Goodnight Nobody

by Jennifer Weiner

  She patted her lips. "Not at first." She nibbled at her croissant and toyed with the cameo pin at her collar. "Like I told you, she was my roommate. We were best friends for a while, but after sophomore year...well, we were kind of moving in different circles, I guess you'd say. I saw her, but..." She shrugged again, and washed down her mouthful of pastry and chocolate with a sip of cappuccino. "Starving," she told me. "I lasted"--she glanced down at the gold watch adorning one plump, pale wrist--"eighteen hours on the South Beach diet this time."

  "Ah."

  "Nineteen is my personal best. Russian peasant stock." She shook her head and took a bite. "If there's a nuclear war, I'll live forever. All the skinny little model types? Forget it."

  I nodded and took a bite of my almond horn. Sixty years ago, Dorie Stevenson would have had the kind of body men would drool over--lush hips, an equally luxurious bosom, rounded arms and thighs. In our enlightened age, she probably lived her every waking moment in despair or on a diet. On a diet, or breaking one, I thought, as Dorie hummed and sighed ecstatically over the last bite of croissant, then used one moistened fingertip to lift each buttery morsel from her plate.

  "God, that was good," she breathed. Her eyelids fluttered. She licked her lips and straightened up in the curved, dainty chair. "Okay. So. Kitty."

  "She was beautiful," I prompted.

  "She was beautiful, and extremely prepared," Dorie said. "Both of us started school a week early. Hanfield had a special program for...God, what did they call us?" She closed her eyes. "Ah! Economic diversity initiative admits." Her eyes flew open, and she smiled. "That meant we were poor, but God forbid anyone say that. So they brought us in early--all the poor kids on scholarships, plus all the minority students, even the ones who'd gone to Exeter and had parents who were professors at Yale--and made us all go camping."

  "Camping?"

  "That was how they were going to--oh, hang on, this one I remember--'facilitate our transition into the university environment.' And probably make sure we knew how to use silverware and whatever." She gave a rippling laugh, but I imagined I could hear the hurt underneath it.

  "So you and Kitty were roommates?"

  "Tentmates, for starters," Dorie said. "They took us to what was basically some professor's backyard--not exactly the wild blue yonder--but Kitty came with topographical maps of the region and her own flint box. She told me she'd spent the summer reading up on survival guides so she'd know what mushrooms were poisonous and how to find north from the moss on the trees." She shook her head. "She had food in her backpack too. I never forgot that. Like she thought they weren't going to feed us. She had those ramen noodles, and cans of bean soup..." Her big blue eyes filled with tears. "So she'd be ready. Ready for anything."

  Ready for anything, I wrote, as Dorie looked at the ceiling, eyelids fluttering, one hand fanning underneath them.

  "Hanfield was not a good place for Kitty," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  She sighed, shook her curls, and delicately plucked a raspberry Danish from the tray. "Have you ever been there?"

  "I went to Columbia," I said.

  "Then you've probably got some idea," she said. "There were girls who came to campus with their own cars. And their own horses. Girls who had everything--designer clothes, two-hundred-dollar haircuts, diamond earrings, pearl necklaces, perfect lives just waiting for them as soon as they graduated." She wrinkled her nose. "Or at least they'd have trust funds waiting."

  I nodded, remembering high school and all the pretty girls at Pimm, the confidence they had exuded knowing that any obstacle life might toss at them could be overcome with the right connections and a large amount of cash. "And Kitty didn't have any of that?" I thought back to the dented Honda I'd seen in the town hall parking lot.

  "She was beautiful, like I said," Dorie said slowly. "But she had"--she waved her other hand above her head--"big hair, you know? Those big poufy spiral perms? Big hair, lots of makeup, a little too flashy for Hanfield. She figured it out about a week after we got there--cut her hair in a bob, quit wearing all that gold--but you know." She shrugged her plump shoulders. "First impressions and all o' that."

  I nodded, trying to imagine the perfect, polished, fresh-scrubbed Kitty I'd known with a bad perm and too much blue eye shadow. I found that I couldn't.

  "Was she jealous of the other girls?"

