Final Exam (3 page)

Four

Max took my departure as I expected she would: she was alternately half delighted to have the house to herself and half horrified that she would be living in the suburbs by herself.

“This is not what I signed up for,” she said to me the next morning, standing before me in our now-shared bedroom. I had one guest room but it held the detritus of my childhood, along with several boxes my ex had never retrieved before his untimely demise.

“Not what
you
signed up for?” I asked. Last I checked, I was single and shared my home with a dog. I had a boyfriend who could come and go as he pleased and spend the night when the opportunity arose. If anyone had been inconvenienced by her abrupt departure from her two-thousand-square-foot condo in SoHo, it wasn’t her. I went into my closet and took out a small suitcase from the upper shelf. I threw in some work clothes along with some T-shirts and jeans since it appeared that my weekends would be spent doing desk duty or being “on call” as the resident directors were required to be every third weekend.

I was going to miss my bedroom. It was a beautiful, soothing cream color with white trim on the ornate moldings that I had put in right after my husband had bid adieu to me and our marriage. After that and the installation of elaborate woodwork, I had taken over the rather substantial closet that ran the length of the wall by the door. My bedding had set me back a small fortune, with high-thread-count sheets, a duvet with a down comforter inside, and a quilt on top. It was like being in a bed-and-breakfast while never leaving home.

Max flopped onto the bed, facedown. “What am I going to do here without you?”

I folded a dress shirt carefully so I wouldn’t have to iron it when I took it out of the suitcase at my new residence. “Well, you can have the bed all to yourself. And you can use the computer when you want.”

“Good. I signed up for
Match.com
.”

I didn’t mean to grab my heart, but that was my first reaction. “What?”

She rolled over and considered her big toe. “You heard me.”

I finished folding the shirt in my hands mostly to buy some time to craft an appropriate response. I placed it on top of the other clothes in the suitcase. I started with the obvious. “You’ve been separated for two weeks. Don’t you think that’s kind of soon?”

“Nope.”

I sat down next to her and took a look around my bedroom, which I was sure wouldn’t look quite as neat and tidy when I finally did return from my dorm “suite.”

“Max.” I was at a loss for words. “Max,” I repeated, my tone conveying my disappointment.

She looked at me quizzically. “Alison,” she replied, sounding as grave as I felt.

I took her hand. “It’s too soon. You’re not ready for an emotional, let alone sexual, relationship right now.” I knew how quickly she worked so jumping into bed with one of her “matches” was not out of the question.

“Oh, don’t go all
Vagina Monologues
on me,” she said.

I didn’t know what she thought
The Vagina Monologues
were about and I didn’t have the energy to tell her they have absolutely nothing to do with online dating, but I let it go. “Don’t do this. Don’t give up on your marriage yet.”

She jumped off the bed and headed for the door. “It’s over. Over and out. Stick a fork in it. It’s done.” I heard her head down the stairs; for a little person, she’s got a heavy footfall.

“Well, that went well,” I murmured to myself. I had known Max for a long time—coming up on twenty years—and I knew her to be flaky, mercurial, and a host of other, not-so-flattering adjectives, but I also knew her to be loyal, devoted, and the best friend a girl could have. She was more like a sister to me than a friend. But ever since she had met and married Fred, she had morphed into someone I didn’t recognize—first by getting married at all and second by moving out and past the marriage. I knew she was impulsive, but that? That was just plain crazy. And believe me, I know crazy. I stayed married to a man who cheated on me repeatedly out of some sense of honor and commitment.

I didn’t want to leave her alone but a little part of me wondered if my moving out could be considered a small blessing for me. I immediately felt a little queasy at the traitorous thought.

I continued my packing, stopping periodically to bend over and pet and kiss Trixie, who knew something was afoot; I was leaving Trixie here overnight until I could figure out my situation on campus. She circled my bed, moaning and snuffling, trying to figure out what was happening. It was almost as if she were saying, “Don’t leave me here with that other one.” Many a day I had returned home in the past few weeks to find Trixie practically crossing her legs in discomfort and staring at an empty water dish. There was no point in upbraiding Max; she was in some kind of postmarital fugue state and my admonitions would be met with the blank stare of the terminally sad. I assured Trixie that she was coming with me in the end and that we would be very happy in our new, albeit temporary, home. She looked at me like she wasn’t sure about that.

