What Has Become of You

by Jan Elizabeth Watson

  “Yes, Phoebe Coffle. About an hour ago she got dropped off. You want the number there, or you just want me to give her a message? There isn’t anything wrong, is there?”

  Vera wanted to tell her that quite possibly something was wrong, very wrong indeed, but she could not say this to the sleepy but good-natured voice on the phone. Instead she took the number down, wanting to stall for time, keep Mrs. Cudahy on the phone longer in hopes that she might disclose something else that could be of use. She was thinking hard, trying to improvise, but deception did not always come so easily to her; she could only thank her politely for the information she’d received and apologize once again for being a bother. “No bother,” Mrs. Cudahy said. “I probably owe you a thanks. You woke me up just in time for my show.”

  Eleven minutes left on her phone.

  She dialed the number Mrs. Cudahy had given her and found that it was not a working number. She went on the Internet, cursing her connection for its slowness, and performed a Google search for hotels in the Dorset area until she found what she was seeking: A newly erected Roundview Hotel was in business on the Wheaton Road, all the way on the other end of town. Things were adding up, painting a clear and ominous picture in Vera’s mind.

  Ten minutes left on her phone.

  Twelve dollars in cash in her wallet: Vera took the time to count them. Twelve dollars, and no time to waste finding an ATM. She hoped this would be enough as she dialed the number of a taxi company and asked to be picked up. The dispatcher on the phone said, “We’ll send someone right over,” so Vera sat on the stoop of her building and waited, shivering in her coat and hat. The air was pregnant and still, as though a light, spring snow were coming. She was already mentally calculating what she would cut from her monthly budget in order to afford the cab fare; about four morning coffees, she figured—but no, she couldn’t go without her coffee. Perhaps she could write a smaller check for the cable TV bill and pay the difference later. Why, she berated herself, are you even thinking of this now? Another girl could be dead. Your very own student could be dead in a hotel room, and you’re thinking about twelve dollars.

  The cab, when it finally came, had an interior that smelled sharply of underarm sweat, forcing Vera to mouth-breathe as she tried to respond to the driver’s perfunctory questions about how long she’d lived in the area and whether she’d heard anything about the snow that had been forecast for later in the evening. She wished herself back in New York City, where the cabbies never bothered with politesse, never felt compelled to fill silences with small talk.

  It was critical that she be able to think. Riding alone in the backseat, she thought about Jensen Willard being alone in a hotel room for an hour—about what could have been accomplished in an hour. The calm self that had taken over was starting to recede, and nervousness kicked in as the cab nudged its way through the dark.

  Another ten minutes passed before she reached the hotel. Entering the lobby, she saw an indifferent-looking young man shambling behind the reception desk—a tall desk designed, it seemed, to make its patrons feel diminutive. With as much poise as she could muster, Vera leaned against the desk, lifted her face to the young man, and said, “I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for someone who I think is staying here tonight.”

  The desk clerk gave her a once-over through hooded eyes. As he leaned in closer, Vera got a distinct whiff of strong, skunk-like pot emanating from either his hair or his clothes. “What’s the name?”

  Vera told him, and spelled it upon his request.

  “Hold on a sec,” the desk clerk said, and he scrolled through the computer records with maddening leisure. “Nope,” he said at last, “Don’t have anyone registered with that name.”

  “Oh.” She should have expected that this might be a possibility, yet she refused to accept it. Had the girl gone somewhere else and planned to check in later? Should she do a stakeout in the lobby?

  “I do have a Phoebe Willard, though.”

  “That’s it! That’s got to be it. Could you call her and see if she’ll meet me in the lobby? Please tell her that her teacher Miss Lundy would like to see her.”

