The Ghosts of Lovely Women Read online

  He shrugged. “Unfortunately, that is my sister’s. She and I disagree about Ms. Foster’s talent.” He handed me a mug of fragrant coffee that warmed my hands. “Cindy is quite a fan. She even went to a reading once. Made pals with lots of other horoscope-reading self-help lovers who buy into Foster’s stuff.”

  “Ah.” I stood for a minute, sipped my coffee, stared at my shoes — versatile flats that I’d worn the night before. I could feel Derek watching me, so I plunged in.

  “You know how when you kiss someone, it’s kind of like going into a new room — and then you can’t go back into the room you were in before?” I asked.

  “I suppose. I like the new room, though. Didn’t have much use for the old one.”

  “It’s kind of soon for the new room. That’s what people would think.”

  “Do you care what people think?”

  “Sometimes. Right now I care what you think.”

  “I think it’s going to be a great day,” he said.

  My spirits lifted with his words. I set down the coffee, wishing I had time for more. “I need to walk P.G.”

  “Sure. I’ll help you.” He looked at my outfit. “That’s very cute on you,” he said.

  He lifted my hand and kissed it.

  *

  It’s difficult to explain the feeling of violation that a breakin can elicit. Every time I picked up something of mine — a lipstick, a comb, deodorant — all rather intimate things which touched my body on a daily basis and which some stranger had dumped onto the floor of my bathroom, I found myself wondering what he or she had done with it. Had they opened it? Had they touched it? Used it? Defiled it in some way? The psychology of the victim at this point is that the perpetrator didn’t just enter your room — they entered your life and your mind.

  Still, my apartment was much less intimidating by day, with the bright sun pouring through the windows and Derek there beside me, tidying things in a methodical way. Whoever it was had, in their haste, knocked over my potted coleus, and Derek swept up the dirt and carefully pressed down at the base of the plant to make sure it was still firmly secured in earth. To my amazement we found a locksmith who was willing to come straight out; he showed me some locks and I selected the one I wanted (an extra measure of security in this one, with a deadbolt and a chain).

  I called my landlord to report the breakin; I got permission for the new lock, and then suddenly it was all happening: the lock, the clean-up, and a surprisingly un-awkward morning with the man who was — what? I had kissed him several times and then slept chastely in his guest room. Neither he nor Charlie had made one sound to disturb me in the night. The boy had disappeared with his mother before I had even emerged from my guest chamber.

  Now here I was, twenty-nine years old and worrying over yet another relationship. Stupid, really, and something I would have very little patience for if a student of mine were in the same position. If he kissed me, Ms. Thurber, does that make us a couple? Why did there need to be any mystery? If people were willing to kiss each other, they should certainly be willing to talk with one another. I was not fond of games; I had graduated from high school a long time ago. I stopped picking up my cds from the floor and turned to Derek, my hands on my hips. “So I’m guessing that we’re going to acknowledge that there’s something between us here?” I asked.

  He was unwinding the cord of my vacuum cleaner. He didn’t even look up — just said, “Yes.”

  I heard the locksmith laughing, but I plowed on. “Something that you’re interested in pursuing further?”

  “Indeed.” He did look at me then.

  I had planned to be very careful, to fall very slowly if I fell in love at all. But I slid right down the chute when he said “indeed,” that lovely transition of emphasis.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “That’s good to know.”

  *

  I found Rosalyn in study hall during period three. “Can I talk to you?” I asked.

  “Sure.” She didn’t look happy about it, though. She followed me out of the library and into Room 5 in the counseling office. This was a room with any number of uses; it often became a place for impromptu meetings with parents. Today I would chat with Rosalyn Baxter.

  She sat down at the table and I shut the door. “I was reading Jessica’s journal yesterday.”

  “Oh, crap,” said Rosalyn.

  “She did mention you in it several times. Is that why you wanted it so badly?”

  She looked at me, obviously trying to gauge my attitude. Did I know something? Her face seemed to ask. “Well — I know that she was writing in that a lot while we were in the play together. She was always doing her homework. She didn’t blow it off like some of the others. So I know that — she got excited about some stuff we talked about, and then she’d end up recording stuff in her journal. I thought she took it home, but now that I’m in your class I know you have old journals — things seniors never bothered to pick up. And I figured Jessica was one of those. She was sort of ready to leave everything behind her.” She looked sad, as though one of those things had been Jessica’s friendship. “Anyway,” she said, looking at the door.

  “So you wanted that journal badly.”

  “I wanted to read it, yeah.”

  “Badly enough to steal my key and break into my house?”

  “What?” Her face held naked shock. I had encountered many a liar as a high school teacher, and I had my own little secrets for determining who was honest and who was otherwise. Rosalyn looked authentically surprised.

  “You didn’t try to take the journal?”

  “No!”

  I paused, thinking.

  “In the journal Jessica talked about your little summer project.”

  Again Rosalyn’s eyes searched my face. “Oh?”

  “Were you a part of it, then? Or was it just her?”

  “A part of what?”

  “The website?”

  “Oh, God.” She put her head down. “I had to tell them all of this yesterday.”

