The Ghosts of Lovely Women (8 page)

* * *

P.G. and I had a favorite dinner destination, minutes from Pine Grove in Chicago: it was called Dig’s Dogs, and it was the only park-and-eat burger/hot dog joint still in existence, as far as I knew. The wait staff didn’t roller skate up to the window as in the 1950s, but they did approach the car and take your order. It meant that my canine and I could dine out together in style. P.G. loved it — he stuck his head out the window for the entire ride, letting his silky ears flap in the wind, and when he arrived he got his own small burger — that was the deal. I made him eat it in separate bites. He had learned to sit politely on the passenger seat and wait for me to distribute them.

Tonight Dig’s Dogs was not crowded; maybe everyone was home having soup to avoid the drizzly cold. P.G. and I sat and munched. I pulled off a piece of his burger and put it on his seat. P.G. siphoned it up and chewed noisily.

“Gross, P.G.” I looked at the rain on the windshield. “What makes someone kill a nineteen-year-old girl who is ultra popular?” I asked him, returning to the thought that had been flitting in and out of my mind since I’d heard of Jessica’s death. Then I remembered that the journal, the pink kitty journal, was in the copious depths of my purse. I finished my burger, gave P.G. the rest of his, and took it out.

The goal of the response journal is to encourage analysis by processing one’s personal responses to the book in question and then pursuing the questions and ideas that arise. Jessica had plenty to say about
Waiting for Godot, The Stranger,
and existentialism in general
. “I wonder about the authors
,” she said
. “Couldn’t they just have suffered from depression? Isn’t hope just something that you have because you’re happy?”

Huh. Sometimes students were such philosophers, I thought. I looked back at the notebook and noticed the name “Olchen.” I scanned down the page and got to this:
“I’m doing the psychological study project in Miss Olchen’s class, and I’ve learned a lot about people and their behavior. I’m not a psychologist, but I’ve made my own diagnoses about several people,
and they’re very interesting
.” Here I had written in the margin “This is not pertinent to your assignment, Jessica.” It sounded so bitchy, now that I looked at it. The prim and proper English teacher. But that was my job, to focus them, to tell them not to wander off on tangents or try to pad the paper with nonsense.

“
I’ve learned that at least one of my friends is truly paranoid, and it makes her do weird things. And a couple of guys I know are major, major misogynists. They deny it, but everyone
denies what he is. I learned that, too. I think even my own father is a misogynist sometimes, and I wish he would change because I don’t want my brothers to grow up resenting women or talking down to them the way I think my father does. I know, Miss Thurber — you’re asking what any of this has to do with the assignment. You’re going to write that in the margin with your purple pen. But here’s the thing: we’ve read all these works about male-dominated
societies and oppressed women, and I think even in these existential works there’s a hint of it, and I wonder if the oppression of women doesn’t somehow contribute to the men’s despair? Women are never allowed to achieve their true place in the world, therefore the world is out of balance, or as
Hamlet would say, “Out of joint.” So here’s my theory: the men are despairing, existential, because of the very imbalance they created
.”

This was way out there; it didn’t really make sense, but it was typical of Jessica’s writing — always asking, always reaching for ideas, never afraid to vocalize a thought. And some of the things she said, she wrote, bordered on genius. How had I never seen how gifted she was? Had I acknowledged her burgeoning feminism? Had I offered enough encouragement?

“Who are the misogynistic friends, P.G. ?” I asked my dog, who had curled up on his seat.

“Is this just a random assessment, or is this important?”

Jessica’s journal was long and filled with the sort of intellectual ramblings that I had just read. The light was fading; I decided to finish reading at home. P.G. was obviously ready for some basket time, in any case.

We drove through the dusky streets, leaving the city and returning to the very suburban aura of Pine Grove just a few blocks later. I parked in my usual spot, feeling a bit like a hamster in a maze.
Stay within the lines
. Was it Jessica’s journal that had me feeling that life was full of meaningless patterns?

