The Eliot Girls (21 page)

Richard was quiet for a moment. “I just don't want this to end up like Heathcliff.”

Ruth sat forward in a furious whoosh of water. “I am not my mother! I'm not making this decision for my own needs. He's happy!”

Richard studied Ruth as though undecided on the extent of his opposition. “Yes, I think he is,” he said finally.

The argument thrummed in the air around them. Already, though, Ruth regretted the spectre of accusation in everything she had said. Even in the throes of anger, she had known how wrong footed she was, how baseless and unfair the implication that Richard treated Marlow as a burden and had a needle at the ready. He loved Marlow, and Marlow adored him. When Marlow was younger, he had followed Richard everywhere, and she had fumed with jealousy at their bond—he was supposed to be her dog. But marriage had taught her that there was no division of ownership. And there was certainly no controlling the tides of affection.

She was about to apologize when Richard pressed the heels of his hands to his temples as though he had a headache. “Look, I've had a hard day, too,” he said.

“Oh?”

Richard shook his head. “Max. The pit.”

Ruth's heart surged into her throat. “This sentence better not end the way I think it's going to.”

“What was I supposed to do? The guy was determined the dog was not adoptable.”

“I can't believe you.”

“It's his dog, not mine, Ruth.”

“I can't believe you.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Bring it here!”

“How simple it is for you!” he said angrily. “You don't have to make these decisions. Isn't it all so goddamn clear? Bring them all home. A dog for every room.”

Sweat and water streamed off Ruth's forehead. She felt very close to vomiting. “How dare you heap all that guilt about Marlow on me when you killed a dog today for no reason?”

Richard was silent, and for a second, even in her fury, Ruth feared she had gone too far. But there was a part of her that wanted to go even further. She was aching for release, for the pugilistic heat of a certain kind of fight. “You pretend to be so moral, but you're weak. You were too weak to say no. It comes down to that.”

Richard began nodding slowly. “Yes, I'm sure my weakness is something you're frequent witness to.”

Ruth continued as though he hadn't spoken. “You hold up this claim of professionalism, but you're just hiding behind it.”

Richard still nodded, saying nothing more.

“Say what you think!” she cried. “You make these wishy-washy statements. Say what you want to say!”

She waited. But she saw that he would not give her this, could never give her this. He would leave her floundering forever, fighting with herself. She stood and grabbed a towel, threw it carelessly around her chest.

“I just wanted to tell you about my day,” he said, retreating to the bedroom, trailing a piece of used dental floss on his black sock.

 

 

Cha
p
ter
E
l
even

JANUARY CAME IN WITH
an eerie quiet. The weather itself seemed to express the anticlimax of holiday cheer. It was too cold for the softening countenance of new flurries, and the hard banks of old, dirty snow looked like permanent fixtures in the streetscape. The class was still waking up on Monday morning when Ms. McAllister appeared in the doorway of the classroom with a curt rap. Even before she spoke, a murmur rose from the class. Rare were the occasions when Ms. McAllister made use of her autocratic right to commandeer the class in the middle of a lesson. Even Henry Winter, who had just begun a discussion of Frost's “Birches,” was startled by her interruption. Offering an obedient nod, he moved to the side of the room and fixed her with a glassy-eyed stare.

“A serious matter has been brought to my attention,” she declared, taking up position in front of the blackboard, her hands behind her back. “I wish I were here speaking to you under happier circumstances, but alas, that is not the case.”

Up rose a chorus of whispers, which she swiftly terminated with a militaristic raise of the hand.

“It has been brought to my attention that a member of your class has been receiving threatening notes. The particulars shall remain private. It is, however, my duty to inform you of this harassment. I know that most of you are in agreement that this type of anti-social behaviour has no place at our dear school. George Eliot Academy was created as an intellectual haven, and so it shall remain.” She paused and looked around with majestic severity, taking the pulse of her audience. The girls returned her gaze, riveted by her restrained fury, afraid to speak. “Perhaps at public learning institutions, this type of behaviour is met with laxity, but I assure you that here, bullying is considered the lowest form of interaction, and offenders will be punished very severely indeed.”

The tiny metronome of alarm in Audrey that had begun to subside just before Christmas started up again. Seeta sat stiffly beside her, tracing with her finger a groove someone had carved in the wood. Audrey kept her eyes fixed on Ms. McAllister, careful not to betray her guilt inadvertently. She had never particularly considered the consequences of the notes. She feared getting caught in the act, certainly, but her mind had looked no further into the future than that. Arabella's world demanded a surrender to immediacy. And Seeta had made it so easy. She carried on as she always had, singing in chapel, raising her hand at every question. Her imperviousness was stunning. It granted freedom from accountability.

Yet the notes had gotten to her, clearly. As Ms. McAllister spoke, Seeta stared, wide-eyed and unblinking, at her desk. It was possible that she was holding back tears. Although Audrey was still far from remorseful, she was taken aback by the realization that she might have been wrong in presuming Seeta's sense of self to be so durable that no unkindness could penetrate.

