the Third Twin

2

MRS. FERRAMI SAID: “I WANT TO GO HOME.”

Her daughter Jeannie said: “Don’t you worry, Mom, we’re going to get you out of here sooner than you think.”

Jeannie’s younger sister, Patty, shot Jeannie a look that said “How the hell do you think we’re going to do that?”

The Bella Vista Sunset Home was all Mom’s health insurance would pay for, and it was tawdry. The room contained two high hospital beds, two closets, a couch, and a TV. The walls were painted mushroom brown and the flooring was a plastic tile, cream streaked with orange. The window had bars but no curtains, and it looked out onto a gas station. There was a washbasin in the corner and a toilet down the hall.

“I want to go home,” Mom repeated.

Patty said: “But Mom, you keep forgetting things, you can’t take care of yourself anymore.”

“Of course I can, don’t you dare speak to me that way.”

Jeannie bit her lip. Looking at the wreck that used to be her mother, she wanted to cry. Mom had strong features: black eyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, a wide mouth, and a strong chin. The same pattern was repeated in both Jeannie and Patty, although Mom was small and they were both tall like Daddy. All three of them were as strong-minded as their looks suggested: “formidable” was the word usually used to describe the Ferrami women. But Mom would never be formidable again. She had Alzheimer’s.

She was not yet sixty. Jeannie, who was twenty-nine, and Patty, twenty-six, had hoped she could take care of herself for a few more years, but that hope had been shattered this morning at five A.M.., when a Washington cop had called to say he had found Mom walking along 18th Street in a grubby nightgown, crying and saying she could not remember where she lived.

Jeannie had got in her car and driven to Washington, an hour from Baltimore on a quiet Sunday morning. She had picked Mom up from the precinct house, taken her home, gotten her washed and dressed, then called Patty. Together the two sisters had made arrangements for Mom to check into Bella Vista. It was in the town of Columbia, between Washington and Baltimore. Their aunt Rosa had spent her declining years here. Aunt Rosa had had the same insurance policy as Mom.

“I don’t like this place,” Mom said.

Jeannie said: “We don’t either, but right now it’s all we can afford.” She intended to sound matter-of-fact and reasonable, but it came out harsh.

Patty shot her a reproving look and said: “Come on, Mom, we’ve lived in worse places.”

It was true. After their father went to jail the second time, the two girls and Mom had lived in one room with a hotplate on the dresser and a water tap in the corridor. Those were the welfare years. But Mom had been a lioness in adversity. As soon as both Jeannie and Patty were in school she found a trustworthy older woman to mind the girls when they came home, she got a job—she had been a hairdresser, and she was still good, if old-fashioned—and she moved them to a small apartment with two bedrooms in Adams-Morgan, which was then a respectable working-class neighborhood.

She would fix French toast for breakfast and send Jeannie and Patty to school in clean dresses, then do her hair and make up her face—you had to look smart, working in a salon—and always leave a spotless kitchen with a plate of cookies on the table for the girls when they came back. On Sundays the three of them cleaned the apartment and did the laundry together. Mom had always been so capable, so reliable, so tireless, it was heartbreaking to see the forgetful, complaining woman on the bed.

Now she frowned, as if puzzled, and said: “Jeannie, why have you got a ring in your nose?”

Jeannie touched the delicate silver band and gave a wan smile. “Mom, I had my nostril pierced when I was a kid. Don’t you remember how mad you got about it? I thought you were going to throw me out on the street.”

“I forget things,” Mom said.

“I sure remember,” said Patty. “I thought it was the greatest thing ever. But I was eleven and you were fourteen, and to me everything you did was bold and stylish and clever.”

“Maybe it was,” Jeannie said with mock vanity.

Patty giggled. “The orange jacket sure wasn’t.”

“Oh, God, that jacket. Mom finally burned it after I slept in it in an abandoned building and got fleas.”

“I remember that,” Mom said. “Fleas! A child of mine!” She was still indignant about it, fifteen years later.

Suddenly the mood was lighter. Reminiscing had reminded them of how close they were. It was a good moment to leave. “I’d better go,” Jeannie said, standing up.

“Me too,” said Patty. “I have to make dinner.”

However, neither woman moved toward the door. Jeannie felt she was abandoning her mother, deserting her in a time of need. Nobody here loved her. She should have family to look after her. Jeannie and Patty should stay with her, and cook for her, and iron her nightgowns, and turn the TV to her favorite show.

Mom said: “When will I see you?”

Jeannie hesitated. She wanted to say, “Tomorrow, I’ll bring you your breakfast and stay with you all day.” But it was impossible: she had a busy week at work. Guilt flooded her. How can I be so cruel?

Patty rescued her, saying: “I’ll come tomorrow, and bring the kids to see you, you’ll like that.”

Mom was not going to let Jeannie get off that easily. “Will you come too, Jeannie?”

Jeannie could hardly speak. “As soon as I can.” Choking with grief, she leaned over the bed and kissed her mother. “I love you, Mom. Try to remember that.”

The moment they were outside the door, Patty burst into tears.

Jeannie felt like crying too, but she was the older sister, and she had long ago gotten into the habit of controlling her own emotions while she took care of Patty. She put an arm around her sister’s shoulders as they walked along the antiseptic corridor. Patty was not weak, but she was more accepting than Jeannie, who was combative and willful. Mom always criticized Jeannie and said she should be more like Patty.

“I wish I could have her at home with me, but I can’t,” Patty said woefully.

Jeannie agreed. Patty was married to a carpenter called Zip. They lived in a small row house with two bedrooms. The second bedroom was shared by her three boys. Davey was six, Mel four, and Tom two. There was nowhere to put a grandma.

