I open my eyes, and stare into the steam from the coffee for a moment, as I imagine the women at Delphi stared into the braziers or hallucinogenic gases from which they derived their visions. Then, I set it down, and take the Tale of Beauty from my bag. Where did it go wrong, Gertrude? What did I do wrong, and how can I fix it?
As I have so many times before, I flip through the book, first Gertrude’s section, then mine. For the first time, however, it fails to comfort me. Perhaps it’s my mental state, but the Tale suddenly reads like nothing more than a record of failure: Gertrude’s failure not only to save Emily, but to recover from her loss, and my failure to make her suffering worthwhile by using what she taught me to protect other women from the same fate. Interspersed among the threads of those great catastrophes are smaller disappointments: the two weeks that I spent with my mother instead of Gertrude in seventh grade, the first test I ever failed in tenth grade history, and more recently, the day that my teacher said those horrible things about my writing.
Is there even one thing that I have succeeded in? Until today, I would have called the Sisterhood a victory, and it would have made up for everything else. Now it seems that was the biggest failure of all.
I turn to Gertrude’s final entry, written a mere week and a half before she died. By the time I read through it, I realize that I’ve begun crying, and swipe at my eyes with my sleeve. I won’t humiliate myself in public, not on top of everything else.
I close the Tale of Beauty and force myself to take a sip of my lukewarm coffee. The bitterness of it jolts me back to my senses, and I stare at the blank cover of the binder. What should I do? What would Gertrude do? What did Gertrude do? I close my eyes. She did her best, didn’t she? Tried to help out where she could, save who she could ... until she couldn’t. And then ... I open my eyes. She died. She passed what she’d learned on to me, and she died.
I push the coffee away from me, tuck the Tale of Beauty under my arm, and continue walking down the street. Soon enough, I find a drugstore that doubles as a post office outlet, and break my last twenty dollar bill to buy the largest envelope that they have. Where to send it, though? I lift the cheap pen that they keep tethered to the end of the counter. Chastity is a lost cause; so is Sue. My mother doesn’t even bear consideration. Denise might understand it, but Diana ... Despite everything, I smile. Diana is the strongest of my Sisters, and she’s been at my side the longest. This is rightfully hers.
I address the envelope, then take one of the few remaining blank sheets of loose-leaf out of the back of the Tale and write Diana a short note. I dare not even attempt to explain everything; I can only direct her to the Tale, as Gertrude did me, and hope that she understands. “Don’t let yourself turn into Emily,” I write. “If you can, save the rest of them as well. I couldn’t, and I’m sorry.”
The girl behind the counter is starting to look impatient by the time that I put the Tale and the letter into the envelope and hand it to her, along with the postage fee. It’s a surprisingly great relief when she takes it from my hands, despite the fact that she drops it into the outgoing mail bin as though it were just another insipid gossip magazine. It’s over. I’ve done what I can. There isn’t anything left to do. I turn away from the counter. Soon, I’ll be able to rest.
With each block, I find that there are fewer people on the street. They’re going home to their families, their pets, and their lives. Tomorrow, they’ll get up, complain about their jobs, and begin anew. I stare at the back of a woman walking into an expensive apartment building in a tight-fitting business suit. Are you happy? How could you be?
The clouds have begun to thicken in the dark sky when my road finally ends at the edge of the river, which runs several feet below a chest-high guardrail. I lean against the guardrail and stare down at the water, which is churned white by the mounting wind. Save the cars which pass along the road behind me, which I hear only distantly, I might be alone in the world.
I take my purse from my shoulder, open it, and toss its few contents into the water like offerings. The river devours them, but provides neither insight nor comfort, even once the empty purse has also disappeared beneath its surface.
I remain there a long while, bereft of identity and utterly exhausted, with nothing but the proverbial clothes on my back. I see only two choices before me. Stand up, walk, and begin again, as even Gertrude could not, or stay here, admit defeat, and die. The former is inconceivable, the latter insupportable. How can I make such a choice?
Eventually, however, I do make it, with only the Goddess as my witness. It is fitting, I suppose. She will be the only one to whom it matters. I lift my face to the sky. I’m sorry, Gertrude.
Diana
FINALLY, I’M DONE, with both this silly sociology paper and that horrible soup kitchen. I drop the paper into the folder hanging on the outside of the professor’s office door. With half an hour until class starts, I go down to the cafeteria for a cup of tea.
I choose one of the small tables near the corner, as far away as possible from the few other students in the place, and take a book out of my bag. I’ve barely gotten through two pages when a familiar, scruffy bag crashes down on the table in front of me; the noise makes me jump, and I look up to glare at David.
“Sorry,” he says, and winces. “I didn’t think it’d make that much noise.”
“Did you think at all?”
“Hey, give me a break. It’s still early.” He sweeps the bag off the table, and I flinch as it strikes the floor with another sharp noise. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You obviously can’t help yourself.” I lift my own bag into my lap, take a small bottle of Advil out of one of the side pouches, and wash two of them down with a mouthful of tea.
“Headache?” he asks once I’ve swallowed.
“Yes.”