  Vera held her breath as she waited for the young man to call the room number. Please, she thought, let it be her number. Let it be her and let her answer. And let her not do anything drastic as a result of me coming. She said that her parents and the police shouldn’t interfere, but she didn’t say anything about me, did she? She allowed herself to exhale, not a moment too soon, when she heard the desk clerk saying, “Someone’s down in the lobby to see you. Some woman who says she’s your teacher.” He hung up the phone, looked over at Vera, and said, “She’ll come down to meet you. Have a seat if you want. There’s free coffee.”

  Vera took a seat in one of the stiff-backed chairs in the lobby. Her chair faced a cement fishpond, the sort one sees in Chinese restaurants of a certain type; three dark fish swam lethargically, their long fins wilting in the water. A few pennies were scattered at the bottom of the pond—what did tossing the pennies signify? Some kind of luck? A wish granted? She felt around in her coat pockets, but her pennies were kept up at home, stored in a canister intended for flour—emergency money for hard times.

  She realized she was scared again, now that she knew Jensen was all right. Relieved, of course, but what would she say to her now? She had planned to convince the girl to go back home, to forget her melodramatic idea of killing herself. She had no idea what to expect from Jensen. If she was becoming as unhinged as she’d sounded in her recent communiqués, convincing her might not be easy. She might even lash out. What if she brings that pistol downstairs? Vera thought.

  The elevator made a humming sound; its up arrow lit green, then its down arrow. Someone was heading to the lobby. When the little bell declared itself and the elevator car reached its stop, Vera watched its doors open and saw Jensen Willard emerge. The girl was dressed in a baggy, dark-gray T-shirt and military pants that were much too long; she kept treading on their hems but somehow didn’t stumble over them. This boyish ensemble made her look younger and more delicate, almost gamine, as she inched her way over to the lobby.

  Her hands were empty, and Vera could see no sign of a bulky weapon in her pants pockets. She didn’t appear to be carrying anything other than her own dark mood and the weight of her own slight body.

  “Well, hello, Phoebe.” Vera got out of her chair, and the quick motion made her feel light-headed for an instant. The girl was very much alive. Now what? she thought. “I’m glad I found you.”

  “Why?” Jensen’s voice was solemn, and her breath was fragrant with alcohol—vodka and orange juice, unless Vera missed her guess.

  “I read your last journal. I only guessed that this might be where you were.”

  “Oh,” Jensen said. “That’s why you’re here. By the way, were you looking for a penny? I have one.” Jensen reached into one of her deep pants pockets, leaned forward, and let a single coin drop into the pond. The fish swam for the far ends of the fountain and quivered there, waiting for this disturbance to pass. “Since you’ve come, maybe you’d like to come up and see my room? There’s wall art with lighthouses on it.”

  “Goodness,” Vera said. She wavered for an instant, wondering if this was an invitation she wanted to accept. Her instincts told her that she did not want to be alone with Jensen Willard. She thought of her saying, It must have been awful for whoever found the body, with a little smile that, in her recollection, had taken on a ghoulish sort of pleasure. “Why don’t we just talk down here? It’s quiet, and we have this whole space to ourselves.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “You’d rather not talk? Or you just don’t want to talk down here?”

  “The last one.”

  Vera thought for a moment. She had come for a reason, and that was to help; she could be of no assistance to her student if she backed out now and let her walk away.

&nb
sp; “I guess I could come up for just a few minutes,” she said.

  She followed her into the elevator and sighed as the door slid shut; after the door had closed and the elevator shaft jerked its way upward, Jensen murmured, “So how did you guess ‘Phoebe’?”

  Vera was relieved that Jensen had broken the silence and that her question was benign enough. “I didn’t, exactly. I did call your house and get the name of your sleepover buddy. I take it your parents aren’t big readers.”

  Jensen did not crack a smile as Vera had hoped she might. The girl might be playing it cool, but her nonresponse conveyed that this was still not a time for jokes. What’s wrong with you? Vera reprimanded herself. Nerves? You can’t botch this. You can’t say stupid things. The elevator stopped at the fourth floor, and Jensen led Vera down the length of carpeting, stopping at the last door and opening it with her keycard.

