Doreen (18 page)

Blue blazers and cashmere sweater sets clustered together between classes. The day was gray and overcast, but Biz had no problem spotting Doreen. In her red coat, huge sunglasses and a dramatic black scarf, she looked like a movie star on the lam.

“Doreen! Doreen!” Biz called out the window of the astronomy lab, but her cousin continued her diagonal path across campus.

Biz fled down the stairs of the science building and raced across the lawn to catch up with her. Since hearing about the Simon Vale tragedy, Biz had left countless messages on Doreen's voice mail, plus e-mails and text messages. She even waited outside Doreen's art history class that morning, but Doreen never appeared. It broke Biz's heart to think of her cousin so despairing. Biz called her name again from a few feet away, but it wasn't until Biz could reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder that Doreen noticed her.

“Jesus, Elizabeth. Do you have to paw me?”

“I tried . . . I saw you . . . I ran . . .” Biz panted, clinging to the wool of Doreen's coat and trying to catch her breath. “Are you . . . How? Is everything? I'm . . . I'm so, so sorry.” She threw her arms around Doreen. “I can't imagine what you must be going through.”

Doreen squirmed out of her cousin's embrace. “I don't know what you're talking about, but please let go of me. I'm not feeling well.” Doreen resumed her quick pace, and Biz hustled along beside her.

“Of course, the whole thing is too grim. The poor guy! Have you spoken to his mother? Do you know how he's doing? When I didn't see you at art history today I thought maybe you'd gone to visit.”

“To visit? Who would I go to visit at nine o'clock in the morning?”

Biz could see herself blinking dumbly in the black glass of Doreen's Miu Mius. “Who? Well, Simon Vale! You heard, of course, of his, um, tumble off the Peabody Street Bridge after the dance?”

“Oh,
that
. Are we still talking about that? That was ages ago.”

“Ages ago? Doreen, it happened yesterday! I'm sure Simon is still in the hospital. Do you know how he's doing? Will they let him out or will he have to be institutionalized? Do you think he really meant to kill himself or was it just a cry for help thing? Me, I thought maybe he was trying to get your attention, not that it's your fault or anything. Any more than Reagan's attempted assassination could be blamed on Jodie Foster.”

“Biz! Please!” They'd stopped in front of Doreen's dorm. Doreen flipped back her sunglasses to rest on top of her head, exposing red, blurry eyes. She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “I have a terrible headache. I had a dawn visit from Gordon this morning, complete with champagne.”

Leaving the dorm room after ten at night was strictly forbidden and could result in expulsion from Chandler. But at five o'clock in the morning, curfew was lifted. And since there was no faculty around at that hour and campus safety was no longer trolling for fugitives, many would-be paramours used that time to sneak into their lovers' beds. Breaking visitation was a far lesser crime than breaking curfew, though Biz always thought that setting an alarm to squeeze in a little sex before classes began was a disgusting way to go about courtship.

“Gordon? Champagne? But you couldn't have! Not while you knew that poor Simon Vale was in the hospital!”

“Lay off the righteous indignation, Elizabeth. Okay? You said yourself that what happened to Simon Vale had nothing to do with me.”

“Wait. No, I said it wasn't your fault. Obviously, I mean it must have had
something
to do with you, Doreen. He did love you, right? It seemed that he loved you very much.”

“That's his problem, isn't it?” Doreen sighed. “I'm sorry, Biz, I'm going on zero sleep here. I need to go up and lie down.”

“So that's what you were doing during art history? Sleeping one off? While Simon Vale fought for his life in the hospital?”

Doreen sighed again. “Good-bye, Biz,” she said, and marched into her dorm.

“Wait, Doreen!” Biz ran after her, following her into West Hall. “I'm sorry. Look, there's something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

Biz had good news to share. The week since her realization in the photo lab had been the most productive of her life. Something clicked for the young artist. The art that seemed so out of reach only a few days ago seemed to bend to her every whim now. The work was good; it was better than good. In her best moments, looking at what she'd made, Biz allowed herself to believe that she was approaching the creation of something beautiful.

And she wasn't the only one who noticed. When Mr. Cameron saw what she was working on, he was speechless. On the spot he offered Biz her first solo photography exhibit. It would be in Douglas Hall during Parents' Weekend. There would be a group show in the gallery, but he wanted to give Biz her own space. He said that her work was on such a different level from her classmates that they would suffer by comparison.

“I know it's just a high school show, but at this school you never know who is coming for Parents' Weekend. This could actually turn into something big for me, something—of my own.” Biz followed Doreen up the stairs. “You should have heard what he said about my portfolio, Dorie. He was very complimentary. He was excited. He said, I mean, I don't want to brag, but he called the work brilliant. But I really feel my portfolio isn't complete. I know your relationship with that picture is complicated, but now that some time has passed, you must be able to see how strong it is, compositionally speaking. And since I destroyed all the files on my computer just as I told you I would, I thought maybe you still had a hard copy.”

Once in her room, Doreen collapsed onto the bed.

“You do still have it, don't you?” asked Biz, looking around.

“Have what? What are you on about?”

“Wow, Dorie, you really are in a fog today. The picture that I printed of you in the red dress. I want to include it in the show. Is it in your desk?” Biz innocently slid open the top drawer of Doreen's desk.

“No!” Doreen lunged and slammed the drawer closed. Biz withdrew her hand just in time to avoid losing all her fingers.

