What Has Become of You (15 page)

Vera shook her head.

“We’re asking that question of everyone. You don’t need to look so petrified.”

“Sorry.”

The detective stood up, brushing her red hair back with a large hand.
She could probably palm a basketball with one of those hands,
Vera thought. “I think that’ll be all for now, then,” she said.

“Detective Cutler? May I ask one thing?”

“Ask away.”

“I haven’t mentioned to other staff or faculty that I was the one who found Sufia.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know. I guess I don’t want people asking me about it. It isn’t a nice thing to have to talk about over and over.”

“Talking about it with people might make it easier to process. Might even be good for you.”

“I’d prefer they not know,” Vera said, “so if there is any way you can keep them from knowing when you speak to them, that would mean a lot to me personally.”

“I’ll do what I can, Vera. That’s the best I can promise. Just so you know, we’ll probably be checking in with you again. Maybe just a phone call next time. Memory’s a funny thing. A couple more days, and maybe there’ll be something different you remember.”

After the detective had left, Vera could not shed her sense of unease. She did not think she wanted the burden of remembering any more than she knew now, much less being prodded to remember.

 • • • 

Wednesday was the day of Sufia’s funeral. Vera had been surprised to see that it would be held at St. Sebastian’s Church; she had assumed that the Ahmeds were Muslim, not Catholic, and she wondered if they had converted somewhere along the line. Had they been Muslim, perhaps they would have preferred a quieter service and burial. But Vera knew from the scuttlebutt around the school that the funeral would be spectacular, that half the town was planning to attend and pay their respects to the promising young immigrant as she was laid to rest.

Vera decided not to go. Part of her wanted to, but she had only ever been to two funerals in her life—Heidi’s and her father’s—and felt that that had been enough.

She stayed home, thinking she might do some writing, perhaps catch up on some old emails, but instead she slept most of the day and then found herself riveted by the six o’clock news, with its coverage of Sufia Ahmed’s funeral.

The scene was very much as she had expected it to be. Media from all three local TV stations were there, positioned outside the cemetery gates and collecting sound bites from teenagers who were all too eager to appear on TV for an instant. She recognized a girl from her afternoon class as one of those who spoke to the reporter from WCTL. “Sufia was
really
popular,” she said. “She is going to be missed.” People streamed past her as she leaned into the microphone, and Vera thought she caught Jensen Willard in the background, walking by quickly, her hair almost obscuring her face.
But it can’t be
her
,
Vera thought; since when did Jensen ever walk with any spring in her step? The news story also showed the outside of Sufia’s parents’ house, whose crooked front gates were now festooned with flowers, balloons, and stuffed toys left by well-meaning kids who had wanted to leave a tribute of some kind. Seeing this, Vera had an almost visceral reaction, and she thought:
I should have left something, too. I should have at least sent some flowers for Sufia. Violets, perhaps, for such a quiet and unassuming girl. Sometimes she wore a violet-covered hijab, which framed her face so beautifully . . .

For the first time, Vera wondered if the Ahmeds even knew who she was. Had the police revealed her identity to them—told them about the drunk woman, Sufia’s own teacher, who had surprisingly had the wherewithal to call for help but had been of so little use to the authorities after that? Would they see a gift from her as unwelcome, as taboo—see Vera herself as a bringer of bad luck? She hoped not.

Thinking about this, Vera looked up the Ahmeds in the phone directory and found that their house was located on Preble Lane, in a working-class neighborhood not far from where Vera lived. She could walk there. It was still not quite dark, and the town had not rolled up its sidewalks yet; she would have time to pick up a modest floral arrangement at a store along the way. She could leave that for Sufia. This small gesture was the least she could do to pay tribute to the dead girl toward whom she felt a deeper, more personal connection than she had ever felt in life.

