All The Pretty Dead Girls

by John Manning

  Ginny’s name was soon anathema in the town of Lebanon. She’d hear the townspeople whispering whenever she walked into a store: “That’s the atheist, the heathen, the anti-Christian bigot.” A group called the Concerned American Women, New York Chapter, somehow got hold of the interview and started a campaign to get her fired. Televangelist Bobby Vandiver thundered from his television program on one of the religious cable channels for days about the “Christ-hating professor” at New York’s Wilbourne College.

  At first, Ginny had considered it a badge of honor to be condemned by the man who’d blamed the “licentiousness” of New Orleans for causing Hurricane Katrina, and predicted fire and brimstone for Massachusetts for allowing gay marriage. And, much to her publisher’s delight, the controversy simply sent all of her books jumping back onto the best-seller lists.

  But then she started getting the death threats in the mail—and so many obscene and threatening phone calls, she had to change her number and keep it unlisted. She filed police reports and talked to a special agent from the local FBI office in Albany, who assured her it was unlikely that anyone would actually kill her, which was only slightly reassuring. It was a rough couple of weeks, especially considering school was starting.

  To the college’s credit, the vast majority of parents came down on her side. The board of trustees refused to yield or even listen to the angry fanatics—the school was private, after all, and not dependent on tax dollars—and even Dean Gregory issued a statement of support. Ginny suspected—given the way he’d started treating her—that his statement was more about refusing to be told how to run his college than any actual support for her. The storm lasted about three weeks, and then it died away. Bobby Vandiver and the Concerned American Women found a new cause célèbre—a teacher in Pennsylvania who’d invited a gay author to speak to her student group—but around Lebanon, Ginny Marshall was forever considered a “troublemaker.”

  She smiled as Marjorie brought her a cup of coffee and a small saucer full of creamers. In return, Marjorie gave her a half smile and walked away.

  What had gotten Ginny into such a snit tonight was Gregory’s treatment of her in front of that harpy Joyce Davenport. It was bad enough that he asked that publicity hound (for that’s all Ginny considered Davenport to be) to speak at the campus welcoming event, but to dress Ginny down in front of her was too much to take. For in fact, during the media storm that had accompanied Ginny’s start at Wilbourne, Joyce Davenport had written a column shredding her and her books, using Ginny as an example of “what’s wrong with higher education in this country.” It was the one instance where Ginny considered suing; the column was full of so many slanders and lies and half-truths, it was hard to believe any newspaper would publish it.

  It had taken all of Ginny’s self-control not to choke the bitch to death as soon as she saw her on the stage earlier tonight.

  But the worst part had already occurred. There had been a faculty reception at the dean’s house before the welcome address, a semiformal cocktail party that everyone was required to attend. Ginny had considered not attending the party, but that would give Gregory what he wanted: an opportunity to reprimand her. So she’d go—and be perfectly charming to that bitch, and to Gregory and his mousy, smarmy little wife, too.

  Maybe, Ginny reasoned as she got dressed for the night, Joyce Davenport was different in real life. No one could be that malignantly cruel and deliberately ignorant, could they? Maybe it was all just an act, a persona Davenport assumed to make money and get herself on television.

  Ginny had arrived at the reception late, and slipped over to the bar, hoping to avoid both the dean and and Davenport. But no sooner had she asked for a glass of red wine when Gregory placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “Joyce, I’d like you to meet Dr. Virginia Marshall,” he said in his most charming voice. “She’s one of our more famous faculty members.”

  “Yes, I know.” Joyce’s face was seemingly friendly. “Isn’t she the atheist?” she asked sweetly.

  “No,” Ginny replied. “I am not an atheist. I consider myself a Christian.”

  “Well, that’s what makes America great, isn’t it, Dr. Marshall?” Joyce Davenport said, still smiling sweetly. “We can call ourselves anything we wish, even if it isn’t true.”

