“Me? No, he was rude. The guy’s got to know what you think of Jesse, and he was throwing out all the shit just to milk you for info on Randall. He needs to move on. Randall’s too intense for that guy anyway. But just in case you were wondering—” April paused for effect, pulling a cigarette free from the pack Kathryn had just removed from her jacket pocket “—Jesse obviously isn’t the only guy on this campus who goes through people like a Ginsu knife.”
“Tim and Randall dated, April.”
April rolled her eyes.
“How’s that shot treating you?” Kathryn finally asked. “Are you rolling?”
“Shit. It’s Sig.”
“God bless you.”
“Sigrid,” April hissed.
Kathryn followed her roommate’s spooked stare to where one of April’s previous girlfriends of the moment stood smoking in a corner of the patio, shooting slant-eyed glances at the surrounding crowd, as if any number of the other guests were going to slap an apron on her and force her to cook dinner.
“Is that Abba?”
“I told you not to call her that. You and Randall need to start learning people’s real names. You’re both sociopaths.”
The girl had claimed to be Swedish royalty, so rather than risk embarrassment in attempting to pronounce her name, Kathryn and Randall had nicknamed her after the famous Swedish pop group. “How royal is she, exactly?”
“I have to talk to her.”
“Why? You dumped her last month.”
“That’s why I have to talk to her. It’s like noblesse oblige. Wait here.”
“For what?”
But April was already crossing the patio. Kathryn turned, scanning the other guests to see if anyone had begun staring at the girl who had just been left standing awkwardly by herself.
Where the hell was Randall?
She shoved her way back inside. There was no sign of Tim in the kitchen, so she edged into the front hallway and stopped in the doorway to the living room, narrowing her eyes against the flashing strobe lights to make out the wild forms on the dance floor. There were plenty of blonde heads, but none of them belonged to Randall.
When her eyes met Jesse Lowry’s, her breath came out in a startled hiss.
He was dancing halfway across the living room, and his partner was a stick figure of a brunette who clung to Jesse’s broad frame as if she were in a drunken swoon. Their slow, swaying embrace was completely out of synch with the urgent disco. Jesse wore his usual UCLA baseball cap, with the bill shading his eyes from the flashing strobe lights, but Kathryn could make out his slight, suggestive smile, directed now at her. It was a smile that implied Kathryn had been watching Jesse for hours. He wore a tight, cable-knit sweater that accented the swells of his chest. Most girls went weak in the knees—not unlike his current dancing partner and next victim—when Jesse bothered to look their way. Kathryn had trained herself to react to him with a mixture of disgust and suspicion.
They stared icily at each other for several seconds. Kathryn saw that Jesse’s other arm was plastered between his body and the girl’s, and she realized it wasn’t alcohol that had turned the girl into a limp noodle in Jesse’s embrace. One of Jesse’s hands disappeared into the unbuttoned, distended waistline of the girl's jeans. She was rocking up onto her toes, trying to bring her mouth to Jesse’s, before her intended kiss became a defeated gasp against his cheek.
Jesse withdrew his hands from the girl’s pants. His eyes locked on Kathryn’s, he slid his middle finger between his lips. Kathryn left the doorway.
When he returned home from getting Chinese takeout that evening, it had still been light out. Eric lingered in the dark on the first floor, where the snowy windows glowed brighter than anything inside the house. The parked cars along Victoria Street sat beneath layers of white, and the snowfall had thinned to frail flakes that danced on their descent; the evening’s storm had turned into a dusting.
Wearing only his bathrobe, he padded across the living room without hitting a single switch. He turned on the gas fireplace with a flick of his wrist and lit it with the fireplace lighter. The flames caught with a sudden whoosh as they punched through the fake charred coals. Weak firelight played across The Garden of Earthly Delights and Eric was struck by the flickering image of Hieronymus Bosch’s altarpiece. Above the bookcase, Eden, Earth, and Hell were dancing in the frame. He had launched his academic career with a controversial book that claimed that the medieval painter wasn’t truly a member of the established church, but a mitigated Cathar who held the heretical belief that the earth was Satan’s terrain, and the body a trap from which one must spiritually escape, and whose vile desires must be denied.
