The Butterfly Sister (14 page)

“You want
me
to do the assignment?”

“I promise I won't grade you.”

I looked to the door. The heavyset woman wearing the Tarble sweatshirt was leaving. “Isn't this my cue to go?”

She sat in the empty desk beside mine, like a waitress sometimes sits with you in the booth while taking your order, and pointed to the blue book. “Would it hurt? To give it a shot?”

I considered the assignment. “Yes.”

“That's called risk, Ruby. And writing without risk is not writing at all.”

“But I don't know where to start.”

“Start
in medias res,
” Professor Barnard said.
“
Start
now
.”

And then she walked away.

I stared at the blue book, opened the front cover, and stared some more at the blank page, and then, reluctantly, brought my pen to the paper.

The ink bled onto the page.

I
didn't share the details from Professor Barnard's classroom with Heidi until later that night, when we were halfway through watching
Breakfast at Tiffany's
.

“Sounds like she took a real liking to you.” Heidi raised her eyebrows up and down several times like Groucho Marx. “Doesn't surprise me. She seems to like the smart ones.”

“What does that mean?”

Heidi shrugged playfully, as if she knew exactly what she'd meant. “You're just her type, that's all.”

“Her type?” And then I understood what Heidi was insinuating. “You mean . . . she's . . . ?”

“She didn't come out or anything, but she teaches Gender Studies.”

“Heidi Callahan,” I said teasingly. “You haven't changed a bit. Just because she teaches Gender Studies doesn't mean she's gay.”

“The last two teachers before her were. Plus, she isn't married. And she's the adviser for those student protesters, and at least three of them are members of the campus LGBT club. Odds are I'm right. I mean, not that it matters. Not that there's anything wrong with it.”

I knew Heidi wasn't homophobic—her favorite aunt, her mother's sister, was openly gay. But she unintentionally fostered the misconception most people have of women's colleges—that they're some sort of lesbian love fest for students and teachers alike. When it came to issues of sexuality, I always employed the attitude Virginia Woolf took in
A Room of One's Own
: “Do not blush. Let us admit in the privacy of our own society that these things sometimes happen. Sometimes women do like women.”

I recalled my encounter with Professor Barnard from earlier that day. She had been kind, respectful, encouraging. Was it possible I'd misread her attention? Had she been hitting on me in some strange academic way that I was too oblivious to notice?

I was about to ask Heidi what she knew for certain about Professor Barnard—Where was she from? Where else had she taught?—but was silenced by a solid knock on Heidi's condo door. She opened it apprehensively, thinking one of her neighbors had called the building manager for noise disturbance at our recent rendition of “Moon River.” But it was Sarah Iverson, Beth's roommate; her hair was limp and wilted from the rain. I immediately recognized the girl's empty expression, as if her mind were somewhere far off, imprisoned by regret.

Sarah seemed to notice our pajama pants first. “I'm sorry to barge in on you,” she said. “But I just found out . . .” She looked to me, and her shoulders crumpled. “Oh, Ruby,” she said, before sobbing into my shoulder.

“It's okay,” I said, although I knew it wasn't. Her best friend was probably dead. It was only a matter of time before she learned that truth. But I let her cry into my shirt until I could hear breathing in between her sobs. Meanwhile, Heidi turned off the television.

When Sarah's crying turned to sniffles, I gestured to the living room couch behind us. “Would you like to talk?”

She nodded and followed me there. She sat on the couch slowly, as if she wasn't sure it could hold her weight, then accepted a Kleenex from the box of tissues Heidi had nonchalantly placed before her on the coffee table.

“I'll go make some coffee,” Heidi announced, giving us privacy.

“I'm trying not to think the worst,” Sarah started, her voice shaky. “But I can't help myself. What if . . . God, Ruby, what if Beth's dead?”

I laid my hand on top of hers. “You don't know that.”

“Why didn't I see anything on the news?” Sarah's eyebrows arched, her jaw hardened, as if crossing the ever thin line between sorrow and anger. “I feel like I should start a search team or make posters. Offer a reward.” She pulled another tissue from the box and blew her nose. “I feel terrible. I didn't know. Not until I saw Jodie Schwerdtman in Newton Center. She said you were the one with all the information.”

“Heidi was going to tell you when she saw you,” I explained. “And Beth's mom wanted to call you right away, but she didn't have your phone number.”

Sarah wiped her nose. “I didn't know you and Beth were friends.”

I detected a hint of jealousy in her tone. “Oh, Sarah. We weren't.” And I went on to tell the story about the suitcase.

“It's just strange that you're the one who knows everything. I mean, I'm her best friend. At least, I was. I feel bad. We didn't talk all summer.”

I repositioned myself on the couch. “You haven't talked to Beth since graduation?”

She nodded. “To be honest, we weren't talking before that either. It all seems so silly to me now.”