I was done in about an hour and carried two suitcases and a small duffel bag filled with toiletries out to the car. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and cool, with more than a hint of spring in the air. I took a look around my backyard and prayed that I would be back soon enough to enjoy the chaise lounge that Crawford—romantic devil that he was—had bought me. And I wondered if my “suite” had a balcony or patio; the school sits majestically astride the Hudson River and the views are spectacular. I expected the worst and hoped for the best as I slammed the trunk shut for the final time before departing.

I went back into the house to say good-bye to Max, who was in my spare bedroom, working furiously on the computer. “I’m leaving,” I said, leaning casually against the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow to get Trixie, though.”

She looked at me, her fingers poised on top of the keyboard. “Call me when you’re settled in,” she said, surprising me. I thought she would have sent me off with a dismissive wave.

“Can I give you a hug?” I asked.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, her back stiffening. Her eyes filled with tears before they focused on the computer monitor, her face pale and drawn.

“Are you surfing on
Match.com
?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said, tapping away. “I’m putting my engagement ring on Craigslist.”

I pursed my lips and thought about that. Maybe this was exactly the right time to leave.

Crawford was waiting for me when I got to school. I pulled into my usual parking space and hit the button that popped the trunk. Visitation hours were still in effect what with it being noon on a Saturday, but we still greeted each other with an ironic handshake. “Thank you for coming,” I said formally.

“My pleasure,” he said. He peered into the trunk. “Not too much stuff to move,” he said.

“I’m not staying long, remember?” I said, and hoisted out my toiletries bag. I dug the set of keys out of my pocket that Merrimack had given me and consulted the instructions for their use. I fiddled with the old black key to let myself into the dorm by the side entrance, and took a look around the first floor. There was a big desk in the main foyer where the resident assistants in the building sat in the evening to welcome guests, accept packages, and make sure that the building was locked up at the end of the evening. Beyond that were two common areas on either side of the hallway: one was a television room, the other a dining room, a vestige from the old days when the residents of the dorm ate together at an assigned time. Being as spring break had commenced the week before, the dorm was essentially a ghost town. That fact, coupled with the old architectural bones of the building, lent it a decidedly spooky vibe.

The newer-looking key opened up the first door on the right, which led to my new suite. Crawford followed closely behind me carrying my biggest suitcase; he let out a low, depressed-sounding whistle when I gave him a view of my new digs.

I leaned in and discovered my suite was basically a long, narrow room with hardwood floors and one window next to a twin-sized bed. The suite part, I surmised, was the small living area to the left of the bedroom that contained a desk, an old musty chair, and a bookshelf, and that was separated from the bedroom by rather nice French doors. A bathroom was next to the bedroom, and while I’m a fan of period detail, the subway tile that encased the shower looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed in what I guessed was the 1940s. I looked at Crawford and said, “Get me some Comet.”

“You’re not even in the door,” he said. “Let’s go in and see what else you need before I go to the store.”

“Besides a blowtorch to burn this place down?” I asked, sitting dejectedly on the bed. A puff of dust flew up around me and I shivered in revulsion.

“Is there a laundry area in this building?” he asked, pulling me up off the bed and placing me in the doorway between the bedroom and living room. He pulled the bedding off and threw it onto the floor. “I don’t want you sleeping on Wayne Brookwell’s dirty sheets,” he said.

“That’s Wayne Butthole, to you.” I leaned on the doorjamb. “Forevermore, he’s Wayne Butthole.” I crossed my arms, and continued my visual reconnaissance of the area. “I hate him.”

“Laundry?” Crawford repeated.

