JUDY, OCTOBER 21, 1948
We snuck into Eastern High a little before 5:00 P.M. Facilities hadn’t locked the doors yet. After discovering that Miss M had packed up her apartment, we couldn’t waste time. Her classroom was the next logical stop. We made our way through the labyrinth of dark and empty halls, peeking around corners to avoid teachers or administrators who were lingering late. Philippa’s saddle oxfords squeaked unbearably on the freshly waxed linoleum. I demanded that she take them off. She gave me a look like I was asking her to donate an organ, but she obeyed. As we rounded the corner to Miss M’s room, I held out my hand, and we stopped.
Light was spilling out from the door, and we could hear two voices. They were shrill and uneven, warped by the echoing hall. We crossed the corridor, pressed our backs against the wall, and crept closer to eavesdrop. The transom above the door was tilted, and in its reflection, I could see Miss M and Cleve. She was alright; she hadn’t vanished. But something was up. She was in her chair with her hands in front of her, gesturing back and forth, fluttering like a bird. Cleve stood above her, his backpack slung over a shoulder. He’s never apart from that damn bag. “Just try to understand,” she pleaded, her voice breaking in fear. “I know you’re a young man, and it’s difficult for you to—”
Cleve said something sharp and unintelligible.
Philippa tugged on my sleeve, but I ignored her. I was running scenarios in my head. My first impulse was to barge in and whack Cleve over the head. As before, everything about his body language—his looming, his glowering, his twitchy energy—foreshadowed violence. Eventually he was going to snap and let loose on Miss M like he had us. But I was also frustrated that Miss M hadn’t been more forthcoming; after all, we wanted to help her, so I decided that we needed to linger a beat or two and listen.
“Please, return it to me,” she said.
What did she want returned?
“No! Why should I?” he barked.
“It’s not yours. You stole it from me.”
“Go to hell,” he said, spitting it at her. “You’re a horrible person. A-a whore!”
Her shoulders drooped. “That’s unfair.”
“You’ve ruined my life.”
Miss M looked up at him, her eyes softening. What was going on between them? She reached out for his arm as if she was trying to console him and started to rise from her chair. He lurched forward and shoved her back into it. She cried out—and that’s when I cracked. I couldn’t take it any longer. He wasn’t going to do that to her! I lunged into the room, screaming, “Leave her alone!” and grabbed him by his backpack, yanking him away from her. He flailed, spinning his arms in helpless semicircles. His left forearm shot out and clocked me in the ear. I let him go and stumbled back against Miss M’s desk. Cleve tripped over his feet and collided with several student desks in the front row, tipping them over in a clamor of metal and wood. Philippa stepped forward, and in a burst of authority, shouted, “Stop it! Now! Just stop!” as if she were everyone’s bossy older sister. Dazed by the ringing in my ears and the flood of pain in my head, I braced myself against Miss M’s desk and slouched to the floor. As I was sinking, Cleve, driven by fury, hoisted himself up. He clumsily slipped on the waxed floor but caught himself before falling down again. He glared at Miss M and then at me. His face was flushed bright red, and his eyes were twin hot pokers, but some detail—a wrinkle along his forehead, a slight tremor at the corner of his mouth—made him seem wounded, like at any minute he might crumple into a ball and blow away. “You, you, both of you…” His words faltered, adding to his rage, short-circuiting him. He shook his head and bolted out of the room.
It took me a minute to recover. My vision was blurry, and my voice felt far-flung like it was coming from some dark corner of the school. I tried to say something comforting to Miss M, but it must’ve come out oddly. In response, she just stared at me, empty-eyed. She was slumped in her chair, and her eyeliner ran down her face, ruining her meticulously blended makeup. In one nasty gesture, Cleve had diminished her poise, the smart figure she cut in a room, and most of all, her Romantic optimism. The sparkling cloud of beauty that surrounded her had dispersed, blown away with a single puff. I remember her calling me to her desk and telling me that I was a good writer for the first time. It wasn’t just the compliment that mattered but how she said it. It was as if, from some heightened place, she was anointing me: “If you can find sympathy for Circe, you can take over the world! Go forth!” Now, Cleve had reduced her, embarrassed her, and I hated him for it. I wanted to hunt him down and choke him with his backpack straps. How could he treat her that way? What’s wrong with him?
