“Yes, you come back with two arms and two legs and everything in between right-side-up—but you haven’t handled it all right since then. If he were going to call you again, he would have done it by now. But obviously he’s not, so why don’t you just forget about it?”
“I know,” she said softly. “You’re right. I’m being foolish.”
Andrea knew full well she ought to have nothing more to do with Jack, should not even allow herself to want to see him again, but she could not drive him from her mind. She was mystified by him and his relationship to his four housemates. She could not ascribe their being together to deep-rooted loyalty when their treatment of one another was so openly caustic. She decided it must be a financial arrangement that kept them under the same roof. Whatever the reality of their coexistence, Andrea felt that a certain danger sparked about them—there was something very wrong in Jamaica Plain. Although she had not dared mention it to Marsha, it was that elusive sensation of danger that represented to Andrea what was exactly right about Jack. Through him she had discovered a circle of existence that had always been alien to her, one that fascinated her because it was opposed to all that she had ever known. It took for granted what she considered barbaric and chaotic and—what she had always considered worse—impolite.
As the two women walked along the leaf-scattered paths of the campus in the deepening twilight, Andrea now told Marsha everything that she had previously omitted from the narrative of her night in Jamaica Plain. She even told of Dominic’s voyeurism, and Marsha was both disgusted and excited by this detail. Before they went down to dinner that evening, Andrea shared with Marsha the last of an ounce of grass Jack had slipped her as a parting gift.
When Andrea thought of sex, which wasn’t infrequently, it was always Jack whose face and form were conjured in her mind. At Marsha’s suggestion and by Marsha’s management, Andrea went out several times with young men who were either juniors at Harvard or friends of Joshua’s from Northeastern—but these had all been mindless, commonplace dates, and if the men had thought of sex as a possibility, Andrea had not. She did not care to be seduced by polite or clever conversation, a fine or at least an expensive dinner, a tentative pressing of thighs in an overheated theater. All a good-looking man had to do to get Andrea LoPonti into bed was to make it clear that that was exactly where he wanted her; nothing else could work upon her. The men she went out with were not bold enough to approach her in that way, and she had not encouraged them to do so. The sexual experiences she had had the previous summer had been sufficient to form a pattern in her mind: Now only older men would do; she had no use for a man who was within five years her contemporary. Thus Andrea spent most of her evenings on campus, either working in the library or hanging out with Marsha. Occasionally she returned to Weston for the weekend, but these times with her parents were so strained that even Cosmo and Vittoria began to dread them.
She would have liked to visit the singles bars with Marsha, but Joshua now had moved off-campus, to a dreary little apartment on Huntingdon Avenue, and when Marsha went into Boston, it was there she ended up. Andrea was not willing to put up with the inferior company of a female companion who had nothing to offer but transportation.
On a Friday afternoon late in October, Jack appeared at Wordsworth Hall, unannounced, and had the receptionist ring Andrea on the in-house phone to say simply that “Jack’s here.”
Andrea found him standing by his motorcycle near the front steps of the hall. It was a crisp sunlit afternoon, and Jack’s black leather jacket and pants contrasted sharply with the red-gold of the trees and the leaf-blanketed lawns. She moved down the flagstone walkway trying not to betray her anger or her elation. She took each step carefully and stopped several feet from him, her face a mask of cool reserve.
“What are you doing here?” she asked flatly, her voice matching perfectly her expression.
Jack narrowed his dark eyes against the bright sun. “I was thinking of you this morning,” he said, “and since I had to be out this way this afternoon, I thought I’d drop by.”
Andrea folded her arms beneath her breasts and turned her head so that a blond wave snapped over one shoulder. “Jack,” she said, as if with hard-got patience, “I called you at the house last month and left a message. Now you show up like it was only yesterday . . .” Andrea stopped and softened. “Did Morgie forget to give you the message, she—”
“I got it,” he said easily. “It’s just that I never return calls.”
“That’s no excuse.”
Jack rasped the heel of his boot on the lower step. He pushed away silently, stepped over to his bike, and swung angrily onto the thickly padded seat. “I was thinking about you and I just dropped by.”
When his foot was raised to the starter, Andrea stepped over quickly. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, and placed a hand on the cool leather of his arm. “I didn’t mean to be a harpy.”
“Is that like a bitch?” His smile grew until it was dazzling. “Today,” he said, “I came prepared.”
“What do you mean?”
“I brought an extra helmet. I thought we could go for a ride in the country. There’s still a few leaves left.”
Andrea did not hesitate. “Let me get my jacket. I’ll be right down.”
In her room, she could hear him revving his cycle. When she came down again, he tossed her the helmet. She strapped it on, climbed on behind, and pressed herself close against Jack’s body. She wrapped her arms about his waist, and with both hands gripped his wide bicycle-chain belt. Jack released the brake and pulled the machine away from the curb.
“Where are we going?” she asked above the noise of the engine.
“Just ride around, out in the country. All right?”
“Yes.”