  "Not jealous," Dorie said slowly. "Not exactly that. I'd say she was very aware of what they had that she didn't. But how could you not be? You'd hear girls talking about flying to New York for the weekend so they could go shopping, or going to Switzerland over spring break. I think it was hard not to be aware of the world you were living in. It's just that..." She paused and brushed crumbs off her chest. "Not everyone thought to do something about it."

  I leaned forward, ignoring the remnants of my own pastry in my lap. "What did Kitty do?"

  Dorie ducked her head. "This part I'm not so comfortable talking about." She leaned forward, looking at me earnestly. "She was a good girl, you know? She had a good heart. And everyone does stupid things in college." She attempted a little chuckle. "That's what college is there for, right?"

  "Please," I said, lifting my hand to my heart. "Whatever you tell me won't leave this room."

  She sighed again and shook her head. "Older men," she said quietly.

  My fingers felt icy as I wrote the words down.

  "You have to understand how pretty she was, how bright. She was sweet and smart, and she was..." Dorie ran her finger around her plate again as if she'd uncover the right word on its rim. "If you got sick, she'd be the one to take care of you. She could make chicken soup on a hot plate, and she could sew. If something got ripped, she'd sew it back up. She was..." She fanned at her eyes again, sniffling. "She could have had any guy on campus after she'd figured out the hair thing, any guy her own age, and instead she'd be going with"--Dorie's lips pursed in an unconscious gesture of distaste--"guys in their fifties."

  Oh my, I thought, scribbling madly. "Did she ever date a visiting professor?" I asked. "A man named Joel Asch?"

  Dorie sat bolt upright in her chair. "You know about that?"

  I nodded. Dorie twisted her napkin. "It was ridiculous," she said. "He'd send roses to our dorm room, write poetry--really terrible poetry. Kitty and I would laugh about it. Mister Big-Shot Editor from New York City, and the best he can do is 'Your eyes are like cornflowers.' And I'd ask her, 'Kitty, why? Why him?' I mean, I could get it if it was, like, some Harrison Ford type, some older, sophisticated, good-looking guy to, you know, take her shopping and teach her the ways of the world."

  "Joel Asch didn't do that?"

  Dorie laughed--a brief, angry snort. "Well, he took her shopping, all right. Bought her a pair of pearl earrings. She was so proud of them, she wore them every single day for the rest of the school year. And I guess he gave her a job too. At least that's what I heard. Like I said, we didn't stay friends. She knew I didn't approve of what she was doing." She set her plate back on the coffee table. "My father left my mother for another woman--a younger woman--so you can imagine I wasn't real happy to see her running around with some other woman's husband. I was," she said, and sighed, "a woman of very high ideals at the time."

  "Do you remember the names of any of the other men?"

  She shook her head again. "I made it a point not to ask. She knew I didn't like it, so she kept me away from it. When they called, she'd take the telephone into the hall, and she'd have them pick her up at the library--not that they'd have wanted to come to the dorms, I guess." She patted her lips with a pale pink linen napkin and looked at the peach-and-pale-green cloisonne clock on her desk.

  "When you asked her why, did she tell you?"

  Dorie flashed me a rueful smile. "She said she had her reasons. I told her whatever she wanted, whatever she was looking for, there were other ways to get it, bright as she was. Good as she was." Her eyes filled with tears again. She blinked, dabbed at them, then fanned her lashes. "I s
hould have tried harder. Poor Kitty. And those poor baby girls."

  Twenty-Nine

  "Hi, Kate!" Ben's assistant was a willowy young thing with shoulder-length auburn ringlets, four holes in each ear, and a master's in public policy from Georgetown.

  "Melissa! It's great to see you!" Young Melissa was looking lovely in a short, forest green suede jacket, mini-kilt with black tights, and kitten-heeled pumps. "I was just in town doing some shopping and I thought I'd stop by to see if Ben was free for coffee."

  "Oh, sorry," said Melissa, apparently failing to notice my lack of shopping bags, or failing to realize that the offices of B Squared Consulting were in the financial district, a good sixty blocks away from the department stores and the boutiques on Fifth Avenue. She bounded back behind her desk and tapped the control pad of her PowerBook. "He's at the Civil Liberties luncheon. He should be back by four."

  "Oh, no." I feigned disappointment, knowing, of course, that Ben wouldn't be in. I'd consulted his schedule before I'd left that morning. "Listen, don't tell Ben, but I've been thinking of...thinking of..."

