All The Pretty Dead Girls

by John Manning

  A bell rang when he pushed through the door. Marjorie wasn’t sitting at the counter anymore, and Perry sat down on one of the round seats, placing his elbows on the counter. The swinging doors from the kitchen bounced open and Marjorie Pequod came out, a Parliament dangling from her lips. She looked tired and grumpy. Her lipstick was an orange smear, and her face was heavily powdered and rouged like always. She wore her graying dark hair pulled back into a bun, and bobby pins glinted in the overhead lights. She was thick in the waist, and varicose veins showed through her stockings. She was wearing a pair of white leather flat shoes that were splattered with ketchup. Her yellow uniform was spotted with grease and God knows what else. Shuffling over to where Perry was seated, she whipped out her order pad and pencil from a pocket in her graying white apron.

  “The usual?” she mumbled around the cigarette, not even dropping an ash.

  Marjorie had worked at the Yellow Bird ever since the day her husband had run out on her, leaving her to raise their three kids on her own. She knew what everyone ordered. Perry wondered why she even kept that order pad.

  For Perry, “the usual” was a well-done cheeseburger and fries swimming in chili with a Coke. He nodded. Marjorie scribbled it down, then tore the page off the pad and shoved it through the small order window, hitting the little bell sitting there.

  Perry had been eating at the Yellow Bird since he was a child and his father brought him in for the first time. How he’d looked up to his dad, sitting there so strong and noble in his sheriff’s uniform. Perry had wanted to be just like his father—and he was, going to the police academy and then joining him on the force. Now he was deputy to his father’s sheriff—though he couldn’t help but cringe a little when people would say, “Here comes Andy and Opie.”

  Ever since those days when he’d come in with his father, Perry had always ordered the same thing. With dutiful regularity, Marjorie poured his Coke from the fountain and set the red plastic cup in front of him. Stubbing out the cigarette in a dirty ashtray—Perry wasn’t about to get her for smoking in a public place, as there was no one else in the place—Marjorie leaned her elbows on the counter so that she was nearly nose-to-nose with the young officer.

  “How you doing, Marjorie?” he asked.

  “Tired, that’s how.” She pushed a wisp of gray hair off of her shiny forehead, giving him a weak smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “What you doing out so late on an off night, Perry?”

  “No food in the house.” He smiled back at her. “And this way I get to see you, Marj.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If things have got to the point where you look forward to flirting with a tired old bag like me, you’re doing something wrong.”

  Doing something wrong. He bit his lower lip. He sometimes wondered about that himself. He was getting a lot closer to thirty than he cared to think about, and he was still single. He didn’t have a steady girl, and rarely even dated anymore since Jennifer had gone back to Boston three years earlier. He looked younger than his age—he got carded whenever he went over to Albany to hit the bars—and he kept himself in good shape by going to the YMCA three times a week. But he was beginning to wonder if time wasn’t running out on him somehow. All of his friends from high school were long married, raising kids, making mortgage payments, and settling into middle age.

  Like she was reading his mind, Marjorie asked, “You still hear from Jennifer? You should of married that girl, Perry.”

  “I haven’t heard from her in a while.” He replied with a shrug. Jennifer. “I don’t know, Marj. Maybe I should have.”

  The thought had plagued him ever since Jennifer Donnelly had gone back to Boston. Maybe she brought up taking the job back there to get me to ask her to marry her, Perry thought again. She’d come to Lebanon straight out of college, teaching home economics at the local high school. She was a South Boston Irish girl, and he’d loved the way she said caah for car. Jennifer had worked her way through college, getting student loans and scrimping and saving. She’d come to Lebanon determined to pay off her student debt as quickly as she could. She told him that the cheap rents in Lebanon had been a major part of her decision to take the job at the high school.

