The Finishing School

by Gail Godwin

  I wanted to get out of there, into what little light was left, before I was infected by Julian DeVane’s pervasive despair.

  “I’d better be running along,” I said. “If I’m not back before dark, my mother will worry. I’m not supposed to ride at night, because I don’t have a light on my bike.”

  Julian put down his glass and walked me to the door. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very good c-company, but you were sweet to listen,” he said.

  I was cheered up by all the light still left outdoors. It had been much darker inside the house. He remained in the doorway, watching me to my bike. With the long-stemmed glass in his hand, his languid figure leaning against the doorframe, he looked like a model posing as a decadent aristocrat.

  I felt I should say something encouraging before I rode away with all my youth and hopes. “You just wait!” I called to him. “When you play that Chopin scherzo at the end, you’re going to bring down the house!”

  He smiled, then, and raised his glass to me.

  I’ve never been able to relive this next part fully. I mean, I can remember—all too well—what happened, and how things looked and sounded, but I have absolutely no memory of what I was feeling or why I did anything I did.

  I’m still able to recall everything about starting home, down Old Clove Road. I was hoping against hope that I might still meet Ursula on the road, returning from her walk, and that I could stop and tell her what I had come to tell her. And then ride off romantically into the last light, leaving her touched and bemused.

  By the time I cycled past the haywagon road, where I had so often turned in on my way to the pond, on days when I knew she would be waiting for me, I had accepted the probability that I was not going to see her tonight. The road from here on bordered Cristiana land, and it was unlikely, with all that bad feeling between her brother and Mr. Cristiana, that she would go strolling in the direction of their house. She had undoubtedly walked in the opposite direction, and that was why I hadn’t seen her.

  I braced myself for the effort of the steep hill ahead. Then one more possibility occurred to me. She might have cut through the fields and stopped at the hut. Maybe to have a swim. That was the kind of thing she might do: swim naked at dusk … fearlessly!… smiling to herself as she splashed and floated among all those invisible pond creatures, the thought of which made me writhe with squeamishness.

  I circled and went back to the haywagon road and jolted down its bumpy terrain until I reached the place where I always dismounted, and I pulled my bike into the trees so nobody could see it from the road and be tempted to steal it. From there I went along on foot, as always, into the little pine forest, toward the pond.

  I can remember the silky feel of the pine needles carpeting my approach. And how, when I entered the woods, the darkness of them came on as suddenly as if a canopy had been lowered over me. Yet I could look up and still see light sky. I saw what I thought were two birds, darting in and out of the light in a skittish, abnormal pattern; then I realized they weren’t birds, but bats out hunting for insects.

  I remember the uncanny, buoyant certainty that flooded me, as the dim gray shape of the hut came into sight through the trees. Of course she’s there, I remember thinking. I bet you anything she’s there.

  Then the “cinema” memory takes over. My senses continue on with me, but not my feelings, thoughts, or motivations. I am like an observer at the movies, positioned by the camera behind the eyes of the girl. I can “see things from her angle,” but I have no access to her mysterious inner workings.

  When, exactly, was it that I heard their voices? It seems as though I heard them while I was still far enough off to retreat with no one the wiser. I could have gone home and licked my wounds, and contemplated her treachery, and no one would have been hurt but me.

  But maybe I didn’t think of it as treachery yet. Maybe I wanted to be sure, before I condemned her. At any rate, I continued stealthily on to the hut. I held in my breath so they wouldn’t hear me. I was careful to approach on the hut’s “blind” side, where there was no window.

  There was never any attempt to sneak up and “spy” through the empty window socket in the other side: as Abel Cristiana had spied on Ursula’s mother and seen her kissing the German; as Ursula had witnessed the furtive coupling of the tutor and the “lady of the house.”

  Even if I had tried, I doubt that I could have seen much. The woods were already too dark.

  I slid down on my haunches, bracing my back against the rough stones of the windowless wall of the hut, on the eastern side.

  I could hear them talking. Their voices were too low for me to make out what they were saying. It was mostly her voice, anyway. The caressing, ironic voice of the old raconteuse, weaving her magic around someone else.

  Intermittently, there came a low, gruff reply. Once, a short, harsh laugh.

  The light drained out of the sky. I must have known it was getting late. I mean, I registered it with my senses, but did I think about them, over in Lucas Meadows, growing concerned about me? Didn’t it occur to me that someone would come looking for me? What was I transfixed by, as I crouched there, hugging my knees? Was it numbing sorrow? Or stubborn revenge?

  I knew from the leisurely exchange going on behind the walls that they had already done what they had come to do. Or did I know it? Maybe I still held out hope that they were only in there to talk.

  I don’t remember.

  My neck was getting stiff from craning it forward so as to try to catch words as their voices floated out of the open doorway and around the thick wall to me. Once I thought I heard my name, but I couldn’t be sure.

  The reflection of the sky was slowly swallowed up by the darkness of the pond. Legions of little pond frogs sang their hearts out.

  I sat on. Doggedly.

