Higher Education (29 page)

“Bored.” I put my glass down, hard, so hard that for a dizzy moment I'm afraid I've broken it on the tabletop. “That's a goddam friendly thing to say, isn't it?”

“Easy on the glass, darling. It's Gerard's.”

“I don't give a fuck whose glass it is.”

He's smiling. “After what happened at the Spee, one would think you'd have a bit more respect for Gerard's things.”

I give a little strangled gasp. “What did that worm say to you?”

Jackson shrugs. “Oh, he didn't have to say anything. There were plenty of other people around to fill me in.”

“Worms. Creeps. Scumbags.”

“Sticks and stones, darling.”

“
Fuck
sticks and stones.”

“Look, didn't you come to the Advocate to find him? Or was it Dean you came to see?”

Something wrenches inside me. “Mind your own beeswax.”

“Excuse me?”

“And just what the fuck were
you
doing with Stephanie Kandel?”

“An unfortunate construction, darling.”

“What?”

“I'd rephrase that if I were you.” He shakes his head. “And you an English major.”

Speechless, I fold my arms around myself, gripping my biceps with fingers that feel unreasonably cold.

Gently he puts his glass back on the coffee table and takes out another cigarette from the pack. “Now, are you still a nonsmoker, darling? I feel like I've got to keep asking you. I really don't know you anymore.”

“Coward, coward,” I whisper, so low that he bends politely forward.

“Pardon me?”

I look at him and then I hear myself saying clearly: “Tell me again why we broke up.”

He lights his cigarette, inhales, and lazily exhales. “I believe the lawyers would call it irreconcilable differences, don't you think?”

I'm sitting at a table with Benny and Val and Toby and Ross when I catch sight of Jackson walking past, carelessly holding his tray with one hand. Our eyes meet and he nods at me, once, and continues to saunter along toward the north end of the dining hall. I lower my hand and watch him sit down at a table near the windows. In his room later that night, he pulls me onto his lap and whispers, “What were you
doing
with those people
?”

“
What people
?”

He's kissing the side of my neck. “You wouldn't believe the shit I got at dinner.
”

“
I told you never to eat the chili surprise.
”

“
I mean I got hell from people.
”

“
Why
?”

“
Trying to explain why you were hanging out with that scraggly crew of wonks.
”

“
I like them.” Now one of his hands is at my waist, pulling my shirt out of my trousers
.

“
Sweetheart, why don't you try sitting with us regular folk
?”

“
We were talking about seventeenth-century metaphysical poetry.
”

“
Try not to do it in the dining hall where everybody can see.
”

“
Toby has some interesting theories about Donne.
”

“
Have you ever noticed how unattractive they are
?”

“
The metaphysical poets
?”

“
No, your friends the drones.
”

I don't have a chance to reply, for Jackson has gently tipped up my chin and is kissing me, while his other hand continues to unbutton my shirt
.

“Darling, your posture is awful.”

“Fuck you.”

“Aren't we just a teeny bit hostile tonight?”

“Hostile?” I'm gazing at the big bay windows overlooking Bow Street. For a moment I see myself slamming up against the window, glass shattering, splintering into a million crystalline shards, each one a tiny glittering knife. “God, god,” I whisper, turning my head away and squeezing my eyes shut.

“Randa?” Jackson says. “Are you okay?”

I swallow once, twice. “Yes. No.”

“Miranda.” He's sitting on the couch, his arms encircling me. “Sweetie. It's okay.”

Dazed, I notice that I don't seem to recognize the cologne he's got on. I give a gummy sniff. “You seemed a little upset about it too,” I whisper into his shoulder.

“Well, that's because I was.”

“Was? What happened?” My voice is shaking. “I don't understand.”

“It was a long time ago, Randa.”

“Not so long.”

“Look.” I feel his chest rise and fall with a sigh. “Those feelings—” He hesitates. “They hurt.”

“So?” I open my eyes and stare at the monogram on his breast pocket.

“So they hurt too much.” His voice is low, and tight. “So I—stopped having them.”

“Stopped having them? How can you just stop?”

“You just do.”

“Oh, I get it. There's an on-off switch somewhere, right?” I lift my head. “Huh? Or do you send them out with your shirts to be laundered?”

“Very funny.”

“Nice and clean, starched and completely dead.”

He lets go of me, his eyes flashing something that looks oddly like hatred. “I'd appreciate it, sweetheart, if you'd stop claiming ownership of my feelings.”

“I'm not claiming ownership of anything.” I make myself return his gaze. “But just how the fuck do you stop having feelings?”

“Watch your language.”

“I'm an English major, remember? I can say anything I want.”

“But do you have to talk like a drunken sailor?”

I swallow. “I believe I asked you a question.”

“Can we change the subject? It's getting boring.”

“No, no, I really want to know. How do you—I mean, how does one stop having feelings?”

“You just do, Miranda.” He gives a long sigh that ends in a cough. “You just stop. Simple.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Haven't you ever heard of mind over matter?”

“What about Friday night?”

“Friday night?” He looks blank for a moment. “Oh.”

“Memorable, eh?”

“Look, it was nice, Randa. It was very nice.”

“And that's all.”

He sighs again and leans his head on the back of the sofa. “It was always nice.”

“At least we were compatible about something.”

“Look. Nothing can change what we felt for each other and all that.” He stares over at the fireplace, his eyes shadowed by long curling lashes. “But we broke up, remember?”

“Oh. Right. It must have slipped my mind.”

“By mutual consent, if you'll recall.”

“Maybe I was lying.”

A nerve jumps near his eye, just underneath the smooth skin of his cheekbone. “And now you're the expert on feelings.”

“Well, I guess that's my problem, isn't it?” I let go of my arms and look at the marks on my skin. “Well.” I clear my throat. “Thanks for being so straightforward with me.”