  Behind the door was a perfectly usual, perfectly drab hotel room. Two double beds with cheap, scratchy-looking floral comforters faced a TV tucked in a cabinet; the TV was on, but the volume was at its lowest setting, its voices reduced to staticky whispers. On a table near the large double windows, Vera saw a nearly full bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice, plus an ashtray with a mostly unsmoked cigarette stubbed out in it. Next to the chair were Jensen’s combat boots and beside that, her army knapsack, unbuckled and crumpled on the floor.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Vera asked, then wondered why she had said that, of all the possible opening gambits she could have used. So much for not saying stupid things.

  “I don’t. But my parents do. I thought tonight might be a good night to start.”

  “I see you have two beds here. Why didn’t you get a single room?”

  “I think they made a mistake.” Jensen sat down on the bed closest to the window in a ladylike fashion that was very much at odds with her clothes; she crossed her legs and sat up straight, looking like a conscientious girl preparing to get the most out of a class.

  “I’m surprised you even came down to meet me,” Vera said, gingerly seating herself on the bed across from Jensen’s. “I mean, I’m glad you did. Did you want me to be here, Jensen? Is that why you were so specific about your plans in your journal? You wanted to make sure I read the journal before tonight. You wanted to make sure I prevented you from doing anything.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Then why? Why tell me such things? I have to tell you, I don’t know what to make of any of this. It’s all so . . . irregular.”

  Jensen shrugged, stifled a yawn behind her hand, and directed her attention to the TV; Vera had a feeling this was an affectation, for her posture was still ramrod-straight. Vera’s eyes followed the girl’s and saw that an old Twilight Zone episode was on, featuring a young but already-balding Robert Duvall as a man who was in love with a doll—a beautiful, grown-up lady doll who lived in a museum dollhouse. She remembered the episode. It had been one of her favorites when she was a kid.

  “Perhaps we can turn the TV off?” she suggested.

  “I like The Twilight Zone. Hey, do you want a drink?” Jensen asked, springing up off the bed. “If you do, you could put it in the extra mouthwash cup.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She wanted to tell the girl that she probably shouldn’t be drinking, either, but to do so seemed almost trivial under the circumstances.

  “I don’t even like alcohol all that much,” the girl said, dumping vodka into her cup and topping it off with a splash of orange juice. “But I thought it might help me tonight. I have a fake ID my friend Scotty made me once, but I never had a chance to use it for anything.” Then, without looking at Vera: “What’d my mom say to you on the phone?”

  “Very little. But since you mention it, I should tell you that I didn’t say much, either. I didn’t give anything away. I didn’t mention anything about what you’d hinted you would do here tonight—you know, the whole ‘checking out’ thing. When I called, I had every intention of saying something about it. But I changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a complicated question, Jensen.”

  “Why is not complicated. It’s the answer that might be complicated.”

  “You’re right about that,” Vera admitted. “I don’t know if I can answer that right this second.”

  “You know what? You look different outside a classroom. Younger.”

  “I was just thinking that you look older, not sitting behind a desk.”

  It was a white lie of sorts; Jensen, having resumed her position on her bed, looked younger than Vera had ever seen her look. But she could tell the comment pleased her student. Vera remained on the opposite bed and looked from her hands to the moving TV shapes to Jensen, trying to think of what else to say. She realized she was perspiring, pressured as she was to make every word count . . . and also because she was deathly afraid. The girl seemed calm, harmless, and small enough in person, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a loose cannon. That didn’t mean it wasn’t of utmost importance that Vera choose her words very carefully. “I suppose I didn’t mention anything to your mother because I thought I could spare you some . . . awkwardness at home. Maybe you’d find it easier to talk to me instead, just like you talk to me in your journals.”

  Jensen gave her a sidelong look. “I hope you aren’t about to tell me this is all ‘just a phase.’”

  “Rest assured I’m not going to.”

  Jensen continued to stare at the nearly muted TV, but Vera could tell she was listening.

