by Leslie Meier
“Camilla was probably upset,” said Lucy. “She and Nadine were friends since college, right?”
“Barnard girls. Elise, too.” Her lips curved into a small smile. “Believe me, if I had a daughter, I’d send her anywhere but Barnard.”
“I’m sure it’s a fine institution,” said Lucy. “Has anyone else gotten sick?”
“No . . . but we’re all keeping our fingers crossed and taking our Cipro. The offices are closed, of course, so the hazmat crew can do their stuff.” Deb sighed. “I’m not looking forward to going back.”
“They won’t let you in unless it’s safe.”
“It’s still creepy.”
“Yeah,” agreed Lucy, gazing across the water at a fanciful Victorian structure like a wedding cake sitting on an island. “What’s that?”
“Ellis Island. Gateway to America for millions of immigrants.”
Lucy hadn’t realized it was so close to Manhattan. The immigrants would have been able to see the city as they waited to be admitted. “Can you imagine how heartbreaking it would be to finally get here, after a horrendous sea voyage, with your whole family and everything you owned, only to learn you had tuberculosis or something and they wouldn’t let you in?”
“They had quarantine wards; they nursed the sick ones and most of them eventually got in.”
“I’d like to think so,” said Lucy, gazing at the Statue of Liberty and thinking about those World War II movies that ended with a boatful of refugees, or returning soldiers, gazing at the symbol of freedom. She found herself blinking back a tear. “I bet you’re used to seeing her.”
“Not really. It’s always a bit of a thrill. She’s fabulous, even if her accessories are rather unusual and that shade of green doesn’t look good on anybody.”
Lucy was grateful for the joke. “I agree about the book and torch, but I think those foam crowns would make a good gift for my girls at home.”
“A good choice, and affordable, too. Personally, I’d go for something a bit more subdued—I don’t really have occasion to wear a tiara.”
“I’m glad you approve.” Lucy couldn’t take her eyes off Lady Liberty and fell silent as the ferry glided by. “Where’s Governors Island?” she asked.
“I’m not really sure but it might be that one on the other side.” Deb pointed towards a sizeable island with numerous buildings. “It used to be some sort of military base but now it’s empty and they’re trying to figure out what to do with it.”
“Right. Actually, I have a friend who’s on that committee.” Lucy hadn’t realized how close the island was to Wall Street, or how magnificent the views would be. It was also much more built up than she expected, covered with neat brick buildings that could easily be converted to luxury housing. It would be most attractive to the well-heeled investment bankers and lawyers and brokers who worked in the financial district; the island would offer unparalleled security only a short boat ride from their offices. Plus, there was even docking space for their yachts. “I heard Nadine’s husband is trying to develop it.”
“Could be. I never paid much attention to her private life.”
“You got enough of her at work?” asked Lucy.
“You said it, not me.” Deb’s eyes glittered mischievously.
“I get the sense she wasn’t very popular at the magazine,” said Lucy, putting out a feeler, “but it’s hard to believe that one of her fellow workers would actually poison her.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t put anything past that crowd,” said Deb. “They’re all self-centered, shallow, ambitious, and ruthless—it’s the fashion industry, after all. The most vital question on all their minds right now is whether purple is really going to be the hot new color this spring. There’s a lot riding on it, you know.” She looked up as the ferry groaned and slowed in preparation for docking. “This crowd is more likely to skewer you with sarcasm. Where would a fashionista get anthrax? It’s not like they sell it at Bloomie’s.”
“I was wondering the same thing,” said Lucy. “I suppose it could have been some sort of terror attack, like before, but it seems funny that only my daughter and Nadine were affected.”
“I don’t know.” Deb shook her head as the ferry shuddered to a halt. “After the World Trade Center attacks, I guess anything is possible.” She paused. “If you want to ride back you have to get off and walk through the terminal and get back on. You used to be able to stay on the boat but that’s changed.”
