The Butterfly Sister

by Amy Gail Hansen

  “And now she’s dead?”

  I nodded. “Tia said she had some sort of publication with her too, with the words Midwest and Council on it. I Googled it. I’m guessing it was a professional journal published by the Midwest Collegiate English Teachers Council. Does that mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head no. “Do they know who killed her?”

  “Some guy in Pittsburgh. Actually, they think it’s a serial killing.”

  This tidbit should have unnerved Julie, noticeably creeped her out, but it seemed to put her at ease. Maybe for a moment, she’d also considered Mark a suspect.

  “Why were you going to contact me?” I asked.

  “To do the same thing. To ask you to file a claim against him. Will you?”

  “You still want to go through with it?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  I assumed, because of her suicide attempt, that Julie would drop the charges against Mark. I thought it was a sign she’d lost her will. I wanted to see Julie as I saw myself—innocent and wounded. But something about her sharp eyes and quick tongue made that impossible.

  “How come you never said anything?” she snapped. “Last year? When it happened?”

  Because coming forward would have been like saying the relationship was wrong, I thought. That it wasn’t love, but something inappropriate. Something disgusting. It would have made me feel the way I did that first night in New Orleans, the night the woman in the café said tsk, tsk under her breath, the night I couldn’t get the powdered sugar stain out of my dress.

  “I didn’t want anyone to know,” I said instead.

  “And what about now?”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s his fault you tried to kill yourself, you know. And why I did too. He needs to pay for what he did to us.”

  “He didn’t put the pills in our mouths, Julie.”

  “But we almost died. I would be dead right now, had my RA not come to check on me.”

  I didn’t want to play the blame game. I’d played it a number of times with Gwen. We agreed that I couldn’t blame myself entirely, but I had to take responsibility for what I’d done. It was my choice to swallow the pills.

  “Okay. Let me ask you this,” Julie charged when I didn’t respond. “Did Mark ever give you a bad grade, one you didn’t deserve?”

  “My thesis. He gave me a D.”

  “First D you ever got in your life, right?”

  “The only D.”

  Julie crossed her arms smugly. “Then maybe it’s time for a second look.”

  I found Professor Barnard grading essays in her office that Sunday afternoon—another half-eaten muffin, this time lemon poppyseed, beside her. But she graciously agreed to procure a copy of my thesis from the English Department office without much explanation. After my chat with Julie, I remembered I’d turned in two copies of my paper last year per Tarble College policy—one to be graded by Mark and the other to be filed in a portfolio for the department.

  Now, she was at her desk, reading about A Room of One’s Own and the trials and tribulations of women writers trying to create in a field dominated so long by men. Waiting for her to determine a reasonable grade, my heart beat hard and fast, and I could no longer sit and watch her. I paced her office, reading every inch of her bulletin board.

  Soon Professor Barnard raised her eyes and smiled, broad and all-knowing. Her expression told me the verdict was good. But what was good news? Did I want to know Mark had been honest, that he had graded me fairly? Or would I rather learn I had written a quality paper?

  The professor set the document down and removed her reading glasses, but she didn’t speak. Her mouth tugged to one side, as if chewing on words. “I would have given you an A minus,” she finally said.

  “That’s good to hear,” I said. “Because Professor Suter gave me a D.”

  “Grading essays is always subjective, but there’s absolutely no justification for a D.” She paused. “Unless, of course, it’s plagiarized.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Maybe not intentionally, but . . . I have to be honest with you, Ruby, I feel like I’ve read this before.”

  “How is that possible?”

  She shrugged. “You tell me.”

  I let out an astounded huff. “Every word in that paper is mine, Professor Barnard, except the quotations.” I looked her directly in the eye, to prove I wasn’t lying. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  She held my gaze. “It’s just so familiar . . . I . . .” She let it go with a wave of her hand. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “It matters,” I said. “It matters to me whether you believe me.”

