Summer Session (17 page)

‘Tofu burger.’ The plates slid on to the table. ‘Chili. Anything else, ladies? Enjoy.’

The place was filling up. Four men sat across from them; a couple ate behind them. Somewhere, a baby cried. People waited in line for tables to open up.

‘You know –’ Harper waited until the waiter walked away – ‘what happened to Hank wasn’t Trent’s fault. I’ve told him that.’

‘So have I. Don’t you think I’ve told him that? But . . .’ She shifted on the seat to better face her friend. ‘Harper, this is beyond guilt. Trent’s changed. He’s not the same man.’

‘Of course he is—’

‘No. It’s not just the tenure thing.’ Vicki sipped her tea. ‘This goes way beyond work. He wakes up and has a beer for breakfast. He’s bitter and depressed, and, frankly, I’m scared.’

‘You’re scared. Of Trent?’ The idea seemed preposterous. If Harper exhaled on him, he’d fall.

‘Of him. For him. Whatever.’

‘As in, you think he might hurt himself?’

Vicki shook her head. ‘I don’t think so; dead men don’t get tenure.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Trent and I – we have no relationship anymore. We don’t talk. Don’t have sex. He’s not the guy I married. Poof. First Hank. Now Trent. In a way, they’re both gone.’

Harper closed her eyes, heard distant gunfire. Vicki took a bite of her burger and chomped.

‘Trent’s not gone, Vicki. Maybe it’s a phase. I mean he had a bad trauma.’ Harper lifted a spoonful of chili to her mouth, wondering if Trent had flashbacks, too. Maybe he drank to stop them.

Vicki said something, but her voice was muffled, full of French fries.

‘Sorry?’

‘I can’t, Harper. I can’t live with him anymore.’

‘What?’ It was all Harper could manage to say. Trent and Vicki had been married for – what? Fourteen years? More? They’d been part of her life since she’d met Hank, were Hank’s best friends, a single unit. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘He’s unbearable. He gets drunk and belligerent and accuses me of all kinds of stuff.’

‘Like what?’ Like having a crush on my husband? Harper crushed crackers into her chili bowl.

‘Like anything. He gets so mad, the veins pop out in his head, and I’m scared he’ll have a stroke.’

‘What’s he mad about?’

‘Here’s one: he insists I’m having an affair.’ Vicki chewed as she talked.

‘An affair?’ Harper swallowed chili too fast, almost choked. Was Vicki going to confess to a relationship with Hank? She remembered him insisting, ‘Vicki. Screwed.’

‘He’s absolutely convinced. He doesn’t believe anything I say—’

‘Well, are you?’

‘What? Having an affair? Are you kidding?’ Vicki dodged.

‘Because, if you are, you can’t blame him for suspecting—’

‘No. I’m not.’ Her tone was forced. ‘Of course I’m not.’ She looked away, nipping off the tip of another French fry. ‘Not anymore.’

Harper froze, spoon in the air.

Vicki crossed her legs, toyed with an earring. ‘Last winter. I had a thing with somebody. Trent knows about it. It didn’t last long – a few months. It’s over.’

Harper told herself not to jump to conclusions or out of her chair to yank Vicki’s hair out. There were lots of men in the world besides Hank. And if it wasn’t Hank, it wasn’t her business. Even so, she wanted to grab Vicki by her auburn spikes and demand that she tell her whether the ‘somebody’ she’d had a ‘thing’ with had been her husband.

Instead, she maintained a calm, as if she were barely curious. ‘Who was it?’

Vicki met her eyes. Her mouth opened, then closed. She grabbed her glass of iced tea. ‘I can’t tell you.’

Harper clenched her jaw, deciding whether or not to choke her.

‘It wouldn’t be right.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because – well, because you know him.’

Oh God. It was true?

‘And I don’t want to mess up his reputation. There’d be . . . repercussions.’

‘What, you think I’ll put it on the six o’clock news?’

‘It’s just . . . I better not say, OK?’ Vicki sipped.

So. Harper knew him. Was Vicki playing with her, hinting that her affair had been with Hank, making her squirm?

‘How well do I know him?’

‘What?’

Eyes drilling into Vicki’s, she repeated the question slowly, enunciating clearly.

‘Oh. Not very.’ She sounded cautious. Lying?

Go ahead. Ask her, Harper told herself. Just come out and ask. But to ask would be to admit that Harper didn’t trust her husband. That he’d given her reason to doubt him and suspect that he might cheat. And, especially if Vicki had betrayed her, Harper didn’t want to give her that satisfaction. She formed the question, but stopped herself.