  Melissa leaned forward, her revoltingly dewy skin aglow with anticipation.

  "Redecorating!" I said. "He's had that carpet forever!"

  Her smooth brow furrowed. "Actually, I think it was replaced last year."

  "Oh, right, of course. Not the carpet. The desk!" I said, trying my damndest to remember exactly what kind of furniture Ben had in his office. "That old thing!"

  Melissa looked puzzled. "I think it's an antique."

  Oh, God, could I please catch a break? "Exactly! Which is why it would work so much better at the house in Connecticut than here!" I responded, edging backward toward Ben's office. "I'm just going to take a quick look and, um, maybe some measurements..." I started rummaging in the butter-colored Marc Jacobs satchel Janie had lent me, as if I were searching for a tape measure or fabric swatches. "I'm going to use the executive washroom too." I gave her a sheepish, just-us-girls smile. "I don't think my sushi's agreeing with me."

  Dear Lord, I thought as I bolted for Ben's office and locked the door behind me. Why did I doubt that in all of her adventures Miss Marple had never once obtained an important clue by pretending to have the shits?

  "Call if you need anything!" Melissa said sweetly.

  "Will do!" I replied, seating myself on Ben's Aeron chair and adjusting it so the armrests weren't cutting into my sides. I tapped the mouse, praying that Ben hadn't logged out before he'd left for lunch. He hadn't.

  I started a search for any files that contained the words Ted Fitch. Then I held my breath while the flashlight wagged back and forth and Cheerful Melissa answered the phone on the other side of the door. My cell phone's zippy disco ring tone startled me so badly I almost fell off the chair.

  "Hello?"

  "Kate?" Janie's voice was small and worried. "Listen. Quick question. Your kids are toilet trained, right?"

  "Yes," I said. "Mostly. Almost entirely. Why?"

  "No reason!" she said. "Everything's fine. Gotta go."

  "Ten files found," the helpful Microsoft paper clip finally announced.

  "Wait, Janie. If you're out and the boys have to go, you can take them into the bathroom with you. It's no big deal."

  "Perfect!" she said. "No worries! See you soon!"

  I put down the phone and clicked on the first file.

  "Fitch bio." I hit print. "Fitch position papers." I printed them too. "Schedule Sept." "Schedule Oct." "Schedule Nov.-Dec." Why not? And finally, pay dirt. "Fitch oppo." Which, as I knew from watching The War Room (which Ben, of course, owned on a bootlegged DVD, complete with James Carville's barely comprehensible audio commentary), stood for opposition research--everything Ben's team had dug up on their candidate so they could be prepared when the other side found it. Thirty-seven pages. Yikes. Print.

  I heard knocking above the printer's whir. "Kate?" Melissa caroled. "Is everything all right in there?"

  "Just printing out some measurements!" I called back merrily. I saw the doorknob turn back and forth.

  "The door's locked," Melissa noted. Fabulous, I thought, scooping pages out of the laser printer. It's a wonder, I thought, what a Georgetown degree can do for a girl's powers of observation.

  "Yeah, just hold on...I'm, um, temporarily indisposed."

  Melissa was sounding worried. "Please don't touch anything, 'kay? Ben hates it when people move things on his desk."

  "Oh, don't worry," I called. "I've got printer privileges!" Jesus. Printer privileges. Who had I become?

  Melissa was working the doorknob so hard I was surprised it didn't spin off in her hand.

  "Let me just finish up in here!" I flung open the door to Ben's bathroom, flushed the toilet, and sprayed Ben's can of cinnamon-stick air freshener vigorously around the room. "Printing complete," said the computer. As it spat out the final page, I scooted behind Ben's desk, closed all the files, shoved the printed pages into my purse, flung open the door, and almost ran smack into Melissa.

  "Whew. Sorry about that."

  She stared at me with her nose wrinkled. I couldn't blame her. The place smelled like a potpourri bomb had exploded. "Is everything all right?"

  "Fine!" I said, clutching my purse to my chest and sidling rapidly toward the elevators in the manner of a constipated crab. "You just might not want to go in there for a little while."

  "Did you get what you needed?"

  Oh, God, I thought as the blood drained from my face and pooled in my extremities. So much for Miss Marple. She's onto me. She knows. "Excuse me?" I said.