Philippa took a step toward Miss M.
With almost a flinch, she rose from her chair, fidgeted with her handkerchief, and began dabbing her eyes, smoothing away the tears and cleaning up her streaks of mascara. “Please, girls,” she said. “I need to be alone.”
“Cleve tried to run us down the other day,” Philippa said with surprising calm. “He was very angry.”
“He’s not a bad boy. He’s just… upset,” she said. “Give him a wide berth.”
“Wide berth?” I said. “He’s out of control.”
She approached us, taking a moment to look at each of us in the eye. “Leave him alone. Promise me.” Her gray irises silvered over again with tears, and she gave us her back. “You need to stay away from me, too,” she said over her shoulder as she wiped her cheeks with her makeup-stained cloth. She turned to us again and attempted a smile that died before it began. “I’ve given my notice.” Her tone was flat, drained of its art. “I’m no longer your teacher.”
“Where are you going?” Philippa said, her voice trembling.
“I’m sorry, Philippa, but I can’t… I can’t say, okay?”
“What?!” I said bitterly. “You have to tell us something.” After how she drew us in, told us we were brilliant, and gave our friendship her blessing, she couldn’t just walk away, especially with no explanation. We deserved that much.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
I squinted at her. “What’s going on between you and Cleve?”
She crossed her arms and iced over, her soft lips a hard line.
“He’s dangerous,” I added.
“I appreciate your concern, Judy, but I can take care of myself. Thank you.”
Concern? I remembered the pin in my pocket—a favorite object of hers smashed and discarded. Right then, I nearly pulled it out and confronted her with it, but my wooziness made me cautious, hesitant. I wasn’t ready to explain where we’d found it.
“Will you let us know you’re safe?” Philippa said, still shaken. “In some way?”
Miss M offered her a faint, resolute smile. “I will, but for now, I must say goodbye, and you… you two need to go home. It’s dinner time.” She was shooting for cheerfulness, but it came across as playacted, a thin veneer. Why was she trying to shut us out? Fear or frustration or some combination of both rattled through me. I wanted the truth; I deserved the truth. “Why does Cleve hate you?” I wanted to demand. “Who was the man Philippa saw you with? Why are you really leaving?” I took a step forward, my fists balled, nails biting my palms, hoping the pain would hone my purpose. But before I could speak, Philippa touched my arm, and just like that, I felt incredibly weak, like I might pass out. I whispered, “Jesus,” and uncurled my hands and let the anger and questions go, for now. I turned away, leaving Miss M standing in that empty classroom, a pale shadow of herself.
CHAPTER THREE
We were infatuated with Christine Martins. I see that now.
There, in her smart suits and fashionable scarves, her tailored glamour, she was a model for us, a Roman standard held high, a bas-relief carved out of the dull material of our teenage lives. She shines out from my memory like something we invented, indelible like a storybook heroine whom young girls dream up and spin fantasies about on long summer days. We were girls looking for a mother figure—or maybe just an older sister—some
one, anyone, to tell us about the world, to hint at its beauty, what pleasures and excitements it had in store for us, from hedonistic pursuits, like designer outfits to new shades of lipstick to the mysteries of sex, to an appreciation for ourselves as creative, passionate, and, most of all, worldly. Like Miss Jean Brodie does her set of devoted pupils in Spark’s novel, she was the would-be vanguard, leading us out of ignorance, shaping us into modern women.
But like Brodie, her insecurities were all too real, her facade cracked and chipping. We were so intent on interpreting what we saw—the drama, her tears, Cleve’s anger—that we forgot that she was looking back at us, predicting our next move, using us. We didn’t understand she was full of grave secrets, that she sensed the horrors just ahead, that on some level she knew what we were capable of—that our loyalty to her was ferocious, even murderous. But that’s how teenagers think. They can only envision the world in terms of themselves. We were no different. Like the Brodie set, those spellbound girls in Spark’s novel, we could only understand our teacher as far as our imagination allowed, and she fiercely guarded her version of the truth.
