Cynthia liked the bed. It was a queen-size, with four tall posts rising at each corner and a sturdy wooden headboard at one end. There was no mattress or box springs.
“That’s my next step,” said Farnham. “We want something comfortable for you to lie on before you die.”
“I’ve been studying lines,” said Cynthia. “I want to come back to rehearsal next week.”
Farnham said that was the best news he’d heard since Grayson had told him the mixer would be over by 11:00.
“The good Mrs. Kaufman is willing, but not able,” he said. “We need you as Desdemona.”
“I need to do it,” she said.
Farnham brushed the wood of the bed a few more times.
“Do they know what’s wrong?” He did not look at her when he asked.
“We have to get a second opinion.” Cynthia watched him brush more stain onto the frame. She said she had never delivered a line lying down before.
“It’s tough. You have to practice the breathing.”
Farnham dipped the brush into the can of stain and applied more to the darkening surface of the wood. They spoke simultaneously, then paused.
“Go ahead,” said Cynthia.
Farnham shook his head.
“I was wondering if you were planning to go home soon,” said Cynthia. “I need to get into the gym.”
“I’ll be there in an hour or so. Grayson told me to change before I took a turn in the noise inferno.” He asked her why she needed to go to the gym.
“I’m inspecting to make sure no miscreant students sneak in,” she said.
“I could do that for you.”
“I want to do it,” said Cynthia. She was both amused and annoyed with all the male chivalry.
“You want to go now?” said Farnham. “My apartment is unlocked. You can cut through to the trophy room.”
“It’s not a good idea to leave your apartment unlocked,” said Cynthia. She was remembering Robert Staines’s visit to her home yesterday.
“There’s nothing to steal.” Farnham continued to stain the bed. “I didn’t think you’d be back here after Monday night,” he said.
“Dan, drop it.”
“I don’t know how I could lose my self-control like that. I promise you it won’t happen again,” he said.
“I’d better go,” said Cynthia.
“My feelings just got the best of me,” he said.
Cynthia said she was leaving now.
“Cynthia,” he said, “give me a chance to apologize.”
She buttoned her raincoat and pulled a plastic scarf over her head. “Your apology is accepted,” she said.
After she left, Farnham continued his brush strokes on the bed for half a minute. Then he hurled the brush at the cinder-block wall, where it left a brown smear and fell, with a faint clatter, to the floor.
Greg Lipscomb, who watched from the doorway, had arrived just as Cynthia left the room. He saw Farnham throw the brush, then stare, motionless, at the bed in front of him. Greg could see that the man was mad. Damn. He was dying to investigate this tunnel business, but not when Farnham was on the rampage. He would have to pursue it some other time.
SCENE 24
The rain had let up by the time Cynthia emerged from Bradley Hall around 8:45 P.M. She moved against a wave of boys and their dates just arriving for the extravaganza. Thomas Boatwright and a cute girl in a yellow rain parka passed her on their way in. Thomas looked cute, too, in his blue ski jacket, plaid flannel shirt, and blue jeans. The hillbilly look had arrived among the preppies. She caught his eye and he greeted her shyly, but he did not stop to introduce his girlfriend. Cynthia had grown accustomed to such mannerisms among the Montpelier boys. They never thought it was necessary to make introductions across generational borders.
A damp mist permeated the campus. As Cynthia walked toward the gym, a wave of fatigue hit her and nearly knocked her down. She had to stop and lean against a tree. You’re trying to do too much, she thought. Go home and go to bed. Go see your husband.
But she continued to walk toward the gym. Dan Farnham’s apartment door was on the south end of the building. It was strange to be entering another person’s apartment. Over the square concrete stoop a bulb shone, illuminating harshly the door in the surrounding gloom. As Farnham had promised, the wooden door was unlocked. Inside it was warm. She clicked on a ceiling light; she had not been in this apartment since Ben had moved out and Farnham had moved in. The place was furnished with institutional-grade stuff provided by the school—heavy-legged tables, fake-leather red sofa and chairs, even the generic ducks and hunting scenes framed on the walls. She saw Harper’s and American Film stacked neatly on the coffee table, but aside from the magazines and one small bookshelf containing paperbacks, there was no sign of Farnham’s personal life whatsoever. All his secrets had been tidied and tucked away. She snooped a bit. The efficiency kitchenette was antiseptically clean, only orange juice and beer in the refrigerator. The single bed in the bedroom was neatly made. The bathroom was spotless.
The attack of lethargy had passed, and so she resisted the temptation to sit and rest in one of the chairs. But at the thought she felt her innards squirm with a startling excitement. I’m like Goldilocks in the house of the three bears, she thought. A voyeur. Or would that be feminine, voyeuse? Who’s been sitting in my chair? She could barely help giggling. Who’s been sleeping in my bed?
She took the stairs down to explore the rest of his home. A study, another bathroom, a guest room. Everything was so tidy. On the interior wall was a large metallic door. She walked across the beige carpeting and opened it. In front of her, lighted only by the exit signs over the doors at each end of the hall, lay the long, slick concrete flooring of the locker room level of the gym. She found a light switch on the wall
