Eve tried to smile, then stared down at her plate. How could she begin to explain all that had happened in just a few weeks?
“They’ve raised the price of the beggar’s purses,” Deirdre mused, examining the menu, which was bound in peach suede. Those were the little crepe bundles that Eve had wanted to bring home for Justine.
“Have whatever you want,” Frederick said, peering around the restaurant.
“Eve, what are you reading in French?” Deirdre asked.
“Huis Clos.”
“God, I hated that book,” Frederick said.
“And in English class we just read Catcher in the Rye. And now Cat’s Cradle.” Eve had already heard her mother’s protestations on the phone, but this time neither parent reacted.
“Interesting syllabus,” Deirdre said. “What on earth does she have in mind?”
“It’s Mister Winkler, I told you that. And he’s taking me out. To The Mill.”
“Really?”
Eve nodded.
Deirdre digested this for a moment then put her hand on Eve’s. “Sweetheart, that sounds very flattering. They always talk about how much more involved the teachers are with the students at boarding school. I do wish he didn’t have you reading Vonnegut. That’s not even literature!”
“Griswold sucks,” Eve agreed.
“Please don’t say ‘sucks.’”
Sandy leaned toward Eve. “Is he giving you an A for ass kisser?”
Eve tried to give him a swift kick under the table, but her foot collided painfully with the metal post in the center instead. Glasses rattled and the bird of paradise wobbled treacherously.
Deirdre steadied the vase with her hand.
“What’s Steak Diane?” Sandy asked.
Eve aimed another jab at her brother under the table with her finger.
“Beef,” Frederick replied. “Try it. I might order the Veal Oscar.”
“I had no idea they were revamping all those old classics!” Deirdre said. “How inventive.”
“Maybe. Either way we’ll need a good red.”
Deirdre fiddled with her fork for a moment, then said in an unctuous tone, “I love it that you’re getting so much attention from your English teacher. He must see how intellectual you are.” She prodded her husband. “Frederick, did you hear, he’s taking her to The Mill?”
Her father nodded distractedly.
“Don’t you think I should be really flattered?” Eve asked her mother.
“Of course you should,” her mother said, as the sommelier hurried toward them. “You’re obviously making a very good impression.”
While Frederick ordered a Burgundy, Eve gazed at the decor, the soft peach hue, the tall vases, the still lifes of fruit bowls on the walls. Soft lighting cast a warm glow on the tables. There was a low thrum of conversation, and the waiters and water bearers moved around the room like ballet dancers. She felt the well-being that always descended on her in a good restaurant. Was Justine cabbing it down to Clay’s right now? Curled on the sectional in a tête-à-tête with Barbara?
“What’s your hot friend doing tonight?” Sandy said.
Eve rolled her eyes.
Deirdre pursed her lips. “Probably out, prancing around half naked.”
Eve was about to object, but Deirdre’s tense expression kept her momentarily silent. Every one of Eve’s friends couldn’t be like India Clarkson, with whom Eve could play golf and ride horses. Was it Justine’s freedom, her blithe spirit, or her beauty that made Deirdre squirm?
“She’s the best thing about Griswold!” Eve blurted.
Frederick, unperturbed by this outburst, patted her arm and took a sip of his water. “I didn’t make one friend the whole time I was there,” he said. “Would have made it more bearable.”
“What?” Eve snatched her arm away. “I thought you liked it!”
“Sssh! We’re in a restaurant!” hissed Deirdre. “Please keep it down.”
“I hated it,” Frederick said quietly. “I was horribly homesick.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Darling, you had your heart set on going there, your father wouldn’t have wanted to dampen your enthusiasm,” Deirdre said.
“And it was thirty years ago,” her father added. “And you’re an utterly different person than I was, and we live in a different era. For one thing, it was all boys!”
“Isn’t parenting kind of timeless?”
“Sometimes, sweetheart,” her father said, “as a parent you have to take a back seat.”
Why didn’t they take the back seat when haranguing her about grades? Or when ordering her who not to be friends with?
“You’ll make the best of it,” said Frederick, with a firmness in his voice that Eve knew was final.
“Dinner with a professor? Looks like you already are,” Deirdre said.
Sandy slurped his Shirley Temple. “Want to see me tie my cherry stem in a knot?”
* * *
• • • • • • •
Except for the occasional horn floating up from the street, the Straus apartment was quiet. Justine lay on Eve’s guest bed, watching the pattern of headlights kaleidoscope on the ceiling. Bruce. Was he angry at her or embarrassed? He hadn’t acted sorry in the least. And sweet Clay, coming to find her, taking care of her. Seeing her like that.
Justine stared at the ceiling until her eyes started to water. Finally, she got up and tiptoed down the carpeted hallway and across the stone foyer into the library, a lurid haven of lacquered plum, with a velvet sofa and ottomans. A bottle of Stoli sat on a wire shelf in the bar fridge, crystal tumblers on the counter. On a silver tray rested Bacardi, Averna, Campari. She picked up a bottle of Scotch with a name like the croak of a frog and took a whiff. It smelled like the sole of an old shoe. Justine poured herself a full glass of the vodka and padded back across the stone foyer and into the living room.