Arabella, Whitney, and Dougie sat at the back of the room, wearing elaborately serious expressions, a dead giveaway that tempests of laughter were being suppressed. It was clear from Arabella's dancing eyes how much this outcome was exactly what she had hoped for. They were not in the least afraid of getting caught. This lecture did not, for them, represent the rallying forces of official protection, but the breakdown of Seeta's spirit. The danger of the enterprise, the confrontation with the possibility of exposure and punishment, only added to Arabella's glee.

“I don't need to remind you what a fortunate position you are in, as Eliot girls. I know that most of you wear your uniform with pride, and your teachers and I rely upon you to do it justice. I will need you to be my partners now, my sleuths on the ground, as it were, to honour the uniform that it is your privilege to wear. Together, we will catch this culprit, who is not, at heart, an Eliot girl.”

As Ms. McAllister spoke, her eyes moved systematically from girl to girl, as though prolonged eye contact would help her ferret out the offender. Arabella raised her hand.

“Ms. McAllister, how do we know that the ‘culprit'”—here she made quotation marks with her fingers—“is in our class?”

“That is a very astute question, Ms. Quincy. The sad and intolerable truth is that we know nothing. No avenue will be left unexplored. Until then, I am speaking to each grade separately in order to circumvent the sensationalist effects of a public announcement.”

“Well,” replied Arabella, smiling sweetly, “I think I speak on behalf of the entire class when I say that we will do everything in our power to see that justice is served.”

 

THEY RAN DOWN THE
long hill to the ravine, tripping on the twig-strewn path, the frosty gravel underfoot. Arabella was out in front, and her run was loose, ungainly, as if she were a bike veering out of control. The wind lifted up her laughter and whisked it away over Audrey's head. Winter made the ravine more approachable, its density thinned by the absence of leaves. The pale sky lay flat on the tops of the bare branches, and the weak ripple of the creek and their own footsteps on the crunchy path were the only nearby sounds. When the girls reached the bottom, they headed into the trees, following the path single file, as if single-mindedly.

The cold air had a deadening effect, and the girls were quiet as they made their way, Arabella out in front, collecting dead leaves into a bouquet. Audrey brought up the rear, and in front of her walked Whitney, whose hair, tied into a high ponytail with a red ribbon, swung back and forth perfectly like a pendulum. The silence had a palpable charge that bound them together in a new way. The enduring terror Audrey felt in their presence fed her gratitude at being with them, made every moment imprecisely exciting, elevated with unreality. The power of group complicity was irresistible.

How she had been drawn into their circle was, as ever, a mystery. Arabella, Whitney, and Dougie had been standing by the lockers after school, imitating Ms. McAllister's lecture. Nothing resembling a plan was forming in her mind, but she was riveted by their impersonations. Catching her eye, Arabella drew another note out of her binder. A simple look was all it had taken to signal her willingness. And then they had left together. Audrey wasn't sure there had even been an invitation.

They had been walking for a time when they came to a widening of the path where a pack of five boys stood huddled around something on the ground, their bikes discarded to the side. The boys took no notice of the girls' approach. They were about ten years old, young enough to be oblivious to the witnessing eye of the world outside. As Audrey drew closer, she was just able to make out what lay in the middle of their circle. It was a dying baby animal, curled into itself, its tiny paws up by its raw pink snout. Did she just imagine a tremble beneath its inadequate dusting of fur?

“Should we move it?” one boy said.

“Nah, don't bug it.”

“What if something comes along and eats it after we leave?”

A boy with red hair shrugged. He was holding a long stick, and though he seemed to have no intention of using it, it gave him an air of authority.

Dougie squealed in disgust. “Gross!” she mouthed exaggeratedly.

“You should just put it out of its misery,” Arabella said.

They looked at her in horror.

“What do they know?” the red-headed boy said.

“What kind of psychos stand around watching an animal die?” Whitney said, looking around for agreement.

Audrey nodded, though she didn't agree at all. There seemed only to be compassion in their curiosity: an acknowledgment that death, for whomever it came, should be noted. Their bikes, piled carelessly on top of each other, gave Audrey a pang. Their lives seemed so easy, their manners so artless. Arabella strolled haughtily into their circle, as though they had gathered there expressly to observe her procession, and as she passed, affecting regal indifference, she stepped on the animal, producing a crunch, and continued on her way, tossing her leaf bouquet behind her. The boys let out a collective gasp and crowded in on their charge, cautiously assessing what damage had been done.

“Later, gentlemen,” Whitney said, blowing them a kiss.