“I can't imagine what you two would argue about.” It was a question masked as a statement, and I felt a little sick to my stomach after I said it. It was coercive.

“It was silly stuff. Girl stuff.” She plucked another Kleenex from the box. “I blamed it all on Beth, but I realized later it was my fault. I was jealous.”

“Of Beth?”

“No, of her boyfriend.”

I swallowed. “Boyfriend?”

“Some guy. An older guy. I say that because he called our room once, and he sounded really old, like old enough to be my dad. After about the fifth time I asked her about him, Beth finally fessed up and told me he was a grad student at Marquette. She said she met him one of the weekends she went home to do laundry, at an ice cream parlor or pie place, something like that. I was happy for her, at first. I know how hard it is to meet decent guys here. You either end up dating a Kenosha townie or some jerk you already knew from high school. But she was so secretive and always driving up to see him. She stayed the weekends, or sometimes she'd stay on school nights. It was like I didn't have a roommate anymore.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“God, no. She wouldn't even tell me his name. It wasn't any of my business who she dated, she said. He was the reason we were growing apart. I blamed him for that.”

“That's understandable,” I said, realizing how lonely Heidi must have felt while I was off gallivanting with Mark.

“But it wasn't worth our friendship,” Sarah continued. “We got in this huge fight before winter break and we barely spoke to each other after that, other than to say stupid things like ‘Hey, are you ever going to do your laundry?' Or, ‘Hey, did you use my shampoo?' and it just got ugly and—”

“I'm sorry, but did you just say winter break?”

She nodded.

“Are you sure about that?” I asked.

Sarah narrowed her eyes, as if I had no grounds for questioning her memory. “I'm absolutely sure. She would leave for her English Lit class first thing in the morning and wouldn't come back until dinner, sometimes not until midnight. I started eating dinner with Jodie Schwerdtman.”

“English Lit,” I said, trying to swallow down a knot. “Was that with Mark Suter?”

She nodded. “And it just got worse after that. I was pissed because she promised I could use her car to do my education observation hours second semester. But she said I keyed it. Some jerk scratched up the side of her driver-side door, and she blamed it on me. I had to go buy a shitty used Escort.”

I grew light-headed then, and held on to the sofa cushion for support. “What kind of car did Beth drive?” I asked.

Sarah crinkled her nose, as if she couldn't fathom why it would matter. “A Jetta.”

“What color?”

She paused, still confused by the out-of-context questions. “Black.”

That cold, December night came back to me then with twenty-twenty hindsight. It was Beth, her curvy silhouette I'd seen through Mark's front window that night. Beth had straddled Mark on the couch. It was Beth's car parked outside the cabin that night, not Meryl's.

“Look, I knew we wouldn't grow to be old spinsters or anything,” Sarah said, refocusing the conversation. “I just never thought we would let a guy come between us.”

But I wasn't listening anymore. Because I suddenly knew why I'd been obsessing over Mark and Beth, why I hadn't let go, why I'd agreed to come back to Tarble. I'd known the truth all along, subconsciously, buried under the superficial belief that Beth and Mark's relationship happened months after he broke things off with me, only after his fight to save his marriage had failed. I'd known, deep inside, that Mark hadn't tried to patch things with Meryl.

He'd dumped me for Beth.

And in a split second, Beth Richards was no longer the nice girl down the hall who lent out her luggage. She was no longer Janice's daughter or the brainy photographer. She was not the beautiful, young woman whose life was cut short by a serial killer.

She was the other woman.

Chapter 10

T
he drive to campus from Heidi's apartment seemed much longer than two minutes on Saturday morning, mainly because I sensed her eyes on me whenever she wasn't looking at the road or the speedometer. Heidi had spent the whole morning watching over me like a mother hen while she cooked us French toast, while we watched the weekend morning news show. She knew my conversation with Sarah had unnerved me. I could see that fact in her flat-lipped smile and pensive eyes.

“So?” she finally said.

“So what?”

“So what do you think of the coffee?”

I looked down at the pink Breast Cancer Awareness travel mug she'd handed me before we left her place. I'd actually forgotten I was holding it. I was still fixated on what Sarah had told me the night before.

I took a sip. “It's good.”

“Did you notice the flavor?”

“Vanilla?”

“It's hazelnut,” she blurted. “I must not have put enough in. I thought you'd notice right away and say something.”

I took an exaggerated sip and nodded profusely. “It's totally hazelnut. I can taste it now.”

“I bought flavored creamer when I knew you were coming. The kind we liked.”

“I remember,” I said. “Thanks.”

Heidi kept her eyes on the road this time. “You're welcome.”

She was quiet the rest of the ride, so I drank the remainder of my coffee quickly to prove my appreciation, and to get another dose of caffeine to my brain. We were a few feet away from the campus entrance before Heidi spoke again.