“That sucks.”
“Why are you here so early?”
“Had a meeting with my philosophy professor.” He leans back in his chair and exhales heavily. “I’m never going to get that stupid paper done.”
“You should have more time to work on it now that our sentence at the mission is over.”
“Ah, it wasn’t that bad.” He smiles. “I might go back, actually.”
“It’s your life,” I say with a shrug. “Just don’t expect to find me there.”
“Yeah, I know, you hated it. But you did good for some poor people , and you got out of doing research. Plus, you made Chastity happy.”
“And we both know which of those three reasons is why you’re going back there.”
“Of course. I’m Mr. Charity Work.” He laughs. “So I asked Chastity out, finally.”
“Did you need to call the paramedics to treat her for shock?”
“Hey, you’re talking like I’m the Hunchback of Notre Dame or something.”
“Calm down. I wasn’t taking a swipe at your masculine pride. Chastity is very sheltered, and this is the first I hear of any man being interested in her.”
“I kind of, y’know, tried to spin it like a ‘thanks for being such a cool person’ thing rather than a date thing. She seemed to be okay with it.” He dips into his bag and pulls up his phone. “How long do you think I should wait to call her?”
“Do you mean after the date?”
“No, no. I didn’t exactly set it up yet.”
Why am I surprised to hear that? He’s never been organized in any aspect of his life. “I have no idea. Why don’t you just call her now?”
“Yeah, but ... is it too soon? Like, am I going to look desperate or something?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re going to look like you want to make more concrete plans to go out with her.” I roll my eyes. “I’ve never understood this need that people have to make relationships so complicated.”
“I’m not trying to make it complicated ...” He glances up at me, then frowns down at his phone. “I just don’t want to screw up.”
“Yes, well, best of luck with that.” I finish my
tea, take my bag and stand up. “I’m going to get up to class.”
“Already? There’s still —”
“Would you rather I stayed to listen in on your conversation?”
“Oh. Well, I’m not sure I’m going to ...” He stares at me for a few seconds, then says: “Okay.” I’ve barely taken one step away when he adds: “Hey, Diana. Thanks, huh?”
“Don’t mention it.”
That evening after dinner, I consider calling Belle, but decide against it. She’ll call me soon enough: when she finds out about Chastity and David, at the very latest. My mouth tightens. She’s going to have a fit, and I don’t feel up to dealing with that tonight, especially not after she brushed me off last time.
I call Denise instead. She picks up on the eighth ring, and just from the way that she responds, I can tell that something’s off. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Nothing. What do you mean?”
“Something’s the matter?”
“No, it’s just ...” She trails off. “Damn, I need a heal ... ah, too late.”
That explains it. “Playing games?”
“Yes. But I just died, so I’ll take a break.” When I don’t respond right away, she adds: “Sorry. I know you hate talking to me while I’m playing.”
“I wouldn’t care what you were doing as long as you could hold down your end of the conversation.”
“Of course. So is your class almost over?”
“Aside from the exam, yes.”
“Have you started studying?”
“Yes, but it’s so easy that it’s almost insulting. Do they really believe that I need a page-long definition of race versus culture?”
“So you won’t be a sociologist, then?” She laughs.
“Most definitely not. Even if the content of the course interested me, the discipline seems to involve far too much contact with far too many other people.”
“I guess the idea is that you have to be part of the society to understand it. Sort of like those researchers who visit those tribes in the Amazon or Africa.”
“There were times at the mission when I felt as though I were in Africa.” I turn to look out the window at the darkening sky. “Have you heard from Chastity recently? Or Belle?”
“Chastity, no, but I did speak to Belle. She wanted me to come over, but it was a work night and I said no. I tried calling her yesterday, no answer. I wrote her an e-mail instead, but she hasn’t written back.”
“That’s not like her.”
“I know. She must be really upset.” Denise pauses. “I don’t feel good about it, but honestly, I don’t think I really did anything wrong either. I mean, I offered to talk about whatever it was with her over the phone, but she didn’t want to. What was I supposed to do?”
“Why are you trying to justify it to me?”
“I don’t know.” A pause. “You’re right. I’m sure that Belle will understand. I’ll just give her time to calm down.”
“Possibly.” I get up and go over to the calendar on my bedroom door. “There’s a meeting next weekend.”
“Is there?”
“Yes. At Belle’s, apparently.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll see her then, at the latest. She’d never let a little disagreement spoil the meeting.”
“No, she wouldn’t.” Usually, she wouldn’t even let a disagreement happen. What was the matter with her that night?
Denise yawns. “Excuse me,” she says. “I should probably get to bed soon. It’s been tough at work these past couple of days.”
“I don’t know how you do it, forty hours a week. I feel drained when I spend three hours on a paper.”
“It’s not quite the same thing. You get used to it. First one day, then the next, and before you know it, they’re getting a cake for your fifth anniversary ... if you remind them, that is.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Sue
DEAR NICK.
I tear the paper off the pad and trash it. I can just hear him laughing at that “Dear” crap. On the next sheet, I simply write, Nick; it looks like it needs something else, but I can’t think of anything besides “Hi”, which is even stupider than “Dear”. For God’s sake, it’s just the damn beginning. He’s not even going to read that part; he’s going to figure it’s for him. Move on.