 • • • 

Vera had no trouble finding the Ahmeds’ house. It was a small, old duplex with a sagging porch, a home badly in need of a paint job, but its front gates suggested an eerily party-like atmosphere, bedecked as they were with heaps of flowers, hand-lettered notes, and lumpy, dull-eyed teddy bears. Vera stood outside these gates with the small potted violet she had bought and bent down to place it in an unobtrusive spot. Straightening up, she read one of the signs that had been taped to the Ahmeds’ wooden fence:

REST IN PEACE SOPHIA, YOUR ONE OF GODS ANGELS NOW.

Vera stood there a while; she wasn’t sure exactly how long. She knew she was beginning to feel cold, even in her winter coat and hat, and she was just about to turn away and head back home when she saw the wooden gate open up and a familiar face peering through it with a high-beamed flashlight. Squinting against the light, Vera stepped back and shielded her eyes.

“Hello, Vera. Looking for something?”

It took Vera a moment to identify the speaker—this uniformed man at the gate. It was only when she looked into his eyes—those sad, dark eyes, downturned at their outer corners—that she remembered him.

It was Officer Gerard Babineau. The officer who had taken her report at the crime scene. The one whose card she still carried in her wallet.

“No,” Vera said. “I was just . . . I was just leaving some flowers. A plant, really.”

“I heard Helen Cutler talked to you at the school the other day. We didn’t see you at the service, though.”

Were the police keeping tabs on such things? Keeping tabs on
her
? “No, I . . . I didn’t go. I thought about it, but it didn’t feel right to me.”

The officer nodded. “Understandable. But what brings you here now? The Ahmeds don’t wish to be disturbed this evening. I’m sure you can see why they’d like to have a little privacy and quiet after such a difficult day.”

“Oh, of course. I wasn’t planning to disturb them, Officer.”

“If you’d like me to get those flowers to them, I can take them inside.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Vera said. “But thank you.”

Babineau just kept looking at her with those sorrowful eyes that made her feel as though she needed to apologize for something. Vera mumbled something else, something that
was
half apologetic, and made haste on her way back to her apartment. She felt as though Officer Babineau were watching her all the way down Preble Street, and she didn’t care for that feeling at all. What had he been doing at the house? Had the Ahmeds requested a constant police presence there, in the wake of their daughter’s murder?

It’s because the perpetrator often likes to go to the victim’s grave or to where the victim lived or to the scene of the crime,
Vera thought, turning blindly around the corner.
Their ego prevents them from staying away. I should have known that. I should have known that someone would be there, monitoring the entrance of the house, waiting for someone who doesn’t belong to show up. Someone just like me.

 • • • 

Later that evening, the three murdered girls—Heidi, Angela, and Sufia—looked benevolently at Vera from their spots on the wall as she sat in front of her laptop and stared at the in-box of her Wallace School email account.

There in her queue of unread messages was the old one from Jensen Willard—the message from days before, which she had ignored last Saturday night. She could no longer remember why she had avoided it. In the grand scheme of things—in days darkened by death and shame and worry—a message from Jensen Willard seemed like nothing to be afraid of.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
journals

Hello,

I am writing this on Friday afternoon from the school computer. I’m feeling bad now about the journal I turned in—if you’ve read it already, you know it isn’t very good. I know it’s stupid to go on and on about a boyfriend—so typical teenager-y—but I have one more entry I want to send to you. I’m sorry to have to make you read all this; I’ll have something better to turn in next time, I hope. Things are a little difficult in my head right now, but writing usually helps.

Sincerely,

Jensen Willard

Vera remembered precious little about Jensen’s last journal entry, much less understood why it warranted an apology. Hadn’t she written about Bret again? What else would a young girl write about, if not her boyfriend? It seemed a long time ago—ages ago—since Vera had given it any thought.

The attachment at the bottom of Jensen’s email read only “Gore.” Vera bit her lip, looked at it, and squinted closer at the screen as it filled with Jensen’s boldface heading:

You Never Saw Such Gore in Your Life: Journal Entry #4, by Jensen Willard

I ought to warn you that I’m a little angry right now. And when I get angry, I don’t see red, like you’re always hearing about in books. I see
white
. Everything turns to snow in front of my eyes. Eventually this page will fill up with black ink but even then I will still see nothing but a white page.

