“Something has to be done,” Heidi finally said, whacking the side of the ketchup bottle to get it to flow. “He can’t be allowed to teach.”
I ran my fork tines through the mashed potatoes and let the gravy ooze into the tracks. I remembered what Professor Barnard had said about anger moving obstacles, about knowledge being power. “Are you asking me to come forward?”
Heidi bit into her burger without abandon. She licked an errant drop of ketchup from her lips. “Would you?”
“It was hard enough for me to tell you just now. And my mom.” I set my fork down on my plate. “I don’t want my mom to find out.”
Heidi stopped chewing when she realized I’d lost my appetite. “Oh my gosh, Ruby, I’m sorry. Please eat. This is just me rambling. Thinking out loud. I don’t expect you to say or do anything.”
Only when I took a solid bite of turkey, did she continue.
“I just hate him now. I can’t explain it to you. I used to feel indifferent about him. Never thought he was cute like most girls do—no offense. But I didn’t think he was a dick or anything. But now, I absolutely hate him. For breaking your heart. For ruining our friendship. For being a sleazy, fat pig.”
I smiled. She was a dedicated friend.
“Okay, okay. So he’s not fat,” she corrected. “I meant fatheaded.”
“But what good would it do?” I said, once the pressure was off. “If I did speak up? It’s been almost a year. Would anyone believe me? It would only embarrass me, and let’s face it, I’ve already embarrassed myself enough. Showing my face around here this weekend was a big enough test of my courage.”
“It was courageous.” She patted my hand. “But somebody needs to stop him from preying on his students. It’s totally unprofessional and gross. He should be fired.”
Heidi let out an excused belch, then covered the remains of her burger and fries with her napkin and pushed it aside, as if she never wanted to see food again.
“I’m leaving room for the alumnae dinner tonight,” she explained. “It’s fifty bucks a plate. The good stuff.”
I didn’t respond. My thoughts had traveled back to the evening I visited Janice Richards. Beth hadn’t been back to the Tarble campus since the beginning of the school year, Janice had said. Is that when things went sour between Beth and Mark? Did Mark dump Beth for Julie?
“Yoo-hoo.” Heidi waved a hand before my eyes. “You have that ‘off in your own world thing’ going on.”
“Sorry. I was thinking about Beth Richards.”
Heidi narrowed her eyes and looked past me then, as if attempting to bring Beth clearly to mind. Then, her eyes shot to mine with intention.
“You want to know something weird? Something I just realized?” She shook her head then, as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to say.
“What?”
“Julie,” she said. “She looks an awful lot like Beth.”
Clearly we were being wooed: the endless supply of beer and wine, the butlered hors d’oeuvres, the Chilean sea bass with honey lime sauce and pimiento risotto. When I bit into the flourless chocolate torte smeared with a dark ganache, I understood why Tarble College had gone to such lengths to welcome the alumnae back to campus with a formal dinner Saturday night. The torte was so rich, so decadent, I considered an equivalent monetary gift to my alma mater.
Swallowing the last bite of torte with a sip of cabernet, from my third glass, I felt warm and full inside and relished having been the center of attention that night. My former classmates—Amanda, Brandy, Joy, and Rachel—had swarmed around me like bees when I’d come into the banquet room. I’d felt like the bold, yellow center of a flower. Hug after hug, their perfumes swirled into a heavy, obnoxious cloud of scent that had made me dizzy.
Now, feeling confident from the alcohol, I scanned the banquet room for Mark, and although I saw many professors, including Virginia Barnard, I didn’t see him. Licking the last drop of ganache from my fork tines, I dared him to walk through the door.
My euphoric, almost arrogant state lasted until President Eileen Monroe approached our table. Like most Tarble students, I both admired and feared the Tarble alum who had run the school for the past fifteen years. It was her hair: black with a regal, signature stripe of gray, smoothly swept to one side, lying in place like a helmet. Always. That evening, her hair looked unbelievably perfect, as if it had been styled and set on a mannequin the night before and affixed to the president’s head only moments before her appearance. It complimented her impeccable first lady red suit.