“Jeez. What's gotten into you, Doreen?”

“I don't have the picture, okay? I tore it up. I destroyed it. Nuked it. Burned it. The point is it's gone, so I'm afraid I can't help you.”

“But you said that you wouldn't do that. Remember? You said you wanted to keep it as a reminder.”

“That was a long time ago, Biz. I don't know why I would keep a stupid picture you gave me months ago. Sorry I can't help you, but I really have to lie down. I am not feeling well at all.”

“You do seem a bit, uh, piqued.” Biz studied her cousin.

Doreen attempted a smile but it came out like a wince. “I am, really. Maybe I'm coming down with something. The flu maybe. Jessica Feinberg down the hall is practically tubercular. I think she has pneumonia, so I should probably, you know, rest. Lovely to see you. Kiss, kiss.”

“Yes. Maybe rest is the thing. You've been through a lot these past days. It's probably affecting you more than you know. I'll go to the dean and tell him you're not up for your afternoon classes. It's a bit of a relief, actually. To be honest you seemed a bit coldhearted before.”

“No, no. That was only a cover. Self-protection and everything, you know, trying to take it all in. The truth is you're right, Bizzy. I'm really very despondent over the whole thing.” Fully clothed, Doreen climbed into the bed. “Yes, poor Simon. Poor, poor Simon Vale.”

As soon as Doreen spotted Biz on the quad, she launched herself from the bed and paced around her room. Obviously, she couldn't leave the picture in her drawer. There were too many snoops around, constantly dropping by, nosing around in places they did not belong. She'd barely managed to avoid complete disaster with Biz. And what if Gordon was digging around for a condom? Or Heidi needed a pen? No, no. The desk was totally unsuitable.

She opened her closet. Maybe some shoebox? Or tucked into an ice skate or something? But still that did not seem far enough away. She would be constantly tempted to pull the picture out and check on her soul's progress—which would be bad for her well-being and completely catastrophic should someone catch her in the act. Suddenly her room felt unbearably small and vulnerable, as if every corner and every drawer had the power to expose her secret.

Okay, she thought, time for action. Doreen pulled out her American literature folder and dumped all the papers onto the bed. Without looking at the image, she slipped the picture from her desk drawer into the folder. Then she found a big manila envelope filled with family photos. She added the photos to the pile of papers on the bed and dropped the folder into the envelope, securing the string enclosure and taping the flap closed with packing tape. The package seemed innocuous enough, but she could still feel the beating heart of the picture inside. The black plastic bag in which Gordon had toted the bottles of champagne that morning was still in her wastepaper basket. She retrieved the bag and dropped the envelope inside, using the rest of her packing tape to secure the plastic around it. She felt the size and shape of the parcel in her hand. It looked like nothing, like trash. The act of disguising the evidence of her shameful secret made her feel powerful and in control.

Next item on her agenda: long-term storage.

Every floor of West Hall had a garbage shoot. And if there was a garbage shoot, there must be a garbage room, some deep, smelly pit in the basement where few would venture and nobody would want to stay for long.

Doreen tucked the package under her arm and made for the stairs. She descended to the basement and pushed past the fire door, entering a dark concrete room with huge piles of garbage in stacks along the walls. The room had a wet, festering smell that reminded her of a weekend she spent with her mother at a bed-and-breakfast near Dubuque, Iowa, on the Mississippi River. There had been a recent flood, and as they drove to the inn from the highway, Doreen saw shards of broken furniture and drywall and other wood scraps in heaps along the side of the road. She could smell the mildew in the air from the rotten detritus, and they did not get a break from the smell all weekend—not in the cutesy little inn or in restaurants or in the movie theater.

Doreen shook herself. What a time to think of that, her mother and that long-ago trip! She needed to focus—time was ticking. The main room of the basement was unsuitable, but it opened up into two smaller rooms at the back. Doreen chose the one on the right first. She found an exposed light switch on the wall and a florescent tube flickered to life overhead, revealing a smallish workroom with power drills, metal tools, and extension cords scattered around the place. Here the rotten stink merged with the smell of paint thinner and machine oil.

The walls were open, with pink puffs of insulation packed between wooden beams. But the room seemed too active. Things were always breaking down, weren't they? Somebody had to fix them, and that somebody would come here. Doreen flicked off the overhead light on her way out.

The other room was smaller and darker, with only a dim incandescent bulb overhead. She spotted a flashlight and used that to assess the contents of the room. It appeared to serve as a storage area for electrical wiring, plastic tubing, and other seemingly worthless items. Extralong mattresses wrapped in plastic leaned against a wall. Doreen squeezed past some bed frames at the back of the room. Along the back wall she found a metal ladder coming out from the ceiling.

“This must go somewhere,” she said, needing the human sound of her own voice in order to muster up the necessary courage. The ceiling looked closed, but nevertheless, with her package still under her arm and the flashlight tucked into her neck, Doreen climbed the ladder.

Sure enough, Doreen found a square opening cut out of the ceiling with just an unpainted piece of drywall laying over it. She slid the drywall aside easily, and climbing another rung on the metal ladder, shined the flashlight into a small, dark crawl space. There were a few dusty blankets and some filthy rolled-up butcher paper, but nobody human had been up there for a long time, probably years. Doreen envisioned the image of her soul sequestered in that dank, uninhabited space while the rest of her enjoyed the pleasures of her new social position out in the world. She smiled to herself at the perfection of the setting.