What Has Become of You

by Jan Elizabeth Watson

  2. Jensen has run away someplace (New York City?), and Bret knows where she is.

  3. Jensen has been abducted but is alive. Bret knows something about who took her.

  4. Jensen was abducted and is dead. Bret had a hand in it somehow.

  Vera wrote down the number five, but then her fingers wrapped more tightly around her pen, as though to restrain it from what it wanted to write. She wondered if it was the word dead that had stopped her cold. Or perhaps it was because the word abducted itself struck her as sinister and strange, like an operation requiring the removal of a vital organ: I had an abduction that needed twenty-seven stitches.

  Possibility no. 2, on the other hand, was inviting—a possibility filled with other, greater possibilities and part of what had brought her to this point. If Jensen was actually in New York City, despite what the cops thought, then Vera stood a chance of finding the girl herself. And what a coup that would be—how redemptive in the eyes of the Cudahys and the police, if the person indirectly responsible for their daughter’s disappearance was the one to bring her home.

  Folding her notebook page over, Vera started a secondary list:

  Possibilities, Part 2: Jensen is in New York. (Places?)

  1. Columbia University area (Jay Hall—where Bret is?)

  2. Holden tour: Central Park (Lake where the ducks are? Or by the carousel??)

  3. Grand Central Station

  4. Rink at Rockefeller Center (would it be open??)

  5. Metropolitan Museum, Museum of Natural History?

  6. Near Salinger’s apartment???

  Columbia University seemed the best prospect, but Vera felt she could not rule out some of the others; Grand Central Station was an excellent place to hide if one was feeling especially daring. She couldn’t really picture Jensen Willard at the ice rink (too sporty) or at the Museum of Natural History (too nerdy), but the Metropolitan Museum was a possibility; she saw Jensen as the sort of burrowing creature who would like small, dark corners and cubbyholes to hide in, just as Vera herself would.

  Where, she wondered, was the best dark cubbyhole of all? And what had driven her to into its recesses? She closed her notebook and allowed herself to doze, waking up only periodically from the jolts of the bus.

  When the bus passed through Stamford, Connecticut, she called her old friend Elliott on her phone; she got his voicemail and spoke in a low voice so as not to disturb the other passengers, especially the man sleeping next to her. “I’m leaving Stamford now,” she said. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  She had first called Elliott on the previous afternoon, not long after her apartment had been searched—email was no longer an option, with her laptop confiscated—and when he heard of her plans, Elliott’s response had been typical for him: “You’re a nutter, Vera. I see nothing has changed.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you, too, you old coot,” Vera had replied.

  Elliott Kinkel had been a fellow student in Vera’s graduate nonfiction workshop at Princeton. Twelve years older than Vera and known to be cantankerous, he had not been well liked in the writing workshop; when commenting on others’ pieces, his suggestions were sound, but his delivery lacked finesse. Vera, who did not make friends easily but enjoyed the challenge of winning over difficult people, had liked him instantly. After graduation, when both he and she had moved to New York City apartments in Morningside Heights, they often rented movies together and critiqued the screenplays, for Elliott considered himself a budding screenwriter. Most of his half-written efforts were crime dramas, which Vera had edited with enthusiasm; his writing, she thought, was actually pretty good, exhibiting a flair for hard-boiled dialogue.

  Though she hadn’t seen him in three years, she knew he would not hesitate to help her out in her unique situation. Years before, when the lease on her New York apartment had run out and she had yet to find a new place, he had let her sleep on his sofa bed for three weeks and had even cooked all her meals, not asking for a penny in return. She didn’t like to take advantage of anyone’s kindness, but Elliott enjoyed showing a magnanimous side under all his crotchety layers. When better times came, she had repaid him, in her fashion, by buying him an expensive, framed Pop Art print that he’d had his eye on—Richard Hamilton’s Just what is it that makes today’s homes so different, so appealing?—and as far as Vera knew, that print still hung in his living room.

