
A Doll’s House
, Act III

I don’t even remember second period; it’s a gray blank in my memory. I don’t recall any students looking at me oddly or exchanging those pointed ironic looks with one another. I think they slumped over the books with the same sort of exhaustion that I leaned on the podium. And then it was period three. I was free.

Derek appeared almost immediately, his little brown briefcase in his hand. He leaned it against the wall, shut my classroom door, and came toward me. He sank into my podium chair, rubbed his eyes, and said, “Okay, Teddy.”

He hadn’t slept either, I realized. I made myself talk, although I still felt reluctant. “I found a necklace in your kitchen drawer.”

He paused, a half-smile playing on his lips. “You — so you think what? That I’m in a relationship behind your back? Because of a necklace you found? It’s probably Cindy’s, for God’s sake.”

“It’s Jessica Halliday’s.”

I was pleased with the effect those words had on him, for more than one reason. The naked shock on his face made me think:
Good! Now I’m not the only one who is horrified by this
knowledge
. But under that I realized his authenticity. He had no idea about the necklace; he didn’t know Jessica Halliday — that was what my brain assured me.

“What? How in the world — I’m telling you, it’s probably just Cindy’s. She leaves all sorts of things at my—”

“It’s Jessica’s. It’s a special necklace she had made out of a pebble from Dover Beach, from her family’s trip to England. It has her initials on it.”

“Oh my God.”

“You see, Derek?”

He looked at me then, with that expression I’d come to know well — a searching glance that seemed to probe around in my brain. “You know — I don’t entirely see. Are you saying you think I’m a murderer?”

It was ridiculous, the way he said it, in this room that smelled of old books and chalk and teenage body odor.

“A girl was killed not a week ago. I found something of hers in your house, something intimate. You said you never met her.”

“I never did.”

“I think you can excuse my confusion.”

“I just — I think I would assume that a burglar came in and put it into your drawer before I suspected
you
, Teddy.”

My face burned. “Derek, I was shocked. I still am shocked. I sat up all night going over it in my mind…”

“You could have told me all of this last night. We could have figured this out together. Or… oh, I see.” His face was sad. He had assumed of me a level of trust that I did not possess. Wouldn’t that have to be built over time? Why did Derek presume that in just a few days we could trust each other implicitly?

“Derek.”

He was no longer looking at me. “Okay. The only thing I know to do is talk to my sister. If she has no explanation, then I cannot tell you how Jessica’s necklace got into my drawer. If you want to go to the police before I contact Cindy, you may do so.”

“Please don’t make this worse than it is,” I said. “I am not an evildoer here.”

Derek stood up. His exhaustion was plain in the dark circles under his eyes. “I’ll look into this,” he said. “I’ll get back to you.” And he left, taking his briefcase with him. He didn’t look back.

Another class; then lunch. I heard how tired I looked from about five colleagues, including Lucia. “Darling, who’s been keeping you up at night?” she asked impishly. “I think I know.”

“No one, sad to say. I live a very prosaic existence,” I said to my sandwich.

“I heard a little rumor about you and the new guy.”

“We had been dating, yes. That might be over.”

Lucia looked disappointed. “He’s very cute. Nice muscle tone.”

“Huh.”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, go home. They’ll get a sub for your last classes.”

This seemed so appealing that I considered it for a moment. Then the lounge phone buzzed. Jim Williams, from the business department, stopped eating his Tupperware leftovers and picked up the receiver. “Yeah? Okay. Teddy? You have a call.”

I got up and moved sluggishly toward the phone. “Hello?”

“Is this Miss Thurber? My name is Mitch Menteith.” He pronounced it MEN TAY ITH. “I believe you called me?”

“Yes! Yes, uh— I had a few questions for you. I’m at work right now, but maybe I could call you later…”

“Are you in Chicago?”

“Near there, yes.”

“I’m in the area right now. I came in for the funeral. I’m going back to New York tomorrow. If you want I can meet you somewhere? I’m running errands all afternoon.”

I just wanted to go to bed. “Coffee,” I said.

“Sure — where do you want to meet?”

“Do you know Common Grounds? On Trevalian Street in Pine Grove?”

“Yeah. Jessica took me there once. Sure. What time?”

“How about four o’clock?” It would give me time to let out P.G.

“Sure thing. I’ll be there. You’ll know me by my red hair.”

* * *

During my seventh period a young person came to my door with a sealed envelope. “Thanks,” I said. I tore it open while my students toiled over their vocabulary tests. In it was a note from Derek, which said, “Cindy was apparently friends with Jessica Halliday. I’d prefer that you hear it from her. She’s at my place studying this afternoon; you can go and talk to her. I won’t be there; I have a meeting, which is probably just as well.” He didn’t even sign his name.