The Shape of Mercy (17 page)

I agonized over what to say to him, finally deciding on this:

I hit Send and waited at the computer until midnight to see if Raul was at his computer too and would respond.

But a few minutes after twelve, and when no new messages had arrived, I shut off my computer, turned Clarissa’s desk light on for her, and crawled into my bed.

I woke up when she came in a few minutes before one, but by then I was mad at her for staying away. It didn’t occur to me that she often stayed out late. I pretended to be asleep.

For the next three days, I only saw her from a distance in the dining commons or asleep in her bed. She wasn’t awake when I left for class, and she wasn’t home when I went to bed at night.

To make matters worse, I had heard nothing from Raul in response to my e-mail. Not a word.

By Wednesday night, I couldn’t stand Clarissa’s silence anymore. I waited for her to get in that night. It was after midnight when she stepped into our room.

“Clarissa?” I could see her shape moving in the semidarkness.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Her voice was sincere but curt.

“It’s all right. I was waiting up for you. I want to apologize for what I said the other night.”

She paused a moment. Then I could see her pulling off her hooded sweatshirt. “Apologize for what?”

So she was going to make it hard for me. So be it.

“For thinking you were only interested in Cole because he has money.”

Clarissa kicked off her shoes. “Lauren”.

“What?”

“I am
not
interested in Cole. I liked going to your house. I liked talking with your dad about economics. I liked your mom. I liked your housekeeper and the way she made me feel while I was there. I liked Cole. I liked the party at Malibu. But I am not interested in Cole or anyone else. I have two more years of college and three years of grad school ahead of me. Cole is a fun date and you have a beautiful house and I had a great time while I was there. Get over it.”

I sat up in bed. “That’s what I’m trying to apologize for! For jumping to conclusions.”

“You didn’t hurt my feelings, Lauren.”

“But I feel bad.”

“That’s what your conscience is for,” she mumbled.

“What?” I had heard her, though.

“You want to apologize so you can feel better about the way you think.” She stepped out of her jeans.

“I want to apologize because I was wrong.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me for being wrong.”

I couldn’t help raising my voice. “What do I have to do then?”

“You don’t
have
to do anything. You’re not accountable to me for how you think or what you do. Go to sleep. I’m going to go brush my teeth. And I don’t want to talk about this when I get back.”

She was gone for a few minutes. When she came back, she said nothing. She just switched off her light and got into her bed.

Not too long after that I heard steady breathing from the bed across the tiny space we shared. She really wasn’t bothered by any of this.

I lay awake for another hour at least.

And when I finally did fall asleep, I dreamed I was eating yellow peas.

Papa went again to Salem Town to hear Elizabeth Proctor’s examination. He came home in a foul mood, coughing and muttering. Everyone, it seems, sees yellow peas and green kernels. Papa said Goody Proctor could scarcely answer the charges against her, so astonished she appeared at the scope of them. Her husband, John, stood up to protest such ridiculous proceedings, and as soon as he did, the screaming girls named him a tormentor as well! Papa said Goodman Proctor will spend the night in chains, accused of being a wizard. I am glad Papa issued his complaints to me and not the magistrates.

She who was afflicted is now an afflicter. The shape of Mary Warren is now flying about the countryside torturing people. Goody Bishop too. Afflicted girls carried on throughout the sermon today. I do believe Papa was of a mind to take a strap to them and whip the foolishness out of them. Would that it were only foolishness
.

More names have been added to the list of the accused besides Mary Warren: Goody Corey’s husband, Giles, Abigail Hobbs, and Bridget Bishop
.

Prudence told me Abigail Hobbs is a beastly wench and no one likes her
.

I wanted to say, “But that does not make her a witch.”

I
hated waiting to hear back from Raul. I hated that it mattered that he respond.

I didn’t want to be on the edge of my seat, waiting for his response to my e-mail, but that’s exactly how I felt. I’d never checked my e-mail as much or as often as I did that week.

It didn’t help that Clarissa spent as much time away from the dorm as ever and that my dad was hounding me to get Abigail to state her intentions for the diary. Between Clarissa, my dad, and Mercy’s hauntings—I dreamed of her almost every night—I was a distracted mess.

