by Nina Laurin
But Byron wants to have his cake and eat it too. Or, more precisely, to live in his late wife’s house, yet to make love to his flexible twentysomething new wife passionately on their bed at the same time. My mother always did say men aren’t monogamous creatures…
The thought jolts me out of inaction. Anger surges, and I grab the first thing within reach—a copper vase from a decorative table—and throw it. Blindly, without aiming at anything in particular, without intending to do any real damage. But damage usually happens anyway, whether we intend it or not. Dread fills the pit of my stomach when the vase hits the glass top of the coffee table with a pin-sharp, characteristic crack.
Tiptoeing up to it—as if it were a wild animal—I assess the damage. The elegant little table is beyond saving: a web of cracks radiates from the point of impact. Great, another thing of Colleen’s that I’ve wrecked.
I cast a glance around the open space. Through the archway to the kitchen, I see the cold toast sticking out of the toaster, the no-longer-steaming coffee cup under the spout of the coffee machine. My laptop is where I left it, on the couch.
I know exactly what to do.
I start across the living room toward the couch, and sharp pain drives itself into the pad of flesh below my big toe, drawing a yelp from me. Hopping to the couch, I twist my foot to see a shard of glass sticking out of the roughened skin, thin and glinting.
I pull on it, and a tiny little drop of blood forms, a red pearl.
CHAPTER TEN
My foot has been coated with Neosporin, Band-Aid affixed neatly over the puncture. The floor has been swept thoroughly, although I didn’t find any other bits of glass. Finally, I curl up on the couch, my injured foot tucked under me, a fresh cup of coffee in hand.
All things in order, in their own time. I remember what Rea said about Byron. The police, she said. They thought he was involved somehow. Is that how she put it? Just to be sure, I google Colleen once more but the row of links is so familiar I think I could recite them by heart. Hardly surprising, seeing how she’s been dead for eight years. So instead, I google my husband.
After I type his name into the search field, pages and pages of results come up. That’s to be expected, considering his first name. The first three or four links are official. The college’s site with his profile and professional organizations. I click through them, just to be sure I’m not missing anything. There’s a head shot of Byron, a good ten years younger, and information I already know in neat columns of text.
The link right below those is an interesting one. RateProf.com.
As soon as I click on it, I wish I hadn’t.
PinkiePie13: Prof. Westcott is awesome. Yeah he’s tough, and he won’t pass you just for showing up, and if you’re taking his class prepare to read…a lot. But it’s all worthwhile. That, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s hot. There. I said it.
BrooklynBaby: He’s one of those who make a really boring subject sort of interesting. But watch out, he’s a tough grader! If you wanna do well, pay attention, do the readings, and DON’T SKIP CLASS!
Bholmes: Westcott sucks. I took the class as an elective, and he could show a little effing understanding. I’m an artist NOT A WRITER and I may not have been officially diagnosed but I AM dyslexic, yet when I told him that’s why I can’t read twelve books in a single term, he was a total dick about it. Wouldn’t round my grade up TWO LOUSY POINTS now I have a C and my GPA is fucked. Asshole. 0/5.
AsherBeckett99: LOL @ Bholmes. You know this guy plays favorites right?? He only goes easy on the girls. The hot girls. Which is like ¾ of the whole group, so yeah, if you don’t have tits, you’re fucked.
MaddieDoll: You guys, stop it. Teachers actually look at this thing. He’s a good teacher. That’s all. No need to get salty because you slacked off all semester and he failed you. Just saying.
I scroll past page after page of this. And then something catches my eye. At first I think I imagined it but when I scroll back up, there it is. Glaring at me from the screen.
Notyourmothersfeminist: Hey. Does everyone not see a huge problem with a guy who was accused of murdering his wife and is still allowed to teach?
Here, I’m posting a link to an article about what happened to his wife, feminist painter Colleen May. She used to teach here too, years ago, and shortly after she quit she died under strange circumstances. Here’s another link about her in the Canvas:
I can’t help but roll my eyes a little. The student newspaper at the college is called The Canvas. The pretentiousness of it.
