box of powdered doughnuts on the lap of her rather tattered pink nightgown, and a mug of coffee on the floor near one knee. “What-ho,” Helen greeted her, looking up.
“Morning.”
“You’re looking perky.”
“Perk, perk. And how are you this fine morning?”
“Fine, is it?”
“‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.’”
“Yog. What’s with you, a midnight visitor sneak into your room?”
“No such luck.”
Helen lifted the box off her lap and held it toward Alison. “Doughnut?”
“Thanks anyway. I’m going to hike over to Jack-in-the-Box and get a sausage crescent. Want to come along?”
Helen shook her head, cheeks wobbling. “I don’t think so. I’d have to get dressed.”
“You could just throw on your rain gear.”
“Har.” She bit into a doughnut, crumbs and white powder falling onto the exposed tops of her breasts and between them.
“Celia up yet?”
Helen shrugged. She chewed for a moment, then took a drink of coffee. “Celia may or may not be up, but wherever she is or isn’t up, it isn’t here.”
“She didn’t come back?”
“It would appear that she found a more suitable abode for the night.”
“That bodes well for her.”
Helen rolled her eyes upward. “Spare me.”
“She and Jason must’ve hit it off,” Alison said.
“Not necessarily. They could’ve been in a traffic accident.”
Alison ignored the remark. “I just hope it turns into something.”
“No doubt it turned into an orgy.”
“No, I mean it. She likes to pretend she enjoys going through one guy after another, but she only got that way after Mark dumped her.”
“Yeah, that’s when she started screwing around.”
“It’d be nice if she’d get really involved with someone.”
“But a freshman?”
“He must have something going for him,” Alison said, “or she wouldn’t have spent the night. She almost never stays over with a guy.”
Grinning, Helen said, “Think they stayed in his dorm room with
“The height of vomitus.”
“Maybe Roland joined in. A big juke sandwich with them as bread and Celia as the meat.”
“You’re a very disturbed person, Helen.”
“Think about it.”
“I’m sure they didn’t go to Jason’s room. Not if that disgusting yuck was going to be there. They probably shacked up in a motel, or maybe they just parked someplace.” Or rolled out a sleeping bag in a field, she thought, like Robert Jordan and Maria. The warm night would’ve been fine for that.
“When she gets back,” Helen said, “I’m sure she’ll tell us all about it.” With that, she stuffed the remaining chunk of doughnut into her mouth and picked up the comic section.
“See you later,” Alison said.
Helen nodded.
Alison stepped to the front door and pulled it open. On the wooden landing stood a glass vase filled with yellow daffodils. An envelope was propped against the vase. She stared at the bright flowers, at the envelope. Frowning, she stroked her lips.
They’re probably not for me, she thought.
But her heart was beating fast.
Crouching, she lifted the envelope. Her name was written on it. Hands trembling, she tore open the envelope and pulled out the papers inside. They fluttered as she unfolded them.
Three typed pages. Signed at the end of the last page by Evan.
Dearest Alison,
I am loathsome scum, a worm, a maggot. You would be perfectly justified in spitting on this missive and flushing the flowers down the nearest toilet. If you are still reading, however, let me tell you that you certainly could not detest me more than I detest myself.
There is no excuse for my behavior of Friday night. It was childish and vile to show up at Gabby’s with Tracy. What can I say? I was blinded by the pain of your rejection, and I desired to punish you. It was a foolish, contemptible gesture. Let me assure you, however, that the maneuver backfired. As much torment as I may have caused you, I caused myself more.
Let me also make it clear that I have no interest in Tracy. The sole reason I invited her out was to rub her in your face and, hopefully, to make you jealous. I do not care for her at all. Though you may find this difficult to believe (due to her well-deserved reputation and your opinion that I have nothing on my mind except sex), we did not indulge in any intimacies whatsoever. I even avoided a good-night kiss when we parted.
I spent last night alone in my apartment, miserable, wanting to be with you but too ashamed to telephone or come over and see you. I thought about you constantly, remembering how you look and the sound of your voice and the way you laugh. I thought about the many good times we shared, and no, not just the sex (though I couldn’t help thinking about that, also—especially how it feels when we are so sweetly joined, as if we are one). I even spent some time gazing at your photographs in the school yearbooks, but it was unbearable to look at frozen images of your face and know that I had possibly lost you forever.
When I slept, I dreamed of you. I dreamed that you came into my room and sat down on the edge of my bed and took hold of my hand. In my dream, I began to weep and tell you that I was sorry. I said that I never meant to hurt you, that I loved you and would do anything for your forgiveness. You said nothing, but you bent down and kissed me. I woke up, then, and I was never so sorry to wake up from any dream. My pillow was wet with tears. (I realize that all this must sound maudlin, but I want you to know everything, no matter how embarrassing it may seem in the light of day.)
Right now, it is three in the morning. I got up, after that dream, and sat down at my typewriter to let you know how I feel. I am sure it is too much to hope for easy forgiveness. The dream was a fantasy, the wishful thinking of a tormented mind. I realize that my treatment of you was rash and abominable, and that you probably prefer never to see me again. I wouldn’t blame you at all.
If you wish to have nothing to do with me, I suppose I will learn to live with it. I suppose I will have no choice, short of shuffling off these mortal coils with a bare bodkin. (Forget I said that; I don’t believe I am that desperate, though morbid thoughts along those lines have crossed my mind.)
Perhaps I won’t deliver this to you. Perhaps I’ll burn it, I don’t know.
I miss you, Alison. I wish that I could make everything right again, that I could turn time backward to Thursday afternoon when I started all this stupid, disgusting behavior. But life doesn’t work that way. You can’t just make the bad things go away, no matter how much you may want to. (There, I’m so distraught that I’ve ended my sentence with a preposition—now I know I’ll burn this.)
I love you.
I hope that you don’t hate me.
I am miserable without you, but it’s all my own fault and I know that I deserve the misery.
If this is the end, it is the end.
Have a good life, Alison.