  Ginny opened her mouth to reply, her face flushing angrily, but Dean Gregory cut her off before she had a chance to say anything. “Speaking of which, Ginny,” he said, “I need you to stop by my office tomorrow around one. I’m more than a little concerned by this theory of religion course you’re teaching this semester. I’ve had a chance to look over the curriculum, and I think we need to talk.”

  “What?” She stared at him openmouthed. He couldn’t be serious.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.” He waved his hand in dismissal, and Joyce gave her a parting smile—not so sweet this time, Ginny thought.

  “You need a refill?”

  Ginny’s eyes flickered upward. Marjorie stood over her with a pot of coffee in her hand. Ginny nodded. “Thanks,” she said. Marjorie filled her cup to the brim, then returned to the counter where she was talking with some young man.

  Ginny sipped her coffee. Gregory was one miserable son of a bitch.

  Oh, I’ll come to your office tomorrow, but you’d better be prepared to fire me, because you’re getting it with both barrels. No one interferes with my curriculum—especially not someone who thinks Joyce Davenport is a fine example for my students.

  11

  All three people in the dining room of the Yellow Bird turned their heads when the bell over the door rang once again and Bonnie Warner stepped inside.

  Bonnie was bone tired. She needed a quick cup of joe to take with her, to propel her the last couple of miles back to Wilbourne. She knew the outside gates to the college had already been locked, but that didn’t concern her. It was the eleven o’clock lockdown of Bentley Hall that was more problematic. Once Bentley was locked down for the night, no one was getting in—or out.

  “Coffee, please, to go,” Bonnie said, standing at the corner.

  Marjorie nodded, and turned to fill the order.

  Bonnie’s eyes made contact with the young man seated near her on a stool. She nodded at him.

  “You got to Wilbourne?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Bonnie told him.

  “Out kind of late,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I have a job in town.”

  He nodded, returning to the last of the french fries on his plate.

  All Bonnie needed was to chug down the coffee and hop back on her bike and she’d be back at the college in practically no time at all. She glanced at her watch. She still had plenty of time, but she knew tonight she was pushing her luck. But Amy had actually been making progress tonight—Bonnie couldn’t just take off in the middle of explaining why x times y equaled z. Tutoring algebra was a delicate assignment. When the kid’s brain was finally showing some signs of comprehension, Bonnie needed to stick with it and make sure all the points were made.

  “Here you go, honey,” Marjorie said, handing her the coffee in a large Styrofoam cup with a secure lid.

  “Thanks,” Bonnie said, paying her.

  That’s when her eyes lit on the woman in the booth, who was also watching her. Shit! It was Dr. Marshall.

  She couldn’t bolt. Dr. Marshall had seen her.

  Bonnie took a long breath, then walked over to where Dr. Marshall was sitting.

  “Hello, Bonnie,” the older woman said.

  Bonnie decided simply to throw herself on Dr. Marshall’s mercy. She liked Dr. Marshall. She had a reputation for being fair. She wasn’t whacked out on authority like so many of the other professors at Wilbourne.

  “Dr. Marshall, please don’t tell the dean you saw me,” Bonnie pleaded.

  The professor smiled. “Bonnie, you know only upper-classmen are allowed to be off campus at this hour.”

  “I know. But I have a job.”

  “A job?” Dr. Marshal
l looked perplexed. “Again, only upper-classmen can hold off-campus jobs.”

  “I know, I know. But I’m not a rich girl like so many of the other kids, Dr. Marshall. Somehow I’ve got to find a way to pay for books for the new school year.”

  Dr. Marshall looked at her kindly. “What kind of job do you have?”

  “I tutor a seventh-grader. The kid’s having major troubles with algebra. I saw the ad her mother placed in a local paper and so I called, and now I ride back my bike into town to see her. Her mother is so grateful, and the kid’s finally making progress.”

  “I see. So you’ve been away from campus all evening?”

  Bonnie nodded. “I missed the welcome ceremony.”