  “Tell who?”

  “I got called down to the office. I had to talk to some police officers with Mr. Fairchild and Mr. Bastian there and Jessica’s parents. It was totally horrendous. I asked Mr. Fairchild if they knew because of the journal, but he said no. He didn’t seem to know about the journal.”

  “How were you involved?”

  “I just helped to set it up, that’s all. Danny and I—”

  “Danny? Is that how Danny proved himself? Is that what she meant?”

  Rosalyn shrugged. “We all had a part in it. Danny is a good photographer, so—”

  “He took that picture? Danny?”

  “You saw it?”

  I rubbed my face. “How did you process the credit card numbers?”

  She shrugged. “That wasn’t my scene. Jessica had a friend in New York who knew how to set up some sort of little merchant account. But you know what happened with that, if you saw the website.”

  I sighed. “Why, Rosalyn? Why did you all do this? Why did you agree to help her with this?”

  Rosalyn blinked at me. “Because it was a good idea. We believed in it. Even Danny — it took some persuading, but he got on board. He understood it, how important it was to Jessica.”

  I stared at her. “Do all your friends know? Did you advertise this on My Space and all of those places?”

  “No, of course not. Jessica had only one audience in mind. She had this whole thing — what’s that word when you’ve planned everything and—”

  “Orchestrated?”

  “Yeah. She orchestrated it. And it’s a good word, because she was like a conductor. An artist. She had a vision for her project. She was going to be such a great person.” Rosalyn started crying then. I handed her a tissue out of my pocket, unmoved.

  “Let me just get this straight,” I said. “Jessica Halliday and her two best friends were convinced that it was a good idea for her to undress for strangers on some pornographic website. This is what makes you think
she was achieving her potential.”

  Rosalyn stopped in the middle of blowing her nose and looked at me, her mouth open. “What?”

  I said nothing.

  “You think Jessica was some sort of porno girl?”

  “Are we talking about the same website?”

  Rosalyn shook her head. “You don’t understand! Didn’t you click the link?”

  “Why would I do that, Rosalyn? It was horrifying enough to see the main page.”

  “But Ms. Thurber, it was all a big set-up! She wanted to put men in their place. Didn’t you know? She said you knew all about how she felt. She said you would understand!”

  She pulled her purse off the back of her chair and dug around in it. “I had to copy this for Mr. Bastian and the police. I had this extra one. This is the page you would see if you clicked on the little box. After you put in your credit card information.”

  She handed it to me. It said,

  “Thank you for your donation to the Battered Women’s Shelters of New York. Nora’s Revenge is dedicated to raising public awareness of women’s issues and to the education and empowerment of women.

  We hope that in clicking on a link that implied you would see an underage girl undressing for your pleasure, you were merely investigating a way to help that person rather than pursuing an inappropriate lust.

  Please know that your money will help to prevent, one step at a time, the sort of sexual oppression that we have symbolically represented here.”

  Twelve

  “Psychology… cuts both ways.”

  —Porfiry Petrovich, Crime and Punishment

  I moved down the hall, feeling disoriented. She said you would understand, Rosalyn told me. Jessica trusted that I never would have thought her guilty of exactly what I’d thought her guilty of.

  Josh appeared next to me. “What’s up?”

  “Uh— nothing. This Jessica thing is distracting me. I should be grading right now. And I have to make a test…”

  “Well, the bell’s about to ring, so just come and chat with me.” He led me into his classroom, which looked impeccably clean, as usual. It was a bright space, hung with literary posters and advertisements for upcoming plays. “You look like you know something,” he said, his face conspiratorial.

  Normally I would indulge in some harmless gossip with Josh, but this was different. The whole Jessica thing was different. And somehow, what had happened seemed like it was private not only to her, but to Derek and me. “Not really. I had to talk to her parents yesterday. That was uncomfortable.”

  His eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Why was it uncomfortable?”

  “Why did you have to talk to her parents?”

  “Oh—” I walked to a poster for Hamlet and studied it. Kenneth’s Branagh’s face stared intensely back at me. One of my many, many crushes. “They were there talking to Fred about something — the funeral, I think — and her mom wanted to tell me that Jessica liked my class.”

  I felt Josh’s eyes boring into my back; he sensed I was holding out on him. I turned and went on the offensive. “Why is it that I’m hearing from Stella Carson that you’re looking for another job?”

  Josh bowed his head. “I went on a couple interviews. One looks promising. I’m not sure how Stella found out. The ol’ rumor mill, I guess.”

  “But how did Teddy NOT find out? Why was she not the first to know?”

  “I didn’t want to bum you out unless I knew something.”

  “Are you that unhappy here?”

  “Teddy, I want to make money. Tim and I have expensive tastes, you know that. He makes two thirds of our combined salaries. It’s not a big deal to him, but it is to me.”

  “Money isn’t everything. You’ve told me before how you have a niche here. How you love the kids, the atmosphere, your colleagues.”

  “All true. So if the interviews don’t work out, nothing major lost except a significant raise. I’m sure there are things about the public school system that would drive me around the bend, but a year of experimentation wouldn’t kill me, right? And I’d make at least twice what I’m making here.”

