by Dori Lavelle
“I have my ways. I’ll always find a way to get close to you. Never forget that.”
The line goes dead, but I hold the phone to my ear for a while longer, hearing his voice inside my ear. I have so many questions. I want to listen to him talk to me forever, but he’s gone.
11
I take a breath before knocking on Paulette’s door. I’m not at all looking forward to the session.
Paulette is perched on the edge of her desk, eating a Granny Smith apple. She looks up when I walk in, and places the apple on a small ceramic plate. A smile forms on her lips as she wipes her hands with a Kleenex.
“I’m so glad to see you, Ivy. It’s been quite a while.” She stands up and comes to shake my hand. Then she waves at the sofa.
I take a seat. My mouth feels like sandpaper.
“I’ve been busy preparing for exams.” It’s partly true. I have been busy lately, but if I’d wanted to, I’d have found time to come and see her.
“Well, I’m glad you made some time.” Paulette sits down on the couch. “How are things going? I’m guessing you’ve settled in completely now?”
I nod and run my hands over my camel capri pants, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Really well, thanks.”
We’re both quiet for a while. I feel her eyes on me, though I keep mine downcast. Can she read my mind? Is she able to see what I’m hiding?
Paulette crosses her legs, the material of her melon pleated skirt spilling onto the couch on either side. She clasps her hands over her knees. “The reason I asked to see you was to find out if any more letters have arrived for Jennifer.”
“No. None.” I avert my gaze again. Please, don’t ask more questions, I silently plead. I’ve never been good at lying.
Paulette is quiet again, and I swear I can hear the wheels turning inside her head. She knows I’m avoiding something. I look up to meet her eyes and force a tiny smile.
“Ivy, is there something you want to tell me?”
“No, nothing at all. Things have been great.” The words tumble out of my mouth too fast. I must sound completely full of it.
Paulette leans back on the couch, eyes glued to me. “I hope you’re not in contact with Professor Devereux, Ivy. He’s a dangerous man.”
“I don’t know why you would think that. There’s no reason for me to be in contact with him. I don’t… I don’t even know him.”
“I see.” Paulette stands and goes back to her desk. She lifts her apple to her lips and takes a bite. She chews silently for a while as she moves toward the window.
She turns back toward me. “I’m sorry if I’m getting it wrong. But in case you are in touch with him, I want to warn you. Psychopaths can be charming. You have to be extremely careful.”
“You think he’s a psychopath?” I realize too late that I haven’t disputed the accusation. Have I dug a hole for myself? I’m better of letting her believe what she wants to believe, and refrain from confirming her suspicions.
“The man murdered somebody… brutally. There’s something terribly wrong with him. And he can be dangerous to any person he comes into contact with, even from a distance.” Paulette returns to the couch, still eating the apple.
Something hot and furious forces its way up my throat, forming words that pour out of my mouth before I can stop them. “What if—what if Oliver Banes really raped Jennifer?”
Paulette dips her head to the side. “If that’s the case, if he really was a rapist, you think he deserved his fate? You think he deserved to die like that?”
“I’m only saying Jud—Professor Devereux might not be the only bad guy in all of this.” I can’t seem to stop myself. “I mean, does righting a wrong really make someone a psychopath?”
“I don’t know how deep you are in this, but the simple fact is, if that’s the case, Professor Devereux’s act of vigilante justice still makes him dangerous. Any person who kills another human being is dangerous. I really hope you haven’t gotten yourself wrapped up in his web.”
A little too late for that.
“I should go.” One second I’m sitting on the couch, and the next I’m on my feet, my eyes burning hot. I can’t let her see me cry; that will certainly give me away. I pick up my backpack and walk to the door.
“Ivy? Is something troubling you?” Paulette gets to her feet and attempts to walk toward me.
I hold up my hand. “I’m okay.” I’m blinking too fast. “Really, I’m fine. I just... I have a lot of work to do today. I’ll send you an email to make an appointment for another day.” With each word my throat constricts, clogged by the sobs I’m forced to swallow.
“Please do that.” Paulette’s voice is tinged with worry.
I shut the door quickly.
As I rush down the stairs and away from the Student Support Department, the tears come. Why am I even crying? What Paulette told me is the truth: Judson could be a murderer, and murderers are dangerous. Any normal person would think that. Whatever Oliver Banes might have done, it does not justify his death. And yet, here I am, feeling as though I have to defend Judson from the world. Even though I know there’s a one hundred percent chance he will be found guilty in a court of law, I can’t seem to make myself let him go.
At the entrance of the snack bar, I bump into Milton, who catches me before I slam straight into him. Why is he always everywhere I happen to be?
“Hey, hey.” He places his hands on my shoulders. “You’re crying. You okay?”
I shake my head. Tears spill over my cheeks. “Fine. I just... I need to go to the dorms.”
“Did you hear some bad news or something?”
I swallow hard. “No, nothing like that.” Nothing new that I didn’t already know, at least. “I’m sorry, Milton. I really need to go.”
He lets go of my shoulders and digs into the pockets of his scuffed jeans. Change jingles as he pulls out a pack of Kleenex and hands it to me. “You need this.”
