FORTY ONE
Maggie stepped out of the shower, dried off quickly, and pulled on her clean clothes as fast as she could. She brushed her hair into a ponytail, took one last look behind her, then eased the door shut, moving fast, before she could lose her nerve. She was going to tell Charles her story. She'd pitch it as a play she was thinking about writing. Once upon a time, a girl ran away to college. She'd hear what he said, she'd watch his face as she told him, and if he seemed receptive, she'd tell him that it was true. She pushed the door open and ran into a man. Josh. Josh from her first night at Princeton, who was standing there in the darkness, glaring at her, with her backpack dangling from his hands. Her breath froze in her throat as she reeled backward against a wall. Josh didn't look drunk or dazed or flirtatious and besotted. He looked like he wanted to kill her, and that he might be convinced to settle for hurting her instead. Bad hookups always come back, Maggie thought, and inched backward, wondering what he wanted, wondering how he'd even gotten in here, because the library was closed. He must have waited for her, which meant that they were alone in the library basement together . . . Oh, God, thought Maggie, inching backward, trying to melt into the wall. This was going to be bad. This was going to be so bad.
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"Well, hello," he said softly, and rubbed his thumb over her tattoo, the one that said "Mother," the one she figured he'd finally remembered from that one night in his bed. "Little M. You owe me something, I think." "I'll give the money back," Maggie whispered, as he pressed so close to her that his nose brushed hers. "It's in my bag; I never even spent it; I'll give it back to you right now ..." She shuddered as he held her, and bit back hard against a scream. Disaster, she thought bleakly. Just like the poem said. Like disaster. She squirmed against him, thinking that she could run, that maybe she'd have a chance then, but he was holding on too tightly, and kept whispering horrible things at her. "What are you doing here?" he asked her. "You don't belong. You're not supposed to be here. So what's your story?" "I'll give you your money. Just let me go," said Maggie, and tried to wriggle away, but he had her cornered, pushed up against the icy granite of the library wall. He kept talking to her—talking at her, really, pushing words into her face as she twisted. His voice was constant, but as he talked, his tone shifted from hectoring and accusatory to an oily wheedle. "Maybe I should let you make it up to me some other way," he said, running his eyes over her body in a way that made her feel like he'd just dumped acid down her shirt. "I don't remember exactly what happened that night, but I don't think we finished what we started. And we're all alone here. We could finish up now." Maggie moaned and writhed desperately. "Let me go," she begged. "Why should I?" asked Josh. His pale face was flushed. His blond hair hung over his forehead, and he sprayed her with spit as he talked. "You're in trouble. A lot of trouble. I went through your backpack. Three IDs. Very nice. My credit cards, of course, and plenty of cash. Who's that from? How many other guys? And are you living down here? Do you have any idea what would happen if I told campus security? Or the cops?"
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Maggie turned her face down and started to cry silently. She couldn't help it. In a way, this talking, his hands binding her wrists, was every bit as bad as it had been when the guys had grabbed at her in the impound lot ... and she was as frightened as she'd been there. It was the shame of it, his words raining down on her like a hailstorm, scalding her skin. And it was so unfair. What was her crime? What had she taken? Some food, when there was plenty to go around. Some books, which their owners were stupid or lazy or rich enough to just leave lying around, unattended. Some clothes from lost-and-found baskets, some empty seats in lecture halls where the professors were going to talk anyhow. Maggie lifted her chin and widened her eyes. "Okay," she said. "That's enough." She forced herself to smile, forced herself to pull her hair free from her pony tail and flick it over her shoulders. "You got me," she murmured. "You got me right where you want me." She summoned every ounce of charm she had, all of the sex appeal she'd kept buried under sweatshirts for the semester, and gave him a smile as rich and inviting as a dollop of caramel on a scoop of vanilla ice cream. "Want to go exploring?" she asked, hearing the quiver in her voice and praying that he missed it, praying that her body would be a sufficient distraction. Josh wiped his hands on his jeans. It was all the opening Maggie needed. She grabbed her backpack by a strap and whirled it at him, whacking him on the side of his face. He stumbled backward. She kicked him in the shin as hard as she could. He gasped and doubled over, and Maggie took off. She bolted up three flights of stairs, pushed through the heavy glass doors, hearing alarms blaring behind her, as she sprinted across the courtyard, holding her backpack by the strap that had broken when he grabbed her, her mind blank, her feet flying, her blood singing with adrenaline. It was a gorgeous spring night. Students in shorts and T-shirts drifted along the walkways, lounged under the weeping willows, called each other's names through open windows. Maggie felt as if she were naked, or wearing a sign that