Jeannie was single. As an assistant professor at Jones Falls University she earned thirty thousand dollars a year—a lot less than Patty’s husband, she guessed—and she had just taken out her first mortgage and bought a two-room apartment and furnished it on credit. One room was a living room with a kitchen nook, the other a bedroom with a closet and a tiny bathroom. If she gave Mom her bed she would have to sleep on the couch every night; and there was no one at home during the day to keep an eye on a woman with Alzheimer’s. “I can’t take her either,” she said.

Patty showed anger through her tears. “So why did you tell her we would get her out of there? We can’t!”

They stepped outside into the torrid heat. Jeannie said: “Tomorrow I’ll go to the bank and get a loan. We’ll put her in a better place and I’ll add to the insurance money.”

“But how will you ever pay it back?” said Patty practically.

“I’ll get promoted to associate professor, then full professor, and I’ll be commissioned to write a textbook and get hired as a consultant by three international conglomerates.”

Patty smiled through her tears. “I believe you, but will the bank?”

Patty had always believed in Jeannie. Patty herself had never been ambitious. She had been below average at school and had married at nineteen and settled down to raise children without any apparent regrets. Jeannie was the opposite. Top of the class and captain of all sports teams, she had been a tennis champion and had put herself through college on sports scholarships. Whatever she said she was going to do, Patty never doubted her.

But Patty was right, the bank would not make another loan so soon after financing the purchase of her apartment. And she had only just started as assistant professor: it would be three years before she was considered for promotion. As they reached the parking lot Jeannie said desperately: “Okay, I’ll sell my car.”

She loved her car. It was a twenty-year-old Mercedes 230C, a red two-door sedan with black leather seats. She had bought it eight years ago, with her prize money for winning the May-fair Lites College Tennis Challenge, five thousand dollars. That was before it became chic to own an old Mercedes. “It’s probably worth double what I paid for it,” she said.

“But you’d have to buy another car,” Patty said, still remorselessly realistic.

“You’re right.” Jeannie sighed. “Well, I can do some private tutoring. It’s against JFU’s rules, but I can probably get forty dollars an hour teaching remedial statistics one-on-one with rich students who have flunked the exam at other universities. I could pick up three hundred dollars a week, maybe; tax-free if I don’t declare it.” She looked her sister in the eye. “Can you spare anything?”

Patty looked away. “I don’t know.”

“Zip makes more than I do.”

“He’ll kill me for saying this, but we might be able to chip in seventy-five or eighty a week,” Patty said at last. “I’ll get him to put in for a raise. He’s kind of timid about asking, but I know he deserves it, and his boss likes him.”

Jeannie began to feel more cheerful, although the prospect of spending her Sundays teaching backward undergraduates was dismal. “For an extra four hundred a week we might get Mom a room to herself with her own bathroom.”

“Then she could have more of her things about her, ornaments and maybe some furniture from the apartment.”

“Let’s ask around, see if anyone knows of a nice place.”

“Okay.” Patty was thoughtful. “Mom’s illness is inherited, isn’t it? I saw something on TV.”

Jeannie nodded. “There’s a gene defect, AD3, that’s linked to early-onset Alzheimer’s.” It was located at chromosome 14q24.3, Jeannie recalled, but that would not mean anything to Patty.

“Does that mean you and I will end up like Mom?”

“It means there’s a good chance we will.”

They were both silent for a moment. The thought of losing your mind was almost too grim to talk about.

“I’m glad I had my children young,” Patty said. “They’ll be old enough to look after themselves by the time it happens to me.”

Jeannie noted the hint of reproof. Like Mom, Patty thought there was something wrong with being twenty-nine and childless. Jeannie said: “The fact that they’ve found the gene is also hopeful. It means that by the time we’re Mom’s age, they may be able to inject us with an altered version of our own DNA that doesn’t have the fatal gene.”

“They mentioned that on TV. Recombinant DNA technology, right?”

Jeannie grinned at her sister. “Right.”

“See, I’m not so dumb.”

“I never thought you were dumb.”

Patty said thoughtfully: “The thing is, our DNA makes us what we are, so if you change my DNA, does that make me a different person?”

“It’s not just your DNA that makes you what you are. It’s your upbringing too. That’s what my work is all about.”

“How’s the new job going?”

“It’s exciting. This is my big chance, Patty. A lot of people read the article I wrote about criminality and whether it’s in our genes.” The article, published last year while she was still at the University of Minnesota, had borne the name of her supervising professor above her own, but she had done the work.

“I could never figure out whether you said criminality is inherited or not.”

“I identified four inherited traits that lead to criminal behavior: impulsiveness, fearlessness, aggression, and hyperactivity. But my big theory is that certain ways of raising children counteract those traits and turn potential criminals into good citizens.”

“How could you ever prove a thing like that?”

“By studying identical twins raised apart. Identical twins have the same DNA. And when they’re adopted at birth, or split up for some other reason, they get raised differently. So I look for pairs of twins where one is a criminal and the other is normal. Then I study how they were raised and what their parents did differently.”

“Your work is really important,” Patty said.

“I think so.”

“We have to find out why so many Americans nowadays turn bad.”

Jeannie nodded. That was it, in a nutshell.

Patty turned to her own car, a big old Ford station wagon, the back full of brightly colored kiddie junk: a tricycle, a folded-down stroller, an assortment of rackets and balls, and a big toy truck with a broken wheel.

Jeannie said: “Give the boys a big kiss from me, okay?”

“Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow after I see Mom.” Jeannie got her keys out, hesitated, then went over to Patty and hugged her. “I love you, sis,” she said. “Love you, too.”