  They’d met right here, at this very counter. He’d been sitting here when she pulled up in a battered ten-year-old gray Honda Civic, and he’d almost gasped out loud when she got out of the car. Jennifer had thick dark hair worn short, a round face with an upturned nose, and the deepest emerald green eyes Perry had ever seen. She was short, not much past five feet, weighed one hundred pounds soaking wet, with a curvy body she liked to show off in tight jeans and tight sweaters. That day, she’d walked into the Yellow Bird with a broad smile on her face, sat down on the seat right beside him, and asked, “So, what’s good here?”

  I should have asked her to marry me. Perry let out a sigh as he watched Marjorie wipe down the counter with a dirty sponge.

  He and Jennifer had been together for three years from that first night at the Yellow Bird, when she’d ordered the chili cheeseburger and fries he’d recommended, and it was a good three years. Perry had stayed at her place a few nights a week; she’d come over to his once or twice as well. They’d rent movies or watch television. He’d read while she graded papers. Sometimes, they drove up to Senandaga to go out for a nice dinner at the Outback or the Olive Garden before heading to a movie. After the first year, they’d settled into a nice routine, and before long the question was popping up from everyone—his family, his coworkers, people he’d known his whole life: So, when you gonna do right by that girl and marry her?

  But whenever Perry would start to hint about marriage, even tentatively, Jennifer would always change the subject. Then one day, over a dinner of lasagna and some red wine, she gave him a big smile. “It’s done, Perry,” she said. “I paid off the last of my student loans today. What a relief to have that off my back.”

  “Well, that’s great, honey!” He reached over with his glass and tapped his to hers. “Congratulations.”

  She cleared her throat. “And now that I’m done with that, Perry, I’m going back to Boston.”

  He’d replayed that dinner conversation in his head at least a thousand times in the last four years. What did I do wrong? What did she want from me? She’d insisted that she wasn’t trying to force him into anything—but why hadn’t she brought it up any time before that night? He loved her, he loved being with her, and he knew she loved him, but her decision was final. “I’m going back to Boston,” she stubbornly said. “I’m not staying here.”

  Why didn’t I offer to go with her? he asked himself again. I could have found work there—there are plenty of jobs there. I could have gotten on with the Boston police. Why was I afraid to leave Lebanon?

  But she never asked me to go with her either.

  After the school year ended, she packed her bags and kissed him good-bye. He’d watched her drive out of town, and out of his life.

  His father still got mad about it if her name ever came up. “I’m not getting any younger, and I still don’t have any grandchildren,” he’d say every once in a while, smiling to make it seem as though he were teasing, but the set of his jaw and the tic in his cheek showed he meant it. Perry knew his dad was proud of him for following him into law enforcement—but a part of his dad worried that Perry was stuck in a rut.

  “Well, Jennifer’s not losing any sleep over not marrying me,” Perry said. “That’s for sure.”

  “You don’t know that, Perry,” Marjorie replied. “She could be sitting there every night hoping you’ll stop being stubborn and say the magic words to her.” She shuffled his glass over to the fountain and refilled it. “Just tell me to mind my own business and I’ll shut up.”

  “It’s okay.” He took another drink and grinned at her. He liked Marjorie, always had—despite her kids. But you can’t blame her for her kids—she did the best she could. Her kids had been train wrecks. Marjorie’s oldest, a daughter, had run off to Manhattan when she was seven
teen and hadn’t been heard from since. Frankie, her second, had been in Perry’s class at Lebanon High. Frankie was a wild kid, coming to school reeking of marijuana. He’d been killed driving drunk the summer after graduation. Darby, her youngest, had been on the same road as Frankie—but seemed to have straightened out after Frankie was killed. He got a job right out of school as a mechanic over at Mike’s Firestone, gotten married, and bought a house down in the Banks near Marjorie’s. Still, everybody knew that Darby gambled, and word at the sheriff’s office was that he was probably dealing in stolen cars. They had their eye on Darby Pequod.