Abigail could sense I was bothered by something, and I knew she wouldn’t continue to accept my lame excuse for my grumpiness. I told her I had midterms to prepare for. That was true, but my irritability had nothing to do with midterms.

Raul’s short response came Thursday, four days after I’d e-mailed him. I didn’t routinely check my e-mail before heading to Abigail’s, but I did all that week. Three e-mails waited for me that afternoon: one from Raul, one from my dad, and one from the leader of one of my study groups. I purposely read the other two first, even though Raul’s had arrived ahead of them. The study group had moved the location of our next meeting from the library to the Coffee Cat. My dad wanted my finishing touches on the proposal for the gallery project by that weekend. And Raul’s said simply this:

I grinned at the idea of reading
Moby Dick
in two days’ time, but the lighthearted moment melted away as I reread the entire message three times, dissecting the sentences to uncover any hidden meaning. What exactly was Raul saying about my opinion of
Robinson Crusoe?
Did he think that I was being nitpicky? that I read into the story stuff that had never crossed his mind? And was he insinuating that he
wanted
Clarissa and me to come down that weekend, or was he just telling me why he and Cole were going?

I had no desire to go cloud-hopping in his plane, joke or no joke. And it wasn’t because I didn’t like flying. It bothered me that I was attracted to him, a rich kid with a plane. Someone the Durough gatekeepers would approve of.

I didn’t want to go for a ride in Raul’s fifty-thousand-dollar toy. I knew I was going to be late to Abigail’s, but I had to type out my reply then and there. It took fifteen minutes to fine-tune.

I read my own message three times too. Then I saved it into Drafts so I could send it later that day.

Or perhaps the next.

Abigail was waiting for me when I arrived twenty minutes later than usual. She opened the front door, not Esperanza. And I didn’t need to ring the bell. She opened the door as I walked up the winding path.

“Is everything all right?” Her tightly wrinkled face was creased with concern.

“Yes. I’m sorry I’m late. I had some things I needed to tend to. I should’ve called.”

“I was worried. It’s not like you to run late.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Abigail stepped aside to let me in and then closed the massive door heavily behind us. She said nothing as I headed for the library doors. The entryway was half lit and quiet. The doors to the sitting room were closed, and no stray sunlight fell upon the tiles.

I set my purse down and Abigail busied herself with retrieving the diary, just as she did every afternoon. I knew my father would ask me that weekend if I had spoken to her about her plans for the diary. He had mentioned it in his e-mail that day and in a phone call earlier that week, and he’d even brought it up to my mother, because she had called me about it too. I didn’t think my mom was too concerned about Abigail taking the credit for transcribing the diary; she didn’t care for the subject matter and would have been fine with the diary being published with Abigail Boyles as its editor. But since it bothered my dad, it bothered her. She had to live with him and his disappointments.

I fired up a wordless prayer for boldness and smarts. Then I cleared my throat and said Abigail’s name.

“Yes?” Abigail laid the diary on the desk in front of me and began carefully removing her gloves, finger by finger. She looked up at me, and I saw fear in her eyes. Or maybe dissatisfaction.

Or maybe a double dose of both.

It suddenly seemed like a terrible time to ask what her plans were.

“Are you going to tell me you’re quitting?” she asked.

The question was off her lips in a second, but it seemed to rattle around in my head for much longer. I said what people always say when they don’t know what to say.

“What?”

“Are you quitting?”

“No.” I didn’t even try to hide the surprise in my voice.

Abigail looked at me for a long moment. She tossed the gloves onto the table, took a few steps, and sank into the armchair she often sat in while I worked. “You’ve been acting so distant lately, and then today you
were so late, and I know you don’t
need
this job …” Her voice trailed away.

“I have no intention of quitting, Abigail.”

She inhaled deeply. “But something is on your mind.”

“Well, yes.”

“What is it?”

I sat in the chair next to hers. “I’d like to know what your plans are for the diary.”

“My plans.” It was a question, but she didn’t phrase it like one.

“Yes.”

“You think I have plans for the diary?”

I shifted my weight in my chair. “Don’t you?”

“What is it you want to know, Lauren?”

Again I fidgeted. “Are you thinking of having it published?”