“It's still chilly, but at least the rain stopped,” she said, resorting to the age-old topic of weather. “Thanks for helping me get things organized for the parade.”

The day before, I'd promised to help Heidi with the Reunion parade, when she was stressed-out by everything on her plate—Reunion festivities, Julie Farris damage control, Beth's vigil. But now, the thought of standing in a crowd—gawking at Kenosha's finest middle school and high school marching bands and floats covered in crepe paper stuffed into chicken wire—sounded like a horrendous way to spend the morning. I hadn't slept most of the night, thanks to my discussion with Sarah. Questions had played and replayed in my mind like a song set on repeat. How did it happen? When did it start? Did Beth linger too long after English Literature one day? Had she laughed at all of Mark's jokes over an innocent cup of coffee? Perhaps they drank wine. Maybe Mark gulped too many glasses of Shiraz and couldn't say no when she offered herself to him. Had one thing simply led to another?

And the most pressing question of all: Why did Mark choose Beth over me?

That question festered inside me until I birthed an anger toward Beth Richards I never thought possible. Beth was missing, most likely dead, and yet I hated her. I hated her for taking Mark away from me.

Now in Heidi's car, I started to feel nauseated from drinking the coffee so fast.

“I'm not feeling well,” I told her. “Do you mind if I skip the parade?”

“Well, I
can't
skip it. It's kind of my job.”

“Can I meet up with you after?”

Heidi turned onto campus drive then, so quickly, I had to grab the
Oh Shit
bar on the inside of the door.

“Where do you want me to drop you off?”

I shrugged. “The library, I guess.”

“Your old stomping grounds.”

“What does that mean?”

“Isn't that where you went all the time? To work on your thesis? It was always the library or the diner off campus.”

“You're still mad at me.”

“I'm not . . . Ruby, I don't understand. Everything was fine. Things were going great. You were having fun last night. I saw it all over your face. You'd forgotten all about the Julie Farris thing. And then you had your private chat with Sarah Iverson, and it's like I've lost you all over again. You were acting weird last night and this morning and right now.” She sighed, as if exhausted by the recount of the last twelve hours. “What did you two even talk about?”

“Just Beth.”

“Beth Richards has you
this
upset?”

“Well, she's probably dead, Heidi.”

I immediately regretted saying this, because I was using Beth's likely death as a cover for the awful jealousy I felt toward her. But how could I tell Heidi, an employee of the college, the truth about Beth and Mark, the truth about Mark and me?

“I just wish you'd tell me what's going on instead of shutting me out again,” Heidi said. “I thought we were going to make a fresh start.”

“I just need a break from all of this Reunion stuff,” I explained. “Coming back here was really hard for me.”

“Don't you think it's hard for me? Putting our friendship on the line again?”

Her words slapped me with guilt. I hadn't even considered Heidi's feelings.

“I'll help you with the parade,” I said.

“I don't want you to.” She pulled up to Langley Hall. “If you still want to have lunch with me, I'll meet you back here at eleven thirty.”

I nodded and got out of her car, then came around to the driver-side door to say something more.

Instead, I watched Heidi drive away.

T
he library wasn't open yet. Heidi must have known that, and yet she hadn't told me. So I stood outside the glass doors, waiting for the librarians to unlock them. When I heard someone come through the main entrance of Langley Hall, I expected to see Heidi, thinking she'd come back to apologize for driving off so abruptly. But it was Professor Virginia Barnard. I didn't recognize her at first glance; her hair was down—her weekend look, I supposed. She was wearing a vintage housedress similar to the day before, only red. I watched her blond locks sway across her shoulder blades as she started up the spiral staircase.

She didn't notice me watching her until she was on the third step.

“Ruby,” she said, reverting down the stairs toward me. “Ruby Rousseau.”

I smiled. “Good morning, Professor Barnard. Good memory.”

“Well, don't give me too much credit. It was only yesterday.” She pointed at the glass doors behind me. “Are you waiting for the library to open?”

I nodded.

“There must be something more exciting for a girl your age to be doing.”

“I like the library. It's quiet.”

I noticed the professor carried a large bag filled to the brim with books, papers, and file folders. I gestured at the workload burdening her shoulder. “Isn't there something more exciting for you to do on a Saturday morning than grade papers?”

She looked down at her work as if she'd forgotten it was there. “But I'm a college professor. I've already resigned to a boring life.” She smiled at me, her left eye winking. “Walk with me up to my office, will you? We can talk about your essay.”

“You promised you wouldn't grade me.”

“And my promise is my word. But I wouldn't be able to call myself a teacher if I didn't give you at least
some
feedback.”

Hazelnut-flavored stomach acid suddenly rose up my throat.

“Is something wrong, Ruby?” she asked.

“I'm not feeling well,” I told her. “Nausea.”

“I have just the thing for that. My office is just upstairs.”

