People were starting to file in. Clay headed for the back. Even with his hair a mess, he was still cute.
Mr. Winkler arrived and slapped a leather briefcase on the desk. As he turned to the chalkboard Justine looked at his tight corduroy ass.
He wrote, “Robert Winkler, PhD. English 10.”
Eve pointed to her notebook where she’d scribbled “Humbert Humbert” just as the teacher turned around.
“Something amusing, Miss . . .”
“Rubin.”
“Laugh now, suffer later.” He handed Eve a stack of papers. “Take one and pass it.”
Justine looked down at the mimeographed page. Catcher in the Rye, snooze, she’d read it twice. Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. Didn’t they sell his books in airports? Reading the course catalog, Justine’s mother had gloated over how many of the teachers had PhDs. One, Mrs. Tibbets, the editor of the Griswold Quarterly, had even published a well-regarded feminist novel and a story in The New Yorker. She flipped the page over, searching for the revered classics of English literature. The Scarlet Letter and Romeo and Juliet. Okay, acceptable.
Eve threw a note in her lap.
In my mind I’m probably the biggest sex maniac you ever met—Holden Caulfield (Just like the Wanker!!!)
“Strike two.” Mr. Winkler was over her, holding out a hand.
Justine dropped the paper onto his palm. He read it.
“Who wrote this?” His voice was dangerous.
“I did,” Eve admitted, looking up at him.
“Miss . . .” He smirked at her.
“Straus.”
“Please share this brilliance with the class.”
“In my mi—”
“Stand up!”
Eve got to her feet and met his gaze. “In my mind I’m the biggest sex maniac you ever met—Holden Caulfield.”
The class tittered.
“Oh, do read on.” Justine caught a twinkle in his eye.
“Just like the Wanker.”
The class burst into laughter. Eve began to sink into her chair.
“Silence!” Mr. Winkler said. “Did I tell you to sit down?”
He crossed his arms, radiating power. Eve stared right back. “I see you are familiar with Salinger. But remember, it’s better to quote accurately or not to quote at all. Holden says, ‘In my mind I’m the biggest sex maniac you ever saw.’”
The class laughed again.
“The Wanker?” he continued. “How clever. Why don’t you tell us all what that means?”
“It means he who wanks,” Eve replied. Justine saw the edge of her jaw twitch.
The class roared.
Justine gazed at Eve with admiration. She was as unassailable as a figurehead on a ship.
“Your command of British slang is an improvement over your Salinger,” the teacher said, stepping closer.
Eve held his eye.
“Writing notes in my class is not only bad manners, it’s forbidden.” He entwined his fingers and flexed them. “See me after class.” His knuckles gave a sharp crack.
* * *
—
Justine waited for Eve on the bridge.
“You were a goddess in there!”
“Oh please, he doesn’t scare me,” Eve said, not breaking her stride. “The motherfucker wants me to go to his house for tea on Thursday.”
Justine tried to walk faster, but Eve’s legs were much longer.
“Miss Straus,” Eve mimicked, “how do you take your tea? Foreskin or no foreskin?”
She swayed her hips and strode ahead. “One testicle or two?”
“Wait up!” Justine panted.
“Catch me!” Eve said, and took off, weaving and dodging around the students hurrying to class. Justine could barely keep sight of her. Suddenly Eve leapt onto the railing and several students stopped and gasped. The ground was terrifyingly far below, and Eve began a tightrope walk along the narrow wooden rail. A crowd was starting to gather, people murmuring in amazement. Suddenly Eve teetered, wobbled, yet by some miracle regained equilibrium. She took a few steps forward and grabbed one of the slender birch trunks, swinging her body around it and sliding to the ground below. Several students cheered and clapped. Justine saw her take off down the path next to the gorge.