Jeannie got in her car and drove away.

She felt jangled and restless, full of unresolved feelings about Mom and Patty and the father who was not there. She got on I-70 and drove too fast, weaving in and out of the traffic. She wondered what to do with the rest of the day, then remembered that she was supposed to play tennis at six then go for beer and pizza with a group of graduate students and young faculty from the psychology department at Jones Falls. Her first thought was to cancel the entire evening. But she did not want to sit at home brooding. She would play tennis, she decided: the vigorous exercise would make her feel better. Afterward she would go to Andy’s Bar for an hour or so, then have an early night.

But it did not work out that way.

Her tennis opponent was Jack Budgen, the university’s head librarian. He had once played at Wimbledon and, though he was now bald and fifty, he was still fit and all the old craft was there. Jeannie had never been to Wimbledon. The height of her career had been a place on the U.S. Olympic tennis team while she was an undergraduate. But she was stronger and faster than Jack.

They played on one of the red clay tennis courts on the Jones Falls campus. They were evenly matched, and the game attracted a small crowd of spectators. There was no dress code, but out of habit Jeannie always played in crisp white shorts and a white polo shirt. She had long dark hair, not silky and straight like Patty’s but curly and unmanageable, so she tucked it up inside a peaked cap.

Jeannie’s serve was dynamite and her two-handed cross-court backhand smash was a killer. There was not much Jack could do about the serve, but after the first few games he made sure she did not get many chances to use the backhand smash. He played a sly game, conserving his energy, letting Jeannie make mistakes. She played too aggressively, serving double faults and running to the net too early. On a normal day, she reckoned, she could beat him; but today her concentration was shot, and she could not second-guess his game. They won a set each, then the third went to 5–4 in his favor and she found herself serving to stay in the match.

The game went to two deuces, then Jack won a point and the advantage was to him. Jeannie served into the net, and there was an audible gasp from the little crowd. Instead of a normal, slower second service, she threw caution to the winds and served again as if it were a first service. Jack just got his racket to the ball and returned it to her backhand. She smashed it and ran to the net. But Jack was not as off balance as he had pretended to be, and he returned a perfect lob that sailed over her head and landed on the back line to win the match.

Jeannie stood looking at the ball, hands on her hips, furious with herself. Although she had not played seriously for years, she retained the unyielding competitiveness that made it hard to lose. Then she calmed her feelings and put a smile on her face. She turned around. “Beautiful shot!” she called. She walked to the net and shook his hand, and there was a ragged round of applause from the spectators.

A young man approached her. “Hey, that was a great game!” he said with a broad smile.

Jeannie took him in at a glance. He was a hunk: tall and athletic, with curly fair hair cut short and nice blue eyes, and he was coming on to her for all he was worth.

She was not in the mood. “Thanks,” she said curtly.

He smiled again, a confident, relaxed smile that said most girls were happy when he talked to them, regardless of whether he was making any sense. “You know, I play a little tennis myself, and I was thinking—”

“If you only play a little tennis, you’re probably not in my league,” she said, and she brushed past him.

Behind her, she heard him say in a good-humored tone: “Should I assume that a romantic dinner followed by a night of passion is out of the question, then?”

She could not help smiling, if only at his persistence, and she had been ruder than necessary. She turned her head and spoke over her shoulder without stopping. “Yes, but thanks for the offer,” she said.

She left the court and headed for the locker room. She wondered what Mom was doing now. She must have had dinner by this time: it was seven-thirty, and they always fed people early in institutions. She was probably watching TV in the lounge. Maybe she would find a friend, a woman of her own age who would tolerate her forgetfulness and take an interest in her photographs of her grandchildren. Mom had once had a lot of friends—the other women at the salon, some of her customers, neighbors, people she had known for twenty-five years—but it was hard for them to keep up the friendship when Mom kept forgetting who the hell they were.

As she was passing the hockey field she ran into Lisa Hoxton. Lisa was the first real friend she had made since arriving at Jones Falls a month ago. She was a technician in the psychology laboratory. She had a science degree but did not want to be an academic. Like Jeannie, she came from a poor background, and she was a little intimidated by the Ivy League hauteur of Jones Falls. They had taken to one another instantly.

“A kid just tried to pick me up,” Jeannie said with a smile.

“What was he like?”

“He looked like Brad Pitt, but taller.”

“Did you tell him you had a friend more his age?” Lisa said. She was twenty-four.

“No.” Jeannie glanced over her shoulder, but the man was nowhere in sight. “Keep walking, in case he follows me.”

“How could that be bad?”

“Come on.”

“Jeannie, it’s the creepy ones you run away from.”

“Knock it off!”

“You might have given him my phone number.”

“I should have handed him a slip of paper with your bra size on it, that would have done the trick.” Lisa had a big bust.

Lisa stopped walking. For a moment Jeannie thought she had gone too far and offended Lisa. She began to frame an apology. Then Lisa said: “What a great idea! ‘I’m a 36D, for more information call this number.’ It’s so subtle, too.”

“I’m just envious, I always wanted hooters,” Jeannie said, and they both giggled. “It’s true, though, I prayed for tits. I was practically the last girl in my class to get my period, it was so embarrassing.”

“You actually said, ‘Dear God, please make my tits grow,’ kneeling beside your bed?”

“Actually I prayed to the Virgin Mary. I figured it was a girl thing. And I didn’t say tits, of course.”

“What did you say, breasts?”

“No, I figured you couldn’t say breasts to the Holy Mother.”

“So what did you call them?”

“Bristols.”

Lisa burst out laughing.

“I don’t know where I got that word from, I must have overheard some men talking. It seemed like a polite euphemism to me. I never told anyone that before in my life.”