She started up the steps again, but I paused, remembering Heidi's comment from the night before, about my being Professor Barnard's type. The professor moved so quickly, though, I had no choice but to follow her up the winding staircase to her windowless third-floor office.

“It looks like I live here, because I practically do,” she said, removing a dirty coffee mug and half-eaten blueberry muffin from her desk. “I burn the midnight oil, so to speak.”

Accepting a seat on a blue-and-white-plaid chair, I perused the room and took in every inch of decor—a collage of photos tacked to a cork board, a poster from a production of Ibsen's
A Doll's House,
the entire three acts of
Macbeth
condensed to one poster
,
and a 1980s READ poster featuring a young Goldie Hawn curled up with a book. Goldie looked surprised, as if the fake book she was reading had just delivered another plot twist.

The decor seemed mismatched and disparate, and I wondered if the professor had chosen the wall coverings herself or inherited the office that way.

Meanwhile, the professor stood at a makeshift kitchenette, a small pushcart housing a microwave, a hot pot, and a four-cup coffeemaker. She turned the knob on the hot pot, which sent a hissing sound into the small space.

“It's an herbal tea recipe my grandmother passed down to me: wild yam, alfalfa, ginger, sage, and chamomile,” she said. “You'd be surprised how quickly the nausea vanishes. It does wonders for women with morning sickness.”

I watched her scoop dried leaves from a bag and place them into a metal infuser ball. I wasn't in the mood for tea, per se. I'd been thinking more about a slice of plain, white bread, something to sop up the bitterness of coffee. But as I relaxed in the high-back chair, within the cozy confines of her office, a cup of tea started to sound like exactly what I needed.

I watched the professor tighten the cap on the ball, then let it swing on its chain below her hand, like a pendulum. “What has brought you back to Tarble?” she asked.

I wanted to play with the syntax of her question, change it to: “What has brought Tarble back to you?” Because it was the suitcase and Beth Richards and
A Room of One's Own
and Mark that tempted me to return to campus, not an innate desire to relive the good ole' days of college.

“Friends,” I told her instead. And as if I needed another excuse, I added, “I'm going to the vigil on Sunday, the one for the missing girl.”

“Yes, Beth Pritchard?” She gestured to a piece of paper on her desk. It looked like a memorandum from the president about the vigil.

“Richards,” I corrected.

“Sorry.” She cringed at her faux pas. “Were you friends?”

I shrugged, wondering if Beth had known about me. Had she found pleasure in stealing Mark from under my nose?

The water began to steam above the hot pot then, and Professor Barnard went about pouring my tea into a massive ceramic mug. She dunked the ball into the water several times before handing the cup to me with two hands, gently so as not to spill the hot liquid.

As I sipped the tea I watched her remove a file folder from her bag and from that, a blue book, my blue book from the day before. She didn't hand it to me at first. Rather, she began flipping through the pages.

“How do you like the tea?” she asked.

I nodded my approval.

She concentrated again on my essay. “Your friend Heidi was right; you are modest.” She turned the pages slowly, like a mother might stir a pot of chicken soup at the stove while she solved the problems of her children seated at the kitchen table. “Because this is brilliant, Ruby. Yes, you started slow. Reserved. Afraid, even. But by the end, it was the best analysis I've seen from a student in a long time.”

I leaned forward to glimpse my handwriting on the page. It looked foreign. Sloppy and dark, as if I had pressed on the tip of the pen with my whole weight.

“Thank you,” I said. “But I don't even remember what I wrote.”

She handed me the blue book then, as if to jog my memory. I flipped through the pages just as she had.

“It's unfortunate I wasn't teaching here while you were still a student,” she said. “I would have been honored to have someone so insightful in my class. I assume you're in graduate school?”

I shook my head no.

“Teaching? Secondary education perhaps?”

“I work for a newspaper in Chicago.”

“A journalist?”

I nodded from behind the blue book. “More or less.”

“Well, I was particularly impressed by your ability to step inside the author's mind, to feel what she felt, to see things as she saw them,” she continued. “I am a big fan of Teasdale and her poetry, and I found your essay eerily intuitive, almost as if you were channeling Teasdale's spirit.”

She pointed to her corkboard then, at a photo of a woman wearing a wide brim hat and scarf. Sara Teasdale. I recognized the poet from my research the year before. I set my essay on the desktop then. Uncontrolled, my fingers shook.

She noticed. “Ruby, what's wrong?”

“I'm the girl they were talking about yesterday in class,” I said. “The one who tried to kill herself last year.”

The professor's lips parted but no words came out.

“So that's why my analysis was so good,” I added. “I wasn't writing from Teasdale's point of view, but my own.”

She shook her head in self-chastisement. “I apologize, Ruby. I had no idea. Writing this essay must have been very painful for you. I feel terrible.”