Eric stared up at the painting that had once so shaped his worldview. The cluster of wild academic theories it opened up had seemed to speak directly to his own inhibitions and fears. Still fresh with Randall’s sweat, he couldn’t fight the feeling that the Cathars were wrong. The body wasn’t a trap, but a door to sensations he had denied himself for far too long.
Halfway to the kitchen, something hard banged his knee and he stepped back. He had walked into the liquor cabinet door, which Lisa had left standing open. Angrily, he kicked it shut, then had to admit to himself that he was hardly in any position to curse his wife’s forgetfulness. Never mind that Lisa had spent the last three years of her life establishing scotch and painkillers as staples of her diet; he could still taste Randall in his mouth. .
In the kitchen, he flicked on the overhead light, glancing at the phone. Lisa had left one of her usual notes, cursory and by now unnecessary. “Went to Paula’s,” they usually said. Or, “Paula had a bad week. Be back Mon. Prob Late.” They were as terse and bloodless as their marriage had been almost since its beginning. What more could be expected of a bond Eric had sought as if it were a Ph.D., another credential meant to tether him to a world with established rules? But in the beginning, Lisa hadn’t seemed to want much more either. Only too late had Eric realized that his wife required more than a companion, or a weight beside her in the bed. Now, Eric was sure that a part of Lisa was relieved by her sister’s cancer, for she could escape Eric every weekend for someone who truly needed her.
When the phone rang, he was propping open the refrigerator with one hip. Startled, he turned and crossed to the phone, the fridge door making a soft thud as it glided shut behind him. His hand almost to the receiver, his eyes landed on the note written on the banana-shaped stationery usually reserved for grocery lists.
I SAW. I KNOW
His breath didn’t catch; it simply stopped, and then a painful stab in his chest reminded him to breathe. He realized the phone still summoned him.
“Hello?”
“Is this Eric Eberman?” An unfamiliar female voice, its tone clipped and professional. “Sir, is this. ..”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Pat Kellerman, sir. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Lisa?”
“Your wife’s been in an accident.”
He looked down at the note he held in one hand. The urge to tear it in two struck him with such sudden force that he almost dropped the phone. Instead, he opened the nearest drawer with one hand and slid it inside, shutting it slowly so as not to be heard on the other end. By the time the woman was explaining that a patrol car was on its way to pick him up, Eric remembered the wail of sirens that had stopped only twenty minutes earlier.
Behind them, Burton House still shook. Tim rested his head in both open palms as Kathryn fished a cigarette for him out of her jacket pocket. Guests were beginning to depart, their shadows vanishing into the darkness of Fraternity Green. Some of them bravely turned left into the Elms, Kathryn noticed, as she handed Tim the cigarette and he took it with a weak smile.
“What was in those goddamn Jell-0 shots anyway?” Tim asked with a groan.
“You don’t want to know.”
Tim exhaled his first drag. “Smoking kills, you know.”
“Shit. Why didn’t anyone
tell me?”
They smoked.
“Sorry about earlier,” Tim muttered.
Kathryn feigned ignorance by staying quiet.
“I just wanted to know what’s going on with him.”
“Jesse?” Kathryn asked.
“No. Randall.”
So April was right, and there was someone else at Atherton who had Randall on the brain. The realization made her feel at once less alone and less privileged. She had assumed that Randall’s fling with the guy he had referred to as Bob Woodward in spandex was doomed from the start. The guy rarely shut up, and she knew from experience that you had to allow Randall his silences. And he seemed run through by that journalistic belief that a right to privacy was only a cover for a dire secret that required exposure. Randall had many secrets. The only thing that made that truth tolerable was her faith that she would learn most of them in due time.
