The Ghosts of Lovely Women Page 3

  This had been important, though, because we’d been reading Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, and all of the girls in class (and even some of the boys) had been offended by the plight of the 19th century woman. Jessica had been particularly angry about the main character Nora’s sexual subservience to her husband. “Men just used women,” she’d said indignantly after reading a passage of the play for homework. “I mean, they basically get these girls who are given to them in marriage, and then they can just demand things all their lives and tell their wives that it’s their duty, whatever they want — sex, housework, loyalty to some pompous idea they had.”

  “It’s true the women really didn’t have power,” I’d said. “But of course not every man was as oppressive as this husband. He is extremely intolerant, and as a result he wants to control every aspect of his wife’s life. Hence the title. But you notice that Nora does have one thing: beauty. And she tries to turn that into power by using it to her advantage.”

  “But that’s just it! By having to use her beauty, she’s forced to see herself as an object. It’s like her very humanity that he’s taking from her!”

  I’d been impressed by Jessica’s comments, and I’d told her so.

  “You know what, Ms. Thurber?” she’d said. “The more I read this, the madder I get!”

  I thought of this now, in my car, while the late April breeze wafted through the tiny crack in my window and made me feel sad again, this time out of nostalgia for a girl I had known, a time I had known, both of which were now gone.

  Then I remembered something Jessica had said, while we sat together on a bright summer day, drinking coffee and smiling at each other. “You know what, Ms. Thurber? I feel like I’m getting revenge for Nora Helmer. About to live in New York — I already have an apartment out there, did you know?—being free, getting to find myself. Those are all things she never got to do.”

  “She was fictional,” I said.

  “But we all know there were women like her, thousands of women, maybe millions.”

  “I’m glad for you, Jessica.”

  She had given me something then — what had it been? A book she was reading, I think. A good book she’d said I should read. “I’m finished,” she said. “Take my copy, and look at the something something.” What had she told me to look at? We were already in the midst of our goodbyes, sort of talking over each other as we told each other how nice the meeting had been, each of us realizing we might never see each other again. I took the book, gave her a hug, and watched her walk lightly away.

  Now, with a sigh, I turned the key in my ignition and remembered one other thing that Jessica had said to me: that she loved New York so much she doubted she’d ever live in Chicago again. “I want to be there even when I’m old,” she’d said, her eyes bright. “I want to play with my grandchildren in Central Park.”

  Four

  “Now listen here, Nora — you haven’t done something indiscreet?”

  —Kristine, A Doll’s House, Act I

  I drove home and dragged myself up two flights of stairs to my apartment, where I could hear my Beagle, P.G., scratching at the door. I had a nice neighbor named Mrs. Bettenger who let him out around lunchtime, but P.G. was always ready to go again by the time I got home.

  “Coming, buddy,” I said.

  My dog was smart; he had his leash in his mouth when I opened the door. This was one of the cutest things about him, and it made me laugh. “Walk?” I asked.

  His tail wagged hard. P.G. had some major tail muscles.

  “Okay, fine,” I said.

  I fastened the leash on to his collar and we went right back down the stairs, opting for our usual route, which was a square covering two blocks. P.G. followed his long nose to every spring smell; normally I drag him back onto the sidewalk, but today I was lost in thought and I let him get away with lots of dawdling. At one point he stuck his nose on a landscaping rock and left it there for a full minute. What in the world was the fascination? I wondered.

  But then my mind was back on Jessica. I’d seen the girl every day, second period, for two full years. Bit by bit I was remembering things she had said, things she had done. It came back gradually, through the filter of memory. Some students, for whatever reason, never stood out in my mind. Others I could remember clearly after eight years of teaching. Jessica was one of those in the permanent file. I could summon a clear picture of her face, her voice. She was one of the students who had brightened my day. I had loved her.

  A car pulled up to the curb near P.G.’s rock. I didn’t pay much attention until a voice said “Hey.”

  I looked up to see Derek Jonas. Weird.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He looked uncomfortable as he viewed me over the top of his car. “I’m not stalking you.”

  “I didn’t think that.” But I did.

  “I live in that building,” he said, pointing behind me.

  “Ah. Nice.” It was a newer three-flat with a wide wrap-around porch. It was beautifully landscaped, and at Christmas it had been elegantly lit. P.G. and I had often walked past just so that I could admire the tasteful decorations.

  “Cute dog,” Derek Jonas said, ducking down briefly to retrieve his briefcase from the front seat of his car. He slammed the door. “Beagle, huh?”

  “Yeah. His name’s P.G.”

  He walked closer to scratch P.G. on the head. P.G., who is an attention whore, slitted his eyes with apparent ecstasy, holding very still so that Derek could do a better job.

  We both laughed. “He’s starved for affection, poor thing,” I said.

  Derek stood up after a final pat on the dog’s head. “Thanks for lunch today,” he said. “It was a lifesaver.”

  “I make a killer sandwich.”

  He smiled. He had nice teeth. “I’d like to return the favor. With dinner, maybe?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Just give me a call some time. I’m in the teacher directory. Did Anthony give you that?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “I meant dinner tonight.”

