Quinn (3 page)

She shook her head. “Sometimes I think that was my first mistake. I actually believed all that eyewash about going straight to hell.”

“You're still pissed off at me,” he said. His voice was quietly incredulous.

“You broke my heart, you bastard.”

“Hey, listen, that was kid stuff. I never meant—” A lone tear trickled down her cheek and he broke off miserably, “Jesus.”

“Margery makes you happy, doesn't she?” Quinn asked.

“Yes.”

“She'll be good to you. She'll make your bed and wash your socks and have your babies and never demand a thing.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she didn't let him speak. “I'm not putting that down.”

“Like hell.”

“She's the best-natured, kindest person on earth, and you'd just better be nice to her forever.” Quinn glanced toward the kitchen and saw Susan O'Malley staring at them. “I'm going to mingle. It's good to see you, Tommy. All the best.” She kissed his cheek and turned to lose herself in the crush.

At Thanksgiving dinner, and for the remainder of the vacation, Quinn's parents thought she seemed quieter than usual. Instead of pursuing her customary frantic schedule of visiting and parties, the front door banging with incessant entrances and departures, she mostly stayed at home, reading magazines and tinkering with her father's car. On Sunday afternoon Stanley and Van stopped by to pick her up.

Stanley waited until she had finished waving goodbye to Ann and John from the back window of the bus. “So, how was it?” he asked.

“Fine. What about yours?”

“Your mother is so pretty,” Van said.

“You don't look anything like her,” Stanley commented.

“Gee, thanks,” Quinn said. “You're both alive, so it couldn't have been too bad.”

“Yeah, but you should see
them
,” Stanley said gleefully, “lying in a pool of blood on the pale white carpet, hatchets sticking out of their backs.”

“Stanley was wonderful,” Van said. “They couldn't find a thing the matter with him.”

“Drove them nuts. I could feel them inspecting my nails. I wonder why they didn't ask me for a urine specimen.”

“Oh, Stanley,” Van said.

“Who knows, they might have detected some rare disease found only among those of the Jewish persuasion. Fatal, of course, preferably within the hour.”

“They're coming along,” Van said firmly, and turned around to ask Quinn, “Was Marvin at the party?”

“Not that I noticed. It was very crowded. Did you do anything special?”

“Wait a minute,” Stanley said. “What about Flannelmouth? Has he reformed?”

“Hard to tell. Did you pass the golf test?”

“God damn it, what happened at the party?” Stanley bellowed.

“Nothing. I said ‘hello' and he said ‘hello' and we shot the breeze for a while and that was that. I think he'll be extremely happy with Margery.” Her voice was even. Van peered into her face, and Quinn smiled back sweetly. After that she fell silent, watching out the window.

Finally Stanley complained about the unnaturally low noise level in the backseat, and Van said, “Tell her about the Great Freudian Slip.”

“You tell her.”

“Oh, no, I'm much too humiliated.”

“We're all sitting at the table looking like a Norman Rockwell painting,” Stanley related, “and Mrs. Huntington gives me this tight little smile, hands me a thimbleful of coffee, and says, ‘Stanley, wouldn't you like another piece of this lovely chocolate kike?' ”

“She didn't! I don't believe you,” Quinn howled.

Van shook her head. “Do you think maybe I was adopted?”

“That got a rise out of her,” Stanley said, referring to Quinn. But she had already slipped back into her reverie. “Mallory, what in
hell
is going on with you?”

“Nothing. I'm thinking.” It had begun to snow, and Quinn watched the fine dry powder whirl into fanciful shapes beside the road as the bus roared past.

“Yes, but what about?” Van asked.

“Just working on Marvin, that's all.”

“That's all,” Van echoed.

“If he wasn't at the party, where'd you meet him?” Stanley asked.

“I didn't. But I'm going to. Soon. Now leave me alone. I'm plotting.”

Van shrugged at Stanley. For the rest of the trip all conversation was confined to the front seat.

“We're late,” Van said, her arms loaded with books. She watched Quinn's disheveled figure emerge from beneath the jacked-up truck-battered sneakers first, then overalls, and finally the grease-streaked face. Bright tendrils poked out from beneath an oversize plaid handkerchief tied around her head.

“You look like a chimney sweep,” Van took a small step backward, unconsciously avoiding the possibility of besmirching her skirt.

“Chim chim cheroo,” Quinn replied. “Thanks for bringing my stuff.” She stepped out of the overalls, undid the handkerchief, and shook her hair. “Gus!” she yelled into the shadowy recesses of the garage.