For the link-phobic: May’s death was ruled a suicide despite a near-total lack of evidence of this. Her body has never been found, which of course makes it hard to prove that there had been foul play. But here’s the kicker: I have it on good authority that they did consider Westcott a person of interest, if not an actual suspect. I spoke to someone who’s doing her master’s, and she knew someone who was questioned about Byron Westcott back in the day. He was cleared—I don’t have the info on why exactly—and went on teaching as before. BUT DON’T YOU THINK BEING A SUSPECT ALONE SHOULD BE GROUNDS FOR DISMISSAL??? The fact that it was hidden from the public was bad enough!!! Students have a right to know this. He’s in a position of authority over vulnerable young women. That’s…alarming. #patriarchy #rapeculture
TateTheMate: So…what, no due process? No innocent till proven guilty? Guy’s wife kills herself, we have to fire him from his job too?
Ramonathepest: Oh my god. That article. All that evidence and the guy walks free? Disgusting.
Notyourmothersfeminist: Ugh, here we go. The valiant defenders of the poor defenseless menz. It’s very possible the guy got away with murder. And I think young women’s lives should come before his little material comforts. Check your privilege Tate.
Ramonathepest: Sounds like he should be in jail.
WokieMcWokeface: We should stage a protest. Like a massive walkout of one of his classes. I’ll post about it in the group.
Ramonathepest: Yeah. Good luck with convincing all his little fangirls.
WokieMcWokeface: Women participating in #rapeculture are so disgusting.
Notyourmothersfeminist: BYRON WESTCOTT SHOULD BE FIRED.
It goes on like this for a while, and the whole thing breathes such vitriol right through the screen that it makes my eyes water. I check the dates on the posts: a year ago almost to the day. Yet I can’t recall anything out of the ordinary happening—or maybe it did but he never told me. Clearly, it went nowhere or I would have heard about it one way or another.
I open the links in new tabs. Then I copy and paste the screen names into a note, to search later.
I find myself wishing desperately there was someone else I could ask—discreetly—what exactly went on. I mentally go over the few friends and colleagues Byron brought over to the house since I’ve lived here. There is, of course, Emily, but the thought of seeing her one-on-one fills me with primal dread. Just thinking about her makes my stomach squeeze painfully, a phantom tide of nausea threatening to spill over.
Friends, then. Byron’s friends. Even in the age of Facebook, friends is a word loaded with many different meanings where Byron is concerned. At first, I attributed his lack of meaningful connections—except for Emily, who is family—to Colleen. Perhaps after she passed, mutual friends distanced themselves, deliberately or not. And after you’ve been married as long as Byron and Colleen, most of your friends are mutual. But that would be more normal for a divorce, not a death. After a death, you’d think the contrary would be true—the friends would reach out to offer their support.
Of course, Colleen’s death was anything but ordinary, which explains a lot.
It’s not like he doesn’t have any friends. Every holiday so far, he’s gotten plenty of invitations and accepted most of them. That, he told me, is just how things are done at the college: You have to mingle, you have to fit in, especially if you’re hoping for tenure one day.
One thing isn’t there, however—the real conn
ection. He always reminded me of myself that way. At first, I found it endearing, a sign that he was too complicated and profound for most normal people, with their predilection for sports, reality TV, and small talk.
Then I started to notice a tendency that didn’t bother me much, at first. Every time, after the party was over, once we were in the car on the way home, he would start to dissect the hosts in a kind of joking, not really mocking way. Everything from appearance to what they said. God, can you believe that guy? Forty-two is too old to have long hair, especially when you’ve got a bald spot the size of Texas on top of your head. Did you hear Myra talking about modernist poetry all night? So you’ve read some W. H. Auden—hardly cancels out the fact that the rest of the time you subsist on airport paperbacks.