Lisa looked back. “Well, I don’t see any good-looking guys following us. I guess we shook off Brad Pitt.”

“It’s a good thing. He’s just my type: handsome, sexy, overconfident, and totally untrustworthy.”

“How do you know he’s untrustworthy? You only met him for twenty seconds.”

“All men are untrustworthy.”

“You’re probably right Are you coming to Andy’s tonight?”

“Yeah, just for an hour or so. I have to shower first.” Her shirt was wet through with perspiration.

“Me too.” Lisa was in shorts and running shoes. “I’ve been training with the hockey team. Why only for an hour?”

“I’ve had a heavy day.” The game had distracted Jeannie, but now she winced as the agony came flooding back. “I had to put my mom into a home.”

“Oh, Jeannie, I’m sorry.”

Jeannie told her the story as they entered the gymnasium building and went down the stairs to the basement. In the locker room Jeannie caught sight of their reflection in the mirror. They were so different in appearance that they almost looked like a comedy act. Lisa was a little below average height, and Jeannie was almost six feet. Lisa was blond and curvy, whereas Jeannie was dark and muscular. Lisa had a pretty face, with a scatter of freckles across a pert little nose and a mouth like a bow. Most people described Jeannie as striking, and men sometimes told her she was beautiful, but nobody ever called her pretty.

As they climbed out of their sweaty sports clothes Lisa said: “What about your father? You didn’t mention him.”

Jeannie sighed. It was the question she had learned to dread, even as a little girl; but it invariably came, sooner or later. For many years she had lied, saying Daddy was dead or disappeared or remarried and gone to work in Saudi Arabia. Lately, however, she had been telling the truth. “My father’s in jail,” she said.

“Oh, my God. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay. He’s been in jail most of my life. He’s a burglar. This is his third term.”

“How long is his sentence?”

“I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. He’ll be no use when he comes out. He’s never looked after us and he’s not about to begin.”

“Did he never have a regular job?”

“Only when he wanted to case a joint. He would work as janitor, doorman, security guard for a week or two before robbing the place.”

Lisa looked at her shrewdly. “Is that why you’re so interested in the genetics of criminality?”

“Maybe.”

“Probably not.” Lisa made a tossing-aside gesture. “I hate amateur psychoanalysis anyway.”

They went to the showers. Jeannie took longer, washing her hair. She was grateful for Lisa’s friendship. Lisa had been at Jones Falls just over a year, and she had shown Jeannie around when she had arrived here at the beginning of the semester. Jeannie liked working with Lisa in the lab because she was completely reliable; and she liked hanging out with her after work because she felt she could say whatever came into her mind without fear of shocking her.

Jeannie was working conditioner into her hair when she heard strange noises. She stopped and listened. It sounded like squeals of fright. A chill of anxiety passed through her, making her shiver. Suddenly she felt very vulnerable: naked, wet, underground. She hesitated, then quickly rinsed her hair before stepping out of the shower to see what was going on.

She smelled burning as soon as she got out from under the water. She could not see a fire, but there were thick clouds of black and gray smoke close to the ceiling. It seemed to be coming through the ventilators.

She felt afraid. She had never been in a fire.

The more coolheaded women were snatching up their bags and heading for the door. Others were getting hysterical, shouting at one another in frightened voices and running here and there pointlessly. Some asshole of a security man, with a spotted handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth, was making them more scared by walking up and down shoving people and yelling orders.

Jeannie knew she should not stay to get dressed, but she could not bring herself to walk out of the building naked. There was fear running through her veins like ice water, but she made herself calm. She found her locker. Lisa was nowhere to be seen. She grabbed her clothes, stepped into her jeans, and pulled her T-shirt over her head.

It took only a few seconds, but in that time the room emptied of people and filled with fumes. She could no longer see the doorway, and she started to cough. The thought of not being able to breathe scared her. I know where the door is, and I just have to keep calm, she told herself. Her keys and money were in her jeans pockets. She picked up her tennis racket. Holding her breath, she walked quickly through the lockers to the exit.

The corridor was thick with smoke, and her eyes began to water so that she was almost blind. Now she wished to heaven that she had gone naked and gained a few precious seconds. Her jeans did not help her see or breathe in this fog of fumes. And it did not matter being naked if you were dead.

She kept one shaky hand on the wall to give her a sense of direction as she rushed along the passage, still holding her breath. She thought she might bump into other women, but they all seemed to have got out ahead of her. When there was no more wall, she knew she was in the small lobby, although she could not see anything but clouds of smoke. The stairs had to be straight ahead. She crossed the lobby and crashed into the Coke machine. Was the staircase to the left now or the right? The left, she thought. She moved that way, then came up against the door to the men’s locker room and realized she had made the wrong choice.

She could not hold her breath any longer. With a groan she sucked in air. It was mostly smoke, and it made her cough convulsively. She staggered back along the wall, racked with coughing, her nostrils burning, eyes streaming, barely able to see her own hands in front of her. With all her being she longed for one breath of the air she had been taking for granted for twenty-nine years. She followed the wall to the Coke machine and stepped around it. She knew she had found the staircase when she tripped over the bottom step. She dropped her racket and it slid out of sight. It was a special one—she had won the Mayfair Lites Challenge with it—but she left it behind and scrambled up the stairs on hands and knees.

The smoke thinned suddenly when she reached the spacious ground-floor lobby. She could see the building doors, which were open. A security guard stood just outside, beckoning her and yelling: “Come on!” Coughing and choking, she staggered across the lobby and out into the blessed fresh air.