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read, "I DON'T BELONG HERE." She ran faster and faster, a cramp stabbing at her rib cage, out of the campus, onto the sidewalk, over to the bus station on Nassau Street. Please God please God please, she prayed, and a bus rolled into view. She jumped on board, grabbed change from her pocket and shoved it in the till, then sat down, wrapping her arms around her backpack. Her heart was still thundering in her chest. Get to Corinne's, she thought. Get to Corinne's and think of something that will make her let me in, even though it's the middle of the night and I'm not supposed to be there until the morning. She sat back in the seat and squeezed her eyes shut, thinking that she was in a box, another box, same as when she'd started out here, and she'd have to think her way out of it, same as she had before. Then she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, swallowed hard, and dialed her sister's number. It was late. It was a school night. Rose would be home. She'd know what to do. Except Rose wasn't home. "Hello, you've reached Rose Feller, and Feller Pet Care," said the machine. What? "Please leave me a message with your name, number, the name of your pet, and the dates you require service, and I will return your call as soon as possible." Wrong number, Maggie thought. It had to be. She dialed again and got the same thing, only this time after the beep she opened her mouth. "Rose," she croaked. "I'm . . ." I'm what? I'm in trouble—again? I need you to bail me out—again? Maggie closed her eyes and her telephone. She'd figure it out herself.
"Maggie?" asked Corinne, looking off-balance as she stood at her door. "What time is it? What are you doing here?" "It's late," said Maggie. "There's been ... I have . . ." She took a deep breath. "I was wondering if I could stay for a few days. I'll pay you rent, or I'll clean for you for free ..." Corinne held the door open with her hip. "What happened?" "Maggie ran through the possibilities. Could she tell Corinne she'd had a fight with a roommate? Had she told Corinne that
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she had roommates? She couldn't remember. And what if the terrible boy had followed her here? If he knew she was staying in the library, maybe he knew she was working here, too. "Maggie?" Corinne's forehead was wrinkled. She didn't have her sunglasses on, and Maggie could see her blue eyes darting back and forth like lost fish. "Something happened," Maggie said. "I think we've established that," said Corinne, letting Maggie in and walking toward the kitchen with her fingertips brushing along the wall. Maggie sat at the table while Corinne filled the kettle, flicked on the gas, took two mugs and two tea bags down from the shelf beside the stove. "Can you tell me what?" Maggie bowed her head. "Not really," she whispered. "Is it drugs?" Corinne asked sharply, and Maggie was so startled that she laughed. "No," she said. "Not drugs. I just need to lay low for a while." Which, she realized, made her sound like a complete criminal, but it was all she could think of on short notice. "I'm just kind of stressed," she added lamely. "And it's so peaceful here." Clearly, she'd said the magic words. Corinne beamed. She spooned sugar into the tea and brought the cups to the table. "Finals are hard, aren't they?" she said. "I remember trying to study for mine. The dorms were so noisy, and the library got so crowded! Don't worry," she told Maggie. "You can stay in any of the rooms on the third floor. They're all clean, right?" "Right," said Maggie. She'd cleaned them herself. She sipped her tea and tried to stop her heart from racing. Plan. Plan. She needed another plan. She'd stay here a few days. She'd have to buy herself some new things; she had a change of clothes and some underwear in her backpack, but the rest of her stuff was in the library and she couldn't go get it. And then where? Could she go back to her father, back to Rose? Would they take her back? Would she want to go? She closed her eyes and saw herself sitting in the back row of