They walked together until their paths diverged in the terminal; Deb headed for the exit while Lucy followed a shuffling homeless man making his way back to the ferry. She wondered if he actually lived on the boat. It was possible, she guessed; the ride took longer than she remembered. This time she buttoned up her coat and pulled on her gloves, stepping onto the outside deck that wrapped around the boat. The windows were closed, but it was still chillier than the inside sitting area. The wind had died down so she leaned her elbows on the railing and looked across the water at the twinkling outline of the illuminated bridge.
Daylight was fading, Lucy realized, checking her watch. It was nearly four o’clock. She ducked inside and crossed the seating area, coming out on the other outside deck facing the city. The boat began to move, gliding across silky water toward the gleaming skyscrapers, now reflecting the last rays of the winter sun. She sat down on the long bench that wrapped around the outside of the cabin, alone except for one or two other hardy souls, and plunged her hands into her pockets. She heard the thrum of the engine and a boat horn or two, but otherwise it was quiet as the ferry picked up speed. The cloudless indigo sky was deepening, growing darker, though not yet dark enough for stars to appear. In the distance, growing closer, were the illuminated towers of Manhattan, creating their own sparkling constellations in the night sky.
Chapter Fifteen
TAKE OUR TEST AND FIND YOUR PERSONALITY QUOTIENT
The city was most magical when viewed from a distance. It didn’t have nearly the same appeal when you were deep in its bowels, hanging onto a slippery pole in a packed subway car, decided Lucy. The train was empty when she boarded at South Ferry and she’d gotten a seat, but it had filled up rapidly with homeward bound workers. At 59th Street she gave up her seat to a pregnant woman, and by the time she reached 116th Street people were so tightly jammed together that it was difficult to breathe, and she had to battle her way through the crowd to exit. When she finally managed to extricate herself, she stood on the platform and shook herself like a dog, straightening her clothes and catching her breath.
Once outside she found herself in the dark of late afternoon and she savored the experience, strange to her, of walking down a city sidewalk at night. She wasn’t the least bit afraid. The stores were still open and plenty of people were about on Broadway, mostly college and high school students with backpacks and businesspeople with briefcases, many pausing to pick up dry cleaning or a quart of milk or a bunch of flowers on their way home.
It occurred to her that it would be nice to bring Sam some flowers, or maybe a cake from a bakery, and she was trying to decide which would be the better choice when she realized she was walking past Barnard College. The realization energized her, making her wonder if fate was taking a hand and pointing the way. This was her chance to see the institution that had earned Deb’s disapproval by nurturing Nadine, Camilla, and Elise. Curious, she peered through the bars of the decorative iron fence into an illuminated, treed courtyard. Noting that the gate was open she wandered in, not quite sure what she was looking for. She passed groups of girls walking in twos and threes, bundled up against the cold and clutching piles of books to their chests; some twenty years ago Camilla, Nadine, and Elise would have made a similar group, hurrying back to their dorm after a busy day of classes. She could picture them: Camilla would be the alpha member of the little pack, flanked on either side by her two less self-assured buddies.
Feeling the cold, Lucy stepped into the inviting student center to warm up. She picked up a copy of t
he student newspaper and sat down on one of the colorful upholstered chairs clustered in the large room, which seemed to be a combination waiting room and hallway. A bookshelf next to her chair held a collection of yearbooks, and she pulled out one from 1982. Leafing through it she discovered that Camilla had been a member of the class of 1984.
Opening that edition she found photos of Camilla Keith and Elise Frazier on adjacent pages. Oddly enough, considering their friendship, she discovered they had virtually nothing in common during their college years. They lived in different dorms, they belonged to different clubs, and they even looked different. Back then Camilla had a certain sophistication that Elise, with very big hair and a pair of oversized eyeglasses, definitely lacked.