  In Port Authority now, the signs at last brought Vera to the train she wanted—the number 1, 2, and 3 train—and she scuttled to the very end of the subway platform, where she knew she stood better odds of getting a seat. When her train arrived, however, the front car was packed; she squeezed her way in and ended up with her face pushed into a tall man’s armpit as he clung to the overhead grip. Another man behind her had his crotch pressed against the cleft of her bottom. Despite the fact that all these passengers were too close for comfort—or maybe because of it—no one made eye contact or said a word, but continued to hang on for dear life as the train bumped and swayed its way uptown.

  Sweating a little, she climbed out of the station and into the daylight of West 116th Street and Broadway. And there was Elliott, waiting for her as promised, sitting at one of the little round outdoor tables outside a coffee shop Vera used to frequent—though the coffee shop was now a pizza place.

  He stood up, seeing her, and enfolded her in a hug before she could protest.

  “You look like death warmed over,” he said, holding her out at arm’s length. “Maine has not been good to you.”

  “Oh, shut up. You’ve looked better yourself.”

  It wasn’t true. Elliott had more gray hair than he had the last time she’d seen him, but his face was still unlined, and his eyes, behind his thick glasses, shone with good humor. Elliott still wore the facial expression he’d always had—that of a wide-eyed adolescent boy who has accidentally peeped at an attractive, semiclad woman through a window and is unsure whether to find this a wonderful development or a scandalous one.

  “Terrible greeting I gave you. Can I redo it? Welcome back to the city, Vee, and let’s pretend you’re looking well. What do you want to do first? Get a drink? Some food?”

  “I’ve kind of gone off drinking. I suppose I could eat.”

  “Dine in, takeout, or some of Elliott’s home cooking?”

  Elliott was one of the few people she knew who could get away with referring to himself in the first person. “I think eating at home would be good. I’m pretty wiped out from the trip.”

  He reached out and gave her arm a squeeze. “You’re all soft and bony. No muscle tone at all. You don’t work out, do you? I remember when you used to have a derriere.”

  “That was a while ago, wasn’t it?” Vera said. “Gosh, all the way back in the days when I was a nubile grad student.”

  Elliott had the same apartment he’d had for eleven years—at the corner of La Salle Street and Claremont Avenue, which was technically in Harlem, though not in Harlem proper. Vera had lived next door for four of those years. She felt a great deal of nostalgia as they walked the city blocks toward Claremont. She intuited that Elliott had asked her to meet him at the 116th Street station instead of the nearer 125th Street so that they might enjoy this brief walk together, this literal stroll down memory lane.

  Inside Elliott’s apartment, she saw that the lumpy, misshapen sofa bed was still there. Vera immediately went to his bookshelves to look at his books—many of which were how-to guides for aspiring screenwriters—and to ogle his DVD collection. “You have a lot of new movies,” she observed, “and some of the old ones are gone.”

  “Sold ’em,” Elliott said. “Out with the old, in with the new. Quit pawing at my books and tell me what’s going on with you. You sounded pretty nonsensical on the phone yesterday. Missing students, dead girls in parks, and something about Holden Caulfield? All I can gather from that is that you
’ve been on some kind of murderous rampage. Bumping off your students one at a time because they can’t use commas correctly. Am I getting warm?”

  “Don’t even joke,” Vera said, dropping down so heavily onto the sofa bed that a puff of dust shot up from its cushion. “I’ll explain everything. Just give me some time to decompress first.”

  While Elliott went into the kitchen to start frying up hamburgers, she began to tell him about all that had happened over the past few weeks—half speaking, half shouting over the sound of sizzling meat and clattering pans.

  “See, this is what happens when you leave civilized New York for the wilds of Maine. I tried to warn you.” Elliott’s voice carried over his labors in the kitchen. “And look where you are now—jobless, with a prize pupil who’s probably in the mountains reading scripture with her adopted cult leader parents as we speak.” Hearing her pointed silence, he poked his head in the living room doorway and said in his normal tone of voice, “Aw, you know I’m kidding, Vee. You want two hamburgers or one?”

