by Gail Bowen
The night of the vigil Ann Vogel wasted no time on pleasantries. “You’re supposed to go inside,” she said. “The plan is for everyone who is part of the program to come out of the library together.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would I be part of the program? There are a lot of people who were closer to Ariel than I was.”
“For once, I agree with you,” Ann Vogel said. “I don’t think you should be included either, but Ariel’s mother wants you. Dr. Warren says that since you knew Ariel as a child and as a colleague, you could bring a special perspective. It’s not a perspective I personally want, but Dr. Warren does, so you’d better get in there.”
I turned to Ed. “Could you and Taylor watch out for each other till I’m done?”
Ann Vogel didn’t give him a chance to answer. “You’ll have to find alternative child care, Joanne. This observance is for women only.”
Taylor regarded Ann with interest. “I noticed that.”
A glance around the crowd revealed that Taylor was right. Mao Zedong once said that women hold up half the sky, but at Ariel Warren’s vigil it appeared that the sky and everything under it was in female hands. With the exception of Ed, there wasn’t a male in sight.
Having discharged her venom, Ann started off. I grabbed her arm. My intent was simply to ask her a question, but my gesture was unintentionally rough, and she peeled off my hand with a look of disdain.
“No need for goon tactics,” she said.
“My point exactly,” I said. “Who made the decision to exclude men?”
“Some of us feel we can’t speak freely if men are present.”
“I thought this was supposed to be about Ariel.”
“She’s emblematic of a larger issue.”
“For God’s sake, Ann,” I said, “listen to yourself.”
“Naama,” she hissed. “My name is Naama.”
“All right, Naama. Now shut up and pay attention. Ariel Warren is not a symbol. She was a warm, gifted young woman, and a lot of us still can’t believe she’s gone.”
Ann took a step towards me. She was so close I could feel her breath on my face.
“Believe it, Joanne. Ariel is dead, and she died for the same reasons a lot of other women die. She lived in a patriarchal society that kills women and children.” She laughed shortly. “Why am I wasting my time trying to raise your consciousness? Stick around. You just might learn something.”
“I don’t think I will stick around,” I said.
Ann shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She wagged her finger at me. “Now, I’m going to walk away, and this time I don’t want to be stopped.”
I turned to Ed. “Let’s get out of here.”
Taylor looked up at me. “What about Ariel?”
Ed and I exchanged glances.
“That’s a good question,” he said.
“And I was pretty close to giving it a rotten answer,” I said. “Damn it, I always let Ann get under my skin. Let’s tough it out.”
Ed frowned. “This isn’t a night for muscle-flexing,” he said. “You were right. This is supposed to be about Ariel.”
I looked down at my daughter. “Do you want to stay?”
But she was concerned about Ed. “Would you be okay going home by yourself?”
“I’d be okay,” he said. “Besides, somebody has to drink those Shirley Temples before they lose their oomph.”
“Oomph!” Taylor scrunched her face at the cartoon word, then for the first time since we’d set out for the vigil, she smiled.
I reached out and touched Ed’s cheek. “We’ll see you later,” I said. “And take it easy on the Shirley Temples. A good man is hard to find.”
The vigil for Ariel Warren exists in my memory as a series of images, which revealed truths as familiar to the philosopher as they are to the chiaroscurist. The first was that light is fully appreciated only when it is set against an absence of light; the second was that even the most familiar figures can cast lengthy shadows.
As I watched Ed walk towards the Parkway, I was sick at heart. He was heading west, and while I had balked at the suggestion that Ariel Warren was a symbol, I had seen too many old westerns not to feel a twinge at the image of a decent man disappearing into the sunset. It took an act of will not to follow him.
Livia Brook met me by the fountain. She was wearing a black T-shirt dress and strappy patent-leather flats. Draped around her shoulders was an extravagantly fringed antique satin shawl covered with oversized poppies that appeared to be hand-painted. It was a festive accessory for a mourner, but no one looking into Livia’s face could doubt her pain. She had removed the barrettes that usually held her hair in place, and against the cascade of chestnut and grey curls, her face was wan.