  Then I saw a flashlight dancing jerkily along. It came from the direction of the DeVane house, closer and closer through the trees on the other side of the pond. I heard two men’s voices. A polite, hesitant one. A sterner, businesslike one.

  “… n-not now, I don’t think,” said the first. I heard the stutter clearly, amplified by the pond.

  Then: “Justin?”

  The call of Mott, piercing the stillness, ringing across the pond. Not really expecting an answer; just covering all the possibilities.

  Dead silence inside the hut.

  Why didn’t I just sit tight and wait for them to go away? If no one answered, surely they would have.

  Or did Mott start shining the flashlight all over the place, in the pond, in ever-widening arcs toward the hut, and, rather than have him illumine something unbearable to his companion, I offered myself as a decoy.

  I’d like to think that was my motive.

  But in that case, why didn’t I simply get up, call out, “Coming!” and go straight over to them. “Sorry,” I could have said, “I just lost track of the time,” and meanwhile I would be leading them away again, back through the trees and across the field, and up to the DeVane house, and on to Mott’s car, waiting in front. Then when we were driving off, and Julian was safely and ignorantly back in the house, I could have said, “Oh, Mott, my bike. I left it down the haywagon road. But I don’t think anybody will steal it. Mother can drive me over to pick it up first thing tomorrow morning.”

  That would have been the sensible thing to do. Everything might still have been saved.

  But I didn’t do that. Instead, I leapt up with a cry (“harrowing,” Ursula would describe it to me in our final interview), and raced headlong to the pond and threw myself in.

  I remember the sensation of hitting the water. Like a mean, cold slap in the face and chest. My clothes and shoes filled instantly with pond water, dragging me down in a frightening, unexpected counterforce, just as I was surfacing. I went under again.

  As I struggled once more to the surface, I saw Mott tearing off his shoes. But before he had time to take the plunge, I was hit broadside by another body, which started grappling with me, trying t
o get her arm around my neck. She wants to drown me was the first thought I can remember. I struggled, swallowed water, fought. “Be still, you silly child!” she cried, maneuvering herself around me and treading water.

  Then I realized she was trying to rescue me.

  “But I can sw—” I choked, and then my mouth was brushed by a small, cold, resilient object that I subsequently realized was one of her breasts.

  “Help me, for God’s sake!” she cried, fastening her elbow around my neck in a lifesaving vise.

  Then I went limp, humiliated beyond resistance, and let her tow me to the edge of the pond.

  As soon as we reached the bank, I freed myself. I could hear her breathing raggedly—the heroic “rescuer”—as she climbed out behind me.

  Mott was standing by, already holding out his jacket to me.

  A barechested, barefooted Abel Cristiana also waited at the bank. When Ursula struggled up the bank, he came forward and wrapped the Army blanket from the hut around her naked body. His stomach hung out over his belt, but he at least had had time to put on his pants.

  As the horsebreeder wrapped Ursula in the blanket, I saw her look beseechingly toward her brother. Julian DeVane turned his face away.

  (“I assumed you couldn’t swim,” Ursula told me in our last interview, in my aunt’s living room. “I thought you were trying to drown yourself.…”

  “Of course I can swim. I told you. I’ve been swimming practically all my life. Don’t you remember me telling you that?”

  “Yes, but I thought you might have been lying. To save face.”

  “Not everyone is a liar,” I replied cruelly.)

  Mott put his jacket around me. “I’m sorry about this,” he said to Mr. Cristiana. The horsebreeder nodded, stony-faced, and led Ursula away to the cabin, presumably to dress.

  Then the three of us were walking back through the woods and across the field: Julian, Mott, and I. Mott, holding me carefully around the shoulders, as though I might escape, aimed the beam of his flashlight for our feet to follow. It was difficult for me to walk, with the water squishing in my shoes. The two men did not speak until Mott said, “I’m going to get her right home and have her mother put her into a hot tub.” As though he were my father.

  “That’s a good idea,” replied Julian.

  He accompanied us all the way to Mott’s car. I noticed that he was trembling, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face. I couldn’t bring myself to say “I’m sorry” or even “Good night.” But I remember the gentle pressure of his fingers on my arm, just before I got into Mott’s car. “It will be all right,” he said softly, almost as if he were comforting himself as well as me. “Everything will be m-much better in the m-morning.”

  XII.

  It was morning, but there was nothing good on the side of waking up: I knew that, even in a semiconscious state. The phone jangled, was picked up on the first ring. My mother’s voice, one floor below, spoke quietly, confidentially, to someone. Then I must have slept again. “She’s got to know,” a voice said. “Know what?” I demanded; but no sound came out, so I figured I must still be asleep.

  Finally I opened my eyes. Becky was peering at me from the doorway.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “She wondered if you were awake yet,” she said in her bland little voice. She was scrutinizing me in a strange way, as if I had broken out with some disease but didn’t know it yet. “I’d better go tell her you are,” she added, giving me a final, interested once-over before she turned and ran downstairs.

  My mother came in. She, too, had the air of entering a sickroom. She felt my forehead with the back of her hand. “You don’t seem feverish,” she said, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “Do you feel feverish?”