  I was distressed, not just because Josh was seriously considering leaving, but because I’d never heard him talk this way about money before. In fact, we’d talked in the past about how finding a good job was sometimes more important than making a huge salary.

  “I have to get to my grading,” I said.

  “Did Jessica’s parents mention me?” Josh burst out.

  “What?”

  “I— I’m just curious. They know I helped with the plays, and she was our star in every production.”

  “So?”

  “So nothing. I— maybe they think it was weird that I saw her while she was in town.”

  “You did?”

  “Sure. She called me up and we went out for lunch. Not a big deal.”

  But it was obviously a very big deal. Josh was nervous; he was pacing and pretending to be checking the soil of the plants on his windowsill. Josh had looked for a new job and not told me. Josh had seen Jessica before her death and not told me.

  Josh was being inauthentic.

  And I was being ridiculous.

  “You’re right, it’s not a big deal,” I said. “See you later.”

  *

  On my way out I passed the main office. Rosa called to me. “Hey, Teddy — Kathy Olchen lives on Crandall Street, just off William. Is that on your way home?”

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “Could you drop this off? She went tearing out of here, and she left it while she was getting her mail.” She held up Kathy’s grand leather briefcase — the one I’d envied at the committee meeting.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. I took it and managed to get it, my own bag, and a shopping bag full of essays down to my car. This was another unexpected reality of teaching: the heavy lifting. Student papers, in mass quantities, could weigh a lot. One year Brenda Davis, our previous department chair, had been trying to heft an entire box full of term papers down the stairs by herself, and she fell and broke her leg. When a student approached her to ask if she needed help, she said, “Honey, make sure none of the notecards spilled out. Those are worth points.”

  After her injury Anthony instructed the janitors to be on call for teachers who needed help. Aside from the ministrations of the ever-helpful Mr. Hendy, though, I’d never actually seen this happen. Perhaps the teachers were just conditioned to do things for themselves.

  *

  I went to Jessica’s wake on a Friday night, the last day of April. T.S. Eliot had called this “the cruelest month,” and it certainly had been for this girl, whose body was not on display but which we all knew lay broken inside the cream-colored coffin, the top of which was overwhelmed by framed pictures of her face: smiling, confident, intelligent — and so pretty. Here she played football with her three blond brothers; here she posed with her parents at eighth grade graduation. There she clustered with friends, their heads close together, their mouths fixed in those ready-for-camera smiles that suggest the need, the compulsion to be photographed. I was reminded again of Godot, the play Jessica had hated. Vladimir, one of the vagrants who waited in vain for the title character, was asked what message he wanted to send to Godot, who could not come that day. “Tell him… just tell him you saw us,” Vladimir says.

  These young people wanted that, with every call they made on cell phones, those permanent appendages to their ears — or with every picture they took with their digital cameras, camera phones, video camera phones. They wanted to be seen, to be acknowledged — or how would they know that they existed at all?

  How indeed.

  Josh appeared next to me in a tasteful black suit. “Waiting for Godot,” he murmured.

  I started. “What?”

  “I can always tell when you’re thinking about that play. You make your ‘sad universe’ face. Don’t get all existential on our asses. Every year you get a little closer to complete atheism.”


  “Everyone in this room is a little closer,” I said, looking at the coffin.

  We spoke quietly, edging toward the receiving line as one does at any reception. Jessica’s mother was almost certainly on muscle relaxants or anti-depressants; her face had a slack look and her smile was too serene. Her father stood stiffly, a mannequin of grief. Her brothers, understandably, couldn’t maintain the constant tone of sadness. They were in a corner with some friends, joking half-heartedly. That was the way young people showed support to their fellows: with an attitude that said “We will not treat you differently because of your grief. We will still goof around with you, even make fun of you.” I was glad to see that there was a large group around the Halliday boys, a separate clan from the St. James contingent who had come to say farewell. The line went all the way back to the parking lot.

  When I reached the front I said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” to Jessica’s parents. Her mother smiled tearfully. Her father said, “She was a good girl.”

  *

  In the parking lot I spoke briefly with Josh and Lucia, who had been in line behind us.

  “That dad is a piece of work,” Josh said. It was raining, and we were huddled under Lucia’s large umbrella.

  “What?”

  “He’s all about his reputation. He fears this has sullied it. Don’t you get that vibe?”

  “I do,” said Lucia, frowning. “Maybe he killed her.”

  “Oh my God, Lucia!”

  She shook her head. “You talk to Kathy Olchen. You know that project where the kids evaluated the family’s—”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “She said Jessica made the dad sound like a total nutcase. Apparently Jessica did a little profile of just everyone. Friends, family, teachers.”

  I believed it. That project, unsound as it seemed, was the sort of thing she would have loved — using her considerable intelligence and a flair for creative writing to produce an entirely unscientific result.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Mark my words,” Lucia told me as I moved through the wet and chilly dark to my car. I could hear her and Josh continuing to talk about poor Mr. Halliday, and about Kathy Olchen’s project.