All The Pretty Dead Girls (6 page)

Indeed, when Sue was young, she would parrot whatever Granpa said. “Liberals are going to hell” or “Abortion is murder” she’d chime in her child’s voice. How Granpa had beamed when she said such things around his friends.

Yet as she got older, and actually began studying these issues at the Stowe Academy, a few thoughts of her own dawned on her. She wasn’t as liberal as Becca, who went through a “hippy phase,” as Gran called it, and declared all inheritance laws should be abolished. But still, Sue began to see the value of labor unions, how they had protected the American worker—and while she struggled with the idea of abortion, she did think a woman should have the final say about what happened to her own body. But she knew she could never share such heresy with her grandfather. He believed she remained true to his ideals. So when she eventually decided to go to law school, he’d been pleased.

“That’s my girl!” he’d said proudly. “You’ll go straight from law school to an associateship with my firm—and then there won’t be any stopping you, my girl!”

What she didn’t tell him was she wanted to be a civil rights attorney.

There’s plenty of time to cross—or burn—that bridge,
Sue thought, as Malika kept up a steady tirade against this Joyce Davenport person.
After I get out of law school, I’ll be free to do what I want.

“Of course, you might like her,” Malika was saying.

“You mean, the speaker?” Sue asked.

Her roommate’s eyes twinkled. “Yeah. Who knows? Maybe you’ll turn out to be a real firebrand right-winger.”

“I like to think of myself as being part of the sensible center.”

“The center’s just for people afraid to take sides,” Malika told her, only half joking, Sue thought.

“That kind of thinking only keeps people divided, in my opinion.”

“Maybe so.” Malika sighed. “But where Joyce Davenport is concerned, I just can’t see reason. I can only imagine the hate she is going be spewing from the lectern tonight.” The girl shivered. “When I think of her, I think of the devil.”

“Okay,” Sue said, smiling, “now that
is
extreme.”

Her roommate’s dark eyes had closed in on her. “You girls who’ve grown up in sophisticated cities think there is no such thing. But even though I have been well educated all my life, I am not so far removed from my origins. In my father’s village back in Tanzania, there is a strong belief still in evil spirits. I believe they are real. And I think this school is full of them.”

Sue spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking. Malika helped her set up her computer and get hooked up to the college wireless Internet system. Every so often, one of Malika’s friends would stick her head in the door—she apparently was one of the more popular students at Wilbourne—and after the first two or three, Sue gave up trying to remember their names.

Around six, Malika took her over to the campus cafeteria for dinner before the welcome ceremony. The food wasn’t bad, and Sue found herself relaxing a little bit, starting to feel at home. As the sun sank in the west, the wind got cooler and Sue began to wish she’d worn something heavier than a cotton blouse. A chill wind blew as they walked across campus to the auditorium and found seats near the back.

The hall was filled with girls talking, laughing, giggling, and gossiping, getting caught up with friends they hadn’t seen since the previous semester. Sue was a little startled to see a few young men scattered throughout the audience. Although Wilbourne was a private academy for women, it did accept some men for graduate studies.

At promptly eight o’clock, a large older gentleman stood up, waddled across the stage, and introduced himself as Dean Gregory. He led them all in a short prayer—although Wilbourne was nonsectarian, many of the instructors had not abandoned their Lutheran roots. After the prayer was concluded, Dean Gregory introduced some of the faculty also seated on the stage. The names meant nothing to her, other than Dr. Virginia Marshall, a professor of theology. Sue was taking one of Dr. Marshall’s courses; she’d read some of her books for a paper she’d written at Stowe and enjoyed them.

Dean Gregory went on to officially welcome them to the new school year, and expounded about how bright their futures were. He had the kind of voice that put an audience to sleep, and indeed Sue’s eyelids were starting to droop as he droned on and on…until he introduced Joyce Davenport to polite applause from the crowd. Sue sat up straight. Malika gave her a little nudge.

Joyce Davenport walked across the stage to the podium as though she owned it. She was wearing a tight black off-the-shoulder dress that barely reached her thighs. Her long thin legs were perched on top of a pair of what Becca Stansfield used to call “come fuck me” pumps. Her shoulders were narrow and bony, and her arms long and thin. She had thick, long black hair that hung down almost to her waist, and it was all the same length. From the back of the auditorium, Davenport’s face was just a white oval in the bright lights.