  Her eyes softened. “I believe you. But I’m not sure where we’re going with this. Why did you have me read this? You want to refute the grade? Why now? Why didn’t you say something last year?”

  I swallowed. “I guess I cared more about him than the D.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. “You mean, it was Suter? He is the he you wrote about in my class the other day?”

  “We had an affair,” I said, even though I hated everything the A-word connoted. It was the best word, however. The most accurate descriptor. It wasn’t love. At least, it wasn’t to him.

  The professor sighed. “I guess I’m not surprised. I know his type. Arrogant but charming. Intelligent but emotionally immature. I’ve dealt with countless men like him at every level of my career. I knew he was slime—even back when I interviewed for this position.” She shook her head in true disgust. “I’m assuming it didn’t end well?”

  “The day he handed out grades was the same day he told me it was over,” I explained. “And that’s the same day I tried to kill myself.”

  “Did you report him?”

  “I just wanted to forget it ever happened.”

  “And did you? Forget?”

  I hung my head in silence.

  “Look, Ruby, I’ll be happy to support you if you decide to refute this grade. But you need to answer a very important question first: What do you care more about now?” She gestured at my thesis. “Suter or the paper?”

  I grimaced. “It isn’t so black and white. Odds are, I’ll have to come clean about the affair. And I can’t do that. I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want my mom to know.”

  “I understand how you feel. But men like Suter can’t control their need for power, their need to dominate. If he did this to you, I’ll bet he’s done it to others. If you come forward, others might too.”

  “Another girl already did,” I said. “Julie Farris filed sexual misconduct charges last week.”

  “Julie? Don’t tell me she was involved with Suter too.”

  “She was devastated when he ended it,” I said. “Just like me. That’s why she did it, she said.”

  “You spoke to her?”

  I told the professor then about my visit to the psych ward.

  The professor clucked her tongue. “I wish Julie had come to me. I could have helped her.” She paused. “How is she? You know, emotionally?”

  I recalled Julie then, her cool confidence, uncharacteristic for someone who’d recently attempted suicide. “Surprisingly well. She still wants to get Suter fired. And she asked me to help.”

  “Is that what you want to do? Get Mark Suter fired?”

  I shrugged.

  “Why do you want to protect him, Ruby?”

  “I don’t. I want to protect myself.”

  “But silence is consent. That’s why my protesters go out to the grove every day.”

  “Silence is also dignity,” I countered.

  “But if no one stops him, he’ll just keep doing this. To more girls. Over and over. And look at the ramifications. You and Julie both tried to kill yourself. Fortunately, you both failed. But one day, a girl could . . .” She paused and swallowed. “A girl might succeed.”

  My stomach churned with guilt.

  “Maybe you don’t have to say anything about the
affair,” she offered. “Just focus on the grade. That alone could get Suter fired.”

  “He’d get fired for grading one paper unfairly?”

  “Two papers,” she corrected. “I’ll review Julie’s essay as well. I’m certain I won’t agree with his assessment. Trouble is, how do I get my hands on her paper? If Julie complained about the grade, there’s probably a copy of it in her student file. But I don’t have access to those. Only administrators do.”

  Heidi, I thought. Heidi has access to student files. But did I want to drag her into this? Despite all the bad things Heidi used to say about Tarble, I could tell she really liked her job, and she was good at it. I didn’t want to put her career in jeopardy. But I also knew she wanted Mark to be fired—she had said so at lunch the day before—and she hated him.

  “What if I could get a copy?” I asked.

  Peering outside her office door, Heidi looked both ways down the hallway. All areas were clear, as Langley Hall sat as still and silent as Sunday. She motioned me inside.

  “Did you get it?” I asked, following.

  “Oh, I got it.” She closed the door behind us. “And then some.”

  She handed me a small sheet of dusty blue paper then, the Tarble emblem visible at the top. The paper’s edge still showed a sliver of glue from being ripped from a desk tablet. I stared at what Heidi had written there in black ink, and then asked the question to which I already knew the answer.