  “Marjorie’s always had a hard life,” his mother used to say, “but she never complains, bless her heart.” They’d gone to Lebanon High together and were friends. And when the cancer was eating his mother alive a few years back, Marjorie had come over every day with wrapped sandwiches from the Bird.

  “So what’s gotten you so tired out today, Marj?” Perry asked her.

  “First day of school over at the college.” The locals rarely called it Wilbourne. It was just “the college.”

  “Yeah? A lot of students coming in?”

  “In and out all afternoon, kept me hopping.”

  For a moment, the face of that girl he’d pulled over appeared in Perry’s mind. What was her name? Barlow. Susan Barlow.

  Marjorie sighed, but then she smiled. “Those girls are good tippers. I guess they had their welcome thing tonight, because it slowed way down after six thirty.” She stretched, pressing both hands into the small of her back. “Man, my back is hurting. Be glad when I get home and can soak in a hot bath.”

  They both turned when the bell at the front door rang.

  10

  Virginia Marshall, Ph.D., was not in a good mood.

  After leaving the welcome ceremony, she’d driven aimlessly around town with no real idea of where she was going or what she was doing, other than she didn’t want to go back to her apartment. Tonight was the last straw, she thought over and over again as she cruised the quiet streets. She was fed up, tired, and sorely tempted to march into Dean Gregory’s office the following morning and slap her resignation down on his desk. Love to see the look on his weasel face if I did.

  The thought made her smile, and her blood pressure started finally to go down to a reasonable level. When she turned onto the square, she saw the lights on at the Yellow Bird. The bright lights looked inviting. No point in driving around all night, I’ll just stop in there for a cup of coffee. She parked next to Perry Holland’s deputy car, and walked in.

  She waved at Perry and sat down at one of the booths that ran along the right side of the diner. “Just coffee, please,” she called as she reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a notebook. She carried it with her everywhere, using it to jot down notes and thoughts whenever they occurred to her. She didn’t see the look Marjorie gave Perry—but she didn’t need to. She knew she wasn’t well liked in Lebanon, and that was just fine with her.

  She hated Lebanon, and she hated Wilbourne College even more.

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time, even though her colleagues at Harvard thought she was completely insane. No matter how hard they tried, though, they just didn’t understand her need to get away from Boston, to get away from Harvard, to just get away. After watching her son die for two years of chemotherapy that didn’t work, of medications and drug protocols and marrow transplants, of watching him try to smile and be brave for her through enormous pain and suffering, Boston was just too much for Ginny. Her colleagues didn’t understand that every time she looked at one of her students, she hated them for simply being alive. Every time a young man walked into her classroom or through her line of vision, it was like the knife being twisted in her heart all over again.

  Grief counseling hadn’t worked, drinking didn’t help, the pills did nothing except depress her all over again. And as Ginny suffered, her marriage crumbled around her as well. She knew her marriage was in trouble, she knew Jim needed her, needed more than a zombie who just wandered around in a coma not caring about anything, but she couldn’t do anything, couldn’t make herself care. Jim didn’t understand her, didn’t understand that she felt that “moving on” was just a politer way of saying, “Let’s forget Eric ever existed,” and when he finally sat her down and said, “Ginny, I’m not getting what I need from you anymore,” she just looked at him and replied, “And it’s never once occurred to you that maybe you aren’t giving me what I need?”

  So when Jim packed and left, Ginny didn’t feel anything other than a passing sense of relief that she didn’t have to deal with him anymore. She just was numb everywhere, as though all her emotions and nerves had died.

  She didn’t think she’d ever feel anything again.

  So when Wilbourne College made an offer, she’d decided to take it. It was a surprisingly good offer—considering what she’d already been making as a tenured professor at Harvard who’d published best-selling works on the history of the Christian religion. Something about being in the woods—and teaching girls, not boys—had appealed mightily to her. She’d driven over to Lebanon on a three-day weekend to meet the other faculty and get a feeling for the town and college. That first weekend, she found Lebanon quaint and charming—it reminded her of her own hometown, Hammond, Louisiana—and she liked the college. The campus was beautiful, and she liked the idea of working with a student body that was over ninety-five-percent young women. There’d be no reminders of Eric everywhere she turned. The change was exactly what she needed.