  “Two,” Vera said. “Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I’m going to the Columbia campus and looking around there for Jensen.”

  “You think maybe she’s staying with that boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know. It seems worth a shot. I know I’ve got to track Bret down, at the very least, to see if he really does know anything.”

  “But why would this Jensen kid send you that message? Have you thought about that? Doesn’t it kind of make you wonder if you’re being played in some way? I think you should have just given that card to the police if you really do think it amounts to anything.”

  “I’ve already been played, Elliott. The police have had their eye on me for quite some time. This is my attempt to get myself un-played.”

  “Ah,” Elliott said, approaching with a plate of hamburgers. “Pride goeth before a fall, and all that.” He tossed an open bag of potato chips on the coffee table in front of her and set up condiments—ketchup, mustard, and pickle relish—all in a row. “What I want to know,” he said, “is why are you so determined to find her yourself? Isn’t this kind of out of your reach? It’s definitely beyond the confines of your job description.”

  “Mm,” Vera said noncommittally. She cracked open one of Elliott’s Diet Cokes and took a haul straight from the can.

  “You think this Jensen kid is in trouble,” Elliott said, plunking himself down on the ottoman in front of her. “You think she’s running away from something. And I think you have a pretty good idea of what that is.”

  Vera took a big bite of her first burger and took her time chewing it; Elliott was one of the few people whom she could eat comfortably in front of. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said once she’d swallowed.

  “Oh, come on. This girl sounds like she’s been dropping hints since day one. Kids kill other kids all the time nowadays, haven’t you heard? Whole different world from when you and I were young.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Vera said, trying to laugh; all that came out was a choking sound, and she placed a hand to her throat as though to blame the food. “If you could see this girl, you’d know how impossible what you’re suggesting is. She’s tiny. She’s not imposing.”

  “Manson was tiny, too. So was Charles Starkweather. So was Mussolini.”

  “Let’s drop it. But before we do, let me explain one thing, okay? And I’m only going to say this once, so you’d better listen. I’m the one who’s potentially in trouble for Jensen Willard being lost. So I’m the one who’s going to find her and bring her back. It has nothing to do with my reputation—that’s already shot. It has to do with what I think is right.”

  “Oh, Vee,” Elliott said. “You’re a nutter, but you’ve got a good heart.”

  “What, this leathery old thing?” she said, tapping at her breastbone.

  After Vera had eaten a second burger and followed it up with a large wedge of store-bought chocolate silk pie when it was offered, Elliott asked, “How much money do you think you’ll need to get around tomorrow?”

  “As little as possible. Maybe some subway fare and a few extra bucks. I will pay you back.”

  “You can pay me back by fattening yourself up,” he said, “though at this rate, old Elliott’ll do that for you in no time.”

  • • •

  Vera felt refreshed the next morning, having slept surprisingly well on the old sofa bed. Elliott, who operated under a schedule of his own making, could still be heard snoring through his closed bedroom door as she got up, dressed quietly, and slipped out of the apartment.

  She walked down Broadway until she reached the gates of College Walk, the main entrance to Columbia University’s central campus. She passed by students who were draped all over the steps of the Low Library, taking in a little sun near the Alma Mater statue; elsewhere students were seated on benches outside or on tables, studying or just idling between classes. The more she looked around, the more she felt justified in her earlier thought that the Columbia campus might be a good place to disappear. She tried not to think about Esther Greenwood’s line from The Bell Jar—the one asserting that New York City is also a great place to kill yourself.