“Good evening, ladies.” The president positioned herself behind the vacant chair of Heidi, who had left us to tend her alumnae coordinator duties. “I trust you enjoyed the meal?”
After hearing many “yeses” and one “delicious,” she cleared her throat with something more sophisticated than a cough. “I personally want to thank you for attending Reunion. I know Tarble can rely on your support as we embark on this new chapter of excellence in education. It will not be an easy road, but change never is. One thing that will never change, though, is this school’s ability to persevere.”
We nodded, eager to please her.
“Will we see you at the vigil for Beth Richards tomorrow morning?” she asked.
Again we nodded, this time solemnly.
President Monroe grimaced. “It was a truly difficult decision to go on with Reunion festivities in light of the news about Beth. But canceling events would signify a loss of hope, and we mustn’t lose hope. Beth is a Tarble girl, after all. Resilient. Courageous. We must believe the best possible outcome. We must keep Beth and her family in our thoughts and prayers. That’s just what we have to do. ”
“And what about the other girl?” asked Joy, the only one of us bold enough to raise the topic of Julie Farris. “How is she doing?”
I noticed a vein throbbed in the president’s forehead.
“Yes, Julie. A sad situation as well. But she’s fine, dear. Still recovering in the hospital but hopefully getting the help she needs.” She sighed. “Now, my intention was not to talk your ears off all evening. So please, enjoy another glass of wine. Sit back, relax, visit. And again, thank you for your support.”
We followed her orders. While some of us stood to grab another drink from the bar, and others resumed side conversations, President Monroe sat beside me in Heidi’s chair.
“Ruby, it is a pleasure to see you back on the Tarble campus.” She gave my shoulder a motherly pat. “I want you to know—and I mean this sincerely—if you would like to return and finish your degree at Tarble, we welcome you with open arms.”
I blushed, not expecting her to single me out. I thanked her before my eyes betrayed me with tears, which I wiped embarrassingly on my white cloth napkin, staining it with mascara.
“My dear, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“It’s just very kind of you.”
“Well, Tarble is a family,” she said. “And we take care of one another. I understand how stressful college can be for a young woman, the immense pressure to succeed. It can get the best of us, sometimes.”
She spoke loudly, too loudly I thought for what should have been a private conversation, and I wondered if she was truly sincere or whether it was, as Heidi had called it earlier, damage control.
Before I could say more, the president excused herself to tend to a matter that was, judging from the direction of her gaze, on the other side of the banquet hall. I watched her glide across the room, as if by chariot, and land near the door.
And that’s when I saw Mark. But it wasn’t the Mark I remembered. In fact, he’d aged in the past year. Where I remembered only fine lines, his skin was creased. I used to think his nose was distinguishably pointed, but it now appeared beaklike. His blue eyes looked more slate than sky, and they’d succumbed to a redness only alcohol could induce. He was either very drunk or very sad, or both. If he was distressed over Beth’s disappearance, he was doing a poor job of masking it. And he wasn’t alone. Soon a
woman sidled up next to him, snaked her arm through his, and playfully laid her head on his shoulder. Her blond hair and red fingernails contrasted with her black cocktail party dress, making a bold and flashy statement. When the woman caught me watching, and lifted her eyebrows, as if to ask, “May I help you?” I realized who she was. I’d seen a picture of her in Mark’s office once.
I bolted from my chair to find Heidi, who was on the opposite side of the room schmoozing financial backers of the college, as she’d been directed to do.
“He’s here,” I whispered. “And so is Meryl, his wife.”
“Bastard,” Heidi whispered back.
I spent the following hour in a tense, deliberated state, acting like an undercover cop. I watched Mark’s and Meryl’s every move but pretended not to, engaging in polite conversation with my friends, exchanging hellos with a few of my former professors.