Justine ran after Eve, pounding down the bridge, onto the path, and into the limestone courtyard of the arts center. She skidded to a halt just in time to see Eve disappear through one of the doors. She stood there, alone, trying to catch her breath. The art center’s walls mirrored and reflected the campus like massive postcards. Eve had disappeared through the looking glass.
Glancing at her watch, Justine saw there was an hour left before French. She walked to the smoker hoping someone else was there, but the place was deserted. And she was out of cigarettes.
She hurried down the hill toward Wormley. The campus faded away and the maples dissolved into cracked sidewalks, broken bottles in the gutters, and vinyl siding. Jethro’s Deli was on the corner of Elm and Ridge. Beyond a storefront with neon beer signs was a counter of worn Formica, a few shelves of canned food, and the aroma of burned coffee and dead mouse. A stringy-looking man sat behind the counter, wielding a toothpick on his gums like a tiny crowbar. An ice hockey game fuzzed on a black-and-white TV.
Justine walked down the candy aisle, suddenly craving strawberry Twizzlers. She passed Bit-O-Honey, Good & Plenty, Sky Bars. The red box was empty.
“Excuse me,” she said, “do you have any more of these?”
The man grumbled something, stood up, and shuffled into the back while Justine watched a commercial for Mount Airy Lodge. He came back with a box under his armpit and set it down on the counter. He stabbed the toothpick into the cellophane wrapper, vivisecting it from top to bottom.
“How many?”
“Uh, just one, please, and a pack of Benson & Hedges.”
He stopped and cocked his head.
“Figured a hot chick like you’d smoke Luckys.” He was missing several front teeth, and the remaining were sharp and stained. “How old are you?”
She decided to tell the truth. “Fifteen.”
“How long you been a smoker?”
“A year.”
“I started when I was eleven. Nasty habit. Lookee,” he croaked, holding out his left hand, which had a tattoo of an angel. Four fingers were shiny stumps. “Lost ’em cause o’ smokin’. Nasty habit.” He slapped a pack of Benson & Hedges down on the counter, and the Twizzlers. “Two fifty. Sweets for a sweet.” Gummer grin.
Two blocks later Justine was back in the clean and leafy world. The campus was quiet, most kids were in class.
Stanley was at the smoker, sitting with his eyes closed. He did not open them when she sat on the bench. His long plaid scarf was hanging in the dirt.
“You okay?” she asked.
“My boom box is out of batteries. I’m listening to music in my head.”
They sat in silence, Stanley still with his eyes closed.
She reached into her bag for her Baudelaire. She found the poem called “Music” and read aloud.
“Oft Music possesses me like the seas!
To my planet pale,
’Neath a ceiling of mist, in the lofty breeze,
I set my sail.”
Stanley let out a deep sigh. Even if Justine had to quit smoking altogether, she would scrounge up enough money to buy him new batteries.
FOUR
Eve walked to Mr. Winkler’s rooms in Thwaite, a colonial house converted into a dorm. The chirping of crickets droned on, the sky was inky, the night moonless. It was only the first week of school and Eve was in trouble. And to think, her parents’ rules had seemed draconian just a few weeks earlier.
On fall afternoons in the city, Eve would come in from school and the sun would slant thro
ugh the apartment windows, glazing the walls amber. In the kitchen, Patsy would make her hot chocolate and toast with cherry preserves, and Eve would eat while Patsy watched General Hospital. She wasn’t allowed to take food into her room—every New Yorker was waging war on roaches and losing. After the snack, Eve would go to her room, lie in a sunny spot on her carpet, and draw. She might read, lulled by the muted hum of traffic outside, or talk on the phone with her best friend, India Clarkson. God, she missed India. Eve shivered in the damp New England air. It was still September but already she could feel the chill.
Her old life felt so cozy and safe from here.
The only good thing about this place so far was Justine.
Mr. Winkler’s door was ajar and she hesitated on the threshold.
“Enter ye who dare!”