“Rich parents?”
“I don’t know,” Kathryn lied. She knew they were loaded.
“Only child, right?” Tim pressed.
“Yeah. I guess that explains a lot,” Kathryn said with a note of finality.
“No, the ‘rich parents’ thing explains a lot more. Makes sense. I kind of have this image of him browsing the racks at Saks, or power lunching with the Kennedys back when the rest of us were hitting the mall on weekends.”
“He’s never mentioned the Kennedys.”
Tim heard the sharpness in her tone and responded with a weak laugh. “Sorry, I just realized we’ve been out on a few dates and I don’t know anything about him.” t .
“I didn’t think you guys actually went out on dates.”
Tim smiled wryly. “He tells you everything, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t ask for all the details.”
“Aren’t you guys best friends?”
Kathryn felt her eyebrows arch and her mouth curl. When she saw Tim’s reaction to her evident anger, she wished she had thought twice before letting it get the best of her. The guy was just still smarting from the sting of rejection, but he’d just crossed a line she didn’t know she had. However, Randall had moved on because of ,a lack of interest—unlike Jesse, whose pathological promiscuity left behind a constant string of the confused and spurned.
Behind them, the door to the house popped open and April emerged, tailed by Sigrid and three other lesbians who looked like they were about to go logging. “We’re going to the Hole!”
“Gross. Be sure to shower,” Tim commented.
“You coming?” April asked her, eyes on Kathryn as she punched her fists into her gloves.
“Some of us don’t have fake IDs.”
“I can get you in,” one of the lesbians offered, Kathryn attempted a grateful smile and shook her head.
“No sign of the Ice Queen?” April asked.
“Looks like my nickname stuck!” Tim said proudly.
April shot Kathryn one last disapproving look before turning to her entourage. “Let’s head out, girls!”
They shuffled down the steps past Kathryn.
“We might meet you!” Kathryn called after them, and April waved at her over one shoulder. «
She stared after them before noticing a shadow striding down the path toward Burton House, its gait familiar. Kathryn rose and descended the front steps of the house. When Randall’s eyes left the walkway before his feet, they lit up and met hers. She had almost closed the distance between them, grinning. Lifting her slightly off her feet, he pulled her body into his. They did a half spin and almost lost their footing, but he didn’t relinquish his hold on her. His long limbs didn’t suggest strength, but they enfolded her tightly.
“You were waiting. I’m an asshole,” he whispered into her ear before he kissed her cheek gently.
“No. It’s cool.”
She heard Tim rise to his feet behind them and turned to see him brushing off the seat of his pants. He gave Randall an acidic smile and Kathryn felt a current of tension pass between both men before Randall returned the smile with a stiff and formal one of his own. “Tim,” he said.
“Randall,” Tim responded mockingly, descending the steps. “All right, Bobbsey Twins. I’ll see you guys later.” He passed them and Kathryn heard him add, “Maybe,” under his breath.
Once he was gone, Randall gave her a sheepish look. “He bugged you, didn’t he?”
“You’re a heartbreaker.”
“I should tell him to leave you alone.”
“I think when it comes to him, you’ve done quite enough. Or nothing at all.”
“He’ll live. And the only reason he’d say otherwise is to try to get me to sleep with him again.” He glanced at the path Tim had taken into the shadows, then returned his attention to her. “What did I miss?”
“Tainted Jell-O shots. A Swedish princess. But you still be might able to watch Jesse reel in tonight’s catch.”
“I’m sure I’ll run into her later.”
Randall tugged his silver flask from his inside jacket pocket, uncapped it, and handed it to Kathryn. She took a slug and winced. “Christ, Randall, can’t you add soda or something?”
“Lightweight. Come on.” He took one of her hands and began leading her off the sidewalk and onto the lawn.
His hand was warm, as if he had been inside all night, but his body was hot, as if he ran on high octane . “Mind if I ask where we’re going?” she ventured.
“Madeline’s.”