  “What’s this?”

  “The other girls Suter screwed over,” she said.

  Chapter 14

  Tina Beyers and Madeline Kohl.

  I stared at the two names Heidi had written on the paper, and wondered if they were the same names on Beth Richards’s list.

  “You got these from Julie’s file?” I asked.

  “From Suter’s.” She jingled a gold key on her chain. “My master key works on every door in the building, including Human Resources.”

  According to Mark’s private employee file, he had been the subject of not one, but three claims of sexual misconduct over the past two years. The other two claims—submitted by Tina Beyers and Madeline Kohl—had later been withdrawn. Why they withdrew their complaints, I couldn’t say. But at least they’d tried. Like Julie Farris, they had done something noble, something brave, something I never did. Whether they had a full-fledged relationship with Mark, or were simply the object of his affections, they broke their silence about him.

  Could I follow their lead?

  “Both of them dropped out of Tarble,” Heidi went on. “You all have that in common. But none of you look alike. If Suter has a type, I’m not seeing it. Here, I’ll show you.” She moved to her computer screen at her desk.

  I pulled a chair beside her. “You have student photos on your computer?”

  “Tarble switched out hard copy files for electronic ones a few years ago,” Heidi explained. “Cool, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Here’s Tina Beyers,” she said, clicking the mouse.

  I studied the girl’s small, childlike features—thick brown bangs swept to the side revealing a short forehead—and found it hard to believe Mark had ever had a sexual relationship with Tina, or even hit on her. I wasn’t sure what his type was, considering I had auburn hair and Beth and Julie had blond, but regardless, Tina Beyers just didn’t seem to fit.

  “Now check out this Madeline chick,” Heidi said, sensing I was ready to move on.

  Once the photo loaded, my mouth hung open. Madeline. The girl’s black cropped hair was unforgettable. There was no doubt in my mind, she was the girl who’d sat crying in Mark’s office that afternoon, the day he and I had gone out for coffee, the day everything began between us. I recalled what transpired in his office, how Mark had told the girl to come back in an hour, and how later he’d blown her off to stay and chitchat with me.

  She’d probably waited outside his office door all afternoon.

  “I know her,” I said.

  “Really? Who is she?”

  I stared at the photo a moment longer. “The girl Mark dumped to be with me.”

  Heidi let me use her office phone to make the call, and I pressed each number carefully, double checking each digit with what Heidi had written. I let the phone ring eight times before hanging up and dialing again, thinking that despite my focused precision, my nerves had caused me to press a wrong number. The phone rang ten more times, and I prepared to hang up. But just as I pulled the phone away from my ear, a woman answered.

  “Is Madeline there?” I asked.

  “Speaking,” she said, soft and hesitant.

  “This is Ruby Rousseau,” I started. “You probably don’t remember me but—”

  “I remember you.”

  Her tone was so cold, I actually shivered. Madeline Kohl remembered me, but she didn’t do it fondly.

  “We went to Tarble together,” I rambled. “I was a senior when you were a fresh—”

  “I know who you are. What do you want?”

  There was no roundabout way to get to the point, so I just got to it. Madeline’s reaction would speak volumes, I thought. “I want to talk to you about Mark,” I said.

  Silence. And then, “What about him?”

  “He was seeing you when he got involved with me.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement she could either confirm or deny.

  Madeline remained quiet on the other end.

  “Hello?” I said, thinking she’d hung up.

  “I’m here.” Her voice was airy and apprehensive. She sighed. “He told me he was getting back together with his wife. But I knew it was a lie. I knew about you. How could I not? How could I pretend I didn’t see how he looked at you when you came into his office that day, or how many times I saw you going into his office after? I was watching. I watched it all unfold. I watched it all crash down around me. Until I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  I heard a vacancy in her voice, a hollow murmur that reminded me of my own. It was unfathomable that I’d played a part in hurting this girl without even knowing it. I wondered if I’d ever seen Madeline hanging outside Mark’s office door, or hiding behind a pillar in Langley Hall, watching us.