It was as muted as a museum. Backlit glass shelves lined a wall and displayed a collection of conch shells. A face was reflected in the glass. She whirled around, sloshing her vodka on the floor. It was just a photograph of a naked man, with bees crawling over him like cloves on a ham. It was creepy, and an odd choice for such an elegant living room. But then again Barbara Bradley was painting severed heads—the macabre seemed to be in fashion.
Down the hall, Justine crept into the Strauses’ darkened bedroom and opened the closet door. A patchwork of color swam before her. She was getting drunk, and it felt good. She thrust her face toward the mirror as she fluffed up her hair, then turned to focus her blurred vision on the rows of dresses, gleaming bags, and hundreds of pairs of heels. Stepping farther in, Justine touched a cherry tulle, a black satin strapless, and a narrow floor-length silk jersey with a design of toucans. She slipped off her clothes and pulled the toucan dress over her head; it was perfect, clinging lovingly to her hips, pooling at her ankles. The dress reminded her of that book with the photo of Veruschka on her parents’ coffee table.
Justine donned a pair of green sandals and tottered into Mr. Straus’s bathroom. Black toilet, black marble counter. The man of the house. She opened the medicine cabinet and examined the orange prescription bottles, rich-person candy like Tierney had, Aramis cologne, Bel Ami deodorant.
The phone rang and Justine jumped. She downed the vodka, the icy liquid shuddering in her throat, then went back to the library and knelt by the fridge to pour another. The phone rang again. She answered it.
“Hello?”
“Justine? It’s Barbara! Barbara Bradley.”
“Oh . . . hi!”
“Clayton and I were just choosing a film. I thought you might want to weigh in.”
“I don’t think I can come.”
“Why not?”
“The Strauses were pissed that I came home so late last night,” she lied, “so I should st
ay put.” And your son saw me naked and strapped to your bed covered in semen.
“Why would the Strauses care?” Barbara asked. “You aren’t their child.”
“True, but they seem very strict.”
“Watch out, Eve will become a tattooed biker chick if they aren’t careful.”
Justine imagined showing up in this fabulous outfit. Too bad she couldn’t face Clay, and, anyway, she didn’t have cab fare.
“Raid their liquor cabinet,” Barbara advised.
“Already on my second.”
“Good girl. Nighty night.”
“Night.”
She hung up. The vodka was going down easily now.
Justine glanced at her watch. It was only ten. She dialed her parents’ number in New Haven. It rang and rang. They could be in Guam as far as she knew. Justine thought of her father’s stubble, her mother’s soft cheek when she kissed her good night. Although loath to admit it, she missed them. Justine longed for the familiar clutter of home: the potted plants on the sills, the mismatched mugs on the open wooden shelves in the kitchen, the long farm table piled with old copies of The Paris Review. This apartment, with its limestone floors and glossy walls, felt like an expensive mausoleum.
Justine downed the rest of the vodka, then staggered back to Eve’s room and collapsed on the bed, still wearing Mrs. Straus’s dress.
TWELVE
“Ugh, you reek of cigarettes,” Tierney said, barely looking up from her magazine.
Justine threw her mail on the desk.
“Hi, Tierney, how are you?”
“Fine,” Tierney said, returning to her magazine.
Justine unzipped her duffel and started piling dirty clothes into a plastic laundry basket.
“I’m only responding because breeding demands it,” Tierney added.
“Do you have any quarters?” Justine asked wearily. “I can give you some dollar bills in exchange.” Her mother had finally sent her thirty dollars in singles.
“Why don’t you just use the laundry service?”
“Too expensive.”
“Life sucks, and then you die.” Tierney turned the page. “Aren’t you going to be polite and ask me about my weekend?”
No, she wasn’t. She was going to gouge this girl’s eyes out.
Tierney gave her a conspiratorial look. “I heard a rumor about Bruce.”
Justine froze, heart pounding. Had Clay told anyone?
“He’s going out with Christina. They just went public, but they’ve been seeing each other in secret all semester.” Tierney gave Justine a smug smile, then thought for a moment. “He bagged his crew race to be with her this weekend. What an idiot. My father always says dating can’t beat varsity.” Although Tierney had sneered at her father when he was dropping her off, she enjoyed quoting his lame apothegms, always with an unconscious tilt of her head toward the Yale banner on the wall as if it were a family crest.
“What if you and Eve don’t get into Yale?” Justine snarled.
“Eve who?”
“Straus?” How could her own roommate not know her best friend? Even if Tierney lived under a rock, ignoring Justine’s life must have taken effort.
Tierney took a sip from her grape soda and looked at Justine blankly. “Do I know her?”
“She’s in our English class?”
“That punk girl?”
Tierney had no idea what punk even looked like. Was she just goading her?
“Eve’s dad went to Yale, and her grandfather, and great-grandfather!”
“Big deal”—Tierney waved a dismissive hand—“so did mine.”
Miles and Cressida had met at Bard College, but Justine was sure her roommate had never heard of the place.