  Bret Folger’s dormitory, Jay Hall, was easy to spot; it was one of the taller, newer, and uglier buildings on campus, not far from the Butler Library. She found an unoccupied stone bench within view of Jay’s entrance and took a seat there, carefully smoothing her skirt over her knees. She had brought her Comprehensive Book of True Crime with her so she could sit and look as though she were studying while keeping one eye on those who were coming and going. Two copies of the Dorset Journal also remained in her tote bag—the one where Vera was mentioned and the one with Jensen’s picture on the front page.

  An Asian girl with a small backpack sat on the far end of Vera’s bench, lighting up a cigarette. Vera watched her out of the corner of her eye for a bit, debated whether to speak to her, and then reached into her tote bag and pulled out the older of the two newspapers. “Have you seen the girl in this picture around on campus?” she asked, showing it to her.

  The girl looked over. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “What about Bret Folger? Do you know Bret Folger? He lives in Jay.”

  “I live off campus,” the girl said. She leaned again toward the picture and looked at it for more than a second this time. “Maybe she does look familiar. I can’t really tell. It’s not a good picture.” She stood up and ground out her cigarette and left, clearly annoyed at having her would-be reverie broken by an intrusive woman with a newspaper. Vera couldn’t blame her.

  She kept watch outside Jay for nearly an hour. Even though the students seemed to be soaking up the warming April weather, there was just enough of a chill to drive Vera indoors; she made a mental note to borrow a sweatshirt from Elliott the next time she made such an outing. She went into Butler Library and signed up for a guest pass before climbing the familiar winding staircase with the wrought-iron railing. She walked all around the circulation area, looking at the students typing away at computer terminals; the look she gave some of them was too obvious, too searching, for some stared back at her, frowning.

  There was a tired-looking girl at the circulation desk, probably a student worker, and Vera considered showing her the newspaper but decided against it; she looked so unreceptive. Instead she walked past the desk to the elevator leading to the book stacks, and on her way there she passed what appeared to be a custodian. His face seemed friendly and relaxed as he wheeled his mop and bucket along. Vera flagged him down, and when he stopped, she showed him the picture of Jensen Willard, speaking to him in a combination of English, pidgin Spanish, and pantomime.

  The custodian nodded his head, pointing to the photograph. “In stacks,” he said.

  “In stacks? Really?”

  “In stacks,” he said, sounding surer of himself.

  “What floo
r of the stacks? Dónde? Do you remember?”

  But now he was shaking his head. “No se,” he said, leading his mop and bucket away.

  Vera tried not to let her hopes get ahead of her. Before getting into the elevator, she reviewed the map showing what collections were housed on each floor. She selected the one where the literature collections were kept—her old favorite haunt, and a good bet for where Jensen might retreat.

  The library stacks were dark and forbidding; each row of bookshelves had timed lights that went on and off, so one could be standing in a lit area looking at a book and abruptly find oneself in pitch darkness. A few students worked at small tables, squinting at the work in front of them and looking tortured. She walked up and down each row, glancing down the rows of shelves on either side of her. In the collection of Restoration literature, she saw a small-boned girl with a cap of dark hair sitting cross-legged on the floor, her head bowed over a book; as Vera came closer, the girl looked up. She was an Indian girl wearing heavy cat-eye makeup. Not Jensen Willard.

  Vera continued her way past the literature stacks. The somber lighting and the acrid smell of old books made her feel reverent—a kind of piety most people feel when they enter a temple in a moment of conversion or tread lightly on cemetery grounds. Then a potent reminder of present-day reality hit her, for she saw that she was nearing the end of the Modern American Literature section of the stacks. The marker at the end of the stacks indicated that the books on this shelf included authors whose surnames began with letters RE through SA.

  Salinger, Vera thought, looking down at the bottom shelf closest to her feet. It seems I can’t get rid of you. And there, just as if she had summoned it into being, was the serial killer copy of The Catcher in the Rye, perched on the bottom shelf atop the other books, with a second book jammed underneath it, spine out. Seeing the title of the book on the bottom, Vera stooped to close her fingers around it: the paperback edition of The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath. Shelved out of order.