His apartment had a small vestibule painted navy blue, with an Oriental carpet and a brass umbrella stand. Eve walked into the living room, where a fire blazed in the hearth. It was how she imagined professors’ apartments at English boarding schools.
The teacher was lounging on a faded pink velvet sofa. Light from the fire flickered over piles of books, and a low lamp was lit. A blue-and-white tea service steamed on a low table. He patted the cushion beside him.
“How do you take your tea?”
“Black.”
Eve perched on the edge of the sofa.
“Please. Make yourself comfortable,” he said, patting the seat beside him again. She eased herself back into the cushions. His jacket had those brown leather buttons on the sleeves, like little bonbons.
“So, Miss Straus, you’re a fan of Salinger?” he asked, handing her a cup.
“I’ve read Catcher in the Rye a bunch of times, but I’m not that into it.” She took a sip of tea, it was Earl Grey, her favorite.
“What are you ‘into’?”
She looked up and saw a smirk on his face. David Bowie and surrealist painters suddenly seemed like childish pleasures. “I like reading all sorts of things. No offense, but isn’t Catcher in the Rye kind of easy for tenth grade?”
“What would you suggest, Miss Straus?” His tone was ironic, but his expression was curious, smiling.
Eve thought about it. “Something we might not read on our own, like Anna Karenina.” The steam rose from her tea in a cloud of bergamot.
“Wonderful novel. Did you like it?”
“I haven’t actually read it,” Eve admitted. She added, “But I’ve always wanted to. You should challenge us more.”
“Should I?” Mr. Winkler glanced down at the hole in her jeans. He lifted his eyes back to her face. “Anna Karenina is considered one of the greatest novels ever written,” he said. “However, in English class we read works written in English, not translated from Russian.”
“Oh, right,” she said, blushing.
“I’m sure you’ll find a reread of Salinger enlightening.”
“Are you going to give us new insights?”
“I plan to. How old were you when you first read it?”
She thought for a moment. “Twelve?” It seemed awfully young to her now, although she hadn’t felt too young at the time.
“What makes you think your classmates are as precocious as you are?”
She held a sugar cube to her lips and sucked on it. Precocious. She had been called that before and wasn’t sure it was a compliment.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, wiping her hand on her jeans.
“May you?”
“Why do grown-ups think Holden is a realistic teenager?”
“You mean grown-ups like me?”
Eve felt herself blushing again.
Mr. Winkler watched her, motionless.
“He’s a total loser,” she managed. “He fails out of school and has no friends. The fact that we’re supposed to relate is insulting.”
“So is passing notes in my class, Miss Straus.” He stroked his beard.
Eve felt a prickle of sweat on her upper lip.
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Winkler.”
“It was a pretty bold move on the first day,” he chuckled, leaning back on the cushions.
Yeah, Eve thought, a precocious move. She gazed at the fire, which had died down to red embers. The room was radiant and warm, the sofa soft, the tea fragrant. When Eve was an artist, she would have a big studio with a huge stone fireplace and a fire going all the time.
“You have a lovely profile,” Mr. Winkler said.
Eve froze.
“Almost like a Picasso.”
Trying to steady her hand, she took a sip of tea. She could imagine telling her friends in New York, playing out the conversation in her head: “There was this teacher, and he was so into me, so one night I let him . . .”
“But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.” He shifted a bit closer. It could have been accidental. “You’re obviously an advanced reader. Tell me your favorite books.”
“Um . . .” Eve tried to relax. “You first.”
He gestured at the piles on the floor.
“I have so many. I love Lord Jim, In Cold Blood, of course Updike.”
“Those are such guy books!”
He laughed and leaned closer. “Miss Straus, I’m a guy.” She had never touched a beard before and wondered if it was soft or scratchy. “Your turn.”
“Wuthering Heights, A Moveable Feast, and . . .” She glanced at his expectant face. He would think she was showing off. “Sentimental Education.”
Mr. Winkler set his cup down, stood up, and walked to the fireplace. He picked up a log and tossed it on the embers, where it crackled and sizzled into flame.