  “Oh.” My inclination was to refuse, but my mind never provides a likely excuse when I need to offer one. All I could think of was “I need to spend time with P.G.” That was a bit too pathetic to say out loud.

  “Oh,” I said again. “Well — I mean—”

  “Just pizza or something,” he said. “It seems like you had a rough day, and I figure this will save you the hassle of having to make dinner.”

  That was very true. My creativity did not extend to making food, and every day was a new challenge. “Well… okay. What, uh—”

  “We could walk down to the corner. Jake’s. I assume you and P.G. live around here?”

  “Yeah. A couple blocks over. The Pines.” That was the name of my apartment building, which was flanked by several of those particular trees.

  “So maybe you could meet me here about six? We can walk there together.”

  “Sure, okay,” I said. He made it sound very natural and non-threatening, and yet my gut was clenching with the notion that this was, in fact, a date. I hadn’t had one of those in quite some time, and frankly I’d gotten used to life without the pressures of trying to impress a man.

  I sighed as I walked P.G. home. What a weird day. I just wanted it to be over; and yet sitting in my house brooding over Jessica (while I pretended to grade papers) would not be pleasant either.

  I washed my face and put on a pair of jeans and a sweater. The spring air had cooled considerably, and I hadn’t yet been foolish enough to put away my winter attire.

  Refreshed, I went into my little living room to scan the shelves; somewhere amongst my books was the paperback Jessica Halliday had given me. What had it been? The cover had been yellow, or gold… my eyes scanned for it, and there it was — at the end of the first shelf. It was a psychology book called Embracing our Identities, by someone named Dr. Janice Foster. The premise, according to the blurb on the back cover, was that all people had an “outer identity” and an inner one, and that few
human beings could bring these two selves into harmony. Dr. Janice Foster had created a guide which “would help people to hear and respond to their inner voices so that their outer selves would have a clear life path.”

  It sounded like a re-hash of many other psychology books, a blend of common sense and creative writing. I flipped through it, sneering at chapter headings like “Put Blooms on Your Life Tree,” and “See With Your Inner Eyes.” Yuck. But to Jessica, this had probably seemed like a pathway to reinvention — a celebration of her burgeoning career. A card fluttered out of the book and in an instant I remembered what Jessica had said.

  “I’ll leave the bookmark in it, Ms. Thurber. You might find it interesting.” I saw her face clearly as she said this, even though it had been more than half a year. Her chin had lifted, her eyes a mixture of challenge and vulnerability.

  But I had been in a hurry by then. I gave her a hug and we exchanged the platitudes people say when they’re uncertain of a future meeting. And then we walked our separate ways; I still remembered how the August heat had swelled up in waves from the sidewalk. The seat of my car had been uncomfortable, and the steering wheel had burned my hand…

  I had tossed Jessica’s book into my purse, and when I got home, I must have set it on the shelf. I never looked at the card — the little blue business card that I retrieved, now, from the floor.

  It contained only a web address, in yellow print: www.NorasRevenge.com. Next to it was a graphic of a yellow rose. I raised my eyebrows. Had Jessica found a website that referenced Ibsen? Perhaps I could use it in my senior literature course.

  I wandered to my computer, logged on, and waited. An old box of junior mints sat in the corner of the desk. I dug inside it and found a few at the bottom; they still tasted good.

  Rows of icons appeared before me, and I clicked on the little globe that meant internet connection. I waited again; then, when the new screen appeared, I typed in Jessica’s address.

  The image that flashed in front of me, for a moment, registered not at all. Then it did, and I read the text at the bottom of the screen, and my insides went cold.

  “Oh, God,” I said. “Oh, Jessica, no.”

  Five

  “Well, Kristine, what do you think of my big secret? I’m capable of something too, hmmm?”

  —Nora, A Doll’s House, Act I

  My buzzer rang sometime later. I went to it and said “Yes?”

  “It’s Derek,” said Derek Jonas’ voice. I looked at my watch; it was six-thirty. What time had I said I would walk to his place?

  “Oh, sorry, Derek — come up a second.” I buzzed him in and waited nervously at the door until I heard his footsteps. I flung my door open and grabbed his arm, pulling him inside.

  He looked surprised and something else — hopeful?

  “Derek, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time.”

  “No problem. I just figured I’d walk over and—”

  “The thing is, I have a question for you. What’s your degree? I mean, do you have a B.A. in psychology, or—”

  “I have a master’s in psychology. I’m actually a licensed therapist,” he said, his gaze flitting around to view the apartment behind me.

  I stared at him. “Then why are you teaching at St. James?”

  His eyes were hazel and almond-shaped. “I’ve always wanted to teach. This was just… a good time. And so far it seems like a great place.”

  “Yeah.” I knew I couldn’t go on without discussing this, and yet I didn’t want to bring it to the attention of someone who had known Jessica. This man might be my best bet. “Listen, I have a weird request, but it’s important. Can you look at my computer for a minute?”

  He shrugged and said, “Is it a server problem?”

