The Madwoman Upstairs (32 page)

All that I should have been doing, this entire year, was listen to Marvin. As he engaged the increasingly disengaged tour group, I made a slow sweep of the space with my eyes. That broom—had that been my father’s? No, no. The desk? The bed? Were those his claw marks on the wall? Then, my eyes alighted on the painting on the back wall. It was half-visible from behind a bald man’s shiny scalp. The Governess and I stared each other right in the eye. I breathed very steadily, in and out.

Sir Michael Morehouse had left behind his cat. The Beast of Bologne had left his claw marks. And Jack Halford? I kept staring at
The Governess.
Well—he had left behind his painting.

The next day, I made my way to the Plodge. I found Hans sitting there, looking like a shiny trophy. His computer monitor suggested he was working on a graph and a spreadsheet, but at the moment Hans had his feet up on the desk and was reading the
Hornbeam
. He was wearing a beaded bracelet, which I decided was not something I would remember in the story version of our relationship. When I walked in, he put down the paper in a hurry as if he had instead been watching porn.

“Hullo!” he said. I appreciated the way he acted as though nothing was ever wrong between us, even though nothing had ever been right.

“They make you work weekends?” I asked.

“Just catching up on some things,” he said, moving a wad of papers off his desk. I was having a hard time remembering what his job actually was, but it was too far into our acquaintance to ask him now.

“You look out of breath,” he said.

“It’s cold out there.”

“I’ll make us something—hot cocoa?”

“Some water would be great, actually.”

“No hot cocoa?”

“Water sounds easier.”

He grinned. “So I want something hot, and you want something easy.”

I blinked and didn’t answer. I’m sure he interpreted my silence as disinterest. Really, I was just awkward. I didn’t know what to say. I noticed he wasn’t getting up to fetch a glass of water.

I sat down in the seat across from him and said, “Can I ask you for some help?”

“Always.”

I let out a breath. “Your computer looks large and official. Does that mean you have the power to look up the records of old students?”

He laughed. “You have that power, too, through your student account.”

“I see,” I said. “Would you please look up a Mr. Jack Halford for me? I’d like to know how long he was a student here.”

“Still thinking about that well?” he asked, smiling. But he turned to his computer and typed something on the keyboard. He was an aggressive typist and the sound brought to mind a horde of cockroaches.

“Jack Snodgrass Halford,” he read, then looked back at me. “Looks as if he never graduated.”

“Was he expelled?”

“It doesn’t actually say, but that seems likely. It’s fairly well known that he had an affair with his tutor.”

“It was
his
tutor?”

“He was a student of math; she was his tutor.”

I was silent for some time.

“Is anything the matter?” Hans asked finally.

“No. Yes. It’s just very strange that he studied math, don’t you think?”

He thought about it. “No, not really. Why should it be?”

I didn’t respond. None of this made much sense. I could imagine why Dad chose a fake name—he always opted for invisibility in environments in which
Whipple
would draw too much attention. Yet I could not rationalize why he chose to study math—or, more important, why he never bothered mentioning it.

“Do we know anything about him?” I asked. “Where he came from? What he looks like?”

“I’m not sure,” said Hans. “There was a picture taken the night—”

“Yes, I know.”

“But his face isn’t visible.”

My cheeks grew red. How many people had seen a picture of my father’s little tryst, I wondered? I studied my fingers and pretended to find something interesting under a nail. I suppose I now understand the high scandal Rebecca had spoken of; this was not an affair between two regular adults but an affair between a student and his teacher. Finally, I stood up.

“Thank you for your help,” I said. “It was very kind.”

“Wait a moment,” said Hans. “Let’s talk this out.”

My breathing was shallow. “I can’t. I have to call someone.”

“Who?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “Maybe my mother.”

“I thought the two of you didn’t talk.”

“It’s my father who I’m not speaking to anymore.”

I started walking to the door. I stopped, then turned around. “Hans?”

“Samantha?”

“Out of curiosity, have you ever seen anything perfectly ordinary lying around Old College that might be old and famous? Like a sketch? Or a rug? Or a really interesting doorknob?”

He frowned. “Pardon?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Just curious.”

I stepped outside, head pounding. I was pleased to confirm that Dad was once a student here. But I could not help but wonder whether he and I had been such good friends, after all. Friends confided in other friends; they told them all the lurid details about their pasts, even when those details were unflattering. It unnerved me to think that my father may have been closer to Rebecca than he had been to me. I thought back to the triumphant look I had seen on her face. They had a secret history, the two of them, and I would never be a part of it. I walked back to my lonely tower, with the sudden feeling that everything I’d ever known might vanish in front of my eyes.