  “No, ma’am. Just sleepy.”

  “You’ve slept fourteen hours. You went right to sleep after your bath. It’s noon now.”

  “Is it?” I was surprised, but made no attempt to get up.

  “Are you hungry? Becky and Jem are having grilled-cheese sandwiches downstairs.”

  “No, thank you. I think maybe I’ll just lie here a little longer.”

  “Justin, would you like to tell me what happened last night?”

  “Didn’t Mott tell you? He’s the one who came poking around. Nothing would have happened if he’d stayed home and minded his own business.”

  “I sent him to look for you, Justin. He’d come over from Kingston especially on your behalf.”

  “On my behalf?”

  “Mona called him. Because you felt so bad about the house being torn down. We thought maybe he could explain why it was necessary. You wanted to call him yourself yesterday morning.”

  Yesterday morning. Had all this happened only since yesterday morning?

  “What did Mott tell you happened last night?”

  “That he went to the DeVanes’ house to ask if they had seen you, since he couldn’t find you anywhere on the road. Julian DeVane told him you had been there visiting with him and might have gone looking for his sister at the pond. He said you often met her there. He offered to show Eric the quickest way, across the fields. And, just as they got there, you ran out from the woods behind the hut and … jumped in.” Her eyes sought mine. I knew she wanted to ask “Why?” but thought it wiser to wait until I offered the information. But I didn’t know why. Only that I regretted it bitterly, and yet was already constructing justifications for the act so that I would not be disgusted with myself beyond endurance.

  “Did Mott tell you about them?” I asked, making my voice hard.

  “Yes, he … last night he thought there was a chance of … well, saving some innocent people pain. Eric is a kind man, Justin, you should give him credit for that much. After you had gone to bed, we did discuss the chances of keeping their secret, at least until Mrs. Cristiana has had her baby … maybe even longer. Eric said he believed you could be counted on to … keep your own counsel. But now I’m afraid things are too complicated for that.… I’m afraid it is all going to come out. Oh darling, I wish I could shield you from this, but I can’t.…”

  “Shield me from what?” The look on her face was enough to make me sit up in bed.

  My mother took me in her arms. “Ursula DeVane phoned Eric this morning. To ask if he would be willing to appear before the coroner—they always try to establish evidence of a motive, even when it’s— Oh, Justin, that poor woman’s brother hanged himself last night.”

  Late that afternoon, Mott brought home my bike, lashed to his luggage rack. I watched from a window as he methodically unwound each piece of rope, lifted the bike tenderly to the sidewalk, propped it on its kickstand, then coiled up the ropes and returned them to the kit of useful items that he kept in the trunk of his car. He wheeled the bike up our cement driveway and into the garage. Although I could not see him there, I could imagine his self-satisfaction as he completed the safe return of one more cherished item to its proper home.

  Then he came in, and accepted Aunt Mona’s offer of a cup of coffee. He had taken off early from work, he told us, and stopped by the coroner’s, as Ursula had asked him to do. Every member of the household, wanting to hear more, followed him to the kitchen.

  “She really wanted you to tell all?” asked Aunt Mona, sliding a meaningful look toward Jem, who had been told that Mr. DeVane had died, but not how, and nothing about the “all” Aunt Mona was alluding to. As for my cousin Becky, I judged from her complacently knowing demeanor that she had been told as much as my mother knew; from up in my room, I had heard them buzzing away, after Jem had gone outside to play.

  “I questioned that, myself,” said Mott, sipping his coffee importantly. “I phoned her back, just before I left work this afternoon. I said, ‘You’re sure, now, that you want me to go through with this?’ And she said yes—she sounded very calm—she said she’d already told the whole story just as it happened. She said she knew it wasn’t going to be as easy on her this way, or on certain
other people—”

  “I should say not!” interrupted Aunt Mona caustically.

  “—but she said she felt she owed it to her brother’s memory,” Mott went on. “She said it was better for people to know he had done it in anger—she used a French phrase—than to think he had given up on life. Apparently there’d been bad blood between him and the other party for a long time.”

  “Did he die of bad blood?” Jem asked Mott.

  “Not exactly, son,” said Mott, rumpling Jem’s hair, “but I would say it definitely contributed.”

  “There was no question of—” my mother began hesitantly. “I mean, at the coroner’s, nobody said anything about Justin’s having to be involved.”

  “No question at all,” said Mott firmly. “I explained the circumstances, and he agreed that there was absolutely no point in upsetting the child further.”

  Becky flicked her eyes at me—to see my reaction at being called “the child,” I suppose. But, although I knew that my behavior over the past twenty-four hours had earned me an indulgent demotion in the eyes of protective adults, I was not sorry to have the mask of “child” to hide behind while I dealt with my own disturbing thoughts.

  “I’m so relieved,” said my mother to Mott.

  “I ought to go and see her,” said Aunt Mona. “I ought to take something over there. A casserole? After all, he was Beck’s piano teacher; and she was so friendly to me when she came to pick up Justin. Or maybe a cake would be more suitable. Louise, help me; you know the etiquette of these things.”