“Christ, Mallory,” Gus answered. “You trying to bust my eardrums or what? Hello, Vanessa.”

“I didn't see you, sneaking up on those little cat feet,” Quinn said, cleaning her hands with a rag. Gus looked down at his size thirteen work boots.

Quinn nodded at the truck. “She's okay now, but they ought to give that maniac a nice safe desk job. He's hell on transmissions.”

“What about number 63? I need her by Friday.”

Quinn groaned. “I can't, Gus, really. I've got a Religion final.”

“Listen, nobody else has your way with shock absorbers,” he said. “You'll get your A anyway.”

“Come off it, cheapskate. You just don't want to hire a union mechanic.” She tossed him the rag. “Can't it wait until the weekend?”

“For you it'll wait.”

“Deal,” she said. Van glanced pointedly at her watch. “Okay, I'm coming.”

As they headed for the door Gus called, “Hey, good luck in Religion! If you don't know the answer, pray!” He reached through the window of the truck and started the engine, nodding as it roared into life.

The two figures raced along the campus walk, Quinn slightly ahead of Van, their breath exploding in icy clouds. Despite her long legs Van struggled to keep up with Quinn's unrestrained gallop.

“We're not
that
late,” she gasped.

“Have to check the mail before class.”

“You've got a break after English. My God, you're making me perspire.”

“It's good for you. Cleans the pores,” Quinn said.

“But I don't
like
to perspire.” Van slowed to a trot as Stanley intercepted them.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, draping an arm across Van's shoulder. He and Van were almost the same height, but Stanley's bulk and lumbering gait made him seem bigger. Quinn was shorter than either of them and bobbed up and down next to Stanley's shoulder.

“What's with you, ants-in-the-pants?” he asked.

“Gotta check the mail. Save me a seat?”

“They probably haven't even sorted it yet,” Van said.

“Thanks for bringing me my books. See you in a minute,” Quinn said, and she dashed off toward the student union, hair flying.

“Forgot her vitamins this morning,” Stanley muttered. Van snuggled against him as they made their way toward McLane Hall.

By the time Quinn slipped through the doors, Dr. Buxby was well into his lecture. Van signaled to her, and the professor stopped in midsentence to watch Quinn navigate the long legs of the Robinson twins and plop down next to Van.

“Uh, Miss Mallory, are you quite comfortable now?” he asked.

Quinn nodded, unperturbed. “Yes, thank you.” Her cheeks were flushed from the brisk air and exercise rather than from embarrassment. “Sorry I'm late.”

The classroom was a small amphitheater with fifty seats rising in graduated tiers. Dr. Buxby paced back and forth at the front. He wore his three-piece pinstriped suit with the red paisley handkerchief poking out of the breast pocket in three perfect points.

“We're, uh, sorry too, Miss Mallory, because I am certain you would have enjoyed Mr. Ingraham's, uh, remarks regarding Catherine Earnshaw.”

“Pithy, I'm sure,” Quinn said.

“Excuse me?” The professor cocked his head at her.

“Miss Mallory has a lisp,” drawled a voice toward the front of the room.

There was a ripple of laughter as Quinn sought out the shaggy head and angular body of Will Ingraham, who sat, or rather, lolled, in his seat, long legs stretched out comfortably into the aisle.

“Correct me if I misquote you, Mr. Ingraham,” the professor said, then addressed himself to Quinn. “Mr. Ingraham, uh, defends Catherine's behavior, viewing her, uh, passionate refusal to, shall we say, renounce Heathcliff as an act of, uh, courage, a symbolic revolution, if you will, against the rigid hypocrisy of her time.” He paused to let his words resonate, then glanced at Will again. “Do I catch your drift, Mr. Ingraham?”

“More or less,” Will said.

“Well, Miss Mallory?”

“I'm sorry I mythed it,” Quinn replied.

Dr. Buxby paused to let the snickers subside, then went on, “You don't mean to say you concur with Mr. Ingraham's assessment.”

“On the contrary,” Quinn said.

Van put her chin in her hand. “Oh, Lord, here we go again.”

“Catherine Earnshaw was no revolutionary. She was anything
but
a free spirit. She lived under the absolute tyranny of her glands.” Out of the corner of her eye Quinn caught sight of Will Ingraham's legs as he very deliberately crossed one booted foot over the other. He inclined his head in her direction as if loath to miss a single syllable. She smiled in admiration at his gift for communicating such profound rearview arrogance with such minimal effort.