She stood on the steps for two or three minutes, bent double, gulping air and coughing the smoke out of her lungs. As her breathing at last began to return to normal, she heard the whoop of an emergency vehicle in the distance. She looked around for Lisa but could not see her.

Surely she could not be inside? Still feeling shaky, Jeannie moved through the crowd, scanning the faces. Now that they were out of danger, there was a good deal of nervous laughter. Most of the students were more or less undressed, so there was a curiously intimate atmosphere. Those who had managed to save their bags were lending spare clothes to others less fortunate. Naked women were grateful for their friends’ soiled and sweaty T-shirts. Several people were dressed only in towels.

Lisa was not in the crowd. With mounting anxiety Jeannie returned to the security guard at the door. “I think my girlfriend may be in there,” she said, hearing the tremor of fear in her own voice.

“I ain’t going after her,” he said quickly.

“Brave man,” Jeannie snapped. She was not sure what she wanted him to do, but she had not expected him to be completely useless.

Resentment showed on his face. “That’s their job,” he said, and he pointed to a fire truck coming down the road.

Jeannie was beginning to fear for Lisa’s life, but she did not know what to do. She watched, impatient and helpless, as the firemen got out of the truck and put on breathing apparatus. They seemed to move so slowly that she wanted to shake them and scream: “Hurry, hurry!” Another fire truck arrived, then a white police cruiser with the blue-and-silver stripe of the Baltimore Police Department.

As the firemen dragged a hose into the building, an officer buttonholed the lobby guard and said: “Where do you think it started?”

“Women’s locker room,” the guard told him.

“And where is that, exactly?”

“Basement, at the back.”

“How many exits are there from the basement?”

“Only one, the staircase up to the main lobby, right here.”

A maintenance man standing nearby contradicted him. “There’s a ladder in the pool machine room that leads up to an access hatch at the back of the building.”

Jeannie caught the officer’s attention and said: “I think my friend may still be inside there.”

“Man or woman?”

“Woman of twenty-four, short, blond.”

“If she’s there, we’ll find her.”

For a moment Jeannie felt reassured. Then she realized he had not promised to find her alive.

The security man who had been in the locker room was nowhere to be seen. Jeannie said to the fire officer: “There was another guard down there, I don’t see him anywhere. Tall guy.”

The lobby guard said: “Ain’t no other security personnel in the building.”

“Well, he had a hat with “Security’ written on it, and he was telling people to evacuate the building.”

“I don’t care what he had on his hat—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, stop arguing!” Jeannie snapped. “Maybe I imagined him, but if not his life could be in danger!”

Standing listening to them was a girl wearing a man’s khaki pants rolled up at the cuffs. “I saw that guy, he’s a real creep,” she said. “He felt me up.”

The fire officer said: “Keep calm, we’ll find everyone. Thank you for your cooperation.” He walked off.

Jeannie glared at the lobby guard for a moment. She felt the fire officer had dismissed her as a hysterical woman because she had yelled at the guard. She turned away in disgust. What was she going to do now? The firemen ran inside in their helmets and boots. She was barefoot and wearing a T-shirt. If she tried to go in with them they would throw her out. She clenched her fists, distraught. Think, think! Where else could Lisa be?

The gymnasium was next door to the Ruth W. Acorn Psychology Building, named after the wife of a benefactor but known, even to faculty, as Nut House. Could Lisa have gone in there? The doors would be locked on Sunday, but she probably had a key. She might have run inside to find a laboratory coat to cover herself or just to sit at her desk and recover. Jeannie decided to check. Anything was better than standing here doing nothing.

She dashed across the lawn to the main entrance of Nut House and looked through the glass doors. There was no one in the lobby. She took from her pocket the plastic card that served as a key and swiped it through the card reader. The door opened. She ran up the stairs, calling: “Lisa! Are you there?” The laboratory was deserted. Lisa’s chair was tucked neatly under her desk, and her computer screen was a gray blank. Jeannie tried the women’s rest room at the end of the corridor. Nothing. “Damn!” she said frantically. “Where the hell are you?”

Panting, she hurried back outside. She decided to make a tour of the gymnasium building, in case Lisa was just sitting on the ground somewhere catching her breath. She ran around the side of the building, passing through a yard full of giant garbage cans. At the back was a small parking lot. She saw a figure jogging along the footpath, heading away. It was too tall to be Lisa, and she was pretty sure it was a man. She thought it might be the missing security guard, but he disappeared around the corner of the Student Union before she could be sure.

She continued around the building. At the far side was the running track, deserted now. Coming full circle, she arrived at the front of the gym.

The crowd was bigger, and there were more fire engines and police cars, but she still could not see Lisa. It seemed almost certain that she was still in the burning building. A sense of doom crept over Jeannie, and she fought it. You can’t just let this happen!

She spotted the fire officer she had spoken to earlier. She grabbed his arm. “I’m almost certain Lisa Hoxton is in there,” she said urgently. “I’ve looked everywhere for her.”

He gave her a hard look and seemed to decide she was reliable. Without answering her, he put a two-way radio to his mouth. “Look out for a young white female believed to be inside the building, named Lisa, repeat Lisa.”

“Thank you,” Jeannie said.

He nodded curtly and strode away.

Jeannie was glad he had listened to her, but still she could not rest. Lisa might be stuck in there, locked in a toilet or trapped by flames, screaming for help unheard; or she might have fallen and struck her head and knocked herself out or succumbed to the fumes and be lying unconscious with the fire creeping closer by the second.

Jeannie remembered the maintenance man saying there was another entrance to the basement. She had not seen it as she ran around the outside of the gym. She decided to look again. She returned to the back of the building.