  Dr. Marshall smiled wryly. “Well, count yourself lucky on that score.” Her smile turned warmer. “But you’ll be reprimanded for missing it. They’ll see you didn’t sign in…”

  “Oh, no, Tish Lewis said she’d sign me in.”

  “I did not hear that.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Marshall, but I need the job…”

  “Okay, Bonnie, I won’t say anything. But please—try to arrange your visits to the girl during daytime hours, so you won’t risk getting caught again.”

  “Oh, thank you, Dr. Marshall.”

  The older woman thought of something. “But the outside gates are locked. I’ll need to give you a lift and—”

  “No, no, it’s fine. One of the seniors gave me the code for the gate.”

  Dr. Marshall sighed. “Do not tell me her name. Then I’d be covering up for three wayward students.”

  “Oh, thank you so much, Dr. Marshall. You’re great!”

  “Just please rearrange your tutoring schedule, okay?”

  Bonnie nodded. She waved good-bye to Dr. Marshall and turned to head back out into the night. As she neared the door, the young man at the counter called over to her.

  “Hey, do you need a ride back to the college? It’s pretty dark out there.”

  Marjorie was leaning over the counter next to him. “It’s okay, honey. He’s a cop. You can trust him.”

  Bonnie smiled. The man had a kind face.

  “Thanks anyway,” she said. “I have my bike.”

  “Well,” the young cop said, “be careful.”

  “I grew up Brooklyn,” Bonnie told him. “Believe me, I know how to take care of myself. Lebanon is like paradise compared to the streets I grew up on.”

  The bell jingled again as she left the Bird.

  It wasn’t that Bonnie really enjoyed tutoring Amy. The girl was resistant and resentful. Only tonight had she shown any progress. All summer Bonnie had worked with her, trying to get her ready for the fall term. While the other girls on campus had all gone home for the summer, partying in the Hamptons or taking trips to Europe, Bonnie had stayed here, working in the registrar’s office on campus and tutoring Amy in the afternoons. It was really quite baffling. Amy and her older sisters called Bonnie a “rich girl” from Wilbourne—a “Wilbournian” according to townie lingo—while Bonnie’s classmates looked down on her for having to work off campus.

  Can’t win for losing, Bonnie thought as she biked through the town square. Halfway there.

  She was wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt; a baseball cap was pulled down low over her head. She glanced again at her watch. Okay, now she was getting close. It was ten-thirty-five. Twenty-five minutes before the doors of Bentley were sealed shut until seven the next morning. In the event of a fire, they automatically unlocked, but nothing short of a conflagration would get them to open up otherwise.

  She pushed on, even though now her legs were starting to burn and her breath was coming in gasps. Six miles into town was a long way on a bicycle. Amy lived out in what was known as “the Banks,” a poorer part of town that reminded Bonnie of her own Brooklyn neighborhood—minus all the trees, of course. She tried to explain to the kid that she wasn’t rich like most Wilbourne girls, that she had grown up in a third-floor apartment over a Greek restaurant. Bonnie wished she could quit the job, but she needed the money. Her parents were sure not sending her any. In any event, the job could only last a few more months at most. There was no way Bonnie could pedal her bike all this way once the weather turned cold.

  At last, she passed through the center of town and could see the gates of the school looming in the near distance. Bonnie’s legs ached, and she slowed down. Almost ten minutes to spare, she thought, sliding off the seat and taking deep breaths to try to slow her heart rate down a bit. She’d walk the bike through the gate after punching in the code. Then she could slip through the shadows and scramble into Bentley just in time.

  I’m going to take a long hot shower and wash my hair, then just relax. My first class isn’t until eleven tomorrow, so I can sleep in, I might even skip breakfast and take my time getting ready. Maybe Tish has something nice she can let me borrow for the first day of class.

  She was walking her bike alongside the tall red brick wall that surrounded the school. She was almost at the gate.

  And then she heard something off to the side of the road.

  The road was dark. The sky was covered with clouds, blotting out the moon and the stars. Across from the campus stretched deep woods. The noise came again. An animal maybe. Something crunching through the leaves.