‘Anyhow, Trent thinks I’m cheating again. He interrogates me every time I go out. Where were you? Who were you with? He calls my beautician to see if I really had an appointment. He checks the mileage in my car to see if it matches with where I said I went.’

‘That’s freaky.’

‘Oh, but that’s nothing. Listen to this. He smells me. I’m serious. He pretends he’s hugging me, but really he’s smelling me to see if I’ve taken an unexplained shower. You know, to wash away some guy’s scent.’

Yikes. Harper pictured Trent sniffing at Vicki for traces of another man.

‘I can’t live this way.’

Of course she couldn’t, not with Trent’s nose at her neck. Maybe his comments about Vicki and Hank were just part of a larger obsession, an invention of Trent’s jealous mind. He must have had some kind of breakdown after the accident. Hank’s fall seemed like the first in a row of dominoes. Hank, Trent, Vicki. Who’d topple next? Oh, right: Harper. Her head ached. She smelled ashes.

Maybe they all needed makeovers.

Vicki took a breath. ‘Anyhow, I needed to tell you . . .’ She picked up another fry, bit its head off.

‘Of course, you did.’ Harper touched her friend’s arm, noticed the softness of Vicki’s skin. And pictured Hank touching it, Hank noticing its softness. She heard him again: ‘Screwed. Vicki.’ Stop it, she told herself. Nothing happened. The whole idea of Vicki and Hank was a creation of post-breakdown Trent, without merit or substance. Even so, the image nagged at her, buzzing like a rabid mosquito.

After lunch, Vicki and Harper hugged goodbye, promising not to lose touch again. Vicki waved from her Mini Cooper and drove off to fill cavities. Harper lingered on Aurora Street before climbing on to her Ninja. The air was perfectly still, suspended. Not a car drove by. Clouds still hovered above, darkening the sky, but the air didn’t smell like rain.

Harper stuffed her bag and Hank’s computer into the storage case, straddled her Ninja and looked around. The street, Ithaca, the world – everything was altered, off kilter. Nothing was stable. Even Trent and Vicki were breaking up. Harper didn’t feel ready to start her bike, didn’t want to take her feet off the ground yet. While she hesitated, centering herself, her cell phone rang. LESLIE.

‘You didn’t call me. You were supposed to check in.’

She was? Harper didn’t remember.

‘I’m fine.’ She reminded herself that Leslie was her shrink. She didn’t need to say she was fine. ‘Nothing big. Murmurs mostly. Distant gunfire.’ But no more freshly warm pieces of Marvin on her belly. No visits from Sameh or the boy without a face. ‘They’re not gone. But on the perimeter, not right in my face.’

‘Hmm.’

Hmm?

‘Harper, I want to try something with you.’

Harper waited.

‘It’s called Rapid Eye Movement Therapy.’

Harper had heard of Rapid Eye Movement. ‘Wait. REM. Does that have something to do with sleep?’

‘Yes, REM occurs when people dream. But we’d do this while you’re awake. It sometimes helps PTSD symptoms.’

Leslie had a cancellation the next afternoon, wanted Harper to come and talk about it. Maybe, Harper dared to think, just maybe there was hope for ending her flashbacks. And if there was hope for her flashbacks, maybe there was hope for other things, too. Like for Hank. Their future. Harper started her bike and rode home, humming oldies, resting her mind, focusing on the open road.

Halfway through her rendition of ‘Stand By Me’, Harper pulled into the driveway, parked her Ninja, hung her helmet on the bike and her sack on her shoulder. Walking to the house, she glanced at the porch and was surprised to see someone there, sitting on the swing. Wearing all pink. Monique? But what was Monique doing there? As far as she knew, her students didn’t know where she lived, let alone feel free to drop by uninvited.

‘Monique? Is that you?’ Harper called from the path.

Monique didn’t answer. She didn’t seem to hear.

Harper continued toward the house, watching the person in pink, seeing the bandage on her arm. Yes, it was definitely Monique. She was slouching, asleep.

‘Monique?’ Harper called gently, not wanting to startle her. It wasn’t until she climbed the steps to the porch that she noticed a puddle clotting on the blue wooden slats, not until she rounded the banister that she saw a large dark stain along the neckline of Monique’s no longer pink shirt.