It makes him sound mean, except for the fact that he was always spot-on and observant, pinpointing things I’d noticed subconsciously but couldn’t articulate. And it made me laugh too. Not because I’m such a bad person, but because it made me feel like we had something together, a complicity.
Now, as I mentally go over the not-so-long list of his contacts, I can barely remember their names. Only the little nicknames Byron gave them behind closed doors. Byron doesn’t have a Facebook account—he thinks social media is a futile waste of time—and I don’t have one either. Not because he would disapprove, but because I don’t need one. No one to keep in touch with, no one to brag to about my supposedly perfect life. But his colleagues sure do. Derek Hollis, a film studies professor from the college, is the first one I come across. I click on the Message icon. You must log in or sign up to do that, Facebook informs me smugly.
Okay. Fair enough. I create an account as C. Greene (my maiden name), intentionally leaving everything blank. I can deal with it later—I suppose I’ll need this account again, and I might want to keep it anonymous for now. Then I write Derek a message.
Hi, it’s Claire, Byron’s wife. It was nice seeing you—
Here I have to pause and try to remember exactly when was the last time I saw him in person. Right—he and his boyfriend, at the Fourth of July party of another one of Byron’s friends.
—at Renata’s party. Sorry to reach out like this, at random, but I wanted to talk to you about—
Another pause for thought.
—a surprise for Byron. Message me here or give me a call on my cell, here’s the number.
Best,
Claire Greene Westcott
I hesitate a long time before hitting Send, knowing there won’t be any turning back after that. Then I realize there is no turning back anyway.
Once the message is sent, I take a deep breath and go make myself another cup of coffee. When I get back to the computer, I do a Facebook search for the names I saw on the forum. It doesn’t take long to find a girl named Ramona who goes to Mansfield Liberal Arts College. I send her a friend request, then search the other posters from the forum by handle: Sure enough, most of them turn up at the click of a cursor. I send requests to all of them. By the time I’m done, Ramona and one other have already accepted.
Nervous, I check the inbox. Nothing. The message hasn’t been read yet.
I click over to the other windows and reread the links posted on the forum. But I’ve read this brief article from the local newspaper many times in the past.
POLICE CLOSE INVESTIGATION INTO ARTIST’S DISAPPEARANCE; DROWNING RULED A SUICIDE
Mansfield, OH—Local police have announced that they’re closing the investigation of the suspected drowning of 37-year-old painter Colleen Westcott, known under her artist name, Colleen May.
Roland Hewson, chief of the Mansfield police force, has stated that no concrete evidence of foul play has been discovered in the probe. Hewson also stated that evidence in the form of what might be a note from the victim has convinced him that the disappearance of Colleen Westcott is a suicide.
Westcott disappeared on April 11, 2010, and her car was found parked near the waterfront in Cleveland two days later. The ensuing weeklong search yielded no results, and her body has never been found. However, a leather coat identified as belonging to Westcott washed ashore half a mile from the pier where her car was parked. Westcott was declared dead by the authorities in 2011.
I close the window, annoyed. These things never have enough detail. “What might be a note”? What on earth is that supposed to mean? It either is or isn’t.
They think Colleen is dead or they think she disappeared. There’s a difference.
Apprehensive, I click over to the next window.
The Mansfield College Canvas, reads a large, flashy header. Here’s an article that didn’t show up in my earlier searches.
STUDENTS OBSERVE DAY OF MOURNING DEDICATED TO BELOVED PROFESSOR
Today, April 11, 2011, from noon until one, a performance art piece will be held in the main atrium to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the death of fine arts professor Colleen May. (The student newspaper, it seems, didn’t bother with Westcott.) Although Dr. May hadn’t taught in two years before her disappearance, she marked this campus in the best possible ways. Her students, many of whom have moved on to advanced degrees and made their names as artists, remember her fondly.
