Adam and Evil

by Gillian Roberts

  “Nope,” she said. “I am no longer the handmaiden of science.”

  “Finished?”

  “Sweet as a flower once more.”

  “Then can you meet me around three-thirty at Traditions!, the antiques shop on Pine?”

  “You sound like you’re on speed.”

  “I respect punctuation. That exclamation point makes me crazy. Or, rather, crazy! Anyway, can you make it? Let’s pretend you’re looking for props for a shoot.”

  “Why would we?” Then I heard a weary, ridiculously overdone intake of breath. “Don’t tell me. I can’t believe you! I saw your school in the paper with that murder—tell me you aren’t … what’s this about?”

  “Okay.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t tell you.” But I did. I briefly explained, including the part about my having unwittingly set up Adam Evans as prime suspect. “And I’m intimidated by stores like this. I don’t know the language. I would seem a phony for sure. I don’t know furniture makers and periods and what’s kitsch instead of junk. But if you were looking for props, it’d be different. Maybe I could get her chatting, because I saw her at the library—and she was wearing a scarf that could strangle a horse.”

  There was an overlong silence. “This kid,” she finally said. “He could be dangerous, and he’s definitely getting you into trouble, so why not just back off and—”

  “Never mind.” Sasha was fearless when it came to the opposite sex. Stupid, to be brutally honest. Reckless and always endangering herself. But that was where her sense of adventure ended. “I’ll figure out a way—”

  “Oh, hell, I’ll meet you,” she said.

  As I knew she would.

  “Wanted to talk with you, anyway,” she added. “I had time for a lot of thinking while I was socially unacceptable, and I decided to move.”

  “Why?” She lives in a luxury condo that was her father’s. Between two of his many marriages, he gifted her with it— wrote it off his taxes. In any case, it allows her to live in a manner she could never otherwise afford on her uncertain and irregular earnings. Maybe she was going to rent it out and live more humbly. I could understand that.

  Emily Fisher’s place was available. I was ashamed of the thought. It felt disrespectful of the dead. Nonetheless, good apartments are not easily come by. “If you want to stay on this side of the city, I know of a building near Washington Square.”

  “I’m thinking London.”

  I tried to think of what section of Philadelphia was called London.

  She read my mind, or rather my absent, malfunctioning mind. “The London that’s in England,” she said. “I need a major change of scene. I can’t believe I’m in my thirties and I’ve never gone anywhere. I still live in the city I grew up in, even though my parents have moved on. I still see the same people. Haven’t tried anything really scary, if you exempt men, and I haven’t seen anything, if you again exempt men. It’s time. Feels like maybe my last chance, in fact.”

  I was sorry I’d called her. Her words and decision made me sad. Which is not to say I didn’t understand. Even my mother would understand these days. That made me sadder still.

  “We’ll talk,” I said. “After school.”

  London. I tried the word out on my way back to Philly Prep. London. It sat on my tongue, melting into it like imported hard candy, tart and sweet. Now there was an idea. Cambridge, Oxford. How narrow my horizons were. I hadn’t considered anything that far, that new and different. I wondered if my parents’ largesse included overseas adventures or whether my mother would balk because long-distance calls would be prohibitively expensive.

  I let my mind float across the Atlantic to an entirely new life, and my mood and stride lightened up. That live-in-the-moment, be-here-now credo was passé. Didn’t work. My new mantra was: Be anywhere else, and be there soon.

  BY THE MIDDLE OF THE AFTERNOON, I DECIDED I WAS HAVING a decent day. Nobody had served me with papers saying I was being sued; Havermeyer had avoided me as assiduously as I was avoiding him; Nancy and Jill’s exposé was not yet in print; Lia’s book had been found; a man—Terry—had definitely flirted with me; Adam was still missing, which at least meant the police didn’t have him, so there was time and opportunity for other ideas to reach the law; and on the more ordinary, teacherly front, there were actually interesting responses from my tenth graders, whose assignment had been to write their entries for the hypothetical Philly Prep alumni newsletter of 2075. Although a few had skirted the assignment by having a classmate convey the sad news that they were long since dead and hadn’t made much of their short lives, others exerted their creativity in trying to think ahead.

