Flesh

CHAPTER TWENTY

Alison woke up. There was sunlight on her bed. The warm breeze drifting through her open window smelled of flowers and grass. A raucous bird was squawking as if annoyed by the pleasant chirping of its neighbors. The bells of a church, somewhere in the distance, pealed a tune. Alison imagined a congregation singing along—“In the sweet, bye ’n bye, we will meet on that beautiful shore…”

Feeling good, she stretched beneath her sheet. Then she slipped the sheet aside and was surprised for a moment to see that she was wearing her new blue negligee.

She had planned to save it for a special occasion. Maybe last night had counted as one, somehow.

She remembered coming up to her attic room after playing Trivial Pursuit and watching The Howling on television with Helen, remembered sitting at her desk and staring at the snapshots of Evan pinned to her bulletin board, feeling empty and alone, wondering about him. He was probably making it with Tracy More-Organ Morgan. The bastard. Wishing for a way to hurt him, she had taken down all the photos and started to rip one into tiny pieces. The snapshot showed her holding Evan’s hand. Celia had taken it two weeks ago on the lawn behind Bennet Hall. Evan was wearing a T-shirt with the logo, “Poets do it with rhythm.” He had a silly look on his face because Celia, instead of telling them to say cheese, announced, “Say, ‘I’m a cunning linguist.’”

By the time Alison had ripped the photo apart and watched its tiny bits float down into the wastebasket, she was in tears. She couldn’t bear to destroy any more, so she had made a neat stack of the rest, put a rubber band around them, and dropped them into the top drawer of her desk.

Hurting, she had taken off her clothes and opened her dresser. She had planned to wear one of her regular nightgowns, but the new one, blue and glossy, caught her eye. There was no reason to save it, no one to save it for. She might as well enjoy it. So she put the negligee on, sighing as it slid over her skin. She wiped her eyes and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Her breasts were plainly visible through the gauzy top. She shrugged so that one of the spaghetti straps slipped off her shoulder. Eat your heart out, Evan, she thought. You’d go ape if you ever saw me in this, but you never will. Tough luck, shithead.

The memories brought back some of last night’s pain, stealing pleasure from the good feel of lying on the sunlit bed with the breeze sliding over her.

Alison got up and went to the window. It looked beautiful out there. She needed to do something, find a way to enjoy herself. Sundays had been fine before Evan, and they could be fine again.

This would be a great day for a long walk. Go to Jack-in-the-Box for one of those crescent rolls with cheese, sausage, and egg inside. Forget about studying, pick up a brand new paperback at the newsstand—a good, juicy thriller. Later on, head over to the quad with the book and a radio and spend a couple of hours lying in the sun. Or go to the park for your sunbathing, go down by the stream. You’d have privacy there. The quad was bound to be lively on a day like this. Would you rather be alone or have company and maybe meet someone? There’d be a lot of guys at the quad. Just decide when the time comes.

She crossed the bedroom, enjoying the feel of the clinging negligee. She felt pretty fine again.

What was that Hemingway story? A kid, probably Nick Adams, went to bed at night feeling awful because he had broken up with his girlfriend. Saw her with another guy? The thing of it was, the last line. He went to bed feeling rotten, and the next morning he was awake half an hour before he remembered that he had a broken heart.

Great stuff.

Nick Winston didn’t know what he was talking about, dumping on Hemingway.

Maybe drop by Wally’s tonight. Maybe Nick’ll be there.

Do I really want to see him again?

She peeled the negligee over her head, folded it neatly, and placed it in the dresser drawer. She rolled deodorant onto her armpits. A bath would be nice. Save it for this afternoon when you’re finished lying out.

She put on panties, went to her closet and slipped a sleeveless yellow sundress over her head. Then she stepped into sandals. She took her shoulder bag from the dresser top and left her room.

At the bottom of the attic stairs, she entered the bathroom. She used the toilet, washed, brushed her teeth, brushed her hair, and hurried out.

She found Helen sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet with the newspaper spread in front of her, a box of powdered doughnuts on the lap of her rather tattered pink nightgown, and a mug of coffee on the floor near one knee. “What-ho,” Helen greeted her, looking up.

“Morning.”

“You’re looking perky.”

“Perk, perk. And how are you this fine morning?”

“Fine, is it?”

“‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.’”

“Yog. What’s with you, a midnight visitor sneak into your room?”

“No such luck.”

Helen lifted the box off her lap and held it toward Alison. “Doughnut?”

“Thanks anyway. I’m going to hike over to Jack-in-the-Box and get a sausage crescent. Want to come along?”