‘Monique—’ Harper dashed over, trying to rouse the tall, muscular girl, feeling for a pulse. Then, backing away, she tripped down her porch steps into the overgrown grass, pawing through her bag for her phone even though Monique was beyond help. Monique was dead. Murdered, and the killer might still be around.

Harper rooted around in her bag, fumbling under students’ papers and Hank’s computer while she scanned the property, the copse of trees beside the house. Was someone lurking there? Across the street, in those hedges – did something just move? Harper spun around, braced for ambush, hearing sniper fire, smelling blood.

But where was her damned phone? Frustrated, Harper dumped her entire sack on to the ground. Out came Hank’s computer, student papers, faculty memos, Graham’s list of numbers, baby wipes, cloves, keys, wallet, the lemon. And half hidden by a water bottle, her cell phone. Her throat tight, heart pounding, she dialed 911, eyeing Monique, seeing Hank unconscious on the hedges. Harper blinked to make him go away. But he didn’t. He stayed there, his body splayed atop the dogwoods.

No, she insisted, and she reached into the weeds for something yellow, picked it up, but by then Sameh was crossing the road, walking toward Marvin. Lemon in one hand, phone in the other, Harper ran to warn them, dodging sniper fire. But where were they? Oh God. She smelled burnt flesh, felt stickiness on her belly.

‘Nine–one–one. What is your emergency?’

What was her emergency? Seriously?

‘I need help—’ Harper crouched for cover, had no breath.

‘Tell me your name? Where are you, ma’am?’

Where? Rapid gunfire, swarms of flies and smoky dust concealed her exact location. But she was holding a lemon. A lemon? Where was her gun? Why was she holding a lemon? Bite it, Leslie’s voice urged. What? Bite the lemon? What for? But she did. She opened her mouth and shoved the thing in, skin and all. And bit down, hard.

Sour juice and bitter rind jolted her taste buds, shocked her into the moment. Harper blinked, looking around. Christ, how had she gotten behind the hedges?

The voice called out. ‘Ma’am? Are you there?’

Harper’s lips puckered from the lemon; her words were distorted. ‘My student – someone killed her.’

Dazed, Harper emerged from the bushes and stood, recovering, before deliberately approaching Monique. Making sure she was really dead.

‘Where are you, ma’am?’

Climbing on to the porch, Harper started to give her address, but didn’t finish. She couldn’t. She saw a sudden white flash, felt the impact of something slamming her head, but she didn’t have time to process either before everything went dark.

‘Ma’am?’

Harper had been conscious for a while, but she hadn’t let on. She’d stayed flat on the porch with her eyes half shut, playing possum, assessing her situation. Was she a prisoner of war? Was the enemy still there, watching her? The person talking to her – was he really an American? If so, why didn’t he address her by rank and title? Cautiously, she opened an eye, looking for a weapon. Seeing only a doormat and blood-spattered blue paint.

Blue paint? Wait. She remembered something about blue paint. Something . . .

‘Mrs Jennings? Can you hear me?’

A shoulder descended into view. Wearing a white shirt. With a red cross on it. A paramedic?

Harper blinked. Took a breath. Tried to sit up, thought better of it. Grunted.

‘Don’t get up. Stay still.’

Harper stared.

‘It looks like somebody slammed you with a two by four.’

A what? ‘Where?’

‘You’re at home, ma’am. On your porch.’

The answer confused her. She’d meant where on her body. She hadn’t yet located a source of pain; everything hurt. Somewhere, her cell phone was playing a jingle, announcing a call.

‘Just lie still. We’ll take care of you.’

‘No. I’m fine,’ Harper tried to say, but her voice was muffled, her words lacked form. Like Hank’s, she thought. Hank? Was Hank calling? No, she remembered; he couldn’t be. Oh God, would she be like him now, brain-damaged, unable to talk? What a perfect couple, talking nonsense to each other. The medic messed with her, shining a light in her eyes. When he turned away, Harper tried again to sit, wriggled up, made it this time.

‘Ma’am, you need to lie down.’

But Harper wouldn’t. She looked around, orienting herself. Remembering. Someone had killed her student. On her front porch. And then they must have attacked her. In just a couple of days – within heartbeats of each other – two of her students had died. Who was doing this? And why? Harper lifted a hand to the side of her head, found a lump. OK, she thought; it’s not so bad. She struggled to her feet; the paramedic tried to force her back down.

‘Please, ma’am. Stay still. You have a concussion.’

Another one? How many could she get in a week? Was there a limit? A world record?