  Since retiring from the chairmanship of the Interplanetary Interior Designers Alliance, I’ve been on the lecture circuit, showing slides of my beach house on Alpha Centauri and the use of asteroidal materials in furniture construction….

  I have five daughters. Two of them are Nobel prize– winning scientists, one is an Olympic skater, one is an opera singer, and my youngest plays Nana on Days of Our Lives. They’ve produced seventeen grandchildren (all girls—girls rule!). I had my family while simultaneously pursuing my Oscar-winning film career (of course, my husband helped by staying home and doing all the cooking—thanks, hon!), but I’m taking things easier these days on the other side of the screen, as a film critic on Channel Three. Not many good roles for ninety-year-old women, so instead I see every film that’s made, and get paid for it. Pretty good, huh?

  I enjoyed both my terms as the first female president of the United States and want to thank my former Philly Prep classmates for their support. All your photos are in my presidential library. Come visit! And I owe all my success to my tenth-grade English teacher, Ms. Pepper, may she rest in peace.

  That wouldn’t get her a higher grade, but I admired her for trying.

  I liked their dreams, as ridiculous as they were. Might as well reach for Alpha Centauri. I wondered what I would have written at their age, whether I had dreams I could no longer recall. Well, I decided, whether or not I did, I was going to start cultivating them right away. That very moment.

  I felt a lot better about everything as I prepared to leave the building for the second time that day. En route to the exit, I checked my office cubicle and was relieved to find no summons to Havermeyer, no furious note from the Evanses. Life was giving me a break.

  Rachel Leary put a hand out and touched my shoulder as I was leaving the office. “Did you hear?” she asked, making the question sound like a sigh.

  There went the day. “What?”

  “About him.”

  “Havermeyer?” I had a wild surge of elation. He’d quit. He’d been fired. He’d relocated to Bolivia.

  “Adam.”

  “Adam what? Oh, God, what?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “You didn’t hear. I thought one of his classmates would have …” Her complexion was still frighteningly pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. That pregnant glow was taking its time about gracing her. But just then she looked worse than her normally pallid self. She looked heartsick.

  “He didn’t … he didn’t kill himself, did he?” My worst fear. That boy in the rain. That boy with nowhere to go.

  She shook her head. “He robbed a dentist’s office.”

  It was so ridiculous compared to suicide, I laughed out loud, imagining him stealing false teeth, toothbrushes, floss. “A sudden surge of interest in personal hygiene?”

  Helga the Office Witch strained to hear. Helga was deaf to requests—but boy, could she overhear. I steered Rachel out to the hallway.

  “Why in God’s name?” I whispered once we were out of Helgaland. Luckily, the remaining students who milled around, heading for the street, were consistent. They’d never had and still didn’t have any interest in what I had to say.

  “He and this creep he’s staying with stole nitrous oxide. Laughing gas. It’s used at raves, those dance parties?”

  I nodded.
/>   “But it can be lethal. And with Adam’s chemistry already off …” She shook her head again. “Somebody—I have no idea who—described him, and the police are sure it was our Adam.”

  I thought about it. “The police already think he’s a murderer. Stealing nitrous oxide isn’t going to make it any worse on him. At least I can’t see how it would.”

  Rachel shook her head. “I meant he’s playing with death. He’s out on the streets, hanging with bad sorts, and he has no judgment. He could have died last night. I gather the friend dragged him home—to Adam’s home—thinking he was dying. He was lucky this time.”

  “How’d you find this out?”

  She inhaled sharply. “His mother called Havermeyer. Adam was there. Havermeyer told me because I’m supposed to know that kind of thing about the students, but I gather that everything was couched as an accusation—somehow this is all your fault. Well, a bit apparently is mine—I did inadequate counseling, hence this entire mess.