She started speaking, and Sue winced. Joyce Davenport’s voice was shrill, and through the microphone it sounded very similar to fingernails on a chalkboard. Other girls in the audience started fidgeting and whispering amongst themselves, but as Davenport continued to speak—about her days at Wilbourne and what they had meant to her—her voice came down an octave or two and became almost hypnotic. The fidgeting and whispering stopped, and Davenport’s voice became full of passion as she went on and on about how Wilbourne had prepared her for the real world, for great success and fame…

“No politics,” Malika whispered. “She’s staying away from politics.”

“You sound as if you’re disappointed.”

Malika shrugged. “I was just hoping for a little drama.”

When Davenport finished—to, again, polite applause—Dean Gregory led the students in a closing prayer and then dismissed them.

“I can’t believe it,” said one of Malika’s friends, a plump brunette, rushing up to them outside. “Not a controversial word! I saw that bitch on CNN the other night and wanted to put my fist through the television. I was all ready to stand up and shout her down.”

“And get ten demerits your first day back,” Malika reminded her. “Sandy, this is Sue. Sue, Sandy.”

The girls shook hands.

“It’s time we radicalize this campus,” Sandy was saying, even as she let go of Sue’s hand. “I’ve petitioned the dean to let us form a group—”

“Excuse me,” a woman said, interrupting them. All three girls turned to look at her. She was a thickset young blond woman in a white blouse and blue skirt. “I’m looking for Sue Barlow.”

Sue glanced at her companions, then said, “I’m Sue Barlow.”

“Ms. Davenport would like to see you. Will you come with me?”

“What?”

“How do you know Joyce Davenport?” Sandy asked, leering suspiciously at Sue.

“I don’t,” Sue said.

Malika just looked at her oddly.

The woman in front of them narrowed her eyes at Sue. “She’s waiting.”

“I don’t know her,” Sue protested.

“Apparently, she knows you,” Malika said, her voice cold.

Sue turned to look at her. “It’s got to be my grandfather. His firm…”

Malika just shrugged. “Go see what she wants.”

Sue turned back to Davenport’s emissary. “Okay, take me to her.”

The woman smiled. Sue didn’t like her smile. Not at all.

“Follow me,” she said.

Sue followed the woman around the building and up a short flight of stairs that led to the back of the stage. They pushed through the curtains and down a narrow hallway. Finally, they stopped in front of a door, and the woman rapped on it before letting herself in.

“Ms. Davenport?” she called. “I have Sue Barlow.”

“Send her in!” It was the same voice Sue had just heard over the microphone. Her heart beating a little faster, she walked into the room.

It was dingy and cramped, mirrors on both walls and a long counter on the wall to her left. The walls were plaster, and in places paint was missing where notices had been taped and later ripped down. The place smelled slightly musty, and the floor was yellowed with coats of wax. Round bulbs surrounded the long mirror. Behind a partition, Sue spotted the woman who had summoned her.

“Hello.” Sue’s words were awkward. “You wanted to see me?”

Joyce Davenport was sitting on top of a stool, smoking a cigarette and drinking white wine from a fluted glass. Her legs were crossed at the knee, hiking her skirt up to her upper thighs. A long run showed in her stockings on her left leg. She smiled and tilted her head, narrowing her dark eyes. “So you’re Sue Barlow.” She set the wineglass down and gestured to her. “Come closer.”

Sue took a hesitant step forward.

Joyce stood up. Up close, her face was long and narrow, almost horsy, with a pinched nose and thin wide lips. Her eyes were brown and round, and the whites were shot through with red. Heavy makeup could not disguise the small lines around her eyes and mouth.

Joyce tossed her head to get her long hair out of her face. She threw her arms around Sue and hugged her, then stepped back and searched her face.

“Yes, I can see traces of Mariclare in you.” The woman smiled deeply. “I was kind of hoping you’d be like a twin to her, but I can see her in your face—your eyes, you have the same eyes.”

Sue’s heart jumped. “You—you knew my mother?”

Joyce laughed. “Yes, I knew your mother. In fact, we were roommates here at Wilbourne. I was very, very fond of her. And I’ve been waiting for years to meet her daughter.” Her smile got bigger. “And you are so pretty. Are you as smart as your mother, too?”