I mentioned to you in the last journal that Bret hadn’t called me in a while. Well, he did call me, a little earlier than our usual scheduled talk, and things are as bad as I suspected.

Worse.

What makes it worse is that he started off being all normal about everything. He started talking about how he was teaching himself to read Gaelic. He talked about a reading he’d been assigned in his ethics class. He went on and on about this for so long that after a while, I just couldn’t stand it anymore, so I broke in and said the dumbest thing imaginable to him.

I said, “I miss you.”

There was this long silence and this crackle at the other end of the line (the connection wasn’t very good—it never is). I heard a background noise like someone talking, or maybe a voice from the TV—I couldn’t tell. “Your parents are ultimately paying for this call,” I said after a while. “Don’t you want to talk to me?”

“Jensen, listen. There’s something I should probably tell you about. Do you remember Tova, the girl in my calculus class I mentioned?”

I vaguely remembered him saying something about having a study partner and how she had burned him a “really cool CD” of techno music. The whiteness was already starting to creep in, and with it a coldness.

“Don’t tell me anymore,” I said. “Don’t say another word.”

But he kept on going, the bastard.

“We fooled around a little. I didn’t exactly intend for that to happen.”

“What does ‘a little’ mean?”

“Um . . . almost to the point of penetration?”

I should have hung up the phone. Bret’s voice sounded so stupid. Who says “almost to the point of penetration”? He made it sound like a laboratory experiment or something.

“There’s something else I should tell you, too,” he said. “You know my roommate? Max?”

I couldn’t even speak. I just waited for him to go on.

“Max and I have experimented a little,” he said. “I don’t think it really means anything. But I just thought, since I was telling you about Tova, I should tell you about Max, too.”

“I hate you,” I said at last.

“What?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t hate you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” (What was I apologizing for? Why do I apologize when it’s other people who should do the apologizing?)

“I’m the one who’s sorry.” Bret sounded almost contrite, with an emphasis on “almost.” He needs to work on his sincerity. “It’s meaningless, really. I mean, I find Tova very attractive, but she isn’t as well read as she could be. All she reads besides assigned readings are those Douglas Adams hitchhiker books. I find Max attractive, too. But I don’t really see that going anywhere.”

The sentences “I find her very attractive . . . I find him attractive, too” oozed through my head. I wanted to kill Bret. I wanted to go down to Columbia and find him and Tova and Max and smother the three of them with one pillow. I simmered and boiled as the air grew colder around me. I felt like one of those people with hypothermia who experience a great heat just before they go mad and freeze to death.

I still do.

“Jensen? Are you there?”

I didn’t feel as though I was. I felt as though I were already gone. But, for the sake of formality, I said, “I think I have to go now.”

“I know we haven’t had sex or anything,” Bret said. “You and I, I mean. But intellectually, I feel much closer to you than anyone. I don’t want to lose you. I’ve never told you this, but I’m in love with your mind.”

I replaced my parents’ old phone on its cradle.

I kept replaying what he had said about being in love with my mind. It seemed like just about the meanest thing a guy could say to a girl.

Would it kill him to just say he found me attractive and just leave it at that? Even if it weren’t true?

The unspoken part of being told you have a beautiful mind is that it means the rest of you leaves a lot to be desired. I know it’s considered shallow to worry about being pretty, but I don’t have much to worry about in that department—even my own mother refuses to give me that affirmation. Once, when I was about twelve, I asked her, “Mom, do you think I’m pretty?” and her response was that looks aren’t important. Translation: Either I’m too ugly for words or her staunch New England upbringing makes her incapable of handing out compliments for fear that I might get ideas about myself and start trying to shit above my ass. I kid you not.

The thing is—the really sad thing is—that Bret has been getting better-looking to me all the time, in my mind. I wish you could see a picture so you could judge for yourself; I’m not sure what you find attractive or unattractive. After first meeting him, my mom took me aside and exclaimed, “What do you even see in him? He looks like a baby egret—like he’s not done yet.” (So much for looks not being important.)