  “Like dominoes, is what Mrs. Evans said. Because I did not do my job well enough, you were able to physically and emotionally attack her son without fear of recrimination, and then, mad with that triumph, you upped the ante and involved him in a homicide case, which forced him to live dangerously, on the street, associating with unsavory people, and because of that, he nearly killed himself last night.”

  What could I say? There was a possibility she was right. I took a series of deep breaths. “Where is he now?” I finally said.

  She shook her head. “Gone again. As of this morning. Parents swear they don’t know where. But listen, Mandy, there’s more.”

  More. The more was never something insignificant, tacked on.

  “Something else.”

  Something worse. I did not want to hear. I wished I knew how to faint dead away, but I am unfortunately too sturdy for that, so I had to listen to whatever was coming.

  “You’re my friend, and I’d want to know if the situation were reversed. For all I know, it may be.” She laughed, rather nervously.

  “Rachel, this is obviously difficult for you to say, but please, please say it.”

  She nodded and sighed. “While I was talking to Havermeyer, he got a call, and from what he was saying, Mandy, I’m positive they’re advertising for an English teacher, who will also run the newspaper, starting in the autumn.”

  I nodded.

  “So unless they’re expanding the school, adding classes … Is anyone in your department planning to leave?”

  “Planning? No. Nobody plans. We’re English teachers. We know old sayings, collective wisdom such as ‘The best-laid plans …’”

  Fired.

  It had been a threat, something that I’d been sure I’d get out of—but now I was really and truly going to be history. This chapter of my life was over.

  And damn, but did I have to get news of it on a day when I’d actually gotten good compositions?

  Fourteen

  I DROVE HOME FIGHTING VISION BLURRED BY FRUSTRATION and fury. Havermeyer had implied he’d wait awhile. Despite my play for sympathy with Mackenzie, despite my insistence that I’d been fired, I’d been privately sure that with some salvage work I could keep my options open.

  Instead they were advertising for my replacement. How dare they!

  That was it, then. I’d never darken that door again. Never come back. Not even to collect my paltry possessions. Never. I’d show them. Show him.

  And then the biggest escape route I’d yet imagined came back into mental view. England. I’d go, too. I slammed my car door shut and locked up. England, I thought as I stomped toward my soon-to-be-abandoned home. London. Save money by rooming with Sasha and—

  Sasha! I checked the time, ran back to my car, and drove to Pine Street, where I wound up being too late to cruise for a spot. I was hostile paying the parking attendant, slapping bills onto his hand, as if it were his fault I’d screwed up.

  She was waiting. It’s hard to miss a six-foot-tall woman in high heels—or high buttoned boots, as the case actually was. Sasha never differentiates between street clothes and costumes, and that day she was done up in Edwardian duds, a long skirt, those boots, and a high, ruffled blouse. The only anachronism was the camera strapped around her neck. “For effect,” she said when I gestured at it. “I’m looking for props, aren’t I? I should look like a photographer.”

  “You are a photographer.”

  “I should look like a busy photographer. And what is it I should be hunting in there?”

  “Inspiration. Nothing specific, nothing she can say she doesn’t have.”

  “Who are you supposed to be?” Sasha asked.

  “Your friend. In fact, that’s the only solid job classification I’ve got left.” We were out on the sidewalk, hardly the best time or situation for major life revelations, but it was a nice day and I felt stretched as far as I could go. The pressures building inside me needed an escape valve, or the hope of one. “Sasha,” I said, “would you consider having a roommate in England?”

  “I don’t know. My style might make a Brit uncomfortable, and I’m leery of adjusting to anybody else’s, too, plus—”

  “I mean me.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, and she smiled. “Really? Incredible! That’d be great, that’d be—” Her eyebrows lowered. “I’m talking England,” she said softly. “The one across the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “I know. I’m talking grad school over there.”

  She narrowed her eyes, stared at me.