Helen shook her head, cheeks wobbling. “I don’t think so. I’d have to get dressed.”

“You could just throw on your rain gear.”

“Har.” She bit into a doughnut, crumbs and white powder falling onto the exposed tops of her breasts and between them.

“Celia up yet?”

Helen shrugged. She chewed for a moment, then took a drink of coffee. “Celia may or may not be up, but wherever she is or isn’t up, it isn’t here.”

“She didn’t come back?”

“It would appear that she found a more suitable abode for the night.”

“That bodes well for her.”

Helen rolled her eyes upward. “Spare me.”

“She and Jason must’ve hit it off,” Alison said.

“Not necessarily. They could’ve been in a traffic accident.”

Alison ignored the remark. “I just hope it turns into something.”

“No doubt it turned into an orgy.”

“No, I mean it. She likes to pretend she enjoys going through one guy after another, but she only got that way after Mark dumped her.”

“Yeah, that’s when she started screwing around.”

“It’d be nice if she’d get really involved with someone.”

“But a freshman?”

“He must have something going for him,” Alison said, “or she wouldn’t have spent the night. She almost never stays over with a guy.”

Grinning, Helen said, “Think they stayed in his dorm room with el weirdo, Roland? Wouldn’t that be the height of funzies?”

“The height of vomitus.”

“Maybe Roland joined in. A big juke sandwich with them as bread and Celia as the meat.”

“You’re a very disturbed person, Helen.”

“Think about it.”

“I’m sure they didn’t go to Jason’s room. Not if that disgusting yuck was going to be there. They probably shacked up in a motel, or maybe they just parked someplace.” Or rolled out a sleeping bag in a field, she thought, like Robert Jordan and Maria. The warm night would’ve been fine for that.

“When she gets back,” Helen said, “I’m sure she’ll tell us all about it.” With that, she stuffed the remaining chunk of doughnut into her mouth and picked up the comic section.

“See you later,” Alison said.

Helen nodded.

Alison stepped to the front door and pulled it open. On the wooden landing stood a glass vase filled with yellow daffodils. An envelope was propped against the vase. She stared at the bright flowers, at the envelope. Frowning, she stroked her lips.

They’re probably not for me, she thought.

But her heart was beating fast.

Crouching, she lifted the envelope. Her name was written on it. Hands trembling, she tore open the envelope and pulled out the papers inside. They fluttered as she unfolded them.

Three typed pages. Signed at the end of the last page by Evan.

Alison’s mind felt numb. She folded the letter, slipped it inside the envelope, and picked up the vase of daffodils. She carried it into the house, nudging the door shut with her rump.

“What’s the deal?” Helen called.

Alison shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak; her voice would shake and she might cry.

“Well, all right, flowers. Told you he’d see the light.”

She climbed the stairs to her room, placed the vase on her dresser, and sat on her bed. She pulled the pages out of the envelope and read them again.

He wrote about a dream. This was like a dream. She almost couldn’t believe that he had written such a letter. The anguish in it, the desperation. Even a threat, in the Hamlet allusion, of suicide—which he was quick to retract but which remained, nonetheless.

Alison told herself that she ought to be delighted. Isn’t this what she had wanted; to have him repent and plead for her to take him back? But she wasn’t delighted. The letter was almost disturbing. Could she mean that much to him?

Did she want to mean that much to him.

He sounded almost obsessed.

Alison lay down on her bed, the letter pressed to her belly, and stared at the ceiling. She kicked off a sandal, heard it thump the floor, then kicked off the other. She felt exhausted, as if she had just come back from a long walk. She took a deep breath. Her lungs seemed to tremble as she exhaled.

You wanted him back, didn’t you? Well, he’s yours. If you want him.

You’ll have to do something.

Something.

Evan’s probably sitting in his apartment, staring at the telephone, waiting, wondering if you sneered when you read his message, or if you wept. And very possibly thinking he had been a fool to open himself up that way.

It’s cruel to make him wait.

I should go downstairs, right now, and call him. Or walk over to his apartment. Make it like his dream. Don’t say anything when he opens the door, just kiss him.

Don’t make it that easy on him.

Maybe I don’t want to go back to him at all.

What should I do? Maybe pretend I didn’t get the flowers and note, go along as if nothing happened.

Alison lay there, wondering. She felt stunned, confused, hopeful but a little bit frightened.

She pulled the pillow down over her face. The dark was nice. The soft pillow felt good.

Later, she thought. I’ll do something about it later.