She saw it immediately. The hatch was set into the ground close to the building, partly hidden by a gray Chrysler New Yorker. The steel trapdoor was open, leaning against the building wall. Jeannie knelt by the square hole and leaned down to look inside.

A ladder led down to a dirty room lit by fluorescent tubes. She could see machinery and lots of pipes. There were wisps of smoke in the air, but not thick clouds: it must be closed off from the rest of the basement. Nevertheless the smell of the smoke reminded her of how she had coughed and choked as she had searched blindly for the staircase, and she felt her heart beat faster at the memory.

“Is anybody there?” she called.

She thought she heard a sound but she could not be sure. She shouted louder. “Hello?” There was no reply.

She hesitated. The sensible thing to do would be to return to the front of the building and grab a fireman, but that could take too long, especially if the fireman decided to question her. The alternative was to go down the ladder and take a look.

The thought of reentering the building made her legs weak. Her chest still hurt from the violent spasms of coughing caused by the smoke. But Lisa might be down there, hurt and unable to move, or trapped by a fallen timber, or just passed out. She had to look.

She steeled her nerve and put a foot on the ladder. Her knees felt weak and she almost fell. She hesitated. After a moment she felt stronger, and she took a step down. Then a breath of smoke caught in her throat, making her cough, and she climbed out again.

When she had stopped coughing, she tried again.

She went down one rung, then two. If the smoke makes me cough, I’ll just come right out again, she told herself. The third step was easier, and after that she went down quickly, jumping off the last rung onto the concrete floor.

She found herself in a big room full of pumps and filters, presumably for the swimming pool. The smell of smoke was strong, but she could breathe normally.

She saw Lisa right away, and the sight made her gasp.

She was lying on her side, curled up in the fetal position, naked. There was a smear of what looked like blood on her thigh. She was not moving.

For a moment Jeannie was rigid with fear.

She tried to get hold of herself. “Lisa!” she shouted. She heard the shrill overtone of hysteria in her own voice and took a breath to keep calm. Please, God, let her be all right. She made her way across the room, through the tangle of pipework, and knelt beside her friend. “Lisa?”

Lisa opened her eyes.

“Thank God,” Jeannie said. “I thought you were dead.”

Slowly Lisa sat up. She would not look at Jeannie. Her lips were bruised. “He … he raped me,” she said.

Jeannie’s relief at finding her alive was replaced by a sick feeling of horror that gripped her heart. “My God. Here?”

Lisa nodded. “He said this was the way out.”

Jeannie closed her eyes. She felt Lisa’s pain and humiliation, the sense of being invaded and violated and soiled. Tears came to her eyes, and she held them back fiercely. For a moment she was too weak and nauseated to say anything.

Then she tried to pull herself together. “Who was he?”

“A security guy.”

“With a spotted scarf over his face?”

“He took it off.” Lisa turned away. “He kept smiling.”

It figured. The girl in khaki pants had said a security guard felt her up. The lobby guard was sure there were no other security people in the building. “He was no security guard,” Jeannie said. She had seen him jogging away just a few minutes ago. A wave of rage swept over her at the thought that he had done this dreadful thing right here, on the campus, in the gymnasium building, where they all felt safe to take off their clothes and shower. It made her hands shake, and she wanted to chase after him and strangle him.

She heard loud noises: men shouting, heavy footsteps, and the rush of water. The firemen were operating their hoses.

“Listen, we’re in danger here,” she said urgently. “We have to get out of this building.”

Lisa’s voice was a dull monotone. “I don’t have any clothes.”

We could die in here! “Don’t worry about clothes, everyone’s half-naked out there.” Jeannie scanned the room hastily and saw Lisa’s red lace brassiere and panties in a dusty heap beneath a tank. She picked them up. “Put your underwear on. It’s dirty, but it’s better than nothing.”

Lisa remained sitting on the floor, staring vacantly.

Jeannie fought down a feeling of panic. What could she do if Lisa refused to move? She could probably lift Lisa, but could she carry her up that ladder? She raised her voice. “Come on, get up!” Taking Lisa’s hands, she pulled her to her feet.

At last Lisa met her eyes. “Jeannie, it was horrible,” she said.

Jeannie put her arms around Lisa’s shoulders and hugged her hard. “I’m sorry, Lisa, I’m so sorry,” she said.

The smoke was becoming more dense, despite the heavy door. Fear replaced pity in her heart. “We have to get out of here—the place is burning down. For God’s sake put these on!”

At last Lisa began to move. She pulled up her panties and fastened her bra. Jeannie took her hand and led her to the ladder on the wall, then made her go up first. As Jeannie followed, the door crashed open and a fireman entered in a cloud of smoke. Water swirled around his boots. He looked startled to see them. “We’re all right, we’re getting out this way,” Jeannie yelled to him. Then she went up the ladder after Lisa.

A moment later they were outside in the fresh air.

Jeannie felt weak with relief: she had got Lisa out of the fire. But now Lisa needed help. Jeannie put an arm around her shoulders and led her to the front of the building. There were fire trucks and police cruisers parked every which way across the road. Most of the women in the crowd had now found something with which to cover their nakedness, and Lisa was conspicuous in her red underwear. “Does anyone have a spare pair of pants, or anything at all?” Jeannie begged as they made their way through the crowd. People had given away all their spare clothing. Jeannie would have given Lisa her own sweatshirt, but she had no bra on underneath.

Finally a tall black man took off his button-down and gave it to Lisa. “I’ll want it back, it’s a Ralph Lauren,” he said. “Mitchell Waterfield, math department.”

“I’ll remember,” Jeannie said gratefully.

Lisa put the shirt on. She was short, and it reached to her knees.