“I’m also an admirer of Flaubert,” he said, picking up the poker and leaning back on the mantel.
She swallowed, heart thumping.
He laughed. “Tell me . . .” The poker landed with a thwap in his hand. “What in particular do you like about Sentimental Education?”
Eve took a breath. “For one, the writing’s incredible. And it’s a real love story.”
“A love story?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“He loved Madame Arnoux so much!”
“He was silly. A fool.”
“Because he was in love with an older woman?”
They regarded each other in silence.
“But once he got her he didn’t want her anymore,” Mr. Winkler said.
The mantel clock chimed. It was almost curfew.
Eve stood up.
Mr. Winkler walked toward her, holding the poker like a sabre. “You’re a very smart girl, and a sophisticated reader, but the themes are more complex than just love. I look forward to discussing this further. And”—thwap, he struck his palm—“if you keep writing notes in my class, I’ll be forced to take disciplinary action.”
Eve nodded mutely.
“Good night,” he said.
Face burning, Eve slipped out his door and into the night.
FIVE
India Clarkson left her apartment on Fifty-fifth Street and walked west toward the Hudson River. She passed a gas station and averted her eyes as a cab driver tucked his dick back into his pants. She crossed the bridge over the sunken tracks where trains traveled from New York City toward Eve Straus at Griswold. India’s life had always been lonely, but now Eve was gone and India had dropped out of public school after just a few weeks. Her father spent most of his time high on cocaine when he wasn’t trying to steal money from India to buy more. He had run through what Kiki had left him, letting the family house in Bedford fall into disrepair. India had just managed to rescue her father’s horse, Mr. Ed, from the filthy stable.
She could hear the horses stomping their hooves in the low city stable, she could smell the manure. A hansom cab was parked on the sidewalk, a driver in a top hat was replacing dead red carnations with new one
s. Those flowers always reminded her of death.
She walked up the ramp to Mr. Ed’s stall. He was staring into the corner, swishing his tail against flies.
“Hey, you,” she said softly.
The horse moved to her and nuzzled her face with his thick velvet nostrils. His nose hairs were graying. India closed her eyes, resting her face on his neck, inhaling his delicious odor. This was life, warm and pulsing under her cheekbone. He whinnied.
“I know.” She looked around. Concrete, steel, urine. It was brutally urban. “I have to get you out of here.” India put her arms around his neck. His large dewy eyes gazed down without reproach. He was a pure creature. She felt his hot breath on her face. “This weekend,” she promised, thinking of the money she’d withdrawn from her account. The money had been given to India in her mother’s will, but that didn’t stop her father from trying to get access.
India would send Mr. Ed on a horse van to Long Island. Toppings was a clean stable, and she would see Mr. Ed on weekends. She kissed his jowl and headed out of the stable.
India walked farther west, toward the river. A white ocean liner was berthed at a pier. The thing was huge, it blotted out the sun. Southampton Princess, she was called. Southampton, England, not Long Island. India sat on a bench, the damp, rank breeze from the water lifting her hair.
India’s grandfather had had a yacht, Mata Hari, named for her grandmother’s favorite lipstick shade. India and her mother, Kiki, had sailed around Italy before ending in Rome, starting in Venice and making their way around the boot to Civitavecchia. India had been terribly seasick at first, and recalled her nurse, Mademoiselle, doling out small sips of ginger tea. It helped, and by the time they reached Ancona, India was eating gelato every day, the best at Giolitti in Rome. Riso, that was her favorite flavor. Like frozen rice pudding.
Kiki would lie on the deck for hours, her palms turned up to the sky, her eyes shaded under a massive cloth hat. She didn’t read, hardly ate, barely spoke.
India had been too young to understand, helplessly watching her mother retreat further into herself. And then that day at the Hotel de Russie . . . India would never go back to Rome.
Age of Consent Page 3