As the night proceeded, Meryl, who at the onset of the evening had rolled beside him like some sort of ball and chain shackled to a prisoner’s foot, stood several feet away from her husband. She dug her long red fingernails into Mark’s chest, a litany of words falling from her equally red-tinted mouth. Presumably reaching a breaking point in the argument, Mark pushed her away, but she pushed back, knocking him hard enough to stumble and spill the remains of his gin and tonic. After that, she beelined to the door.
Once Meryl left, I saw Mark scan the room for judging eyes, and soon, his gaze landed on me. I swallowed hard but matched his stare. I thought my knees might buckle under me. I thought I might smile or cry or even laugh inappropriately. But oddly, I didn’t feel anything. Maybe it was the three glasses of wine at work, but I stood my ground.
And then he looked away, without a note of recognition; no smile, no head nod, not even a sour purse of the lips.
It was as if he hadn’t seen me.
Just before ten o’clock, I saw Mark give a half bow to a group of colleagues before heading for the door. Following, I was almost to the doorway when I felt a tug on my sweater.
“You’re not going after him, are you?” Heidi asked, still holding a patch of gray wool. She seemed out of breath, as if she’d chased me two blocks, not through a half-crowded room.
I nodded and tried to keep walking. Heidi held me back.
“What about his wife?” she asked.
“Meryl left an hour ago.”
“Do you think you’re up for this?”
I nodded again, even though a voice in my head begged to differ.
Heidi finally let go. “If you’re not back in twenty minutes, I’m coming to look for you.”
I pushed the swinging door with force, as if to prove my strength. And just before it closed behind me, I heard Heidi whisper something like “be careful.”
Of course, there was no sign of Mark in the lobby of Newton Center. Heidi had held me back long enough to lose his trail. Which way had he gone? I wondered. He was drunk, and he knew it. He wouldn’t get behind the wheel of a car, at least I hoped not. He would need to sober up first by taking a walk or a nap.
Where could he sleep on campus undisturbed?
I headed toward the north doors then, cutting through Newton Center by squeezing past a few L-shaped couches. I banged my knee on the wooden edge of one and whimpered into the empty lobby, but kept going. And once outside, I saw someone walking in the distance on the sidewalk, heading toward Langley Hall. I followed.
Once I stood outside Mark’s office door, I noticed it boasted a new nameplate: Mark Suter, Associate Professor of English. Below that, he had posted a copy of his course schedule. He was still teaching some of the same classes, like Classics. He had added a special course on Arthurian Legend, though, and his office hours had changed.
I heard a bump then. Pressing my ear to the door, I listened for evidence of life, a snore. But what I heard was the sliding of a drawer, then the slamming of a drawer, and finally the sound of breaking glass. He hadn’t gone to sleep, I thought. He’d gone into a rage.
I turned the knob.
Meryl was crouched on the floor near the filing cabinet, picking up shards of glass from a broken photo frame. She muttered profanities under her breath. I stole a peek at the rest of the room, which looked like it had been jostled by a tornado. The papers on Mark’s desk—his disorganized piles—had avalanched to the floor. The cushions of the couch had been upturned. Several books had been knocked from the shelf.
I pulled the door back slowly, but it creaked, and Meryl spun around to face me. Holding a gleaming, cleaverlike piece of glass, she approached me. I diverted my eyes to the floor but found no solace there. The sharp toes of Meryl’s black heels pointed at me like accusations.
“Sorry.” I feigned confusion. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”
With her pointed shoe, Meryl stopped the door from closing and let out a cross between a laugh and an exasperated breath. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
She was so close, I could smell her breath. It was sweet, as if she’d just drunk a glass of iced tea. But her lipstick looked untouched: a smooth, satin red.
“I’m not,” I snapped, realizing a second too late that the correct response was One of whom? I looked again at the floor but could still feel Meryl deconstructing me with her eyes.
“Honey, you’re a horrible liar.” She stepped back, relaxed her shoulders. “Now, my husband? He’s got his Ph.D. in bullshit. Knows just what to say and how to say it. Knows the precise amount of detail to add to any story to make it believable but not far-fetched. Knows the right questions to ask, to make you think he gives a shit.”