  Bonnie felt a flicker of fear in her chest, but dismissed it. Right, Bonnie, she scolded herself. Like it’s a bear. Probably a squirrel.

  She was no more than ten feet from the front gate. She heard the noise again.

  Now, don’t scare yourself, there’s nothing out there—

  That’s when she was suddenly bathed in a red light.

  “What the heck?”

  Great. Just great. Apparently I’ve been caught in a new security system to catch girls who left campus after curfew.

  Except the light didn’t seem to come from anywhere. It seemed, rather, just to be: a strange, eerie red glow.

  Bonnie turned, ready with her excuses.

  But what she saw left the words frozen in her throat.

  She tried to scream, but couldn’t.

  She dropped her bike. It clattered on the road beside her.

  Bonnie ran, heading for the gates of the college as fast as her tired legs could move. She heard the steps coming behind her, crashing through the underbrush on the side of the road, and then directly on her heels.

  This time she found she was able to scream.

  12

  Sue didn’t sleep well. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable, or even that she was in a new and different place for the first time in her life. It was the dreams. They had started almost from the first moment she’d set her head down on the pillow. Weird, crazy dreams that she remembered only in fragments now—a face screaming at a window, a long dark road, a blond girl in a baseball cap riding her bike…

  “Good morning,” Malika sang out when the alarm went off at seven-oh-five. “Rise and shine and greet your first day as a Wilbournian!”

  Sue sat up in bed. “You’re pretty perky in the morning. Not sure I can get used to that.”

  Malika was already dressed and sitting at her desk, sipping a cup of coffee while she read the news on the Internet. “I was very good not to wake you,” she said over her shoulder. “Did you sleep well?”

  “No,” Sue grumbled. “Is there more coffee?”

  Malika laughed. “I told you not to read Joyce Davenport before going to sleep.”

  “Well, something gave me weird dreams.” Sue replied, standing, stretching, stumbling to the bathroom.

  Could it have been Joyce Davenport’s strident tone that so upset her and caused her mind to wander all night? The book had been a grab bag of interesting opinion and outrageous nonsense—sprinkled, as Malika had warned, with some heavy helpings of outright bigotry. Arabs were “savages” in Davenport’s description. Mothers on welfare were, one and all, “freeloaders.” But she also talked about personal responsibility and moral convictions—things Sue thought were often abs
ent from political life today.

  Still, it was Davenport’s stridency that left Sue with a bad taste. There was nothing Joyce had said in the book she hadn’t heard around the dinner table from her grandfather growing up, but the way Joyce put things—she stripped down all of her positions to their lowest and most basic levels and made them seem crass and vulgar. And those who disagreed with her were accused of smearing her—the very same tactic Davenport was using herself. No wonder that people were unable to have civil conversations about politics these days.

  Malika rapped on the bathroom door. “I’m out to my first class. Good luck with yours, Sue. Oh, and by the way—the coffee is in the lounge.”

  In the shower, Sue thought more about Joyce Davenport. Not so much about her politics or her stridency, but the fact that she was the first person she’d ever met who’d actually known her mother.

  Was my mother the same way? Did she think the same way Joyce does? What kind of a person was she?

  She’d wondered about her mother so often, alone in her room, all through her girlhood. So many times, Sue had stood in front of the shrine to Mariclare, staring up at the pictures of her mother, and wondered. What kind of a person had she been? What kind of dreams did she have, what did she want from life, what were her hopes and fears?

  Sue used to run her finger across one particular photograph of her mother. Mariclare was young, maybe nineteen, so fresh-faced and happy. Was she excited when she discovered she was pregnant with me? Would we have been close?

  She was so pretty. So much prettier than Sue considered herself. Did boys line up to take her out? Was she kind, was she sweet, was she nice to people? Did she study hard and get good grades, or was she flighty and bouncy like some of the girls at Stowe?

  And then there was Sue’s father. How had Mariclare met him? Were they madly in love? What kind of parents would they have been?