River Road (33 page)

But I had
. I heard myself saying it.
You have to experience everything,
no matter how painful.
“I meant that they shouldn't run from the hard stuff—that they should let themselves experience it—not that they should seek out drug dealers and shoot heroin.”

“Of course that's all you meant,” Cressida said, handing me back the pages. Her face was pale, her voice strained. “Unfortunately people who aren't writers won't understand that. I'll have a word with Sue Bennet to make sure she doesn't disrupt the reading.”

“Maybe it would be better if I left,” I said, getting to my feet.

“If you think so—” Cressida said.

“Of course Nan shouldn't leave,” Dottie cried, pulling me back down. “Leia loved you. She'd want you to be here.”

I turned to Dottie; her kind, dimpled face was the opposite of Cressida's pinched one. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She needed me to stay. I squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Dottie, I'll stay.” I looked back at Cressida. “I don't have to read if you think it will upset anyone.”

“I won't have Sue Bennet drive you out. I'll speak to her.” Cressida strode down the center aisle, boot heels clicking on the stone floor, braids swinging. I almost felt sorry for Sue as Cressida swept down on her. I couldn't hear what she was saying but when Cressida was done Sue looked as pale as Cressida had a moment ago. Cressida, on the other hand, was glowing as she walked back up the aisle. Perhaps it was the light of the candles in the tall holders on either side of the dais. Or perhaps it was the righteous fervor of putting Sue Bennet in her place. As she stood at the center of the dais, Cressida looked like one of the glowing saints in the stained-glass windows behind her.

“We have come together this evening to celebrate the life of Leia Dawson,” she began, her voice filling the stone chapel. “Although Leia's short life was tragically severed, she lived it to the fullest. Writers come into this world knowing they must experience everything”—Cressida's blue eyes fastened defiantly on the back of the chapel, at Sue Bennet, I suspected—“and Leia was a true writer. Tonight we will let her speak for herself. We'll let her words fill this sacred space and radiate out into
the world—for that's the true immortality a writer seeks—
so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
” Cressida paused a moment for the Shakespeare quote to sink in and then began again in a softer voice. “Here is a poem Leia wrote in my advanced poetry seminar last semester.”

She read an elegant sonnet about the shortness of summer that so echoed the brevity of Leia's own life I could feel the indrawn breath of grief sucking all the air out of the chapel. I felt Dottie's hand steal into mine. She knew it would make me think of Emmy. I gave her a reassuring squeeze back to tell her I was all right—and I was. When I closed my eyes I saw Emmy's face, brighter than the candles in the chapel, and heard her voice singing about the little tugboat. How could she be gone if I carried her image and voice inside me?

John Abbot followed with a short ghost story that was unexpectedly chilling. Abbie Martin read a letter Leia had written to her telling her how valuable her time at Acheron had been. Joan Denning read a poem called “Bluebird” that she said Leia had given her because she knew how much she loved birds. In each piece, whether funny or sad, arch or wry, lyrical or bawdy, I heard Leia's voice. Her range was remarkable—changing like a chameleon for the teacher, reader, or audience the piece was intended for. Yes, Troy had been right. Leia had played a part for each of us, trying out new voices, reflecting back what we wanted to hear and see. But didn't we all? she seemed to be asking.

When Dottie got up to read the quilting poem, I was afraid she was crying too hard to read, but she took a deep breath, held up the crumpled sheet of paper in a trembling hand, and read in a surprisingly strong voice.

How to Piece a Quilt

First choose your scraps—

Gingham from the baby blanket

Your parents wrapped you in

Pink for the girl they wanted

Soft for the life they wanted for you.

Blue velvet from the dress

You wore to church

Where you learned to be quiet

Where you prayed for grace.

Denim for the miniskirt

The boys liked you in

That brushed your thighs

Like too eager hands.

White satin for the prom dress

You never wore

Bruised as the flowers

Crushed against your breast.

Red leather for the jacket

You wore like armor

Bright as laughter

Hiding tears.

Piece them all together.

Hope no one sees the stitches.

The last line echoed in the chapel. Dottie lowered the page and looked out for a moment as if she'd forgotten where she was. I got up and met her at the dais, put my arm around her. She stirred to life and gave me a grateful look as she sat down. I turned and faced the pews, at the faces tilted up, like cups of gold in the candlelight. I unfolded the pages and read, thinking as I began the first line that it could have been written for this silent chapel.

“It's quiet in here—”

“Murderer!”

My head jerked up to see Sue Bennet standing in the last row. Everyone had turned around to stare at her.

“You sent Leia to her death!” she cried.

John Abbot stood up and approached Sue, his hands patting the air as if he was trying to put out a fire.

“Sue, please . . .” Abbie's voice was more plaintive than authoritative. “We know it wasn't Nan who ran over Leia.”

“She told Leia to try heroin. Leia made her drug connection in
her
class.” I could have pointed out that she'd made that connection in the prison, where she taught in Cressida's program. I looked for Cressida now. Hadn't she talked to Sue? Couldn't she do anything to stop her?

But Cressida was standing in the aisle, one hand over her mouth, the other folded across her waist, looking at me. She had the same look on her face that she'd had the night of the Christmas party. Like she was very sorry but really, what could she do? I'd gotten myself into this mess.

And I had. Sue was right—I'd sent Leia to her death. Not as Sue thought, but because I hadn't listened to her. I hadn't seen her. I'd seen a girl with a perfect future who made me too envious to look at when actually she was a girl stitched together from scraps, just trying to hold them all together. Like the rest of us.

I folded Leia's story in half and left the dais. Instead of going back to my seat I walked straight down the aisle, not looking to my left or right, and out the door into the night.