I move down a couple of lines, but still have no idea what to write. “Hey, how’s it going? Sorry I almost brained you with a Virgin Mary”? “Sorry my friend is a total nut job and set this whole thing up without warning me”? I start colouring in the bits to the left of the margin. “Thanks for coming, even after I tried to break your heart for fun”? “Thanks for trying”? That last one’s not bad, but in the end, I just write: “Sorry, and thanks. For everything.” I take a second to look it over, the six-word letter with the random scribbling in the corner, and finally dump it in the trash with the rest of the wasted paper.
Letter’s not working. New plan. I could call him, I guess, but ... No. Hearing his voice ... too much, too close. Meeting up with him in person’s totally out of the question.
I get up and start pacing around. The apartment’s not as big a mess as it used to be, but I still have to walk around piles of junk and almost trip over the phone charger. I go to the window and look out at the empty side street a couple of floors down, then back to the table. I’ve got to get this off my head. Again, I write his name at the top of the page, but after another couple of seconds, I just shove the pad away and chuck the pen across the table after it. Hell with it. I’ll just call him.
He doesn’t answer, of course, and by the time I’ve decided to leave a message, the computerized voice has already cut off, and the beep comes a second later. Damn. What do I say?
“Hey, Nick. It’s Sue. I, uh ... hope you’re doing good ... not like it’s really any of my business or anything.” Smooth. Get to the point. “Listen, I just want to say I’m sorry about the whole mess with Belle, but ...” “It was good to see you”? “It helped me get out of bed”? “Thanks, I guess. Not really for the whole barging in and scaring the shit out of me thing, but ... for caring enough to come.” God, way too sappy, but whatever. Can’t take it back. “So, yeah. That’s all I wanted to say. Later.” Should have said “Goodbye”. “Later” leaves it open.
“Fuck it,” I say under my breath as I flip the phone closed and throw myself down on the couch to recover from the effort of leaving a ten-second phone message.
Around nine-thirty, Nick calls back. I have to force myself to flip the phone open, and it takes me a few more seconds to work up to saying, “Hey.”
“Hey there.” His voice is softer than usual. “How’s it going?”
“Could be worse, could be better. You?”
“About the same.” I think I hear him laugh, but it could just be static. “So, got your message.”
“Cool.” What am I supposed to say?
“Yeah. So I just called to say you’re welcome, or whatever.” He coughs. “You really doing all right?”
I shrug before I remember he can’t see me. “Depends what you mean by all right. I’m out of bed most of the day, but I still don’t have a job and this place is still kind of a pigsty.” I look around, and I’m actually sort of surprised to see that there are some clean spots of floor in the living room. “Getting there, I guess.”
“Hey, that’s good. One day at a time and all that shit, right?”
“I guess.” I’m surprised to hear myself laughing. “You never had a way with words.”
“Give me a break. I’m tryin’, right?”
“I guess.” I look outside at the dark, cloudy sky. “Hey, you know, I really am sorry. For everything. The relationship, and breaking it up the way I did ... it wasn’t fair.”
“It’s cool,” he says, in a way that makes it clear it’s not.
“No. I ...” I sigh. “You’re a good guy and you cared about me, and you didn’t deserve to have me turn into a bitch on you.”
“Ma
ybe. But hey, up until that, it was pretty good, wasn’t it?”
Was it? It must have been. “I haven’t felt like that in a long time.” I don’t know if that’s bad or good. “I think it was. Good, I mean.”
“Wow, you really do wonders for a guy’s ego, you know that?” He gets serious again. “I think I get it, though, and I hope maybe, eventually, we could be friends at least? If you want.”
Friends with benefits, you mean? Not so long ago, I would have said that out loud; if I was trying to “ensnare” him (to use Belle’s word), I might even have said it as a come-on. “I don’t know what I want.” It may be the most honest thing I’ve ever said to him.
“Okay.” I hear him click his tongue. “Shit. Almost ten already?”
“Close enough, yeah.” I smile. “What’s the matter? Got some girl waiting at that burger joint you always used to take me to?”
“Yeah, right.” He grunts. “Got to work the early shift again tomorrow.”
“That sucks. Guess you should get to sleep.”
“Guess so.” He does sound very tired suddenly. “But hey, it was good talking to you.”
“You too,” I say, and mean it. “Good night.”
“Night,” he replies. I get the sense that there’s something else he wants to say, but in the end, he just hangs up.
I’ve just changed into my PJ’s and brushed my teeth when my phone rings again; the caller ID says, “Chastity”. Could be worse. At least it’s not Belle. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Hi, Sue.” She sounds surprised that I’ve answered the phone at all, and I guess that sort of makes sense. I’ve been acting crazy lately, and God knows what Belle’s told her on top of that. “I’m so sorry to bother you. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, and you’re not bothering me. What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if you’d heard from Belle at all these past few days?”
“Nope. Not since I went over to her place and blasted her on Sunday.”
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