“She vacillates between her sexual passion for Heathcliff,” Quinn continued, “and her greed for prestige and money as exemplified by what's-his-name, Edgar.”

“I assume that Miss Mallory prefers the virtuous Jane Eyre,” Will said, no emphasis on the word “virtuous.”

“Jane refuses to compromise her belief in what's right for anybody, even the man she loves.” She felt her voice rising.

“So she abandons Rochester because she's too weak to buck polite society. Nice lady,” he said.

“That is
not
what I said.” Quinn leaned forward now, fist clenched. “You're missing the point. People just can't do what they damn well please. They have to set up standards for themselves and have the guts to live by them.”

Will turned around now and looked at her. His eyes were blue, lids almost half-mast, lazy. “That sounds like something Jane would say.”

Quinn glared at him. “Thank you,” she said. Will shook his head slightly, as if to say he thought she was getting pretty worked up about all this. “Well,” she sputtered, “I'm not saying I don't believe in freedom. Everybody should have freedom, especially to love …”

“That's a relief,” Will said with a quick grin.

There was a murmur of laughter, and Quinn stared at him furiously. “You are very smug.”

He tilted his head to her in apology. “Sorry,” he said. “Cheap shot.”

“Children, children,” Buxby said, clearly delighted with the exchange. “Let's not allow our, uh, literary enthusiasm to create factionalism in the classroom, pleased as I am that our, uh, assignments have made such a, shall we say, personal impact. We shall confine ourselves to the issues at hand. Now, Mr. Hartley, I want you to, uh, contrast for us, if you will, the imagery in the two novels.”

The rest of the hour Quinn found her mind drifting. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Stanley's hand fell casually to Van's knee and crept halfway up her thigh. Van's face seemed impassive, but Quinn noted the flush on the usually pale cheek. When the bell rang at last, jolting her from her daydreams, Quinn waved Van and Stanley off, promising to meet them at dinnertime. She dawdled collecting her books. Suddenly she realized that she was delaying until Will Ingraham had left the classroom. She'd had no intention of walking down the corridor with that complacent smile burning a hole in her back.

Quinn's room in the women's dormitory was moderately neat, due to the day's cleaning binge. Each month, exactly twenty-four hours before her period arrived, Quinn became ferociously tidy. She folded clothes, straightened drawers, sorted socks, dusted surfaces with maniacal energy. The urge disappeared the following day, not to return for another four weeks. By the time she was fifteen, she had learned to take full advantage of her compulsion or the piles of books, clothes, souvenirs, and half-eaten Hostess Twinkies would collect underfoot until the next time around.

She had livened up her cubicle with warm colors—a bright patchwork quilt on the narrow bed, a secondhand rocking chair that she had fitted with yellow pillows, and beside the chair a straw basket that held three giant paper flowers—red, yellow, and orange. On the linoleum floor were three bath mats from Woolworth's bargain table—again, red, yellow, and orange. The walls were decorated with posters: John Kennedy barefoot on a Cape Cod beach; Ike and Tina Turner in concert; and a travel poster of County Kerry, Ireland. All were unframed but carefully attached with hidden circles of masking tape. At the bottom left-hand corner of the Kennedy poster drooped a wilted white carnation, taped there to commemorate the first anniversary of his death.

Quinn sat at her desk by the window, ostensibly committing to memory the postulations of
Totem and Taboo.
Her right foot tapped rhythmically against the floor as she absorbed the marked-up pages.

Perched precariously on the edge of the desk was a portrait of her parents. Their features, fuzzy and idealized, faded into one another with varying shades of beige—except for the eyes, both pairs identically blue there, although, of course, her father's were actually hazel. Quinn had gazed at the picture so often she imagined she had blurred the outline of their faces by staring at them so much.

Her yellow Magic Marker squeaked as she highlighted another paragraph. All but five sentences were illuminated with the bold transparent track. Sighing, she tossed the book on the desk and stretched. Her eyes shifted to the drawer. She stared at it and then, after a quick glance over her shoulder, opened it cautiously. She removed an envelope, extracted from it two type-written sheets that were stapled together, and began to read.

Quinn was halfway down the first page when Van entered the room. She approached the desk unnoticed and reached down curiously to examine the papers that appeared so absorbing. Quinn jumped up with an exclamation, stuffed the pages into the envelope, and held it behind her back.

“Excuse me. I didn't mean to startle you,” Van said. “What's that?”

