chromosome, went I.
The denouement of the Maryse Bergman case was surprising, at least to me. The week after her accusation against Kevin, she left town. There didn’t appear to be anything sinister about her departure. I saw her in the halls a couple of times, returning books or saying goodbye to friends, then she moved on. The day after she left, a deputation headed by Ann Vogel confronted Ben Jesse accusing him of a cover-up. It was Ben’s final battle. After his death, there was a rush to choose an interim department head and make the new appointments. Maryse was forgotten – forgotten, that is, by everyone except Ann Vogel, who kept the rumours on the boil, and by Kevin Coyle, who had to live under the cloud of unproven accusations.
The night of the vigil Ann Vogel wasted no time on pleasantries. “You’re supposed to go inside,” she said. “The plan is for everyone who is part of the program to come out of the library together.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would I be part of the program? There are a lot of people who were closer to Ariel than I was.”
“For once, I agree with you,” Ann Vogel said. “I don’t think you should be included either, but Ariel’s mother wants you. Dr. Warren says that since you knew Ariel as a child and as a colleague, you could bring a special perspective. It’s not a perspective I personally want, but Dr. Warren does, so you’d better get in there.”
I turned to Ed. “Could you and Taylor watch out for each other till I’m done?”
Ann Vogel didn’t give him a chance to answer. “You’ll have to find alternative child care, Joanne. This observance is for women only.”
Taylor regarded Ann with interest. “I noticed that.”
A glance around the crowd revealed that Taylor was right. Mao Zedong once said that women hold up half the sky, but at Ariel Warren’s vigil it appeared that the sky and everything under it was in female hands. With the exception of Ed, there wasn’t a male in sight.
Having discharged her venom, Ann started off. I grabbed her arm. My intent was simply to ask her a question, but my gesture was unintentionally rough, and she peeled off my hand with a look of disdain.
“No need for goon tactics,” she said.
“My point exactly,” I said. “Who made the decision to exclude men?”
“Some of us feel we can’t speak freely if men are present.”
“I thought this was supposed to be about Ariel.”
“She’s emblematic of a larger issue.”
“For God’s sake, Ann,” I said, “listen to yourself.”
“Naama,” she hissed. “My name is Naama.”
“All right, Naama. Now shut up and pay attention. Ariel Warren is not a symbol. She was a warm, gifted young woman, and a lot of us still can’t believe she’s gone.”
Ann took a step towards me. She was so close I could feel her breath on my face.
“Believe it, Joanne. Ariel is dead, and she died for the same reasons a lot of other women die. She lived in a patriarchal society that kills women and children.” She laughed shortly. “Why am I wasting my time trying to raise your consciousness? Stick around. You just might learn something.”
“I don’t think I will stick around,” I said.
Ann shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She wagged her finger at me. “Now, I’m going to walk away, and this time I don’t want to be stopped.”
I turned to Ed. “Let’s get out of here.”
Taylor looked up at me. “What about Ariel?”
Ed and I exchanged glances.
“That’s a good question,” he said.
“And I was pretty close to giving it a rotten answer,” I said. “Damn it, I always let Ann get under my skin. Let’s tough it out.”
Ed frowned. “This isn’t a night for muscle-flexing,” he said. “You were right. This is supposed to be about Ariel.”
I looked down at my daughter. “Do you want to stay?”
But she was concerned about Ed. “Would you be okay going home by yourself?”
“I’d be okay,” he said. “Besides, somebody has to drink those Shirley Temples before they lose their oomph.”
“ Oomph!” Taylor scrunched her face at the cartoon word, then for the first time since we’d set out for the vigil, she smiled.
I reached out and touched Ed’s cheek. “We’ll see you later,” I said. “And take it easy on the Shirley Temples. A good man is hard to find.”
The vigil for Ariel Warren exists in my memory as a series of images, which revealed truths as familiar to the philosopher as they are to the chiaroscurist. The first was that light is fully appreciated only when it is set against an absence of light; the second was that even the most familiar figures can cast lengthy shadows.
As I watched Ed walk towards the Parkway, I was sick at heart. He was heading west, and while I had balked at the suggestion that Ariel Warren was a symbol, I had seen too many old westerns not to feel a twinge at the image of a decent man disappearing into the sunset. It took an act of will not to follow him.
Livia Brook met me by the fountain. She was wearing a black T-shirt dress and strappy patent-leather flats. Draped around her shoulders was an extravagantly fringed antique satin shawl covered with oversized poppies that appeared to be hand-painted. It was a festive accessory for a mourner, but no one looking into Livia’s face could doubt her pain. She had removed the barrettes that usually held her hair in place, and against the cascade of chestnut and grey curls, her face was wan.
“Ariel’s mother wants to talk to you before we start,” she said.
It was a request I couldn’t ignore. Dr. Molly Warren was not a friend, but I liked and respected her. She had been my gynecologist for the past fifteen years, and as far as I was concerned she was just about perfect. She treated my concerns seriously, answered my questions fully, and shepherded me through a difficult menopause with information and brisk good humour. Even when I was sitting on the edge of the table in the examination room, shivering and apprehensive in my blue paper gown, the click of her impossibly high heels coming down the hall reassured me. I knew she wouldn’t talk down; I knew she wouldn’t scare me needlessly; I knew she’d tell the truth. She had been a rock to me and to many other women I knew. Any of us would have done whatever we could to redress the balance.
A group of women had come together just inside the door. To the right of them, standing in front of the glass case that housed displays from the Classics department, were Molly Warren and Solange Levy. Two facts were immediately apparent: Solange was in deep psychological trouble, and Molly was doing what she could to help. Back in her uniform of black jeans, T-shirt and Converse high-tops, Solange was beyond wired; she was blowing out all the circuits. She was talking non-stop. As she spoke, her hands chopped the air, and her feet danced like a boxer’s. Even her black, henna-shined hair seemed charged with manic electricity. Molly listened with an expression I had seen often: capable, concerned, but with her lips tight, insulating herself against the weaknesses of the flesh that beset the rest of us.
The moment must have been one of unimaginable horror for her, but Molly Warren, as she always did, looked as if she had just stepped off the cover of Vogue. If it seemed cruel to notice her appearance, it was also inevitable. I have never known a woman to whom personal appearance mattered more. She was not a beauty – Ariel’s chiselled good looks had come from her father – but Molly took meticulous care of what she had: her skin was deep-cleansed, rehydrated, and dewy; her Diane Sawyer haircut subtly layered and highlighted; her outfits chosen with care and knowledge. Whenever she glided into her Delft-blue outer office to pick up a file or take a phone call, we patients leaned towards one another and whispered about her unerring sense of style.
That night the silk suit she was wearing was soft grey with a mauve undertone like lilacs in the mist, and her simple grey Salvatore Ferragamo pumps and bag glowed as only seven hundred dollars’ worth of calfskin can. I imagined her selecting her ensemble in the morning, holding the bag against the suit, checking the match, not knowing that by day’s end she would be wearing her perfect outfit to a vigil for her daughter.
I pulled Taylor closer. She leaned across me to peer down the hall, then up at the huge expanse of glass at the front of the library. “I’ve been here a million times,” she whispered. “But never at night. It’s different.” Suddenly, Solange caught her attention. “What’s the matter with that girl over there?”
“She was best friends with the woman who died.”