Jeannie felt she was getting the nightmare under control. She steered Lisa to the emergency vehicles. Three cops stood leaning against a cruiser, doing nothing. Jeannie spoke to the oldest of the three, a fat white man with a gray mustache. “This woman’s name is Lisa Hoxton. She’s been raped.”

She expected them to be electrified by the news that a major crime had been committed, but their reaction was surprisingly casual. They took a few seconds to digest the information, and Jeannie was getting ready to snap at them, when the one with the mustache levered himself off the hood of the car and said: “Where did this happen?”

“The basement of the burning building, in the pool machine room at the back.”

One of the others, a young black man, said: “Those firemen will be hosing away the evidence right now, Sarge.”

“You’re right,” the older man replied. “You better get down there, Lenny, and secure the crime scene.” Lenny hurried away. The sergeant turned to Lisa. “Do you know the man who did this, Ms. Hoxton?” he said.

Lisa shook her head.

Jeannie said: “He’s a tall white man wearing a red baseball cap with the word ‘Security’ on the front. I saw him in the women’s locker room soon after the fire broke out, and I think I saw him running away just before I found Lisa.”

The cop reached into the car and pulled out a radio microphone. He spoke into it for a while then hung it up again. “If he’s dumb enough to keep the hat on we may catch him,” he said. He spoke to the third cop. “McHenty, take the victim to the hospital.”

McHenty was a young white man with glasses. He said to Lisa: “You want to sit in the front or the back?”

Lisa said nothing but looked apprehensive.

Jeannie helped her out. “Sit in the front. You don’t want to look like a suspect.”

A terrified look crossed Lisa’s face, and she spoke at last. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

“I will if you like,” Jeannie said reassuringly. “Or I could swing by my apartment and pick up some clothes for you, and meet you at the hospital.”

Lisa looked at McHenty worriedly.

Jeannie said: “You’ll be all right now, Lisa.”

McHenty held open the door of the cruiser and Lisa got in.

“Which hospital?” Jeannie asked him.

“Santa Teresa.” He got in the car.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Jeannie called through the glass as the car sped away.

She jogged to the faculty parking lot, already regretting that she had not gone with Lisa. Her expression as she left had been frightened and wretched. Of course she needed clean clothes, but maybe she had a more urgent need for another woman to stay with her and hold her hand and reassure her. Probably the last thing she wanted was to be left alone with a macho man with a gun. As she jumped into her car Jeannie felt she had screwed up. “Jesus, what a day,” she said as she tore out of the parking lot.

She lived not far from the campus. Her apartment was the upper story of a small row house. Jeannie double-parked and ran inside.

She washed her hands and face hurriedly, then threw on some clean clothes. She thought for a moment about which of her clothes would fit Lisa’s short, rounded figure. She pulled out an oversize polo shirt and a pair of sweat pants with an elastic waistband. Underwear was more difficult. She found a baggy pair of man’s boxer shorts that might do, but none of her bras would fit. Lisa would have to go without. She added deck shoes, stuffed everything into a duffel, and ran out again.

As she drove to the hospital her mood changed. Since the fire broke out she had been focused on what she had to do: now she began to feel enraged. Lisa was a happy, garrulous woman, but the shock and horror of what had happened had turned her into a zombie, frightened to get into a police car on her own.

Driving along a shopping street, Jeannie started to look for the guy in the red cap, imagining that if she saw him she would swing the car up on the sidewalk and run him down. But in fact she would not recognize him. He must have taken off the bandanna and probably the hat too. What else had he been wearing? It shocked her to realize she could hardly remember. Some kind of T-shirt, she thought, with blue jeans or maybe shorts. Anyway, he might have changed his clothes by now, as she had.

In fact, it could be any tall white man on the street: that pizza delivery boy in the red coat; the bald guy walking to church with his wife, hymnbooks under their arms; the handsome bearded man carrying a guitar case; even the cop talking to a bum outside the liquor store. There was nothing Jeannie could do with her rage, and she gripped the steering wheel tighter until her knuckles turned white.

Santa Teresa was a big suburban hospital near the northern city limits. Jeannie left her car in the parking lot and found the emergency room. Lisa was already in bed, wearing a hospital gown and staring into space. A TV set with the sound off was showing the Emmy Awards ceremony: hundreds of Hollywood celebrities in evening dress drinking champagne and congratulating one another. McHenty sat beside the bed with his notebook on his knee.

Jeannie put down the duffel. “Here are your clothes. What’s happening?”

Lisa remained expressionless and silent. She was still in shock, Jeannie figured. She was suppressing her feelings, fighting to stay in control. But at some point she had to show her rage. There would be an explosion sooner or later.

McHenty said: “I have to take down the basic details of the case, miss—would you excuse us for a few more minutes?”

“Oh, sure,” Jeannie said apologetically. Then she caught a look from Lisa and hesitated. A few minutes ago she had been cursing herself for leaving Lisa alone with a man. Now she was about to do it again. “On the other hand,” she said, “maybe Lisa would prefer me to stay.” Her instinct was confirmed when Lisa gave a barely perceptible nod. Jeannie sat on the bed and took Lisa’s hand.

McHenty looked irritated but he did not argue. “I was asking Miss Hoxton about how she tried to resist the assault,” he said. “Did you scream, Lisa?”

“Once, when he threw me on the floor,” she said in a low voice. “Then he pulled the knife.”

McHenty’s voice was matter-of-fact, and he looked down at his notebook as he spoke. “Did you try to fight him off?”

She shook her head. “I was afraid he would cut me.”

“So you really didn’t put up any resistance after that first scream?”