* * *
JUDY, OCTOBER 23, 1948
Cleve was absent from school Friday. Another vanishing act. Something’s in the air. No chatter about where he was. I assumed it had to do with his argument with Miss M. What he said to her continues to echo through my mind: “You’re a horrible person. A whore! You’ve ruined my life.” He was so upset, violent. Then, from his fire to Miss M’s ice: “I’m no longer your teacher.” The news landed with a dull thud, and her tone gnawed at me. It revealed something about her, a hard edge under all that dreamy idealism. Maybe that’s okay—I have a similar edge—but why didn’t she show us this part of herself sooner? Why not invite us in?
I was still spinning myself up when Philippa rang and invited me to go with her to Harpers Ferry. “Come on!” she said, perky as ever. Jesus. “It’s my aunt Sophie’s place. She’ll love you—and she’s an amateur medium. She says things like, ‘Philippa, there’s a blue cloud nestled on your shoulders like a cat in a tall tree. You must be melancholy today,’ and she gives the best tarot readings. She’s a lark.” Without thinking it through, I said yes, anything to avoid brooding. I didn’t know the Watsons or what they’d make of me, but what the hell, it’s better than a weekend locked in my room, fending off B and E as they nagged me through the door.
As we drove up to Harpers Ferry in Mr. Watson’s cranberry red Chrysler Town and Country this morning, I rose to the occasion, made like a social butterfly, and chatted up the Watsons. God, I’m becoming Philippa! I steered the conversation away from school-related topics and babbled about everything from the best restaurants in town (“The Oysters Rockefeller at Naylor’s are shockingly good!”) to movies (“Are you a blond or brunette fan? Declare yourself: Veronica or Rita?”) to the election (“Truman is a feisty candidate. He’s got Dewey by the ankle like a terrier.”). I thought Mr. W might be a Dewey man.
“Give ’em hell, Harry,” Mr. W said and shook his head. “He’s not likely to win. But I agree with you.”
I was surprised.
“Neither candidate is moving fast enough on civil rights issues if you ask me,” I said, wondering if I was making Philippa nervous. Was I poking and prodding her father too much?
Mr. W smiled condescendingly and said, “What do you know about civil rights?”
Which made me think of Alice, the principal housekeeper at that hellhole of an orphanage, Crestwood, and one of the few people I remember. Alice chatted with me, asked me about myself and about what was troubling me—a rare occurrence in its hallowed halls. She even brought me snacks when the other girls were napping. Slices of brown-sugary pound cake, snickerdoodles, and homemade peanut brittle. Each bite, a brief escape.
Crestwood’s little daily traumas have blotted out most of my memory of the place. I can only recall images and sensations, like the dreary green paint in the halls, the musty boarding chambers, and the lye-based soap that burned my eyes. But Alice cuts through the mental static. I became aware of racial discrimination—or at least I began to understand that Alice’s being Negro made her vulnerable—when she was accused of stealing a broom (or was it a mop?). She was tossed out like garbage and not allowed to say goodbye to us. She wouldn’t have stolen a dime. Iris told me: “If you’re a Negro in this country, you’re presumed guilty until proven innocent.” She was right.
Part of me wanted to tell Mr. W all that, to challenge his tone, but I didn’t for Philippa’s sake. Instead, I lobbed opinions at him: “The Soviet Union’s blockade of Berlin is a complete disaster. Communism is a ruse for power-hungry bureaucrats to hide behind. HUAC better ferret out all the spies in Hollywood.”
Philippa gave me a look that said, “Shut it, now.”
But I went on: “I mean, why would anyone want to make a commie movie anyway? Can you imagine? All the actresses would be wearing sackcloth dresses and headscarves. Who’d want to see that?”
Mr. W didn’t think fashion was the point. Of course, fashion was the point! It’s Hollywood!
When we arrived, Philippa was partway to the house before I’d even flung open the Chrysler’s door. A complicated tangle of towers and steep-angled roofs, the old sprawling house clung loosely to the side of the hill, as if at any minute it might let go and slide into the gorge. Behind it, the changing leaves flared in bright bursts across the mountain. The sky was fading to a pale periwinkle. I followed Philippa to the edge of the porch, where she was leaning against the balustrade. Fall decay and chimney smoke stirred in the air. The Potomac River shimmered like a black snake below us. The evening landscape was beautiful but sad. Miss M’s words crept into my mind again: “I’m no longer your teacher… I must say goodbye.”