P.G. and I made our leisurely way into the building, pausing in the lobby to look at some magazines the mail carrier had deposited on the floor. “Not ours,” I murmured, and we boarded the elevator. P.G. got a kick out of the ride, and I was feeling lazy. We emerged on my floor, the third floor, and right away I knew something was wrong. It seems odd to say I felt it, but I did feel it — an unwelcome presence. A sense of incongruity. And when I moved down the hallway, brows furrowed, I saw the truth: my door was open. Not a lot; it was barely open at all. But when I went to put in my spare key, I realized that the door was ajar and unlocked. Someone was in my apartment.

I froze; under pressure my brain had gone on vacation, and for many seconds I had absolutely no plan, no idea what to do next. Finally I began to think. I didn’t have my cell phone with me — it was inside the apartment, plugged in and charging for a new day. In order to call the police I’d have to go to a pay phone; the same was true if I wanted to call my parents, my brother or sister. In any case Lucky was leaving for vacation and my parents were too far away. My near neighbors were either elderly or not likely to be home — one worked nights and another was a perpetual socializer. I wasn’t going to risk old Mrs. Bettenger’s safety.

Before I knew it I was back on the elevator, then running down the dark sidewalk. P.G. was at my side. We winged our way down one block and over two until we reached the building Derek Jonas lived in. “Be home, be home,” I murmured to myself. I went into the little lobby and found the nameplates near the mailboxes. Most of them were typewritten, but the one which said JONAS was handwritten; perhaps he was too new a tenant to have had the new plate made.

I rang his buzzer; something was twirling around in my stomach, causing a ticklish pain. “Come on, come on,” I said. P.G. growled out his frustration.

“Yes?” said Derek’s voice.

“Derek, it’s Teddy. Can I come up? Or can you come down? I have a problem.”

He buzzed me up immediately. “Second floor,” he said.

P.G. and I ran up the stairs. Derek was standing in his doorway, holding a child. I stopped, shocked. He was
holding a child
: a boy with curly blonde hair and a sweet face like an angel on a Christmas card. He looked to be about two or three. His chubby legs were wrapped around Derek, and his little bottom sat on Derek’s crooked arm.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh.”

Derek smiled. “This is my nephew, Charlie. Charlie, this is Teddy.”

The boy held up a little hand, and I realized that he was tired, almost half asleep. “Hi, Charlie,” I said. Then I looked at Derek. “Someone’s in my apartment. I couldn’t call the police because my cell is in there. P.G. and I went out for dinner and when we came back I saw my door was open, and—”

Derek leaned forward and grabbed my arm with his free hand. “Come in here and call the police. They’ll tell you when it’s safe to go over there.”

“Right,” I said. Derek pointed to his phone, which sat on a built-in sideboard against one tangerine-colored wall. I walked there stiffly and made the call; the dispatcher began to ask me questions, but I was distracted because the baby — Charlie — was reaching for me, making fussing sounds.

Derek apologized, saying something about Charlie preferring women, and then somehow I had the boy and Derek had the phone. I accepted the child automatically, half fearing a screaming scene, but to my surprise he nestled his little head against my shoulder without a fuss.

I looked around, rocking slightly to soothe the little boy. Derek had a nice place, although the décor was rather simple. Elegant, though, I saw as I admired the furniture. Charlie put chubby arms around my neck. He was kind of sweaty.

“Seesaw?” he said.

“What?”

“See song?”

“You want me to sing you a song?”

“Yeah.”

He closed his eyes in anticipation. It might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen; it helped that I could see his pudgy face up close. The kid was all sweet lashes, plump lips and perfect skin. He was a cartoon of a cute baby.

Derek was still on the phone; he seemed to be giving the operator his address and phone number. “Uh— okay, Charlie. Let me think.” I made my way to a different room — a bedroom that had a little crib in one corner — so that Derek wouldn’t hear me singing. I had a pretty good singing voice, but I wasn’t in the habit of serenading anyone except myself. I found a chair near the crib and sat in it, leaning back so that Charlie wouldn’t slump forward.

I tried to think of something I’d heard on the radio. Willie Nelson’s craggy face popped into my mind, and I started to sing “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain.” This was one of my dad’s favorites. I was very tentative, but Charlie seemed to like it. He snuggled right against me like he was ready to be there for the long haul.