“Ariel’s mother wants to talk to you before we start,” she said.
It was a request I couldn’t ignore. Dr. Molly Warren was not a friend, but I liked and respected her. She had been my gynecologist for the past fifteen years, and as far as I was concerned she was just about perfect. She treated my concerns seriously, answered my questions fully, and shepherded me through a difficult menopause with information and brisk good humour. Even when I was sitting on the edge of the table in the examination room, shivering and apprehensive in my blue paper gown, the click of her impossibly high heels coming down the hall reassured me. I knew she wouldn’t talk down; I knew she wouldn’t scare me needlessly; I knew she’d tell the truth. She had been a rock to me and to many other women I knew. Any of us would have done whatever we could to redress the balance.
A group of women had come together just inside the door. To the right of them, standing in front of the glass case that housed displays from the Classics department, were Molly Warren and Solange Levy. Two facts were immediately apparent: Solange was in deep psychological trouble, and Molly was doing what she could to help. Back in her uniform of black jeans, T-shirt and Converse high-tops, Solange was beyond wired; she was blowing out all the circuits. She was talking non-stop. As she spoke, her hands chopped the air, and her feet danced like a boxer’s. Even her black, henna-shined hair seemed charged with manic electricity. Molly listened with an expression I had seen often: capable, concerned, but with her lips tight, insulating herself against the weaknesses of the flesh that beset the rest of us.
The moment must have been one of unimaginable horror for her, but Molly Warren, as she always did, looked as if she had just stepped off the cover of Vogue. If it seemed cruel to notice her appearance, it was also inevitable. I have never known a woman to whom personal appearance mattered more. She was not a beauty – Ariel’s chiselled good looks had come from her father – but Molly took meticulous care of what she had: her skin was deep-cleansed, rehydrated, and dewy; her Diane Sawyer haircut subtly layered and highlighted; her outfits chosen with care and knowledge. Whenever she glided into her Delft-blue outer office to pick up a file or take a phone call, we patients leaned towards one another and whispered about her unerring sense of style.
That night the silk suit she was wearing was soft grey with a mauve undertone like lilacs in the mist, and her simple grey Salvatore Ferragamo pumps and bag glowed as only seven hundred dollars’ worth of calfskin can. I imagined her selecting her ensemble in the morning, holding the bag against the suit, checking the match, not knowing that by day’s end she would be wearing her perfect outfit to a vigil for her daughter.
I pulled Taylor closer. She leaned across me to peer down the hall, then up at the huge expanse of glass at the front of the library. “I’ve been here a million times,” she whispered. “But never at night. It’s different.” Suddenly, Solange caught her attention. “What’s the matter with that girl over there?”
“She was best friends with the woman who died.”
“And she’s acting up?”
“Something like that,” I said.
As we watched, Molly opened her bag, took out a prescription bottle, removed a tablet and handed it to Solange. Meek as a child, Solange took the pi
ll and put it under her tongue. Whether it was from exhaustion, medication, or the power of suggestion, she seemed to calm down. She whispered something to Molly, then walked over and joined Ann Vogel and Rae Colby, the director of the Women’s Centre.
Molly Warren looked as alone as anyone I had ever seen. She was not a person who invited physical contact, but I had no idea how to approach her except through an embrace. Her body was stiff and unresponsive, but she didn’t step away, so I held her, staring uncomprehendingly at the announcement of a lecture on the Eleusinian Mysteries the Hellenic Society was sponsoring and wondering what in the name of God to do next.
Finally, Molly took a step back. Her words surprised me. “I had a battle with myself about coming to this. It seemed wrong to be part of an event at which Ariel’s father wasn’t welcome.”
“Someone told you that?”