“No idea,” I said. “I assume it’s in the basement but I can’t be sure.” Although I had parked outside of this building for the better part of a decade, I had never been inside, save for the lobby. The building was five stories high, with men housed on all but one floor, a floor that had been reserved for the overflow of female students in any given year. But Siena was still known as the men’s dorm and had been since I was a student here, years previous. It looked pretty much the same as I remembered it—ornate, varnished moldings; marble floors; heavy mahogany doors stained a dark, cherry brown. It smelled of Pledge and floor polish and decades’ worth of smelly gym socks and young adult hormones.

Crawford picked up the pile of dirty bedding and started down the hall, his sneakers making a squish-squish noise as he proceeded. I went back into the bedroom and sat down on the denuded bed, surveying my surroundings. I couldn’t imagine spending one night here, never mind five weeks, but that was my lot and I had to suck it up. I don’t want to suck it up! I wanted to yell, but I made an attempt at maturity and swallowed whatever feelings I had. The one thing I couldn’t ignore was my bladder, which obviously was past the point of no return. I got up and went into the bathroom, looking around as I did my business, taking in the rust stains in the porcelain pedestal sink, and the dirty ring around the tub. There were a few squares of toilet paper left on the roll and I made a mental note to tell Crawford to get toilet paper, too.

When I flushed the toilet, a torrent of water, toilet paper, and various other bits of flotsam and jetsam that had been residing in the toilet since the Mesozoic Age came spewing up at me from the filthy bowl, and I put my hands over my face to protect myself, a little too late. The front of my shirt and my jeans were instantly soaked, and water poured onto the tile floor and puddled around my feet. I spat a few times, wondering exactly what I had almost ingested. I grabbed a less-than-clean towel from the towel bar and wiped off my face and hands. I looked at the floating detritus on the floor and stifled a gag.

Crawford returned and knocked softly on the bathroom door. “Everything okay in there?”

“No!” I called back while attempting to open the door with the ancient doorknob. I finally got it open and gave him a view of what the bathroom looked like.

“What the hell happened?”

“What do you think happened?” I asked, and threw the soaked towel at him, catching him squarely in the solar plexus. “We are not off to a good start here.”

He went into the bathroom and threw the towel on the floor, attempting to sop up the mess from the exploding toilet. I riffled through my suitcase, finding a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I stripped off my clothes and put them in a pile by the door. Once I was redressed, I stopped by the bathroom. “I’m going to go down to the laundry room and throw these clothes in, too.” I watched as Crawford raised the toilet seat and stared solemnly into the toilet. I had no idea whether or not he was handy and I wasn’t sticking around to find out. “It’s in the basement, right?”

He didn’t turn around but put his hands on his hips, surveying the damage. “Right.”

I padded down the hall toward the grand staircase, which led me to a laundry room that was much nicer than my new accommodations. Six new, state-of-the-art washers and companion dryers lined one wall; the other wall was lined with vending machines with soda, candy, and snacks. There was a change machine, and a machine to buy bleach and detergent. It was clean, well lit, and modern with signs advertising its Wi-Fi access. I looked around enviously. My basement was musty, dusty, and home to more than one mouse, I suspected. Okay, so things were looking up. A little bit.

I threw the dirty clothes into the wash that Crawford had started and returned to the lobby floor, which was still empty. I had forgotten to ask Merrimack if any students were staying on campus during spring break and made a mental note to send him an e-mail once I unearthed my computer from the mound of my possessions in the middle of the little patch of floor between my bed and the dresser.

“Do you want to get Chinese food, Crawford?” I asked, back upstairs and going through items in my open suitcase. He didn’t answer. I guess I owed him an apology for biting his head off and throwing the dirty towel at him, but I didn’t expect the silent treatment. “Crawford?” I went to the bathroom door and found him kneeling on the floor in his undershirt, the toilet off its seal, the top removed. A collection of rusty old tools, apparently gathered from the maintenance closet across the hall from my suite, were arranged around him. His shirt was draped over the side of the tub and he was dirty and wet, his dark hair flopping over his sweaty brow.

“Crawford?”