I
drove home, my vision blurred with tears, not caring how fast I took the curves on River Road or what might be fixing to jump out of the shadows. I didn't think there could be any more surprises tonight.
Stupid!
I said to myself, thumping the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. To think I'd be welcomed back into the fold. To think it was all going to be all right.

I'll just have to leave Acheron
, I told myself. I was ready, wasn't I? Wasn't that why I'd given away Emmy's things? And gone today to see Ross? And dropped off Oolong's food at Hannah's?

The thought of Oolong brought a jolt of pain. Someone in this godforsaken town had killed my cat and thought a loaf of bread made up for it. How the hell could I stay in such a place? I'd leave—

And lose Joe. He was rooted here. He couldn't leave—
wouldn't
leave for someone he'd just met—would probably be grateful I was going. He was probably already regretting that he'd hooked up with me—or why else wasn't he here? I thought as I pulled up to my house.
Following a lead
sounded like a generic cop excuse, like
working late at the office, honey.
He was sending me a message, trying to back off tactfully.

Another jolt of pain shot through me as I got out of the car. This time I recognized its source—my ribs. Well, I had something for that.

I went to the kitchen, fished the Vicodin out of the cupboard, and took two with a mouthful of water straight from the faucet. When I lifted my head I was looking straight at the bottle of Glenlivet. I'd wondered earlier why I hadn't poured it down the drain and now I knew. Some part of me had known that the resolution to stop drinking wouldn't last. That the moment things went wrong I would be right back here staring at that bottle. And things certainly had gone wrong.

I took the Glenlivet and both bottles of Vicodin from the cabinet and carried them to my desk. I lined them up under the window just as I'd lined up the candles last night. In the light of my desk lamp the orange plastic bottles and the golden scotch glowed feverishly. I sat back to look at the still life I'd created. It might be one of those Dutch vanitas paintings. All I needed was a rotting piece of meat or a skull. Instead I had a small stack of books left over from the Great Books class—
The Odyssey
,
The Aeneid
, Dante's
Inferno
—a trip to hell in every one! Even Cressida's galley, which lay on the top of the stack, had an appropriately doom-and-gloom title—
The Sentences
.

I took a long swallow of the scotch and stared at the bottles as if they answered a question I'd forgotten.

No, not quite forgotten.

I'd given away Emmy's things.

Said goodbye to Ross.

Made my amends with Hannah.

And not because I was moving.

Would Cressida grieve for me? I wondered. Or Dottie? I imagined them learning of my death. They would be sorry, yes, but it wouldn't be entirely unexpected. Even Anat had said she'd been afraid I'd kill myself those first years. Cressida would probably write something about it—turn the experience into art, as every true writer did. That's what she'd said about Leia tonight, that writers came into this world knowing they must experience everything, echoing the words that Kelsey had quoted me as saying in class. Had she meant to echo my words?
Had she been trying to tell Sue that she shouldn't blame me for Leia's death? Well, it hadn't worked. Nor had whatever she had said to Sue before the reading. In fact, it seemed to have fanned the flames—

Unintentionally, of course. Just as Cressida hadn't meant to make things worse by telling me about the tenure decision at the Christmas party—

I took another long drink from the bottle, then I picked up the galley, turned it over, and looked at the author photo on the back cover. Cressida at her desk, a view of snow-covered fields in the distance—

I looked closer. The view was facing east from her house and it took in the orchards, my house, and the turnaround. Hannah had said she'd seen the ice hag lurking around my house. The hair on the back of my neck rose with the familiar feeling of being watched. Cressida. She could see my house from her desk window—see everything I did—

I opened the book, half expecting to find an account of my days on its pages, but instead on the first page I read:
It's quiet in here. So quiet—

“I can explain.”

The voice sounded so reasonable, conciliatory even, that I wasn't afraid until I looked up and saw the gun in her hand.

“Cressida?” I croaked, so shocked by the sight of her still in her tailored white dress, holding a gun, I thought I must be hallucinating from the Vicodin. “Explain what? What Leia's story is doing in your book?”

“I didn't mean to copy it.”

I looked down at the book and flipped through the pages, still feeling too stunned to fully register what was going on.
Cressida was holding a gun
and
Cressida had stolen Leia's story
came through as remote messages from a distant planet. “It's word for word,” I said.

“I have an eidetic memory,” she replied with a hint of pride in her voice. “And we were both working in the prison. I ran a quilting class too. Those pins, they were a bitch to keep track of. Sometimes I thought the inmates hid them on purpose so they wouldn't have to go back to their cells.”

I stared at her—it was hard not to stare at the gun, which had a
magnetic pull, but I tried to focus on Cressida. She looked calm, annoyed but not angry.
Keep her talking
, came a voice through the Vicodin haze. The voice sounded like Joe's. Although we'd never had a conversation about what to do if someone was pointing a gun at you, I was pretty sure that's what he would tell me to do.

“Yes, that must have been stressful,” I said. “I've always been impressed by how much you do—your classes, the prison program, writing a book—”

“Exactly!” she said, looking grateful that I'd hit on the right answer, as if I were a student in one of her classes. “How do they expect you to teach a full load of classes and have time to produce a book every couple of years? It's easier for fiction writers—you can just make something up—but I'm a memoirist. I told my whole life story in my first book. How am I supposed to repeat that?”

I could have suggested she try writing about
other
people, but I didn't think she'd come here for constructive criticism or writing advice. She'd come because she knew I had Leia's story—the one she'd plagiarized—but surely that wasn't reason enough to kill me, unless—

Icy sweat broke out under my arms and on my brow, fear finally penetrating the Vicodin cloud. Leia had gone to see Cressida before coming to me. She would have seen an advance copy of her book. What had she thought when she saw that her teacher had stolen her writing? What had she
done
?