  “Is that why you dropped out?” I asked.

  “My doctor thought it was best.”

  “Doctor?” My heart sank. “You mean, like a shrink?”

  “I didn’t want to live anymore.”

  “Did you . . . ?”

  “No. I ran a knife against my wrist once,” she divulged. “But I didn’t have the guts to apply any pressure. I got help before I did anything stupid.”

  Stupid, like what Julie and I did by overdosing. I shivered at how much the three of us had in common.

  “I didn’t know about you, Madeline. Honest,” I said. “At least not then. But I want you to know, he gave me the same line he gave you, about working things out with Meryl. It was a lie. He just moved on to yet another girl.”

  “Do you want my sympathy or something?” she snapped.

  I couldn’t blame Madeline for her anger; it was the same fury I’d felt toward Beth when I’d found out she was the shapely figure I’d seen straddling Mark through the cabin window.

  “Mark didn’t just do this to you and me,” I told her. “There are two others. Maybe even more. And if I could be as brave as all of you, if I could come forward to say what happened, well, there’s strength in numbers, isn’t there?”

  “As brave as me?” Madeline balked. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything brave. I did the most cowardly thing of all. I ran away.”

  “I’d hardly call filing a complaint an act of cowardice.”

  “I didn’t file anything. What makes you think I did?”

  I couldn’t mention Heidi or what she’d risked to help me, nosing in those private files. But I didn’t understand why I had to. The report was in Mark’s file. Why would Madeline lie about it now?

  “So you didn’t say anything to the Tarble administration about what happened
between you and Mark?” I clarified. “You didn’t charge him with sexual misconduct?”

  “No. And I never told anyone either. Mark made me promise not to. He was worried he’d lose his job.”

  “How did you do in his class?” I asked. “I mean, did he grade you fairly?”

  “My essay on The Scarlet Letter,” she said. “That’s the paper we were talking about when you came into his office. I worked so hard on it too, to impress him, to show him I was smart and creative.” She paused. “He gave me a D.”

  And Madeline made three.

  I returned to Professor Barnard’s office armed with a copy of Julie Farris’s essay, and handed it to her proudly, like an eight-year-old showing off her first batch of brownies from an Easy-Bake oven. “I already read it,” I said. “And it’s good.”

  She smiled but held the paper by her fingertips at first, as if it were tainted. “Ah, yes. Anne Bradstreet. The first American poet,” she said, scanning Julie’s essay with a keen eye. “I won’t ask how you got this.”

  “Good, because I can’t tell you.” I paused. “But there’s more.”

  When she raised her eyebrows in intrigue, I told her everything I’d learned while we were apart, about the other sexual misconduct claims in Mark’s Human Resources file and my subsequent conversation with Madeline Kohl about her essay on The Scarlet Letter.

  “Even though these girls withdrew their claims, I can’t believe Suter still has his job.” Professor Barnard shook her head. “Three accusations are enough to raise eyebrows. The administration obviously dropped the ball here.”

  “But that’s the strange part,” I added. “Madeline said she never filed a claim.”

  “But she had to have, if it was in his file.” The professor crinkled her nose in confusion. “What did the other girl, this Tina Beyers, say when you talked to her?”

  “I couldn’t get ahold of her, but I’ll keep trying.”

  “Do you think there are more of you out there?”

  I shrugged. “There were only four names on the list.”

  “List?” She narrowed her eyes. “What list?”

  I cringed when I realized my slip. I never intended to mention Beth’s relationship with Mark—not to Professor Barnard, not to Heidi, not to anyone. But it was too late. I considered lying, telling her I misspoke, but the professor seemed too smart for that. So I had no choice but to tell her the truth, how Beth was the reason Mark broke up with me, how she came to campus looking for Julie Farris with the list of names and the journal published by the Midwest Collegiate English Teachers Council.