They drove west from the college, to Natick, and then turned north up Route 126, through Cochituate, Wayland, and Concord. The day was bright and clean, and the wind in Andrea’s face was exhilarating; the roads were familiar to her until they got past Concord, but it seemed as if she had never really looked at the scenery before—what an immense difference there was between the back seat of a Continental and the passenger seat of a Harley! Beyond Concord, as they neared Carlisle, Jack turned off onto a road that appeared untravelled and forlorn—the kind of road so minor and so little used that it probably was the last to be plowed in the winter snows, if it was plowed at all.
“Do you know this road?” shouted Andrea in his ear.
He shook his head, and slammed the cycle up to seventy so that they fairly flew. Hoary bare trees intertwined their fragile branches above the road, and startled animals hurtled themselves across their path. Andrea was suddenly frightened: they were travelling much too quickly. The narrow road wound, and they might suddenly come upon an automobile and be unable to stop or swerve. “Slow down, please!” she begged, and he did so immediately.
She was surprised that he did not take umbrage at her interference. Instead, he then proceeded playfully at a leisurely pace, running at so low a speed that, for the first time, Andrea could hear something besides the wind in her ears. She heard birds call.
They passed a few houses, but saw no one; there were a few brown pastures and paddocks and a few well-nourished animals—goats and cows mostly; and they passed a flock of noisy geese beside a small gray pool. But mostly they travelled through woodland: dense and gray and silent, almost all hardwood trees, with few evergreens.
Jack suddenly swerved off the road and into the forest, moving carefully but without reduced speed. Andrea clung to him, and shuddered when the toes of her boots scraped the ground. At last he slowed and pointed; Andrea leaned to her right and looked ahead. She saw their goal, a little nineteenth century graveyard probably no more than a hundred feet square, surrounded by a dilapidated cast iron fence, fast falling to ruin. The stones were moldy and awry; some had evidently been v
andalized, but not recently. In one corner there was a small square mausoleum of gray stone. Just beyond flowed a rapid brook whose path was constantly interrupted by fallen tree trunks. Its sound rose immediately in the silence that followed the killing of the motorcycle engine.
“Why would they put a cemetery out here in the middle of nowhere?” Andrea wondered.
Jack shrugged. They climbed off the cycle, removed their helmets, and walked slowly through the graveyard. A large break in the fence saved them the trouble of negotiating the rusted gate. Andrea studied the names on the gravestones: “They’re all from the same two families: everybody’s named either Snow or Bent. It was a private burying ground for the families. They probably owned the land.”
Jack shrugged with disinterest.
They seated themselves on the cold slab of a raised grave. With her finger Andrea traced the almost obliterated letters carved into the stone. Jack lighted a joint and passed it to her. She leaned close against him, and he placed his arm tenderly around her shoulder. She wanted to ask whether they would get back to Wenham before dark, even if they left in the next fifteen minutes; but, thinking that such a question might dispel the romance of the moment, she only remarked, “It’s very peaceful here, isn’t it?”
She did not care anymore that he had not called her in so many weeks. Her ire had been dissipated in the thrill of the motorcycle journey. Leaning into his strong body, she thought of the times, alone in her bed at night, when her body had hungered for his closeness—and now she had it.
Clouds had gathered over them, and the wind increased and become chill. Dry leaves blew among the gravestones, and Andrea and Jack watched two black squirrels chase one another in and out of the broken door of the mausoleum. No cars passed on the road that was a hundred yards distant and only just visible in a couple of spots; the brook gurgled behind them.
Jack’s hand dropped from her shoulder and pushed inside the back of her pants. His nails dug lightly into her buttocks. Andrea turned to face him; she folded her arms about his neck and drew his mouth down to hers. Jack kissed her hard and thrust his other hand underneath her sweater. His fingers and palm were rough and cold against her bare skin. He pulled her against him more tightly still, running his dry lips across her cheek and nuzzling his chin against her neck. His tongue darted wetly and warmly about her ear. Andrea groaned deeply, but when she felt his hardness pressing against her, she pulled back.
“We’re in a cemetery!” she cried. “Anybody could—”
He unsnapped the metal fastener of her slacks and, lifting her slightly, turned her round and laid her down the length of the raised tomb of Maria Bent, beloved wife of Charles.
“Not here—” she whispered.
He covered her mouth with his hand, smiled at her, and slipped his hand down the front of her slacks with one determined motion.
She turned her face away for just a moment, smiled slightly, and gave in. She no longer felt the cold or the sharp wind or the mossy stone beneath her. The heat and the selfish preoccupation of desire flooded her. She touched his face, gently grazing her thumb against his mouth. He licked the flat of her palm. She pushed her slacks down herself, as Jack raised her sweater high on her breast. Her hard nipples chafed against the soft wool. She pressed her fingers against his ears as his tongue inched lower down her stomach. She took in her breath sharply as he drew up into a crouch between her legs.
Her new coral sweater was ruined that afternoon by the damp moss and lichens that were ground into it on the raised tombstone.
23
That afternoon in the rural cemetery set the pattern for their relationship over the autumn. Jack would arrive at the dormitory at odd times and never on the same days or evenings, and Andrea, no matter what her plans or commitments, would go off with him. Marsha was blunt in her estimation of the affair and still tried to set up dates for Andrea, but Andrea would have none of that. When she was not with Jack, she was perfectly content to sit in the library or in her room, reading.