Audrey looked back apologetically, but the boys had already closed themselves against further trespassers. The mood of silence now broken, Dougie chattered about how hilarious the whole thing had been. There ensued a small debate about whether the animal had been dying or dead. Arabella and Dougie maintained that it was clearly already gone, while it seemed important to Whitney that the animal had been merely on the brink before Arabella's foot came down. Audrey wanted to believe that her father would argue that putting a dying animal out of its misery was in fact the more humane choice, but she was finding it hard to get past the cracking of bones, the pleased expression on Arabella's face.

When they came to the crest of a small hill, Arabella led them onto a less travelled path towards a small clearing in the trees. There she threw her knapsack onto the ground and let out a sigh. From her coat pocket, she produced a pack of cigarettes. Scattered amongst the dried pine needles were cigarette stubs from past smoking days. As she handed the pack to Dougie, she looked at Audrey and said, “I guess
you
don't want one.” Audrey shook her head, aware that trying to smoke and doing so badly, choking and spluttering, even gagging, would be worse than declining altogether. Whitney and Dougie exchanged sidelong glances. They drew deeply on their cigarettes and exhaled with stagy contentment, as though to emphasize the difficulty of the day's deprivation.

“Did you see that creepy stain on Mr. Marostica's pants today?” Whitney said. “I don't even want to think about what that was.”

“Mayo?” said Dougie.

“Or so he claims.”

“Ugh,” Dougie shuddered. “What would you do if Mr. Marostica came on to you?”

“Oh my God,” Arabella shrieked. “You have such a perverted mind.”

“What would you do if Ms. Crispe came on to you?” said Whitney.

“Mm,” replied Arabella. “Tempting, but I like my dykes a bit more femme.”

They drew on their cigarettes in unison, and Whitney exhaled smoke rings. “That's so grade eight,” Arabella said.

Through an open space in the trees they saw Samantha Starkey, one of the senior prefects, ambling past with her boyfriend, a Crescent boy. She looked around, then pulled his pants and underwear down and burst out laughing. He clapped a hand over his mouth in faux horror, then began a kind of burlesque stripper dance, shimmying towards her, his penis flapping. She pushed him in the chest so hard that he stumbled back, grabbing her hand so that she fell against him as he backed into a tree.

“The worst thing about Sam Starkey is that she's so predictable,” said Arabella, raising one eyebrow and blowing out a thin line of smoke, a gesture surely much practised.

“Ugh, I feel so scruff,” Arabella said, shaking out her hair.

Dougie cleared her throat and began talking in her version of a Pakistani accent. “What is this ‘scruff'? Is this what happens when your sari needs dry cleaning?”

“Might I trouble you for a razor?” Whitney chimed in. “I believe I forgot to shave my moustache this morning.”

Dougie laughed with her mouth wide open, revealing the silver line of the retainer glued on the back of her bottom teeth. Arabella dropped her cigarette and ground it underfoot with a peculiar daintiness, with just the tip of her shoe. “Goodness me,” she added. “Your body odour is especially fragrant this morning. Do I detect cumin? Or is it garam masala?”

“Isn't it groovy?” said Dougie.

Sudden barking erupted not far away, and they squinted into the distance.

“Holy fuck, is that Ms. Lee?” whispered Dougie. “She's walking her fucking boxer.”

Arabella reached out and pulled Audrey down behind a sparse bush, and Dougie and Whitney snuffed out their cigarettes and crouched behind them. The possibility that this was all a manufactured emergency occurred to Audrey as a nondescript Asian woman, possibly Ms. Lee, the physics teacher, possibly anyone else, walked past, her face half-obscured by a navy-blue baseball cap and a grey scarf wound thickly up to her chin. Dougie quivered on the ground in a fit of staccato giggles. Arabella's hand pressed down on Audrey's shoulder. The firm weight of it immobilized her, summoned all of her senses into awareness of it. She was reluctant to move, to breathe, to do anything that might make it depart.

“My brother says he can get us some goodness this weekend,” whispered Whitney, holding an imaginary joint to her lips. She turned to Audrey. “You want in?”

“Maybe.”

Arabella stood up and pulled on her fluffy red mitts. “You know what we're talking about, right?”

Audrey was slow to rise. “Of course,” she replied, but this area was littered with verbal mines. Better not to say the word at all than to say it wrong, to use an unpopular nickname, to say “pot” when she should say “weed,” to say “weed” when she should say “a joint.” Julie Michaels had once referred to it as “some doobie,” and they had made fun of her for a week.

“Let's walk,” said Dougie. “I can't feel my toes.”

They set off, quiet again. Audrey could barely feel her fingers as they circled, without any apparent point, around the same loop they had just travelled. The sky was growing dim, and even the dog walkers were deserting. Each time the girls passed someone, they smiled politely, always mindful of the image people expected of the Eliot girls. As they passed the spot where the boys had gathered around the animal, Dougie laughed, though no trace of them remained. At the small bridge they veered to the left until they came to a narrowing of the river. There Arabella stopped and flung her knapsack to the base of a tree. “Someone dare me,” she said. “I bet I can jump across.”