Quinn's face had begun to redden, but she summoned enough composure to slide the envelope back into her desk. “Nothing,” she said casually, closing the drawer. “You just surprised me, that's all.”

“Letter from home?” Van pressed.

“Yeah.”

Van peered closely into the flushed face. “I don't believe you.”

Quinn watched Van's eyes fix on the drawer.

“You wouldn't,” Quinn said.

Van's body was stiff and she held her breath.

“You're much too inhibited, Vanessa.”

Van lunged for the drawer and yanked it open. Quinn yelped and grabbed at it, but Van had got there first. She backed away, holding the letter above her head. Quinn stretched desperately, but Van was just tall enough. She waved the envelope back and forth out of reach.

“I don't believe you did that. I'll never trust you again,” Quinn protested. “It's a federal offense, interfering with the mail.”

“I'm not going to read it. I just want to see who it's from.” Van peered at the return address. “Chris Hartley? Hey, is this what the recent mailbox obsession is all about?”

Quinn slumped down at her desk, defeated.

“I want to read it. May I?”

Quinn looked at her balefully, then shrugged. Van began to skim the pages. She made no comment, only raised her eyes once to glance at her friend's defiant face. When she had finished, she sat still for a moment, then said, “Are you going to report this?”

“What for?”

Van dangled the letter gingerly between two fingers as if it were on fire. “This is one sick boy.”

“Oh, that's not his own stuff. He copied it all from secondary sources.”

“Which, an Abnormal Psych textbook or The College Man's Rape Manual?”

“Mostly the
Kama Sutra,
I think,” Quinn said.

Van sat down on the bed. “You mind telling me what's going on?”

“Yeah, I do. But since you bullied your way into it, I guess I might as well. That letter was commissioned.”

“Commissioned,” Van repeated dully.

“Look, I'm going to be twenty-one years old in a few weeks and I'm probably the only virgin in the senior class.”

“That may well be true.”

“I can't
graduate
like this.”

“What would people think?” Van said.

Quinn continued, her voice extravagantly patient, as if she were talking to a feebleminded child. “I don't want just
anybody
to do it, do I? It has to be the right person.”

“Chris Hartley is applying for the position of your deflowerer?”

Quinn nodded.

“You're crazy,” Van said.

“I knew you'd say that, which is exactly why I didn't tell you. And if you mention this to a living soul I will personally remove your toenails.”

Van shook her head. “What're the conditions of this contest, or whatever it is?”

“Well, the rules called for something original,” Quinn answered. “I hope the other guys read the instructions at least.”

“Just how many
are
there?”

Quinn reached for her Religion notebook and flipped it open to the last lecture's notes. Silently she pointed to the list she had penciled in the margin. The names and their descriptions had been heavily embellished with doodles, but Van could still make them out.

CHRIS H
.: maternal instinct

JERRY L
.: body beautiful

PHIL S
.: wiseass

MYRON S
.: intellect

JACK W
.: good jokes

BOB K
.: gentle soul

Van looked at Quinn in silence for a moment. Then she said, “Did you ever consider availing yourself of the free student-counseling service?”

“Are you kidding? What would I do with a shrink?”

“It might help.”

“Help what? I don't need help. I need Marvin the Magnificent. I'm going to get him.”

“But Quinn …” Van's forehead was wrinkled with the effort to explain. “It's kind of … bizarre, don't you think? To go about it this way?”

“I think it's eminently practical.”

“I wish you all the luck in the world.”

“You have no faith.”

“Can't you see? It's like … coupling by computer. Mail-order sex. You've got this thing about control, and it isn't something you
can
control. Or ought to, anyway. People fall in love by accident.”

“I don't.”

“I really get the feeling you're involved in a classical search for the ideal father figure.”

“Oh,
can
it, Freud, for God's sake. Quit analyzing me.

Van fell silent.

“Until you butted into this I was having a lot of fun,” Quinn said. Van looked so pained that Quinn's face softened and she held her hand out placatingly. “Hey, listen, it's just that it's time for me now. It'd be okay if we could put Stanley through the mimeograph machine, but there's no way. Can't I have someone, too?”

Van held her hair coiled into a twisted mass on the top of her head. Now she sighed and released it, letting it fall silky and dark past her shoulders. She stood up, headed slowly for the door, and turned to look at Quinn. “Listen, you'll keep me posted?”

Quinn nodded.

Van hesitated for a moment, then said good night and closed the door carefully behind her.