In spite of myself, I give him a tiny smile. Probably the first genuine smile I’ve given him since we met.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting. If you need anyone to talk to, I’m here. Seriously, I’m a good listener.” His eyes tell me his concern is genuine.
“I really appreciate that, Milton.” I pull a Kleenex from the pack and return it to him. I dab at my eyes, sniffing. “If I happen to need a good pair of ears, I’ll make sure to let you know.”
“You should. Now go, before everybody else starts asking you what’s wrong.”
I give him another smile and walk quickly toward the exit. Maybe Milton isn’t such a bad guy, after all, I think as I walk out into the sunshine.
I burst into my room and crash against the closed door. My heart is way too heavy inside my chest. My lungs hurt when I breathe. I raise my hand to wipe away the tears. Why do I feel this driving urge to protect a man I’ve never even met? It bothers me that I can’t answer the question. It bothers me even more that my heart is behaving so foolishly, going against my head. The right thing would be to stay away from Judson Devereux. The fact that he’s behind bars should send me running for cover. If only I knew how.
After catching my breath, and before the rational side of me catches up and warns me that I’m walking into the arms of danger, I move to my desk and pull out a sheet of paper.
I want to visit you. Let me know how. Ivy
I simply slip the short note into an envelope and seal it. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve sent the letter and I’m back in my room with my head in my hands, hyperventilating as the voices inside my head scream their reprimands.
What have you done? Are you out of your freaking mind?
My hands drop from my face. A sheen of sweat is clinging to my palms.
I draw in a deep breath. Maybe it’s not so bad. The letter doesn’t have to change anything. There’s no guarantee he will want to see me too. He could have changed his mind. Or maybe only friends and family are allowed to visit inmates. What am I to him, anyway? A pen pal? I’m not his next of kin.
/> I stand on shaky legs and go to the fridge, where I pour myself a glass of wine from the half-empty bottle left over from one of Chelsea and Neil’s dates.
I’m still standing at the fridge as I take a huge gulp, then lick the bittersweet liquid from my lips. I’m normally not much of a drinker, but I take another sip.
There, no need to panic.
If he says he wants to see me, I can always say I changed my mind. Maybe that will piss him off, and then I’ll be forced to cut off contact and let him go.
Is that even possible?
I knock back the rest of my wine and sway to my desk. At my computer, I pull up a few project assignments and get to work distracting myself. It is possible. One morning, I’ll wake up and not even remember the stranger who captured me through his letters. The only problem is my body. Will it forget the sensations that vibrate through me when I read his words?
12
The day after Chelsea returns from Destin, she crashes into the room, her raven hair wet from the midnight rain, eyes wild.
“You okay?” I save the assignment I was working on before she walked in, and switch off my laptop without clearing my Internet search history. It’s become a habit of mine, one that persists even when I’m not looking at anything scandalous.
“Not sure.” She throws her purse at the foot of her bed and climbs on top of her sheets. She clasps her hands behind her head, eyes gazing up at the ceiling. “Neil and I broke up.”
There’s silence in the room as I digest her news. She normally spends so many nights at Neil’s place that despite her complaints about him, she’d fooled me into thinking they were fine.
I rest my elbow on the desk and balance my chin on my balled hand. “How? What happened?”
“Truth is, the past few days were amazing. And then he dropped a freaking bomb on me tonight.”
I go and sit on her bed, lifting her French-pedicured feet into my lap. “He didn’t cheat on you, did he?”
A peal of laughter escapes Chelsea’s lips. “Neil would never cheat. If having sex before marriage yanks his guilty plug so hard, how would he be able to live with himself if he cheated?” She pauses and sighs. “We broke up because of the whole sex before marriage thing.”
I place what I hope is a comforting hand on her feet. “He broke up with you because he can’t live with the guilt?”
“He proposed to me.” Chelsea sits up in bed and hugs her knees to her body. Her brown eyes are murky pools of rage. “The answer is yes—he can’t handle the guilt. He wants us to get married as soon as possible so we can stop living in sin.”
“You guys have only been together a year.”
“Not long enough. That’s what I told him. But he doesn’t want to hear it. His Catholic guilt is destroying him. And it is getting to me too.” She puffs her cheeks and blows out a frustrated breath. “You know, maybe it’s for the best. I think sin is fun; he doesn’t. Maybe it’s best we go our separate ways.”
“But you love him. I know you complain about him and everything, but I can see it on your face.”
“My face is a damn liar.” Her lips turn up at the corners. “Fine, maybe I do love him. But love is not always enough. I don’t want to be forced into something I’m not ready for.”
“You can try explaining it to him. He might understand.”
“What do you think we did all of last night? I need a drink.” Chelsea slips out of bed, opens the fridge, and takes out a lemon soda. She sits on the windowsill as she cracks the can open.
“Who broke up with whom? I mean, was it him who told you it’s marriage or nothing?”
“I’m the bad guy… girl, whatever. Why stick around when I can’t give him what he wants?”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” I go and give her a hug.
“So am I. But life goes on. Plenty more fish in the sea.” She pauses and pulls away. “But I have to admit, for a guy who feels guilty every time he has sex, he’s a monster in bed. I’ll really miss his you-know-what.” She gives a throaty laugh.