Philippa smiled at me, her eyes brimming with enthusiasm, and gave me a hug. I froze. I had no idea what to do with my arms pinned to my sides.
“Isn’t it just wonderful?” she said and released me. I shivered, glad to be free of her.
“It’s fantastic,” I said, mocking her lightly, but happy I was no longer thinking about Miss M.
PHILIPPA, OCTOBER 23, 1948
Before I could knock on the front door, Sophie opened it. I rushed to her and gave her a big, long hug, my eyes watering from her intense gardenia perfume. She stood back from me, touching me gently on the elbows. “My oh my,” she said, “you’ve grown a foot since I last set eyes on you.”
Usually, she wore loose, colorful clothes, like lace shawls, wool wraps, billowy blouses, and dresses in busy flower patterns. She was never chic, but always put-together. But this time, she’d wrapped herself in a bulky wool duffle coat and a thick purple scarf, like she was on her way to make snow angels. Her round face had thinned, and her translucent skin stretched across her cheeks, exposing a delicate web of veins underneath. She seemed more seventy-seven than fifty-seven. Golly, how had she grown so old so fast? How had I missed that? Still, behind her horn-rimmed glasses, her light brown eyes sparkled, unflinching in their sockets.
“Now,” Sophie said, releasing me and directing her attention toward Judy, “who are you?” She held out a hand, which trembled as if from a palsy. My heart swelled with sadness. You expect parents and proxy-parents, like Sophie, to stay fixed in time, like only you, not they, are allowed to age. It’s stupid of me, really.
“I’m Judy, a friend of Philippa’s.”
When Judy took her hand, an odd look passed through Sophie’s face, like a sharp pain had seized her briefly.
After we retrieved our luggage, we filed into the house. I grabbed Judy’s hand and led her to the room we’d be sharing. After we freshened up, I took her on a tour. “Over there, in that window seat, is where I read hundreds of books,” I told her, “and over there, that’s where Sophie taught me piano. There’s Quincy’s bedroom. It’s out of bounds. At the end of the hall, that’s Sophie’s library, where she does tarot readings.” I twirled around too much and talked too fast, as if the girl who I’d
been over the many summers I spent there had emerged and possessed me. A place can do that, I guess. I’m sure that I annoyed Judy, but I wanted her to love it as much as I did. It’s magical. I explained to her that the central eight rooms of the house were constructed before the Civil War by a semifamous railroad architect, Thaddeus Bartlett, who, according to Sophie, haunts the premises. I told her that whenever floorboards creak, Sophie says, “Quiet down, Mr. Bartlett!”
“Terrifying,” she said drolly.
“Over the years,” I went on, leaning into my role as tour guide, “the house’s rooms grew like limbs, stretching across the hillside. Each addition was at odds with the previous building, giving the floor plan a strange flow. It’s easy to lose your direction.”
In the dining room, I gave a panel in the wainscoting a firm shove. It popped loose, and with a touch of wonder, Judy said, “Where does it go?” Finally, I thought, I’d captured her interest.
“A secret cellar,” I said, as a rush of musty air wafted up the cobweb-laced, spiral staircase. When I was young, I loved the passage and its Gothic intrigue. It was straight out of Nancy Drew. “They added it before the Civil War,” I said and launched into the complete history: “The Bartletts were white abolitionists and used it to hide slaves escaping to the North. During the 1930s, Bartlett’s son stashed spirits in it, particularly local wine. According to Sophie, it tasted like moldy vinegar. After Prohibition, they knocked down the wall between the two cellars to make a single room. Now it’s full of dust and Christmas decorations.”
I waited for a response, but Judy’s eyes glazed over. She had something on her mind. Miss Martins, perhaps.
“Want to go exploring?” I said, trying to nudge her out of her plummeting mood. “Down the stairs?” I thought she’d jump at the chance for an adventure.
“No,” she said sharply and took a step back.
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