Valentine (11 page)

For whatever reason, or complexity of reasons, Jill voluntarily became an Element. She followed the three women around the campus, reflected in the outer edge of their spotlight. She went to dorm parties to which she would never otherwise have been invited. She sat at the Power Table. She did their homework, which soon extended from mere calculus to other subjects as well. And when they sent her to deliver the fateful message to Victor Dimorta, she
trotted dutifully off, never once considering the potential consequence of what she was doing.

Afterward, when the damage was done, she would briefly try to justify her own actions, convincing herself that she had not really been involved. She hadn’t even been in Belinda’s room that night . . .

She had been in Tammy’s room, 408, directly across the hall from Belinda’s room. The two girls had listened as best they could, giggling together until the awful noises from across the hall had checked their laughter. Tammy had burst into tears and shrunk into a corner, useless. It had been she, Jill, who had called Campus Security.

She had waited several minutes then, until she finally worked up the courage to unlock Tammy’s door and step out into the hall. Sharon was there, naked to the waist, scratched and bleeding, surrounded by several other women from neighboring rooms. Jill had looked beyond her, through the open door to Belinda’s room. Cass and another student were kneeling over Belinda, who lay on the floor, moaning as she clutched her bloody nose. But what Jill remembered most about that terrible moment was the sight of the blood on the white wall behind Belinda. And the music: as she stared at the bizarre tableau before her, she heard the low, provocative voice of Sarah Vaughan singing “My Funny Valentine.”
It emanated from the sound system beside the small television on the other side of the room.

Whenever she thought about it later, she always associated the incident with the song. And whenever she heard the song, she shuddered involuntarily, even after the incident was forgotten.

Later, in the dean of students’ office, during the college’s official investigation, she would hear the so-called complete story of what happened that night. She was merely a witness, an accessory, and she had received no censure for that. In fact, the dean—a lean, handsome man in his forties whom she had later observed going into Sharon’s room after hours—hadn’t punished anyone.

Except Victor Dimorta.

Sharon had told the “official” story. Victor had been bothering them all for weeks, she announced to the dean and the two other college higher-ups who sat in on the hearing. That night, he’d tricked his way into Belinda’s room with a box of candy. When the three women had asked him to leave, he’d gone ballistic, tearing at their clothes as he removed his own, assaulting them physically. Belinda was not at the hearing: she was in the infirmary with a broken nose and a sprained ankle, the result of being thrown across the room and crashing into the wall. Cass had been shoved down onto the floor of the closet (no one mentioned that she’d been in there all the time,
recording the incident), and Sharon had escaped down the hall, half-clad, with only superficial scratches on her face and arms. Victor had run from the room after the attack. He’d fled into the elevator, stark naked, only to be wrestled to the floor in the lobby of the girls’ dorm building and taken into custody by three security guards. The physical evidence, including the broken chairs and lamps, together with Sharon’s steady, clear-eyed recounting of the virtual forced entry and assault, had caused the dean to dismiss the whole thing as being over and done with.

Almost.

Jill couldn’t remember now exactly what had possessed her to do what she did next. She certainly didn’t owe Victor any favors, and she wasn’t even very clear on what had transpired in Belinda’s room. But she knew one thing for certain: she was through with the Elements. She was through with standing by and knowingly abetting cruel mischief, with doing other people’s homework, with being a doormat in exchange for the illusion of acceptance. She realized with a little shock that she didn’t need these people. She was better than they, and there was only one way to resign from their dreary company. It forced its way up from the pit of her stomach, astonishing everyone, herself most of all. She’d been sitting on the couch against the back wall of the dean’s office,
listening to Sharon’s elaborate lies. Then, suddenly, she was on her feet.

“No!” she cried, and everyone else in the room immediately turned to stare at her. Slowly, as if in a trance, she brought up her arm and pointed at the beautiful blond girl in the chair across the desk from the dean. “She’s lying! That isn’t what happened. They tricked him, the three of them. It was one of their stupid practical jokes. They got him there that night so they could humiliate him, just like they humiliate everybody! Victor was invited to that room by
her
.” She stabbed her finger in Sharon’s direction. “I know: I delivered the note myself. Cass and Belinda were in the closet, watching. The whole thing was planned!”

The shocked silence that followed lasted mere seconds. Then Sharon Williams jumped up from her chair, whirling to face Jill.

“Bitch!” she shrieked. “Liar! She’s lying through her teeth, the nasty little dyke! Everybody knows why she’s been hanging around us!
Dyke!
”

The dean was immediately on his feet, raising an imperious hand to silence Sharon, who sank back into her seat. Then he stood clutching the desk in front of him, leaning toward the dark-haired freshman girl who stood, fists clenched at her sides, at the back of the room.

“That will be enough out of you, Ms. . . .”—he
glanced down at the report on his desk, then up at her—“Ms. Talbot. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but one more outburst like that and I’ll have you suspended! Do you understand me, young lady?”

Slowly—ever so slowly—Jill shifted her frosty, contemptuous gaze from Sharon Williams to the dean. For a long moment, she stared directly into his eyes. When at last she spoke, her voice was the merest whisper, but he heard it clearly.

“Shame on you,” she said, and then she turned around and marched out of his office.

Victor Dimorta was not present to hear her brave confession: he had been sent home, expelled, the day before.