After a while I was less self-conscious, and I tried to make the song very pretty and soft so that Charlie would fall asleep. I felt a bit disoriented; first my apartment was invaded and now, somehow, I’d ended up holding a baby in Derek’s. I felt safe, though, and so did P.G., who was already curled up at the foot of the bed.

Who was in my apartment? I wondered as my voice sang. Was this a random robbery? Or — I dreaded the thought but made myself look at it — could Richard have been there? If so, why? What could he possibly have been looking for? I had made sure to give him back all of his possessions.

Another thought occurred to me. Had I really lost my key? Or had someone taken it? And if they had, who would have done it? It would have to have been someone at St. James, because I hadn’t been around any other people since work. It could have been a student — I didn’t always lock my classroom. It could have been a colleague, but that seemed very far-fetched. It could have been a staff member, but why? Why?

Nothing made sense. If it was a random person looking for money, how had they gotten in without breaking the lock? It hadn’t looked disturbed, and my neighbors would have heard the ruckus if it had been.

No, this just wasn’t making any sense. I realized, looking down, that I had a sleeping boy against me. I didn’t want to risk waking him up, so I stayed where I was, enjoying the feeling of a baby’s embrace. He was warm, and he smelled nice, like powder and crackers.

I rested my head against his and wondered if I would ever have children. I wondered what time Lucky and Matt would reach Vail. I wondered how Jessica had set up her website without help from some computer-type person. I wondered…

When I woke up Derek was standing in front of me, smiling. “Good job,” he said. “He always goes to sleep better for girls.” He took the chubby boy from me and slung him over his shoulder. I feared that Charlie would wake up, but he was zonked out. Derek set him in the crib with practiced ease. I stood up and moved back into his living room.

When he joined me I said, “I didn’t mean to barge into your room. I was looking for a quiet place.”

“Understood.” His smile, I realized, always held a quality of reassurance. “The police are at your apartment and the intruder is gone. They need you over there — I asked my neighbor to sit with Charlie until we get back.”

“We?”

“I’m not letting you go there alone.”

“Uh— okay. I really appreciate that.”

We waited for Derek’s neighbor, a tall young woman with freckles and blonde hair, and then went downstairs, I with a sudden weariness. I longed for the silence of my apartment, but it wasn’t going to be silent; a part of me never wanted to go in it again. I wondered how I could possibly feel safe in there tonight. I clutched my dog’s leash and he stayed close at our heels, not ready for an instant to be left in a stranger’s place.

On the way I thought out loud. “Derek, my key was missing. And although I have an ex-boyfriend who could be on a short list of suspects, I have changed the lock since he and I broke up. I feel like someone at St. James stole the key. I don’t — I’ve never locked my classroom door. I guess that’s stupid, but I’ve never had anyone steal anything. Maybe someone took the key and broke into my place. And the weird thing is—”

“Yeah?”

“I— Rosalyn Baxter was asking for Jessica’s journal today. And I was carrying it around. Anyone could have seen me with it — I know Jessica’s mother did. I’m just rambling, but I’m thinking, and that’s the only thing someone wanted from me. That journal.” I lifted my purse. “This journal.”

“Ah,” he said.

“But that can’t be right, right? They wouldn’t ransack my apartment for a journal?”

“One thing at a time. Let’s talk to the police.”

An officer with a crew cut approached us in my lobby. “Ma’am,” he said, nodding at me.

We went upstairs together, where another officer waited. It didn’t look as bad as I feared, but it looked bad enough: drawers left open with the contents dangling out; closet doors open and boxes, bags turned over; my clothing strewn around the room. It was a violation. I shivered. Derek put an arm around me. “I’ll help you clean it up,” he said.

Nothing valuable was missing, as far as I could tell on my brief tour of the premises. I went through the whole thing with the police. Told them my name, my occupation, my little problem with my key. “I’ll have to check if it’s at work tomorrow, but there’s always the chance, I guess, that someone took it out of my purse. I keep my house key separate from my car key, but no one really knows that. Except—” I felt my skin heating as I came to an embarrassing realization.

“Yes?”

“It— uh— has a keychain attached to it. It’s in the shape of a little house. I guess that could be a kind of giveaway for anyone going through my purse. But it could be on my desk. If it is, then I don’t know how the person got into my apartment, or why they messed it up.”