Lucy didn’t know Nadine’s maiden name so she leafed through the pages searching for her first name. There was only one Nadine, Nadine Smoot. Lucy stifled a giggle as she studied the much younger but still recognizable face of the late Nadine. Lucy guessed she might have been strongly influenced by the militant feminism rampant on campuses at the time; there seemed no other explanation for her extremely short, mannish haircut and the plain T-shirt that strained across her braless chest, proclaiming “Sisterhood Is Powerful.” Checking the list of undergraduate activities in which Nadine had participated, Lucy learned she had been a founding member of the school’s NOW chapter and was also active in the Take Back The Night movement and the women’s health initiative.
Weird, thought Lucy, replacing the book. What had brought these three very different women together? What did a campus fashionista, a militant feminist, and an ugly duckling (she mentally apologized to Elise) all have in common? They seemed an extremely unlikely group, especially considering the tendency of college students to clump themselves with similar friends. When she was in college she remembered the wide gulf between the jocks, the sorority girls, the theater kids, and the political activists. Once labeled a member of one of those groups it was practically impossible to breach the gap and make new friends.
Looking down at the newspaper in her lap, Lucy had an idea. She got up and went over to the information desk and asked where she could find old copies.
“How old?” inquired the girl, a perky little brunette with stylish black-rimmed eyeglasses.
“From the eighties.”
“You’d need the archives,” she said.
Lucy suddenly felt very old. “Where would they be?” she asked.
“Wollman Library.” The girl pulled out a map, circled the library, and plotted her route. “Ask for the Lehman Archives.”
At the library, the student staff member apologized for the fact that the university newspaper wasn’t available online. “You’ll have to use the microfiche machine,” she said, handing Lucy several spools of film.
“No problem,” said Lucy, settling herself in front of the big viewing machine. She didn’t mind; she liked the whirring sound the film made as she scanned the pages, she enjoyed viewing the old issues as they actually appeared when printed. She got a kick out of the grainy photos from an earlier era, replete with shoulder pads and Farrah Fawcett hairdos. Did people really go around looking like that? It seemed incredible until she spotted one coed in the same platform shoes she had once worn and groaned out loud.
The student who had given her the films hurried over. “Everything okay?”
Lucy chuckled and pointed at the screen. “I used to have a pair of shoes like that.”
“Wow, retro,” said the girl, obviously impressed. “They get fifty bucks for those in the vintage clothing stores.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped. “Really?”
“Yeah. Do you still have them? I’d be interested, if you’re a size eight.”
“No, I’m a seven and they went to the Salvation Army a long, long time ago.”
“Too bad!”
Skimming through the pages, Lucy noticed that Camilla’s name and face popped up frequently. She was pictured selling used textbooks at a student council fund-raiser. She was presenting a cash gift to a Head Start program. She had won a Glamour magazine contest. And then came the stunning headline: Student Leader Attempts Suicide.
Lucy let out a long breath and leaned closer to read the story.
The usual quiet of a weekday evening during midterms, when most students are preparing for exams, was shattered last Tuesday by a scream.
“She’s going to jump!” shrieked Nadine Smoot, ’84, pointing to a small figure clothed in a diaphanous white gown perched on the edge of the Brooks Hall residence roof. She was later identified as Camilla Keith, ’84, president of the sophomore class and a member of the student governing council.
A crowd immediately gathered in the Arthur Ross Courtyard, but no one seemed to know what to do. Uncertainty reigned as students discussed an appropriate course of action. Some wanted to call campus police and health officials; others maintained such action would be a violation of personal freedom and individual rights. As the controversy raged, Smoot and Elise Frazier, ’84, took action, racing up the stairs and joining Keith on the roof.
The two remonstrated with Keith as students gathered below watched with bated breath. When the sound of approaching sirens was heard, Keith became agitated, stepping closer to the edge. It was then that Smoot lunged at her and brought her safely to the ground in a rugby style lunge, assisted by Frazier.
All three were subsequently transported by ambulance to Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center. Smoot and Frazier were treated for minor abrasions and released. Keith was admitted to the psychiatric unit for evaluation but has since been released. She had no comment, except to thank Smoot and Frazier, whom she said “prevented me from making a very big mistake.”