She shook her head and began to cry. Jeannie squeezed her hand. She wanted to say to McHenty, “What the hell was she supposed to do?” But she kept silent. Already today she had been rude to a boy who looked like Brad Pitt, made a bitchy remark about Lisa’s boobs, and snapped at the lobby guard in the gym. She knew she was not good at dealing with authority figures, and she was determined not to make an enemy of this policeman, who was only trying to do his job.

McHenty went on: “Just before he penetrated you, did he force your legs apart?”

Jeannie winced. Surely they should have female cops to ask these questions?

Lisa said: “He touched my thigh with the point of the knife.”

“Did he cut you?”

“No.”

“So you opened your legs voluntarily.”

Jeannie said: “If a suspect pulls a weapon on a cop, you generally shoot him down, don’t you? Do you call that voluntary?”

McHenty gave her an angry look. “Please leave this to me, miss.” He turned back to Lisa. “Do you have any injuries at all?”

“I’m bleeding, yes.”

“Is that as a result of the forced intercourse?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you injured, exactly?”

Jeannie could not stand it any longer. “Why don’t we let the doctor establish that?”

He looked at her as if she were stupid. “I have to make the preliminary report.”

“Then let it say she has internal injuries as a result of the rape.”

“I’m conducting this interview.”

“And I’m telling you to back off, mister,” Jeannie said, controlling the urge to scream at him. “My friend is in distress and I don’t think she needs to describe her internal injuries to you when she’s going to be examined by a doctor any second now.”

McHenty looked furious, but he moved on. “I noticed you had on red lace underwear. Do you think that had any effect on what happened?”

Lisa looked away, her eyes full of tears.

Jeannie said: “If I reported my red Mercedes stolen, would you ask me whether I had provoked the theft by driving such an attractive car?”

McHenty ignored her. “Do you think you might have met the perpetrator before, Lisa?”

“No.”

“But the smoke must have made it difficult for you to see clearly. And he wore a scarf of some kind over his face.”

“At first I was practically blind. But there wasn’t much smoke in the room where … he did it. I saw him.” She nodded to herself. “I saw him.”

“So you would recognize him if you saw him again.”

Lisa shuddered. “Oh, yes.”

“But you’ve never seen him before, like in a bar or anything.”

“No.”

“Do you go to bars, Lisa?”

“Sure.”

“Singles bars, that kind of thing?”

Jeannie boiled over. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

“The kind defense lawyers ask,” McHenty said.

“Lisa isn’t on trial—she’s not the perpetrator, she’s the victim!”

“Were you a virgin, Lisa?”

Jeannie stood up. “Okay, that’s enough. I do not believe this is supposed to happen. You’re not supposed to ask these invasive questions.”

McHenty raised his voice. “I’m trying to establish her credibility.”

“One hour after she was violated? Forget it!”

“I’m doing my job—”

“I don’t believe you know your job. I don’t think you know shit, McHenty.”

Before he could reply, a doctor walked in without knocking. He was young and looked harassed and tired. “Is this the rape?” he said.

“This is Ms. Lisa Hoxton,” Jeannie said icily. “Yes, she was raped.”

“I’ll need a vaginal swab,”

He was charmless, but at least he provided an excuse to get rid of McHenty. Jeannie looked at the cop. He stayed put, as if he thought he were going to supervise the taking of the swab. She said: “Before you do that, Doctor, perhaps Patrolman McHenty will excuse us?”

The doctor paused, looking at McHenty. The cop shrugged and went out.

The doctor pulled the sheet off Lisa with an abrupt gesture. “Lift your gown and spread your legs,” he said.

Lisa began to cry.

Jeannie could hardly believe it. What was it with these men? “Excuse me, sir,” she said to the doctor.

He glared at her impatiently. “Have you got a problem?”

“Could you please try to be a little more polite?”

He reddened. “This hospital is full of people with traumatic injuries and life-threatening illnesses,” he said. “Right now in the emergency room there are three children who have been in a car wreck, and they’re all going to die. And you’re complaining that I’m not being polite to a girl who got into bed with the wrong man?”

Jeannie was flabbergasted. “Got into bed with the wrong man?” she repeated.

Lisa sat upright. “I want to go home,” she said.

“That sounds like a hell of a good idea,” Jeannie said. She unzipped her duffel and began to put the clothes out on the bed.

The doctor was dumbstruck for a moment. Then he said angrily: “Do as you please.” He went out.

Jeannie and Lisa looked at one another. “I can’t believe that happened,” Jeannie said.

“Thank God they’ve gone,” Lisa said, and she got out of bed.

Jeannie helped her take off the hospital gown. Lisa pulled on the fresh clothes quickly and stepped into the shoes. “I’ll drive you home,” Jeannie said.

“Would you sleep over at my apartment?” Lisa said. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Sure. I’ll be glad to.”

McHenty was waiting outside. He seemed less confident. Perhaps he knew he had handled the interview badly. “I still have a few more questions,” he said.

Jeannie spoke quietly and calmly. “We’re leaving,” she said. “Lisa is too upset to answer questions right now.”

He was almost scared. “She has to,” he said. “She’s made a complaint.”

Lisa said: “I wasn’t raped. It was all a mistake. I just want to go home now.”

“You realize it’s an offense to make a false allegation?”

Jeannie said angrily: “This woman is not a criminal—she’s the victim of a crime. If your boss asks why she’s withdrawing the complaint, say it’s because she was brutally harassed by Patrolman McHenty of the Baltimore Police Department. Now I’m taking her home. Excuse us, please.” She put her arm around Lisa’s shoulders and steered her past the cop toward the exit.

As they left she heard him mutter: “What did I do?”