To: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]

From: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]

Subject: Request

Dear Dr. Orville,

Hello. This is difficult for me to write, as I would prefer never to see you again. But would you please drop by my Tower sometime tomorrow afternoon?

Cordially,

Samantha

To: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]

From: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]

Subject: RE: Request

Dear Samantha,

No. I hope you understand.

Best,

O

To: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]

From: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]

Subject: RE: RE: Request

You don’t understand. I have a very old painting to show you. If you’re worried that it will be a waste of your time, I’ll make sure that we also do a dramatic reading of
Paradise Lost
.

To: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]

From: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Request

It will not work; I will be leaving town later tonight for a long weekend.

To: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]

From: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Request

Then come this evening—early?

To: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]

From: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Request

Sir?

It grew late in the afternoon, and then early in the evening, and I still had not heard back from Orville. I began packing for my trip to the Brontë Parsonage. I did not appreciate that Orville was going out of town as well. Like an angry wife, I wanted to know where he would be and with whom he would be cavorting. It occurred to me that I didn’t even know where his home was, let alone that he had one. Did he have siblings too? A closet stuffed with old shoes and a living room filled with crayon drawings? A Brazilian wife wearing black leggings and ballet flats? There was a huge storm forecast for this weekend; I wondered if he was about to escape to the tropics.

I sat down on my bed, staring at
The Governess
, which was hanging on the wall like an expensive Picasso. I had tried to find her in Sir John’s book of missing artifacts, but she hadn’t made it in. Sir John must have had no idea of this painting’s existence. My father must have wanted it that way.

I looked my governess friend straight in the eye. Locked in her lonely frame, drowning in an indifferent black sea, she was a Brontë in her own right. Her formless body and blank eyes seemed to take up the whole room. It was a weekend of transformation, and the Governess, too, seemed different. Maybe she was just out for a nice swim with her favorite book. I sat down on my bed and stared at her wonderful, disturbed face. How had I not recognized her as a relative before? Perhaps my entire life was to be spent reevaluating all the people I thought I knew best.

“Is it always this cold in here?”

I jumped. The door must have been unlocked, because James Orville was standing in the doorway, holding his hat in his hands and looking irritable. He walked inside.

I said, “Come in.”

There was an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, and he dropped it on the floor. I tried to seem as aloof as possible. I thought maybe he would detect my indifference and decide he was in love with me after all.

He took off his hat, then dropped a rusty nail on my desk. “I found this outside,” he said. “Samantha, this room is a hazard. And don’t you have heat in here?”

I glanced at the boarded-up relic that was decaying in the corner—a fireplace, in its first life. “Be my guest.”

He paused. One of the lightbulbs was out in my desk lamp, and the room was bathed in a canary, infirmary yellow.

Orville said: “Surely, the college must know that this room is uninhabitable.”

“It’s all part of the tour.”

He waited. “I see.”

We stared at each other for so long that I wondered if he were testing out some new form of torture.

Finally, he said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What happened with Rebecca?”

“You left, that’s what happened.”

“I didn’t realize that she knew your father.”

“She did, in the biblical sense.”

Another pause. “I see.”

“She was his professor when he studied at Old College.”

He shook his head. “Tristan Whipple never attended Oxford.”

“Tristan Whipple didn’t. But Jack Halford did.”

Orville wore a deep frown. I turned away to tend to nothing in particular and gave him a moment to register the peculiarity of the revelation.

“You’re angry with me,” he said.

“I’m seething.”

“I don’t think you’re joking,” he said.

“Who said I was joking? You left me alone with her.”

A silence. “I cannot treat you any differently than I would any other student.”

I turned around to face him and I jumped—he was directly in front of me.

I swallowed. “Do you normally feed your students to the wolves?”

“Any other behavior from me would have been suspect.”

I tried to decipher his expression. Was it one of guilt? Embarrassment? Compassion? Desperate, unrequited love? Apathy? He took a step closer. I panicked. I had never been this close to his face before and all I could feel was the difference in our levels of experience. In his past was an entire black book of ex-girlfriends; meanwhile, I could barely contemplate eye contact.

“Tell me what happened with Rebecca,” he said. His voice was soft. “Quickly—I only have a few minutes.”

“I’m fine.”

I expected him to argue with me, but his eyes were big and concerned and I was finding it difficult to breathe. I wished I were ten years older. He was watching me carefully.