Frazier attributed the happy outcome to Smoot’s quick thinking and willingness to take action. “I was terrified.” she said, “but Nadine knew what to do.”
Smoot said she only did “what any sister would do for another” and went on to point out that women are much more likely to commit suicide than men. “We need to establish suicide-prevention programs here on campus. The administration doesn’t want to admit there’s a problem but this time they couldn’t sweep it under the rug. Camilla was out there in public, showing her pain, and that was very brave.”
Personally, Smoot said the incident was an opportunity for her to get to know someone she wouldn’t have thought she had much in common with. “Camilla and I are very different; she’s more establishment and I consider myself a feminist and a women’s rights activist but now I see we’re the same under the skin. There’s an old Native American saying that if you save someone’s life you become responsible for them forever,” she said.
Lucy felt chills run up her spine as she finished reading the story. What a creepy thing for Nadine to say. Did she really feel responsible for Camilla’s future welfare? Or was she taking advantage of an emotionally vulnerable young woman? And what about Nadine’s feminist views? She apparently hadn’t hesitated to jettison them when she had an opportunity to join the “establishment” fashion media.
The friendship had certainly benefited Nadine and Elise, who had ridden on Camilla’s coattails to assume top positions at Jolie magazine. But what about Camilla? Had she grown tired of this everlasting debt? Had Nadine become a serious liability? The magazine was in trouble and her job was in jeopardy, largely because of Nadine’s harebrained schemes.
It occurred to Lucy that Camilla might have come to believe there was only one way to rid herself of Nadine. But how would she get her hands on anthrax, wondered Lucy. Designer clothes, sure, she had an unlimited supply. But anthrax? Not usually found in the environs of Seventh Avenue.
Idly, Lucy scrolled the microfilm through a few more issues of the paper, stopping when she came to a photo of Elise, pictured with two beaming professors. She was the 1983 winner of the Jackson-Selfridge prize in biochemistry, awarded for “innovative research with potential agricultural applications.”
Ohmigod, thought Lucy. Elise studied biochemistry; she might even
have worked as a biochemist before coming to Jolie. She might have worked with anthrax herself, or she could have connections, friends who worked with it. As Lucy continued scrolling through the microfilm she thought again of a favorite phrase of her mother’s. “Three’s a crowd,” Mom had always advised, whenever Lucy planned to go shopping or to a movie with a couple of friends. “Two can walk together, two can chat in a theater. If there are four, you can make two couples. But three’s a crowd. Someone’s always left out.”
Lucy didn’t usually agree, but this time it seemed that Mom may have been right. Maybe three was a crowd and Nadine was the odd one out.
The idea came to mind again when she and Sam were eating microwave dinners in the kitchen, only this time Lucy was worried she might be the third wheel.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Sam apologizing for not providing a home-cooked meal, “but this is what I usually do when Brad’s not home for supper.”
“Fine with me,” said Lucy. “I really appreciate your hospitality. I hope it’s not a nuisance having me here.”
“A nuisance? Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Well, you and Brad are finally empty-nesters, and now you’ve got me cluttering up your life.”
“Honey, I love the chance to visit with you,” said Sam, removing the dinners from the microwave and setting the plastic containers on plates. “Besides, my nights have been pretty lonely these past few months. That Governors Island committee is taking an awful lot of Brad’s time.”
“What’s that all about?” asked Lucy, spearing one of the four small pieces of chicken included with the dinner. “I saw it from the ferry. It seems such a waste. All those buildings and nobody there.”
“It’s a fabulous piece of real estate but nobody’s quite sure what to do with it, so that’s why they set up the committee. There’s been a fort there since the 1700s, the Army had a base there for years and then the Coast Guard had it for a while. Now about half the island has been preserved as a National Historic District and a national monument but there’s plenty of acreage left, most of it old military housing.”