“I don’t know how smart I am, or how smart she was, to be honest.” Sue replied, staring at the older woman.

No matter what Malika had said about Joyce Davenport, Sue was suddenly thrilled to be standing before her.
She knew my mother! She was my mother’s roommate!
Thoughts flashed through her head—here was someone, at last, with whom she could talk openly about her mother…to whom she could direct questions…from whom she could maybe get some answers…

“Well, you’re here at Wilbourne, aren’t you?” Joyce let out a hoot. “And they don’t take idiots here!” She smirked. “The occasional lefty moron, of course—you can’t get away from that in academia, of course, especially here in the Northeast—but I have no doubt you’re going to do just fine.”

Sue managed a smile.

Joyce reached into a worn Louis Vuitton bag on the floor. “Unfortunately, I can’t visit with you as long as I would like—I have to be in D.C. tonight, which means driving over to Albany and catching a flight, and I should be gone already—but I so wanted to meet you.”

“I don’t know much about my mother. I’d love to hear what you remember about her.”

Joyce had pulled out a book from her bag. She opened it to the title page and scrawled quickly on it with a pen. “Here you go,” she said, handing it to Sue. “A copy of my latest book, just for you. I wrote my cell phone number on there as well as my private e-mail address. I want you to call me night or day if you need anything, okay? Or e-mail me—I will always answer you. Anything for Mariclare’s little girl.”

“Did you know her long? And my fath—”

“Sweetie, I can’t talk now. I promise to be back up here soon to really get to know you better. Maybe in a few weeks. Then we can talk
endlessly
about Mariclare. My schedule is just so insane right now.” She slipped her bag over her shoulder. “But read the book in the meantime…and I’ll give you a call to set up dinner when I can get back up here.”

Sue tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Okay, move on out!” Joyce barked to her assistants, who suddenly came running into the room, scooping up boxes and suitcases. Joyce reached over to give Sue another hug. “So good to finally meet you, sweetheart.” Then she swept out of the room, leaving Sue standing there alone.

Sue glanced down at the cover of the book. There was Joyce, dressed pretty much the same as she had been tonight, with her hands on her hips. She was standing in front of a chalkboard, where the word SMEAR was written in green chalk. Across the bottom were the words
How Liberals Have Perfected the Art of Libel.

In the upper left-hand corner inside a black balloon, it read,
The latest from New York Times best-selling author Joyce Davenport!

She opened the book to the title page.

For Sue, I hope this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Love, Joyce.

Her cell phone number and e-mail address, as promised, were written underneath the signature.

Sue walked out, holding the book, and headed across the campus. The auditorium had emptied out, and a cold wind had blown up. There was a full moon so there was plenty of light, but it seemed weird how fast the entire campus had emptied. There were no girls milling about now. Everyone was back in their dorm rooms, unpacking and preparing for the first day of classes, and anyone who wasn’t would be shooed inside. It seemed Sue’s grandparents weren’t the only ones to set curfews. Sue walked faster, rubbing her arms to warm them up as she headed down the path to Bentley Hall.

She was lost in thoughts of her mother.

She’d always, always, felt something missing in her life. Her grandparents had loved her, but she’d never been able to feel close to them. Whenever she was at a friend’s home—even Becca Stansfield’s—she’d missed the camaraderie, the closeness she sensed between her friends and their mothers. Her friends might complain about busybody moms, they might fight with them, even call them monsters—but every time Sue listened to them complain, all she could think was,
I’d give anything to have a fight with my mother.

Her eyes filled with tears, but she wiped them away.

Suddenly, she wished she’d asked Joyce Davenport in which dorm her mother had lived.

Stopping in front of Bentley Hall, however, Sue knew the answer to that question.

Her eyes flickered up to that third-floor window where she’d seen that face earlier. Where she’d
thought
she’d seen a face, that is—the face of a woman screaming.

That was my mother’s room.

How she knew that for certain, she couldn’t say. It was impossible to know such a thing, but she knew.

And the woman who screamed?

Had that been in her mother?

Had that been Mariclare?

The campus was suddenly very cold. Looking around her, at the deserted walkways and windows so black that seemed to blot out the light behind them, Sue felt as if she were the only one left alive at Wilbourne.

She pushed through the front door and headed for her room.