There are more details about this “performance art piece” but I really can’t be bothered with it. It seems like it’s not so much about Colleen than the ones who plan on milking her death for extra exposure—and possible bonus points on their grades. I close the window. Nothing useful here.
My phone rings, jarring me away from my thoughts, and when I pick it up to look, it’s an unknown number.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the warm, bright room skewered by sunlight pouring through the windows, I feel cold, with a prickling feeling on the back of my neck, like I’m being watched—or like I did something bad and am about to get caught. I’m overcome with a sensation of vulnerability, alone and exposed in this airy room like a goldfish that becomes aware of her tank for the first time.
I wipe my hand on my shirt and try to calm myself before I pick up the phone, telling myself it’s probably Derek. But when I do pick up, the only answer to my slightly breathless hello is empty static.
I open my mouth to say hello again, three, four, five more times—but no sound comes out. I already know it’s pointless but I listen to the silence, unable to muster the will to hang up.
When the voice comes, it’s female, low, muffled somehow, as if she’s speaking through thick glass.
“Where is it, Claire? What did you do with it? Tell me where it is.”
“I…I’m sorry?” I stammer.
The click is short and sudden, and I realize I’m listening to silence once more—real silence this time. The connection has ended. Dumbstruck, I look at the phone and then put it down carefully. With sweaty hands, I thumb through the call log—there it is, twelve seconds long, although it felt much longer to me. Number unknown. But I didn’t dream it up.
My breath leaves me in a long, shuddering sigh. A woman. A real, flesh-and-blood woman on the other end of the phone. She’s not just in my head. She emailed me. She took the painting out of the trunk of my car.
Colleen, breathes a ghostly voice. It spreads under my skin like ice water. It’s Colleen.
But Colleen is dead.
A soft little chime from the computer makes me jump and knock over the coffee cup with my foot. Coffee splatters all over the surviving low table, leaking treacherously under the art books. Cursing, I jump up and snatch the books away too late; the back covers are wet, dripping on the floor and the couch. It takes the better part of twenty minutes to deal with the mess, and by the time it’s done, I almost manage to forget what caused it in the first place.
Right. I pick up my laptop again, and my heart jumps happily when I see I have a new message.
Hi Claire, Derek Hollis writes. I want in! Let’s meet up and talk. My lunch break is from two to three thirty today. There’s a coffee shop close to campus. Just be warned, that ol’ bastard can’t be surprised
.
And a winking face.
That ol’ bastard can’t be surprised. Something about it seems sinister. Or maybe it’s the day I’m having, with all the creepy nonsense.
I check the time—I have plenty—and write back. He replies practically in real time. Cool! It’s a date. See you there.
* * *
Derek Hollis is not the type of person to meet at a Starbucks, unlike Rea. I’m not surprised when I get to the address: It’s one of those fair-trade-organic-vegan places. When I get a latte with regular milk instead of soy, the two heavily tattooed girls behind the counter, cashier and barista, don’t say anything but wrinkle their noses throughout the transaction, as if my credit card has a bad smell. Since I never ended up eating any breakfast, I also find myself forced to get one of those strange dry things that pass for a date square. I carry my plate and coffee to a more or less secluded table in the corner.
At this hour, lunch rush has passed but the place remains fairly busy. It has to be a question of ethics and not taste—when I pry a piece of date square away with my fork and pop it into my mouth, it’s pretty much just ground-up dates and walnuts. My stomach starts to churn before I’ve finished chewing.
Luckily, that’s when I spy Derek, lingering by the counter with his back to me as he studies the menu. I spit the date square into a napkin, ball it up, and stuff it under the rim of the plate just before he turns around and notices me. He waves, and I wave back.
He orders an herbal tea, then comes over to join me, setting the mug on the table.
“Claire! It’s been a while.” I agree with a nod, and he goes on, telling me I look nice (I look haggard and frumpy, and I know it) and asking me how Byron is doing, how my novel is doing, and what on earth is that surprise, since Byron’s birthday is in March.