She’d never had any more to do with the Elements. Two days later she’d gone into the cafeteria before them and deliberately sat at their table in front of the picture window, calmly eating her lunch. A few minutes later, Sharon Williams arrived. The older girl banged her tray down on the table across from her, leaned forward, and began to shout.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing? You get away from our table, you
traitor!
”

Jill had looked calmly up from her meal. As everyone in the room watched, she delivered her final words to the blond girl.

“This is my table now.
You
go away. And if you
or your creepy friends come near me again, I’ll call your parents and tell them what
really
happened. They may be interested to know what kind of daughters they have. Now get lost!”

Two fraternity boys at the next table began it, but soon the whole room joined in. One by one, every student present began to applaud. The hand-clapping was supplemented by hoots and whistles, and it soon evolved into a steady, rhythmic pounding of fists on tables. Then came the chant, rising in volume until it flooded the cafeteria with sound.

“
Jill! Jill! Jill! Jill!
. . .”

Sharon stared around at them all, incredulous. Then, with a last contemptuous glance at her former acolyte, she barged out of the room.

The Elements graduated at the end of the semester, and Jill was never bothered again. Only once, weeks later, did any of them so much as speak to her. Cass MacFarland stopped her outside a classroom and apologized for her participation in the prank, telling Jill that she admired her for doing the right thing, and for standing up to Sharon.

From that day in the cafeteria until her own graduation three years later, Jill remained one of the most popular people on campus. She joined a sorority and became president of the English Club, and on Friday nights she went to parties and sports events when she wasn’t leading a herd through the mall. She became
romantically involved with another student, who was her first lover. This relationship, though pleasant, was never very serious for either of them, and she went out with several other men as well. But she was always acutely aware of other people’s feelings: she kept a sharp eye out for the loners and the shy types, the students on the outside looking in, and she always invited them to join her and her friends at the table by the window.

And, as time went on, she forgot about the incident. She conveniently suppressed her memories of the alleged joke, the terrified screams, her brief glimpse of the broken furniture and the blood on the wall of Belinda’s room. She blocked out all recollection of her part, small as it was, in the events that had resulted in the expulsion of a boy whose only crime, as far as she could see, was his unattractiveness.

He came awake slowly, and the first thing he felt was the cold. He sat up on the lumpy mattress, rubbing his eyes with his fists, and for a long moment he couldn’t place where he was. Then, looking around the small, bare room, he remembered.

He stood up, pulling the rough brown blanket from the mattress and wrapping it around him as he made his bleary way over to the window. Snow: a swirling mist that all but obscured the room beyond the picture window across the street. He stuck his right arm out of the folds of the blanket and switched on the mike. After a moment he heard the faint sound of running water—the bathroom, he reasoned—and the high-pitched whistle of a teakettle. Then the faraway but distinct slap of bare feet on wood, and the whistle faded and stopped.

“Good morning,” he said aloud. “Good morning, Jillian Talbot.”

Taking his cue from her, he reached over to the portable gas stove on the table and turned it on. The tin pot on the ring was filled with water: he did that every night now, before going to bed. He picked up the little jar of instant coffee and spooned some into the white mug with the I
NY logo that he had bought at a souvenir shop on Seventh Avenue. While he waited for the water to boil, he sat in the armchair in front of the window, lit a Marlboro, picked up his binoculars, and peered through the snow at the building facing him.

It was snowing again. She took her mug of decaffeinated coffee over to the front window and stood gazing down at the street, thankful that there had been no nausea this morning. Ten o’clock: just about time to call Barney Fleck with the new information. She had told Nate about Victor Dimorta at dinner last night, but he was skeptical, muttering something about its being so long ago. When she’d added that she would mention it to the detective and talk to Dr. Philbin on Friday, he merely shrugged. He didn’t seem to be impressed by what little she remembered.

She paused in her reverie long enough to go into the office and call Barney Fleck. He was on the other line, but Verna Poole, the efficient secretary, cheerfully informed her that he already had two calls out
on her behalf. He was expecting some answers anytime now, and he would contact her as soon as he had them. She thanked the woman and hung up. Then she went over to one of the bookshelves and took down the large faux-leather maroon volume with the title,
Passages
, and the year embossed in gold on the cover. She came back into the living room and sat on the couch, opening the first of her four college yearbooks and scanning the pages. And there they were, smiling ingenuously for the photographer, all frosty lips and big hair and bare shoulders. Earth, Wind, and Fire . . .

She gazed down at the pretty faces, remembering.

The phone rang. Jill glanced down at her watch, surprised to find that it was now nearly eleven. She hurried into the office.

“Hello.”

“Ms. Talbot, this is Barney Fleck—”

“Yes, I’ve been expecting your call. Listen, there’s a new—”

“Hold on a minute!” the detective cried. “I’ve got some information for you. Don’t you want to hear—”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Fleck, but—”

“Barney.”

“Barney. Right. But I think I may have been a little premature about—”

“Whoa! Now, just hold on, Ms. Talbot.”

“Jill.”

His hearty laugh caused the receiver in her hand to vibrate. “Okay,
Jill
Don’t talk, just listen. I have the information you wanted about your ex-stepfather, Brian Marshall. I tracked him down through his first wife, the one you said was in New Jersey. I got ahold of her, and she put me in touch with him—in a manner of speakin’.”