  “This is awful of me to say because you’ll probably recoil from this idea. It’s not something a girl your age would want to hear from . . . someone older like me. But when I first started teaching in February, when I first met you, you reminded me of myself when I was your age. Maybe you sense that, too. Maybe that’s why you’ve written the journals for me to see. I don’t really know, Jensen; this is all just me guessing. I don’t know what you’re looking for from me exactly, but I want to provide whatever it is you need.”

  “How do I remind you of yourself?” Jensen asked. She didn’t sound irritated. More bemused than irritated.

  “Well, my own teenage years were . . . quite tortured, emotionally. I tried to off myself several times.”

  “Off myself—that’s a nice phrase,” Jensen said amiably. She was looking at Vera now with interest. “You know, the British say top myself. It sounds so jovial.”

  “It does.”

  “Why did you want to kill yourself?”

  “Much of the same reasons you do, I assume,” Vera said. “My emotions were outsized, as was my intellect. It wasn’t a good combination. Those four years of high school were like . . .” She hesitated, thinking of how to characterize it without saying too much. “They occurred in slow motion, as though protracted. They still live in me as a raw period of time that I can’t completely shake off. I’m still that fifteen-year-old in a lot of ways. I am not sure that this is the norm. I would guess that most people my age would say they feel far removed from the fifteen-year-old they once were.”

  “I can’t even picture you as a fifteen-year-old.”

  “I don’t think I ever was one. I was always a miniature adult when I was young. It was only later in life that my immaturity cemented itself.” Vera thought of saying more. She thought of telling Jensen how she had thought in high school that she’d like to be a teacher someday, in hopes of making young men’s and women’s lives a little different from how hers had been. She thought of telling her that she had been so shy that she had flunked her undergraduate teaching practicum and been kicked out of the secondary education program, which left her with a creative writing degree and a library aide job before she moved on to graduate school and all that came afterward. She wanted to explain that it took her a lot of guts to finally pursue a teaching track—that it still took a lot of guts—and that it was
only remembering the frightened girl she had been that enabled her to get up every day and face her students.

  Focus on Jensen, she told herself. Don’t let her sidetrack you. “Jensen,” Vera asked bluntly, “did you have a plan for how you were going to kill yourself tonight? Were you going to use that gun?”

  “Only if the police showed up. That wouldn’t be my first choice, though.”

  “You once wrote about jumping off a bridge as a means of killing yourself. Why jumping?”

  “Because you can’t really go back on that decision once you’ve made it. You can’t stop midjump. I suppose shooting yourself could also be foolproof, but then I’d prefer not to have my head splattered all over these walls. Too messy.”

  “You know, when you jump from a great height, your organs get ripped up in your own body. As you land, your rib cage essentially shatters and impales all your organs. And the death isn’t always instantaneous. It isn’t a pretty way to go, Jensen.”

  “I don’t think there is a pretty way.”

  “There isn’t,” Vera agreed. “But some are uglier than others.”

  “I have an older cousin who worked in a hotel in Providence. A woman killed herself there once. She drank bleach. No one heard from her for a few days, and then her room started to smell. They sent my cousin to go unlock her door, and she saw her lying naked on the bed. She was so discolored that at first she couldn’t tell if she was a black woman or a white woman.”

  “This couldn’t have been pleasant for your cousin.”

  “It wasn’t. She quit the next day.”

  “I doubt it was pleasant for the woman, either,” Vera said, “drinking bleach.”

  The TV had distracted Jensen again. Vera looked, too, and saw that Robert Duvall had somehow found his way into the dollhouse and was sitting next to his ladylove on the dollhouse-size sofa. “Oh my God, how did he get inside?” Jensen asked.

  “Jensen,” Vera said, trying to keep the wheedling note out of her voice. “Jensen, let me ask you this. You aren’t really thinking of killing yourself because of Bret Folger, are you? Because, really. He’s just a boy. Not even a particularly special one, by the sounds of it.”