I said nothing but listened for the sound of footsteps down the hall, for a door opening, something to distract the woman’s attention. Then I eyed the shard of glass still in Meryl’s grasp. It looked sharp enough to kill someone.
Meryl looked down at the glass too and shook her head in disbelief. “For heaven’s sakes, I’m not going to hurt you.” She tossed the shard carelessly into the wastebasket. “My guess is you’ve already been hurt enough.”
“I’m so sorry,” I blurted.
She didn’t respond. Instead she returned to the pile of broken glass on the floor. I stood there, frozen, wondering if I should leave while her back was to me. But I moved only a step before she said, “I didn’t mean to break it. Honestly. It fell from my hand.” She blew a dusting of glass from the photo and held it out to me. “I barely recognize myself.”
Perhaps it was the slight shaking of her hand as she reached out to me, or the resignation of sadness lacing her voice, but I decided to accept the photo. It was the picture I remembered seeing in Mark’s office, of Meryl in a teal shirt standing by a redwood tree. I’d studied the picture countless times when Mark wasn’t looking. I’d gravitated toward it, hoping to see something ugly, something marred and tainted. But each time, I always saw something I was not, something just beyond my reach. I stared now at the photo, then back at Meryl’s blond hair and red fingernails.
“You look different.” I regretted the comment immediately. It was girl-talk, evidence that I wanted to continue the conversation.
She shrugged and swept her bangs out of her eyes, streaking blood across her forehead. She must have cut her hand on the glass. “I’m trying to save my marriage.”
The guilt festered in my stomach. It had been so easy to be with Mark without Meryl around. It was as if she’d existed only by name, like some fictitious character who lives inside the story after you shut the book. But here she was, standing before me, flesh and blood.
Bleeding.
“Do you know where I found this?” she asked, taking the photo back, running her finger along the frame. “In the file cabinet. Under M too. For Meryl. He literally filed me away.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again, seeing Meryl for what she really was, the victim. I wanted to tell her how much I’d been hurt too but knew it would solicit no pity.
She shrugged again, as if she no longer cared, as if she had no fight left in her,
or rather, it had been beat out. “I bet you thought you were pretty special,” she said. “That you were the first. But the fact is my husband’s been fooling around with his students for years. I’m not sure what number you are.” She laughed again, as if crying had done her no good in the past. “And you’re just one of the girls who said yes. How many said no?”
She was right. I had thought I was the first. I knew Beth and possibly Julie Farris had come after me, but I had yet to think that anyone had come before me. From my perspective, Mark and I happened unexpectedly. A meeting in his office had simply spilled into a cup of coffee. It had all been so new, so surprising, so forbidden. For me, at least.
“I guess I was naïve,” I said.
“He’s manipulative,” she went on, setting the frame on the desk before grabbing tissues from a box and winding them around her hand. She’d finally noticed the blood. “He told me working at different colleges so far apart would allow us to focus on our careers. If our marriage took a backseat, so what? When you’re educated, when you’re mature and secure, you don’t need someone to hold your hand, caress your cheek, and whisper I adore you. If your husband doesn’t dote on your every word, it doesn’t mean he’s having an affair.” She applied pressure to her wound. “Now that’s naïve.”
She looked resilient to me, despite what she said. And I wanted to know how she did it; how she stayed with him, knowing he’d been unfaithful. I’m not sure I could have stayed, and yet I wondered if I’d have been strong enough to leave.
She stared at me, long and hard. “You’re wondering why I didn’t leave him.”
I nodded.
“I knew in my heart it was just sex, not love. Until . . .”
“Beth.” Her name dribbled from my mouth.
“So you know about her? Mark’s one true love?” She snickered, the resignation suddenly absent from her voice. “No one compared to her. He even told me so. Right to my face when he asked for a divorce.”
My mouth dropped open—Mark had never spoken of divorcing Meryl when he was with me—but I camouflaged my surprise.
The Butterfly Sister Page 16