I join in the laughter, shaking my head. “You’re something else.”
In truth, I want what Chelsea has… or had. I want someone to be fully committed to me, someone who can’t keep his hands off me. When I think of that guy, the only face I see in my mind’s eye is Judson’s. A shiver snakes down my spine.
Chelsea glances at my overflowing desk. “You work too much. The only thing that would keep me up this late is sex or a good party.”
I smile and follow her gaze. I take in the piles of notes and books stacked on both sides of my laptop, a half-eaten bar of chocolate on the edge of the desk next to an empty cup of coffee. A perfect snapshot of my life as a student. “I guess we’re too different. Maybe we should part ways.”
“No chance. You are stuck with me, my friend.” She takes another sip from her soda. “Have you heard from your mother lately?”
“She’s tried to call a few times. When I pick up we always end up fighting. Now her texts are driving me nuts. I stopped reading them. Next thing she’ll start sending letters in the mail.”
Chelsea’s eyes light up. “Oh! Speaking of mail.” She places the can on the windowsill, goes to her bag, and pulls out a large manila envelope. “I found this in the mailbox. It’s for you. Maybe it is from your mother.”
I grab it quickly. “Thanks. It could be.”
I wait until Chelsea is snoring into her pillow before I open it. Inside the envelope is a small note attached to what looks like a stack of forms, held together by a metal paperclip. My heart is in my throat as I read.
Nothing would make me happier than seeing your pretty face. Fill out the forms and we can finally meet in person. I’ll let you know once the application is approved. For now, I’ll be here, waiting patiently for you.
I put the note aside and study the forms. I had no idea you had to fill out paperwork to visit an inmate.
During the past week, while waiting for him to respond, I tried to convince myself I should change my mind about visiting him. Right now, I’m back to needing to see him. So I fill out the forms. First thing in the morning, I mail them off to the address provided and prepare myself for the longest, most terrifying wait of my life.
If I’m lucky, I’ll get to see him before his trial. Given my strained relationship with my mother, I can imagine I’ll be spending the holidays in Oaklow.
13
I’m in the middle of answering a question on the decorative arts of Asia when my phone beeps loudly with a text. The visiting Chinese professor and author, Biming Liu, is listening intently when it sounds. Thank God it’s not a phone call.
I force my attention away from my phone and finish my thought without further interruption. Then I sink into my seat and dig inside my backpack for the phone. I find it sandwiched between the pages of my Asian Design Principles textbook. I’m about to switch it off without reading the text, assuming it’s my mother. But the number isn’t in my contacts. While the professor is expanding on what I said, I click on the message and read it quickly.
My heart expands so much I’m afraid it might burst inside my chest. Surely the whole room has to hear how hard it’s pounding. But they don’t seem to; they continue listening and making notes, while a few sleep discreetly.
Sweet Ivy, your application to visit me has been approved. When can you come? I can’t wait to see you.
Questions scramble for space inside my head. In particular, how did he manage to get hold of a cell phone in prison? Regardless, I relish the warmth spreading through my gut.
His words, simple and straightforward as they may be, pull me in all over again, drugging my senses.
I put my phone back in my bag. I’ll respond later. Now that it’s real, now that I have the opportunity to meet him in person, I need time to think, to brace myself.
As soon as the last lecture of the day comes to an end, I head to the library to do some research for a presentation I’m scheduled to give in a week. I try to keep Judson at th
e back of my mind, but after half an hour, I quit and gather my things. On my way to Dunkin Hall I grab two sandwiches from a small deli close to campus. Since it’s already five, this will have to be dinner.
I hate eating alone, but there’s no one to share a meal with. The only person I normally do that with anyway is Chelsea, but lately she spends most of her free time with Neil. A day after they broke up, they got back together. Apart from Chelsea, I still haven’t let many other people in; I have the feeling that if I do, they will see my deepest, darkest secrets immediately. Once they discover I’m in contact with the professor who put the university’s name in the same sentence as the word “murder,” I’m doomed. No, the fewer people I let in, the safer my secret will be.
As I walk through the residential gardens, I pull out my phone, expecting another text from Judson. There are several messages and a missed call, but they’re all from my mother. I ignore them.
I sigh deeply as I climb the steps. Walking down the corridor, my mind is absent. At first I don’t notice the woman pacing around the door of our dorm room. When I finally do look up—and recognize her—I stop walking. My stomach drops as she sees me and crosses the few steps between us.
She’s a mess. Her gray eyes are bloodshot, and the normally neat bun at the nape of her neck is a blonde bird’s nest on top of her head. Her hands are shaking.
Looking at us, one would never assume we’re mother and daughter. I got my ginger hair and hazel eyes from my father. The only things I took from my mother are her height and slender figure, if a body shape can be inherited. At five feet nine, I’m only a few inches taller than she is.
“Honey,” my mother says. “I know this must be a shock. In my defense, I did try to call you several times. But you won’t pick up my calls.” She attempts to hug me, but I raise my hands to stop her. I take a few steps to the side and push my way to the door.