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the poetry class, telling the professor what "One Art" meant. She saw Charles's face, his hair falling over his forehead as he talked about Shakespeare and Strindberg and how he'd seen John Malkovich on stage once. Nobody at Princeton had known she was a failure or a fuckup, her family's shame, the black mark on their report card. Nobody at Princeton knew she was any different than they were. Until the boy in the library. Until now. She blinked hard. She wouldn't cry. She'd figure this out. Lay low, she thought. Then get out. She couldn't stay here while that guy was still on campus, and after the students went home, she wouldn't be able to stay, because there'd be no one left for her to blend in with. So then what? "Maggie?" Corinne asked. Maggie stared at her. "Do you have family? Is there someone I should call?" Maggie sniffed and bit her lip. She wanted to cry, but what good would crying do? "No," she said. Her voice was wobbly. "I don't. I don't have anyone." Corinne cocked her head. "Are you sure?" Maggie thought of her backpack, the money she kept wrapped in a rubber band, snug in one of the inside zippered pockets. She heard Josh's voice. I went through your backpack. She grabbed for it, yanking it open. The money was gone. Her IDs and credit cards were gone. There was nothing except clothes, and books, and . . . Her fingers brushed the softened paper of the birthday card. She pulled it out, opened it up, reading it for the hundredth time, the birthday greetings, and the signature, and the phone number. "A grandmother," she said, in a quivery voice. "I have a grandmother." Corinne gave a well-that's-settled nod. "Go to sleep," she said. "Take whichever bedroom you want. You can call her in the morning." And so, the next morning, Maggie stood in the center of Corinne's sun-washed kitchen, with her cell phone in her hand, and dialed the number that the grandmother had written on the card almost twenty years before. The phone rang and rang. Maggie
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crossed the fingers of both hands. Please, she thought, unsure of what she wishing for, except for someone to answer. And somebody did.
Rose Feller woke up at five in the morning in a strange bed with her heart pounding. Maggie, she thought. She'd been dreaming of Maggie. "Maggie," she said out loud, but even as she was saying it, even as she was swimming up through sleep toward wakefulness, she wasn't sure that it was Maggie she'd seen. A woman running through a forest. That had been all. A woman with terrified eyes, her mouth stretched into a scream, running through green branches that reached out like arms to trap her. "Maggie," she said again. Petunia stared up at Rose, before deciding that there was neither an emergency nor food at hand, and closed her eyes again. Rose swung her legs out of the bed. Simon put his hand on her hip. "Shh," he said, pulling her back toward him, curling his body around hers and kissing the back of her neck. "What's wrong?" He nuzzled her, and she felt the crisp curls of his hair brush against her neck. "Did you have a bad dream?" "I dreamed about my mother," said Rose, in a low voice, slower and deeper than her own, an underwater sleeping voice. But was that right, either? Her mother. Maggie. Or maybe it was here, running through those trees, tripping over roots, falling down on her knees and splayed hands, then getting up, running some more. But running from whom? And toward what? "My mother's dead, you know. Did I tell you that? I can't remember. She died when I was little." "I'll be right back," Simon whispered, and got up from the bed. She heard him padding through the kitchen, returning in his silly striped pajamas a minute later with a glass of water in his hand. She drank it gratefully as he got back into bed and turned off the lights. Then he curled around her again, with one hand snug across her
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forehead and the other cupping the base of her head as if she were something delicate and rare. "I'm sorry about your mom," he said. "Do you want to talk about it?" Rose shook her head. "You can tell me anything," said Simon. "I'll take care of you. I promise." But Rose told him nothing that night. She just closed her eyes, let herself lean against him, and let herself fall into asleep.
Ella was sitting at her table, staring at her notebook, working on compiling a list of free health screenings for the upcoming week's Golden Acres Gazette when the telephone rang. "Hello?" she said. No answer . . . just breathing. "Hello," she repeated. "Mrs. Lefkowitz, is that you? Are you all right?" A young woman's voice answered her question. "Is this Ella Hirsch?" Telemarketer, thought Ella. "Yes, it is." The voice paused. "Did you have a daughter named Caroline?" Ella drew a breath. "I do," she said without thinking. "That is, I did." "Well," said the young woman. "You don't know me. My name is Maggie Feller." "Maggie," Ella said instantly, feeling the familiar mixture of hope and relief and exhilaration and terror flooding through her as she said her granddaughter's name again. "Maggie. I called. That is, I called your sister . . . did she get my message? Did she tell you?" "No," said Maggie, and paused. "Look," she started again. "You don't know me, and you don't have any reason to help me out, but I'm in trouble right now, I'm in a lot of trouble . . ." "I'll help you," Ella answered immediately, and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping fiercely as Maggie told her how.