  “Then maybe we should both be talking Mackenzie.” They’d been at war, politely but adamantly, for a long time, but had struck a pact somewhere along the way, and now she was one of C.K.’s biggest fans. “You know, your love? Lover? Roommate? Possibly the last good man in town?”

  I shrugged.

  “You’d … leave him?”

  “Don’t think of it in those terms.” Leaving men, or being left, was Sasha’s specialty. Actually, it was a family trait and probably genetic. Generations of her family switched partners seasonally. There was no reason for her to stand on the sidewalk, gape-mouthed. “This isn’t about him. It’s my adventure … my finding something new.”

  “But you and—this really upsets me. What happened?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m just—I’m having an attack of feeling exactly the way you do. I need a change, I need to do something. I’m being fired, anyway, so I’m basically being forced to make a change. My mother thinks I should change, too. Grad school was her idea—well, mine, of course, originally, but now out of the blue she says she’ll pay my tuition. She says I shouldn’t rush into marriage. As if I were doing that.”

  “Your mother? Bea Pepper?”

  I nodded. “That mother.”

  “She said that?”

  “Did you answer my question about wanting a roommate?”

  “I never thought about … well, if you were actually there and … sure,” she said without enthusiasm. “But … you and Mackenzie … he’s special, Mandy. You’re out of your mind— unless there’s something.” She waited. “Somebody? As in else?” She waited again. For half a second the librarian with the gold-brown eyes occupied my mind, but—I shook my head. “Then something really bad. Something not negotiable.” When I still didn’t offer up a something or someone, she shook her head and continued. “Then you’re nuts. You were going to be the ones who made it, the exception to the rule. The reason hope can keep springing eternal. This is so—”

  “Let’s go in before she closes,” I said. “It’s odd that it’s open at all. Given that her sister was murdered, she might have closed out of respect.” I wondered when the funeral would be, whether the police still were holding the body and if so, how long they’d keep it. Mackenzie might have answered my questions, had I asked, had we attempted to stop snarling at each other.

  Sasha gave a histrionic sigh to make sure I knew she wasn’t finished with the subject. She even stamped one boot-shod foot. And then we entered the store, which w
as still devoid of customers. “Hope you don’t mind if I browse,” Sasha told the proprietor, who approached us with a smile tuned to precisely the right degree of intensity. Not desperately pleased to see us, simply glad enough. “I’m Sasha Berg, and I’m a photographer. I have an assignment that calls for me to create a certain ambience in the background. Can’t yet define it, but I know it would be period, though which, I’m not sure. Definitely amber light and all, you see it?”

  Helena Spurry, looking as chic and slicked back as when I’d last seen her, was again dressed monochromatically, this time in chocolate brown slacks and shirt. And again, she wore an oversized printed scarf—cream and caramel, this go-round—artfully draped over one shoulder. The black and gold necklace again wound around part of the scarf, and then hung below it. Obviously, her signature look—the look of a bored, Americanized matador. She harmonized perfectly with the soft yellow light and aging waxed woods that surrounded her. She ran her thumb and index finger down the chain, and I wondered whether a scarf wrapped around a chain could do its fatal damage without leaving ligature marks.

  The scarf and chain apparently served her as a talisman, something to clutch when life or Sasha’s remarks confounded her, as was apparently now the case. She had no idea what Sasha meant—how could she? Sasha herself didn’t. But Helena was ready to help make it happen. I suspected she was thrilled to have actual people walk through her door, and I wondered what she did all day while she waited for the likes of us. There were just so many times you could dust furniture before you wore off its finish.

  “This is my friend, Amanda,” Sasha said. “She’s helping me. She’s familiar with the client’s taste. She’s not a pro, but she has a good eye.”

  I took that as a compliment and tried to assume an air of good-eyehood, landing judgmental and stern-edged glances on Helena Spurry’s wares.

  “Are you looking for large or small pieces? We have table settings to armoires.” Helena gestured at the crackled, water-stained monster I’d noticed through the window.