Kathryn yanked her hand free. “No, Randall. I hate that place.”
“I’ll let you change. They'll only card you if you’re dressed like you are right now.”
His grin told her he was only half serious, but when she hung back he stuck out his lower lip. “Don’t even start,” Kathryn said, already starting to giggle. Randall furrowed his brow, jutting his lip out farther. His expression had transformed from baby-faced pleading into a monkey scowl; when he went to push his ears forward to complete the effect, Kathryn grabbed one of his wrists. “Fine!” she barked, to choke off her laughter. “Stupid of me to think you could hang out with anyone who doesn’t wear Prada.”
“I’m wearing Gucci,” Randall said in a small voice.
“Don’t push it!” Kathryn made a sharp turn, leading them back toward the sidewalk.
“Where are you going?” Randall called after her. She turned and saw Randall gesture toward the Elms. “Oh, you’re kidding,” she moaned.
“Come on. I’ll protect you.” He put an arm around her shoulders. Kathryn let out a defeated groan and allowed herself to be led into the dark woods.
To her surprise, the Elms were easily navigated. There was no underbrush and the only obstructions were shoulder-height branches that were hard to make out in the darkness. Randall kept tight against the left side of her chest, pressing her head down and pushing branches out of their way as they went.
“You don’t even want to know what I saw your roommate doing tonight.”
“Now I do.”
Randall came to a sudden halt. Kathryn thudded into him and saw they were standing at the edge of a five-foot drop down into a stream swollen with melting snow.
“Pamela Milford,” she muttered.
“What?” Randall asked.
She looked up and saw she had his full attention. “Nothing. April was telling me the story earlier. The woman who drowned.”
Randall nodded and his eyes returned to the flow of water below.
“Maybe she drowned,” he whispered.
“You know something else?”
“No one really knows what happened. Why do you think everyone here still talks about it like it’s some urban legend?”
“Well, she was real, wasn’t she? That means it’s not an urban legend.”
His eyes still on the five-foot drop, he curled his mouth into a weak smile, then took her hand and held it tight. “I didn’t know it was so wide down here. Come on.”
As they traveled up the bank, the trees thinned out, revealing houses beyond. “So? What happen
ed?” Randall asked, seeming to have recovered from the fact that they had come within inches of falling five feet into near-freezing water.
“Your roommate and this girl were on the dance floor. You would have thought he was her ob-gyn.”
“Is there any reason you can’t refer to him by his first name? He’s always your roommate’ or ‘that asshole.’ ”
“He’s both,” Kathryn said. They came to a sidewalk with a stone banister, which crossed over the top of a large drainage pipe emitting crystalline black water amid ice extending from the bottom lip of the opening like white teeth. Kathryn’s breaths were more steady now that they were on the solid ground of the sidewalk. The halos of Brookline Avenue’s streetlights beckoned them.
“I think it’s interesting how some people make concessions for the beautiful, but you hold them to a higher standard,” Randall remarked.
“He’s not beautiful, Randall. He’s hot. There’s a big difference,” Kathryn said, thinking of the magazine ads of shirtless, buff male models Randall used to bridge the gaps between posters on the cinderblock wall of his room. Did all gay men worship perfectly proportioned men who wore inscrutable, distant, facial expressions that suggested they were not just inaccessible but physically indestructible? Men who bore a striking resemblance to Jesse Lowry? She didn’t know enough homosexuals to be sure.
“You might want to sleep with him. Just once,” Randall said.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Why, Kathryn? It might take away his mystique.”
“He doesn’t have any mystique.”
“That must be why we’re talking about him, then.”
They had arrived at the stoplight across the street from Madeline’s. Brookline Avenue’s only hip restaurant had already accomplished its ten o’clock transformation into a nightclub. Its front door trailed a long and impatient line of the university’s best dressed, shivering in the cold as they waited to pretend they were in Manhattan.
Randall had turned to face her, still holding one of her hands in his.