“Not in so many words, but Solange hinted that Drew might find the evening uncomfortable. I’m sure her warning was intended as a kindness.” Molly made a gesture of dismissal with her hand. “None of that matters now. I’m glad I came. Joanne, have you heard the rhetoric here tonight? It’s pretty virulently anti-male.”
I shook my head. “We were late.”
“Then you haven’t heard the rumours that are swirling around.”
“No,” I said, “but I can imagine they’re ugly.”
“They are,” she said. “And they’re irresponsible. Until we have the autopsy results, no one will know whether the crime was sexually motivated. But that’s the assumption made by almost everyone who’s talked to me. Suddenly all men are suspect.” Molly raised her fingers to her temples and rubbed in a circular motion. “Joanne, I don’t know what happened to my daughter in that archive room. At the moment, I lack the courage to imagine it. But there’s one thing I do know. I will not allow Ariel’s death to become an excuse for anybody to push a political agenda.”
“Should I talk to the organizers?”
“I already have,” she said. “I hoped I’d be able to say a few words to keep the evening in perspective, but I just can’t seem to form a coherent thought. That’s why I asked the organizing committee to find you. I know I’m putting you on the spot, but you and Solange are the only friends of Ariel’s from the university that I know. You’ve seen the state Solange is in. She’s promised she won’t do anything to make matters worse, but she can’t be counted on to do much beyond that.”
“You’d like me to say something to keep the focus on Ariel,” I said.
Molly gave me the physician’s assessing look. “If I’m asking too much, tell me.”
“You’re not asking too much,” I said.
She seemed to relax. When her eye rested on Taylor, she crouched down so that she could talk to her more easily. “I didn’t mean to ignore you,” she said. “My name is Molly Warren, and …”
“And Ariel was your girl,” Taylor said softly.
Molly’s intake of breath was sharp, the reflex of a woman feeling the probe on an exposed nerve. “Yes,” she said. “Ariel was my girl.”
This time when I reached out to comfort her, she waved me off. “I’m okay,” she said. “I just want to freshen up. Is there a ladies’ room around here?”
I pointed. “Down that hall and to the left,” I said. “Would you like me to go with you?”
She shook her head. “All I need is a little time alone and I’ll be all right.”
As I watched her elegant figure disappear, I thought that it was the first time I’d heard Dr. Molly Warren give a prognosis so far off the mark. I was relieved when Rae Colby joined me.
Rae was a solid, pleasant woman who moved slowly, laughed often, and fought the good fight with a fervour undiminished by thirty years in the women’s movement. She was fond of bright colours and chunky ethnic jewellery, but that night she was in ankle-length black, her only jewellery a heavy silver labrys pendant.
She gave me a slow, sad smile. “I’ve come to ask your daughter a favour, Jo.”
“Ask,” I said. “Taylor makes up her own mind about most things.”
Rae’s broad face creased with pleasure. “A woman after my own heart,” she said. She turned to Taylor. “Here’s the drill. Everyone at the vigil is supposed to have a candle, and I need you to help me hand them out.”
“I can do that,” Taylor said.
“Good.” Rae turned back to me. “The program is pretty informal,” she said in her low, musical voice. “I thought maybe we could all just walk out there together.” She gestured towards a willowy brunette standing close to the door. “You know Kristy Stevenson.”
“We’re on the University Development Committee together,” I said.
“Then you know how proud she is of the work the library does. We’re all sick about Ariel’s death, but Kristy has a double burden. The archives are her responsibility. I think she feels a need to be part of the memorial tonight. Anyway, in her non-university life, Kristy has a trio called Womanswork.”
“I didn’t know she was a singer,” I said.
“She paid her way through university playing in a punk rock band. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? She’s so elegant.”
“People are full of surprises,” I said.
“Aren’t they just? At any rate, the plan is to have Livia speak, then Womanswork sing, and then I thought you could talk. Did you and Dr. Warren agree about what you were going to say?”
“We thought … just some personal memories,” I said.