  I led him to my laptop, where the picture was still on the screen. It was a shot of Jessica, entirely naked, posing seductively for… whom? Who had been behind the camera? At the top of the screen it said “Nora’s Revenge” and at the bottom, “Let Nora fulfill your fantasies online.” And then there was information about how one could use a credit card to see “Nora” undress for him personally, via webcam.

  I felt sick again looking at it, and yet I’d been staring at it, trying to figure out what it meant, wondering if it were somehow related to Jessica’s death.

  Derek glanced at it, then at me, his eyebrows raised. “Uh,” he said.

  “It’s Jessica. The girl we heard about today, the dead girl.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  “I just found this. She had lent me a book last summer, and I went to find it and this was inside.” I held up the card for his inspection. I told him briefly about our coffee date, what Jessica had said, what she felt about Ibsen’s play.

  “But now I don’t know what to do! This needs to be shut down, obviously, but I don’t want her parents to see it. I don’t—”

  Derek was suddenly all business. “This is a police matter, Teddy. What if one of her visitors is her murderer?”

  “I know.”

  “And we may need to inform administration. Could other students know about this website? Could they have had a hand in creating it?”

  “But that’s still for the police to decide, right?”

  He nodded. “You want me to call?”

  Grateful, I nodded. Derek took my phone and contacted the police, asking for whomever was in charge of the investigation into Jessica Halliday’s death. He jotted something down, then hung up and called a different number.

  While he did so I stared at the picture of Jessica. It was an ironic photograph in many ways: for one, it emphasized Jessica’s youth rather than any sort of worldliness. She looked both young and sweet in the picture, and there was nothing particularly carnal about her pose or expression other than the words beside the photo and what they offered. For another thing, if this was Jessica’s stab at declaring her sexual freedom, something the fictional Nora hadn’t possessed, she was doing so in a way that still depended on men’s money — something she had claimed to find offensive when we’d read the play.

  Why, why, would someone as bright and promising as Jessica Halliday resort to something so tawdry?

  Derek was back. “They’re coming here, Teddy. They were most adamant about coming out right away.”

  “Oh — okay.” I stared at him. He seemed tense; I’m sure that his adrenaline had risen, as mine had, with this disturbing discovery. Beneath that, though, he seemed a bit disappointed. “Well, they probably want to talk to both of us, right? So maybe we should just order that pizza. I can summon up some Diet Cokes and plates and napkins and stuff. Is that okay with you?”

  He nodded. “Sure. Are you okay?”

  “I guess. I— it was a shock, to hear about her death. And now this—” I waved my hand at the screen. “I’m disappointed in her, but a part of me doesn’t believe she did this. I feel like somehow someone else is responsible. I suppose that’s naive. And yet I’m not blind to reality. I know that a great many students have active sex lives and assume that we don’t have one. Their teachers, I mean.” I was blushing, I knew.

  He laughed. “They also probably assume that our classrooms are the centers of our existence.”

  I nodded. “And yet it’s the only place that we all come together, so it is like a separate little universe. That’s why things like this can be so jarring.” I minimized the screen so I would no longer have to see Jessica’s round little breasts or her ambitious smile.

  I picked up the book by Dr. Janice Foster and handed it to Derek. “This is what she was reading,” I said.

  Derek glanced at it and snorted. “That thing,” he said. “I met her — Janice Foster — at a psychology conference. She’s a loon.”

  “That’s your clinical assessment?”

  “No, it’s a very personal assessment. But I was not thrilled by the content of the book— what bits of it I read — and I felt that she was far more focused on marketing than she was on the validity of her contentions. And she told me she particular
ly wanted to market it to young people.”

  “Why?”

  “Obviously she thought they were the perfect group to buy that pap. And she’s right. What she’s selling, basically, is the Tao of selfishness. Who can relate to that better than teens?”

  I looked at the book. It hadn’t seemed quite that offensive from the outside. “Really?”

  He nodded. “In any case, if she was reading that, it makes sense that she’d do something like this.”

  “Why?”

  “Well let’s say she needed money. Foster suggests, if only in subtle ways, that the end justifies the means when one is marching down one’s ‘life path.’”

  “Well then why did the publisher even accept this book? It sounds specious.”

  Derek looked at me in disbelief. “Do you think certain books aren’t accepted just because they have little or no intrinsic value? Janice is a selling machine. She’s got a whole library of those dorky little volumes.”

  “I’m disillusioned,” I said. I held up my suddenly heavy head with my fists, jamming them into my cheeks. “Nothing makes sense anymore.”

  “Let’s order the pizza. I like fresh tomatoes. What about you?”

  “Mushrooms,” I said, lifting the phone.

  “Let me.” He took the phone from my hand and made the call. After he placed the order, he put his hand over mine. “If you have illusions about your students, about the world, it’s because you’re hopeful. That’s a good thing. It makes you an appealing person.”

  His hand was very warm. I looked at it for a minute. His fingers were long — potentially artistic — but they looked strong, too. “Thanks,” I said.

  While I stared into space, Derek walked discreetly around my living room, glancing at the pictures and knick-knacks, probably assessing my psychology based upon my choice of possessions.