For Christmas of that sophomore year, Jack gave her a large vial of amphetamines and an ounce of grass. She felt a little foolish when she presented him with an expensive navy blue sweater she’d seen in the window of an exclusive men’s shop on Newbury Street. She never saw him in it and was embarrassed when, visiting his house one evening, she spotted it still in the gift box on a shelf in his bedroom. Of the drugs Jack gave her, Andrea kept only a little for herself. She gave half the grass to Marsha and most of the speed to friends, who were thankful to have it during the rigorous exam weeks following the Christmas vacation. From then on the girls on Andrea’s floor had only to give her their list of wants in the area of illegal substances, and she made arrangements with Jack to supply them. This was less a favor to her friends than a way to see Jack more often.
On a raw weekend in March Jack brought Andrea to Jamaica Plain. She allowed herself to be flattered that he had telephoned beforehand. It rained heavily both nights she was there, and she and Jack spent the time inside, either in the living room or in his bedroom, listening to music, talking idly, making love. The household was no less strange than on her first visit, but she was able to cope with it now. Sid was indifferent or rude, but Andrea now understood that indifference and rudeness were the entire range of his behavior. Rita turned out to be quiet and friendly, though in a rather distant fashion. Morgie read and chattered, often at the same time, and proudly exhibited to Andrea the great piles of pasteboard boxes in her room, each neatly and fully packed with paperback books. “After about twenty years I figure I’ll be able to start through ’em all again,” she said. Andrea ignored Dominic as best she could, but was careful never to be alone in a room with him; she always felt his lingering glance on her.
Andrea was no longer afraid of Jack: he was always kind to her, in his brusque way, and he had a certain simplicity that she thought she might as well label innocence as anything else. And the fact was, she had fallen in love with him. Despite what she told herself, or Marsha, about the affair’s being no more than a physical indulgence, Andrea could not escape her feelings. But although she often amused herself thinking of what her parents’ reaction would be were they ever introduced to Jack, Andrea knew that finally she would agree with their estimation of him: that he was no good, and certainly no good for her. Their affair would not last forever, but this bittersweet conviction only increased Andrea’s affection for Jack. When they were in bed together and Jack had drifted into sleep pressed close to her, Andrea, cradled in his arms, felt safe. When bad dreams stirred him, she gently stroked his face and buried his sweating face against her breast.
Andrea tried to educate Jack into a greater emotional sensitivity; she thought that he would be a better person if he had a greater understanding of his own feelings—and of hers. So, frequently, after sex, Andrea would open her heart to him, in whispers revealing to him her fears and secrets, hoping that he would reciprocate. He never did. Once, when she was very stoned, Andrea even went so far as to tell to Jack her dreams of the blond girl who was herself and yet not herself—that nightmare she had found replicated in her waking life when she saw the photograph of the girl in Somerville and the nun at Nantasket Beach. This secondary confession was in lieu of telling him of her unknown parentage, which she had vowed to keep secret.
Jack’s imagination was snagged. “Hey,” he said, “you mean you’ve really got these doubles, and they look just like you?”
Andrea nodded.
“Let’s find ’em!” said Jack. “I want to see ’em, I want to see somebody who looks just like you!”
Andrea laughed nervously. “No,” she said, “I don’t want to know where they are, I don’t—”
“Don’t you want to meet ’em, see if they sound like you and everything? I’ll go find ’em and fuck ’em, and then I can tell you if they’re really just like you.”
Andrea laughed: �
�But that’s the whole point: they’re like me but they’re nothing like me. One’s this little frump whose father got murdered, and one’s a goddamn nun!”
“Nuns got cunts,” said Jack. “I could get it up for a nun!”
Andrea giggled.
“I want to find ’em,” laughed Jack. “Maybe you got two sisters your parents never told you about.”
“That’s stupid!” snapped Andrea. “It’s just coincidence. I’m a type and they’re a type, and that’s all there is to it. You’re stoned out of your fucking mind.”
“Yeah, but I’m always stoned. So where does this nun live?”
Andrea sighed. “Hingham. I saw her at Nantasket Beach, but I heard her say she was taking these kids back to Hingham. There must be a convent or a parochial school in Hingham, and she’s there . . . Jack, let’s just drop it—you’re bringing me down.”
Andrea was certain that this resolve on Jack’s part was only the result of too much grass, so she was surprised when, the next morning, he insisted on their driving to Hingham and finding the school and convent where Andrea’s double lived. At a gas station, Jack learned of the Convent of Saint Luke and the grammar school that was attached to it. They drove there and parked out front. Andrea tried to persuade Jack not to get out, but he complained, “How the hell will we know if she’s here if we don’t go see her? I’ll just walk over to the playground and look around. I’m not going inside or anything.”
“I wish you wouldn’t, I—”
Two nuns had crossed the street from the church toward the school, in front of the jeep, but they had stopped on the sidewalk and were staring into the parked vehicle. Wonder was on their faces as they looked at Andrea.
Blood Rubies Page 17