Rae’s brown eyes misted. “Better you than me,” she said. “I don’t think I could get through anything personal. Anyway, after you’ve finished, Naama has a story she wants to tell. Then Solange wants a few moments to talk. I hope she’ll be okay. Molly Warren is her doctor, and apparently she gave her some kind of medication to bring her down.”
I looked over at Solange. She was gazing at the crowd in the library quadrangle, wholly absorbed in her private reverie. “She seems calm enough,” I said.
“Calm is good,” Rae said. “There’s a lot of emotion out there. We don’t need to add to it.” She fingered the silver labrys at her neck. “After Solange, I guess Womanswork will do another song, and Livia will announce the candle-lighting. Have I left out anything?”
“It sounds as if everything’s taken care of,” I said.
When Molly Warren returned, her lipstick was fresh and her jaw was set. “Let’s go,” she said, and she started for the door. The women in the doorway parted to let her pass; then they followed her outside.
Rae turned to Taylor. “Time to get moving, kiddo,” she said. “Those candles aren’t going to hand themselves around.”
In one of those cosmic ironies that twist the knife of grief, the night into which we stepped burned with beauty. The sun was low in the sky, and the horizon flamed, turning the water of Wascana Lake into molten gold. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” Rae murmured. The sky might have glowed, but the concrete bulk of the library cast a shadow that plunged the mourners waiting for us into darkness.
Rae picked up a wicker basket of candles and handed it to Taylor. Her hand brushed the top of my daughter’s head in a lazy benediction. “It’s good to have someone from the next generation with us.”
Livia stepped to the microphone. We were long-time colleagues, but that night she surprised me. Even during the agonizing last months of her marriage, Livia had been much in demand by organizations wanting an expert on American politics who wouldn’t sabotage their pleasant lunch with dry history or legalisms. The day after her marriage ended, she had asked me to provide moral support at a lunch meeting she’d agreed to address months earlier. She was hungover and heartsick, but she still managed to sparkle her way through her set piece on the relationship between a leader’s character and his or her political policies. Wretched as she must have felt, Livia had come alive in front of the crowd. But the night of the vigil, as she adjusted the microphone, her hands were trembling so badly she had difficulty completing the manoeuvre. When she began to
speak, she surprised me again. I was expecting another helping of New Age bilge, but she spoke from the heart.
Pulling her shawl around her, as if she were cold to the marrow, she began. “I would give everything I own not to be here tonight,” she said simply. “Ariel was my student, my colleague, my friend, my hope.” She looked down at the brilliantly coloured shawl as if seeing it for the first time. “Two weeks ago, she gave me this. ‘A thank-you,’ she said, ‘for everything.’ It was too much …”
I was puzzling over the ambiguity of Livia’s sentence when I realized that, although she was still standing in front of the microphone, she’d fallen silent. Ann Vogel was quick to react. She moved swiftly to the podium, draped her arm protectively around Livia’s shoulders, and led her back to the rest of the party. The whole sequence was over in a matter of seconds, but what I saw in the faces of the two women shook me. Livia was expressionless; her eyes had the five-hundred-mile stare of a shock victim. But Ann Vogel was – no other word for it – smirking. Then as quickly as it had appeared, the tableau was gone. Kristy Stevenson and Womanswork came forward quickly and the program continued.
The trio of women who made up Womanswork had a family resemblance: all three wore their dark hair centre-parted and brushed back to frame gentle faces, wide-set blue eyes, and delicately arched brows. They were in tank tops, black slacks, and platforms, and they moved with assurance. Kristy stepped up to the microphone. “We’ve chosen two songs tonight. Neither of them is ours. I wish they were. I wish I could come out here and tell you that we’d written lyrics that spoke to Ariel’s dreams or, even” – Kristy smiled sadly – “just a tune she hummed in the shower. The truth is I didn’t know her very well; she was at a fundraiser we did for the Dunlop Gallery a couple of weeks ago, and afterwards she came up and told me she had really connected with a song we did by Beowulf’s Daughters. It’s called ‘The Sparrow Knows.’ Here it is.”