Tierney threw the magazine on the bed and stood up, stretching her arms over her head like a lazy cat in the sun. She strode to her desk, dug in her makeup kit, pulled out a prescription bottle, and shook a few pills into her palm. What Justine would have given for one to dull the pain. Tierney’s eyes closed as she chewed.
“What are those?”
The lime-green eyes opened. “None of your beeswax. What’s Eve’s last name again?”
“Straus.”
“Are they rich?”
Justine stared at Tierney. What did that have to do with anything?
“Eve Straus . . .” Tierney repeated, throwing the makeup kit back in the desk and locking the drawer. She stuck the key in her pocket. “Jewish.”
Justine stood up, resting the laundry basket on her hip.
“What does being Jewish or rich have to do with anything?”
Tierney looked at her pityingly. “Jews have to buy their way in. And Jackie told me about you and Bruce at the party.”
“She has no fucking idea what happened,” Justine said, heading for the door. She’d had more than enough of Tierney’s bile.
“I bet you feel pretty used.”
Justine would never speak to Tierney again. The room would be like one of those monasteries where you weren’t allowed to talk. The silence would have a presence. Justine tore open the door and hurried down the hall.
* * *
• • • • • • •
Once Eve had dumped her bag on her bed, she walked down the hill to the mailroom, thinking about her father’s confession. If he’d been miserable at Griswold, why hadn’t he said anything? It just made her even more homesick, thinking about it.
Why wouldn’t her parents talk to her about anything that had happened when they were her age? Did they think that sharing their own experiences would topple them from some pedestal? Eve wondered what they had done back then. She wondered if they had been really naughty.
But they wouldn’t tell her a thing.
The narrow mailroom was empty. Sunlight slanted across the brass postboxes. She turned the combination lock of her mailbox and pulled out a postcard with an image of the Mona Lisa with a moustache.
Come to my room this evening, so we can discuss your paper.
It had today’s date on it. Tonight. Only a few hours away.
“Hey, cookie.” David McClurken was next to her. He was taller than she’d remembered.
“Hi,” she said. David made her nervous.
He pointed to the postcard. “Your friend’s a fan of Duchamp.” His pronunciation was perfect.
Eve looked again. Under the Mona Lisa there was some block lettering. She turned it over, and on the reverse side it said “L.H.O.O.Q. Marcel Duchamp. 1919. Centre Pompidou.”
David’s leather jacket gave off a meaty smell.
“Come for a cig?” she said.
“I was going to take a walk up in the Skeets. I want to show you something. You can smoke up there.”
The Skeets, formerly a skeet-shooting range when Frederick was at Griswold.
She wondered if David knew that kids went there to make out.
They strode across the footbridge in silence.
“You know that postcard?”
Eve nodded, grateful that he didn’t know it was from Mr. Winkler.
“Know what those letters mean?”
She shook her head.
“In French, it means she’s horny.”
How sly of her teacher. The Wanker was such an evil genius, Eve thought, blushing.
“Oh. Do you really speak French and German?” she asked, trying to hide her embarrassment.
“You read my poem.”
Eve nodded. She should have told him sooner and told him how much she liked it.
“I take German, but my mom’s French. It’s my first language,” he explained.
Eve was impressed. “Where are you from?”
“Kalamazoo, Michigan.”
She imagined ranch houses on a cul-de-sac and kids riding bikes. “How’d you end up there?”
“You’re from New York, right?” His eyes were a soft brown. His mouth was nice and full, and he had a habit of pausing midsentence, pursing his lips, as if what he was about to say were of great importance. “And,” he said, pushing a curl of dark hair off his forehead, “you went to an all-girls school.” And you’re horny, Eve imagined him saying. Did he want her to be? She looked at him, and tried to tune in. Static!
“How do you know all that?”
“I know a lot about you. Like your birthday.”
Eve stopped, putting her hands on her hips in disbelief.
“August fourth,” David said proudly.
Eve tried to hide her surprise.
“Tibbets is my adviser,” he explained. “I asked her.”
“Didn’t she wonder why you wanted to know?”
They had reached the Skeets, a beautiful sloping meadow high above campus, surrounded by thick forest. The grass was long, dry, and waving in the breeze.
“She didn’t have to. I told her that I have a crush on you.” He looked down at her earnestly. She felt simultaneously queasy and excited. If she and David were on a desert island she’d fall madly in love with him. But at Griswold, somehow, she wasn’t sure. And she was going to the Wanker’s tonight. How she wished she were still at home.
Suddenly Eve felt like she was going to start crying.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Run, run away.” His voice was softer than the wind.
She strained to hold back her tears.
David rested his finger gently on her sternum. “You aren’t as tough as you pretend to be.” He leaned forward. Finally, he was going to kiss her. But all he did was whisper, “It takes one to know one.”
Eve clenched her jaw, wishing David would just make the decision for both of them, kiss her, push her down, take her right there, the scratchy grass making fuck knots in her hair. But still he stood there, gazing at her, his brown eyes moist with emotion.
Age of Consent Page 9