  "The measurements," Melissa said, staring at me as if I'd been hitting the crack pipe, or the air freshener were affecting my brain.

  "Yes! I'll be able to find something just perfect for that space!" I said, grinning like an idiot. "Do me a favor and don't mention this to Ben. I want it to be a surprise."

  She nodded dubiously, and not wanting to push my luck, I scurried down the corporate gray and ivory halls, down the elevator and out the revolving front door to the sidewalk, where I hailed a cab and made my way to Grand Central Station to catch the four-fifteen train home. Once I'd purchased my ticket and curled up in a corner on the rattling Metro-North train, I pulled out the sheaf of Fitch papers. The first paragraph was dry as dust. The next two pages could have cured insomnia. Speeding tickets. A fifty-dollar fine for leaving his Christmas tree on the curb. Be still my heart. But on page four I hit pay dirt, and it was better--and worse--than I could ever have imagined.

  Thirty

  The house was quiet when Ben's car pulled into the driveway at seven o'clock that night. I'd sent Janie and the kids to dinner and a movie, and arranged myself in the living room, awaiting his return. I was still neatly dressed in my blue suit left over from my reporter days. My hair was pulled back from my face, and I had a stack of damning Ted Fitch papers in my lap.

  "Can I have a word with you?" I called politely to my husband as he was hanging up his coat. My heart sank as I got a good look at what he had in his hand.

  "Upchurch Woman Remembered by Friends," read the Gazette's headline. And there was a picture of me at the podium, with my jaw hanging open and my hair a frizzy corona around my head, looking about the size of one of Jupiter's moons.

  "I ran into Stan Bergeron at the gas station," Ben said. My heart sank even further. "He wanted to know if you'd recovered from all of the excitement the other night. So I asked him what excitement he was talking about--"

  I swallowed hard. "I was going to tell you--"

  "Which is how I came to find out that someone's been making threats on your life."

  "--but you're hardly ever home and I just couldn't figure out how."

  We both paused to take a breath and glare at each other. Ben pinched the bridge of his nose and started rubbing the reddened skin there. He'd acquired a bit of a belly since we'd moved, and it pushed at his black leather belt as he breathed. "Okay. Let's start at the beginning." He waved the newspaper at me. "You were at Kitt
y Cavanaugh's memorial service--no, excuse me. I beg your pardon. You spoke at Kitty Cavanaugh's memorial service."

  "That was kind of inadvertent," I mumbled.

  His black eyebrows drew down. "Did somebody put a gun to your head and say, 'Give a speech or I'll shoot'?"

  "Pretty much. Except for the gun part."

  "You're going around asking people questions--"

  My neck tensed as I glared at him. "I used to be a reporter, remember? That was what I did for a living!"

  "Asking questions about whether rock stars had genital warts," Ben said. "It's not exactly the same thing."

  I lifted my chin. "It was never about the genital warts," I said, with as much dignity as I could muster. "It was occasionally about the herpes. And that's beside the point. Whatever you think of my subject matter, I used to be a reporter."

  "But you're not anymore!" Ben shouted. "For God's sake, Kate, you're not a journalist, you're not a detective, you're not a private eye, you're just a housewife!"

  I slammed the stack of pages onto the table and stalked into the kitchen, where I started pulling food out of the refrigerator: a carton of eggs, a can of black beans, a bunch of grapes. Ben followed me.

  "I didn't mean it like that."

  I ignored him. "Do you want dinner?" I asked, pulling out mustard, mayonnaise, turkey, and cheese, before realizing that we were out of bread and the sandwich I'd formerly been craving wasn't going to happen.

  "I just want you to be safe. That's why we moved here, remember? You can't do things that put your safety in jeopardy. You can't do things that put our children in danger."

  I whirled around, flushed with indignation and sick with shame, knowing, deep down, that he was right, and that I couldn't admit it, because once I did, my investigation, and the way it made me feel alive, after seven years and three kids--alive the way I'd been when I was still holding on to the possibility that someday Evan McKenna would love me--would be over. I'd be right back to my life, my grindingly boring little life, where I didn't fit in, where I had no friends, where the time between now and the day when the kids would spend full days in school stretched out interminably, and I didn't think I could take it.