  She resisted every temptation to remain on the faculty at Harvard—her department chair begged her to simply take a leave, to keep her options open. Her agent thought she was insane—“Ginny, part of your appeal to publishers is your position at Harvard. You can’t give that up”—so she’d finally accepted emeritus status. But that was the only concession she made to her original decision to leave Boston behind. She sold her town house rather than renting it. She got rid of everything inside of it, not wanting to keep anything that would remind her of her son, anything that might keep the agony alive inside her.

  I have to get on with my life.

  That had been her mantra on the drive to Lebanon. She’d gotten a second floor apartment—small but cozy—just a few blocks off the town square. She arrived two weeks before that fall semester began, enthusiastic and ready to go to work. She had all of her research for her book—on hold for the whole duration of Eric’s illness—packed in the trunk of her car. She was eager to get back to work on it. In the peace and quiet of this small upstate New York town, she planned on making it the best work she’d done.

  Those two weeks before school started, Ginny found some good used furniture and set her apartment up exactly the way she wanted. When the town paper, the Lebanon Herald, called requesting an interview, she’d been more flattered than anything else. After all, when you’ve been interviewed by The New York Times, what did you have to fear from the Lebanon Herald?

  That was her first mistake.

  The reporter had been a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. Her name was Gayle Honeycutt. Gayle had been kind of nondescript-looking, very pale, with white blond hair and no eyelashes. Short and running a little to overweight, she had tiny hands and tiny feet and a simple, straightforward manner that Ginny found appealing, especially in comparison with other interviewers she’d faced over the years. Gayle accepted a cup of coffee, and settled herself into a wingback chair. She smiled at Ginny.

  “I’ve never met someone who’s been on the New York Times best-seller list,” Gayle said meekly. “It’s a bit intimidating.”

  Ginny laughed. “I’m just a normal person, Gayle. No need to feel intimidated. I’ve just been very lucky with my work, that’s all.”

  “I don’t really understand the point of your work,” Gayle had said, clicking on her tape recorder and pulling out a pad of paper with prepared questions on it. “I mean, I’m sorry, but I just don’t. I’ve read your books, but—” />
  “What is it you don’t understand?”

  Gayle had smiled. “Well, why don’t you just tell me what you hope readers take away from your book?”

  So Ginny had embarked on a spirited lecture about the importance of historical research into the Bible and religion. Her first book, the one that earned her the Ph.D., had been Reclaiming the Sacred Feminine, a study into how the early male-dominated Church had deliberately excluded women from its hierarchy. She explained to Gayle that the early Christians had twisted not only the Old Testament, but the teachings of Jesus himself to establish their own power base. She made a point to stress that she wasn’t attacking anyone’s faith—and that she herself believed in the teachings of Jesus. But historical evidence existed, she told Gayle, that showed how early Church leaders had, for political purposes, distorted and sometimes removed entirely large segments of the Bible.

  “What if much of what you’ve ever been taught about Christianity is wrong?” Ginny had asked the reporter in her enthusiasm. Gayle had sat there dispassionately, taking notes. Ginny talked for more than hour, even if Gayle didn’t ask many questions.

  When the article appeared, all hell broke loose.

  For one thing, the headline simply read: CHRISTIANITY, SAYS NEW PROFESSOR AT WILBOURNE COLLEGE.

  Dean Gregory had called Ginny into his office, and lectured her for over an hour about “dealing with the press”—which, considering Ginny had much more experience with the press than he did, was more than a little insulting. Not once did he even give her an opportunity to defend herself. Gregory had always been enthusiastic and friendly before, but from that moment on, Ginny and Dean Gregory kept as far apart from each other as possible.