The nerve jumps again. After a moment he says in that tight quiet voice, “I wonder how long the record's been done.”

“Not long.” Unsteadily I get to my feet. “Thanks for the drink.”

“No problem.” He doesn't look at me.

For a second I feel sick and I almost sit down again. But I remain standing, looking down at his pale, handsome face, his half-closed eyes and unsmiling mouth, still and exquisite as if carved in alabaster. “See you around.”

When I am at the door I hear his voice. “Miranda.”

“Yes?”

“Don't forget your tie.”

I turn. He's still staring at the fireplace. “I don't want it.” I swallow again. “It's not mine, remember?” He does not reply, and carefully I close the door behind me.

9

THURSDAY

I blink in the morning sun. Pulling a Kleenex from the pocket of my pajama top, I blow my nose and bat the tissue into the fireplace. Then I pick up the phone and start dialing.

“UHS, Mental Health.”

“Ha.”

“Hello?”

“Yes, I'd like to cancel an appointment.”

“Yes, with who?”

“Whom.”

“Sorry.”

“With Mary Froelich, tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Let me see here. Miranda Walter?”

“Walker. With a K. As in karate.”

“Yes, right. I've canceled the appointment for you, Miranda. When did you want to reschedule for?”

“Reschedule?” I look at the Matisse print over the fireplace. Has somebody actually bothered to straighten it? “I don't want to reschedule.”

“Um. You're a regular patient of Mary's, aren't you?”

“I guess so.”

“Why don't I just ask Mary to call you about arranging another time?”

“No, that's okay. Thanks.” I hang up. I rebutton my pajama top so the buttons align, listening to the Bicknell twins scampering out of their room and down the stairs, reminding each other to get toilet paper. Out on the street by the Lampoon somebody calls out: “It wasn't my idea!” A police siren wails and then dies away. “It's not my fault,” the voice shouts. “It's not my fault.”

“
Sit up straight, Mirabelle. Don't slouch. It's not good for your lungs.
”

“
I know.” I draw myself up, trying to keep my shoulders from curving in toward my chest. “It's hard, Gram.
”

“
I know it is. But keep trying.
”

“
I remember and then I forget. And then I remember and I forget.
”

“
And then you remember and then you forget.
”

“
Right. So why bother
?”

“
One day at a time, Mirabelle.
”

“
Like the TV show, huh
?”

“
Whatever.
”

We look at each other across the table, resting between games of double solitaire. She peers more closely at me through her jeweled cat's-eye reading glasses, the ones I like to tease her about
.

“
Is that a new brow pencil you've got on
?”

“
Yeah.” I raise my fingers to my face. “Is it too heavy? Did I put too much on
?”

“
No, no, it looks lovely.
”

“
Really
?”

“
It looks beautiful. Makes your eyes even bluer.
”

“She
said it looked
—”
I stop, and am silent for a few moments. “Hey, Gram.
”

“
What, sweetie
?”

“
Can you keep a secret
?”

“
I don't see why not.
”

“
It's kind of a big secret.
”

“
Try me.
”

“
Okay. I got my PSAT scores back.
”

“
Did you?” She reaches over to take one of my hands. “Tell me.
”

I stretch out my arm so she doesn't have to lean. “I did okay.
”

“
Good for you!” She squeezes my hand. “I knew you would.
”

“
Thanks.
”

“
I didn't doubt it for a second.
”

“
Thanks.” I look down at the small pale hand grasping mine, at the delicate veins crisscrossing her flesh like little blue rivers. “Hey, Gram.
”

“
Sweetie
?”

“
There's more to the secret.
”

“
Tell me.
”

I lean forward. “Gram, I did really well.
”

She squeezes my hand again. “I figured.
”

“
Did you
?”

“
Of course.
”

I look up at her and then down at her hand again. Suddenly I am blinking rapidly, engulfed by a black dizzy conviction that the ceiling is about to give way, collapse, certain to crush me under its weight. The dizziness passes, but the oppressive sensation, dark and relentless, remains lingering in my chest, flooding my lungs, almost as if somehow I knew that three weeks later Gram would fall as she was going down the stairs to the basement to put her wash into the dryer, injuring her hip and impairing her mobility to the point where my parents would decide to place her in the Seaview Retirement Villas in Santa Barbara, a sunny, exquisitely landscaped compound of charming bungalows from which, as it was to happen, Gram would not return
.

“
Mirabelle
?”

I catch my breath. “Gram
?”

“
Sit up straight.” She looks at me through her funny glasses, smiling. “One day at a time, remember
?”

“
Like the TV show, right
?”

“
Whatever.
”

“
Okay.
”

“
Good girl. Now pick up your deck and let's play.
”

I slouch lower in the armchair. “Goddam it, Gram,” I say aloud. “Why the hell couldn't you watch where you were going?”

But there is only silence in C-45. I tilt my head, frowning.
I should have a hangover. Why isn't my head aching? Why isn't my stomach doing a flamenco on my small intestine? Why at least don't my shinsplints hurt
?

“Dear god,” I say softly. “What's wrong?”

I open up the C-45 mailbox and flip through the mail. Two flyers from Crimson Travel, a postcard inviting me to an opening at the Fogg, another bill for Jessica from the Coop, and a letter for me from Columbia. I go around the corner into the ladies' lounge and sit on the edge of the flowered divan.

Dear Miss Walker:

We are delighted to inform you …

I've finished the reserve readings for Soc Sci 33 and am staring down at the small stack of manila folders, one hand curled around the nape of my neck, when I hear soft footsteps, rhythmically sounding upon the corridor on the other side of the stacks. They turn along the eastern edge and come up behind me, muffled on the hard gray floor. Idly I run a finger over the cool beige surface of the top folder.