The Virgins (26 page)

And now, as the hot water courses over me, I make a different set of connections. I remember Aviva’s startled cry, so like Lisa Flood’s the first time I entered her. I think of Seung at the Bog saying that he’d failed, that he’d had to cheat on Aviva, that he wasn’t a man, and these things mix together with other, less formed thoughts, and all at once I know: my God, Aviva, the great Auburn slut, had been a virgin.

So I was her first then? But I felt no triumph as the days and the weeks passed, rather that my crime against Aviva had doubled, and so had my responsibility toward her. I recognized myself now as someone filled with ugly and perhaps uncontrollable impulses. Who knew what I might do next? I might break a window and leap past the debris to steal stereo equipment or diamonds. I might attack someone, unprovoked, in the street. I was drinking a lot, and in truth that made me too stupid and uncoordinated to do anyone much harm. But it did not prevent certain images from appearing before me over and over: Seung’s body sunk at the bottom of the Bog, drifting and bloated; a ring—
Gnaritas et Patientia
—manacling one swollen finger. I thought of confessing to the Dean of Students or the police, and could not convince myself to do it. It’s not that I believed I could be charged with Seung’s death—it would fall short
of that—but in the eyes of the world the distinction would be technical. I knew what I knew: Aviva and I together had snuffed Seung out. I had no courage. Evenings, in bed, I put my face to my knees and rocked fast, using the motion to keep my mind blank.

David Yee and I weren’t the only ones from Charlie Bradley’s party at the Greyhound station that early morning, waiting for the sun to rise and for the buses that would take us toward our homes. There were others, too, as rumpled and night-stained as we were. Among them was Aviva. Did she come in before me or afterward? I never saw her enter. I was sitting with my head hanging somewhere between my chest and my feet. David, entirely sober and his polo shirt somehow still crisp and clean, was reading the previous Sunday’s
New York Times.
I was thirsty and headed toward the bathroom in the hope that the sink worked and I could get a few swallows of water. I saw a shape from the corner of my eye, well across the room, but I knew it as if it were the shape of a mother or a sister. For a moment I was terrified; in my mixed-up consciousness, I had the idea that I’d killed Aviva the night before and yet here she was, back from the dead to
accuse me. Adrenaline spun me from my path to the bathroom back toward my seat. After resettling myself gingerly I stole another look, thinking that Aviva might have vanished by now, might have been merely a hangover-induced apparition. But there she was. I touched the ring in my pocket and turned it and turned it. I spoke silently to myself until I once more believed that the girl sitting on the opposite side of the room by the broken snack dispenser was an ordinary girl, an ordinary living girl whom I had tried to love in the grass last night until I’d seen that I could not reach her and did not deserve to reach her. David read the paper and occasionally looked up at me for an excessively long moment, clearly wanting to be asked about his evening.

Something squawked over the loudspeaker, an unintelligible crackle. I checked my watch: it was still too early for the bus I would ride, with one transfer, all the way to New York City. I felt rather than saw Aviva rise, and as she passed I took her inventory: brown peasant skirt, oversized oxford—I finally could plainly see its color as pale blue—chunky brown clogs. No earrings, only two necklaces—why? A knapsack, apparently holding very little, for it drooped limply off one shoulder. She did not turn to look at me, and although I’d in no way expected that she would, the feeling of absence as she passed was like a dark wind. I snatched at her scent: stale booze, sleep, some remnant of the clean outdoors. I stood and stumbled after her, calling to her to wait. She turned, and her eyes frightened me: they were empty, without expectation or irritation. They seemed
almost blind. I opened my fist, saw her register the little ruby ring lying in my hand. A spark fired briefly into those eyes. She reached out and took the ring, her cold fingertips brushing the lifelines on my palm. I longed to close my hand upon hers, just for a moment, by way of apology, by way of explaining that I would always love her, but I resisted, and I can say now that nothing in my life since has ever been as difficult as that self-control.

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely. Her eyes did not meet mine again.

Through the smeared glass door of the bus depot I watched Aviva cross onto the asphalt lane where her bus idled, juddering erratically. I saw her small form rise one step and then two into the dark interior. She would never come back to Auburn. I don’t know if she had already made that decision as I sat there, noting her exchange with the driver—she said something, and then he said something. People brought it up from time to time over that next year, as they made their college visits from Auburn—remember Aviva Rossner, she didn’t return. Aviva nodded at the driver and turned toward the long tunnel of seats and then she disappeared behind the tinted glass.

Deep thanks to my agent, Anna Stein, and my editor, Tony Perez, each of whom has given so much to this book, and whose loyalty I prize. Thanks also to Anna’s assistant John McElwee and to the dynamic Nanci McCloskey, Rob Spillman, Diane Chonette, Jakob Vala, Anne Horowitz, and the rest of the amazing crew at Tin House Books, as wonderful a home as an author could hope for.

Jim Ruland, Jane Avrich, and Joanne Fisher read the manuscript and gave invaluable feedback, while “the Thursday group” of Therese Eiben, Lynn Schmeidler, Joanne Fisher (again), and Philip Moustakis helped with tune-ups. So did Kirsten Menger-Anderson.

Harold Brown offered me carte blanche and tour-guide services on a research trip, while Peter Greer and the late David Thomas responded to queries about boarding school life. John Casey explained crew; Daniel Gesmer got me
up to speed on skateboarding. John Kim, Dot Bowe, and Caryn Bowe answered various oddball questions. Christine Schutt illuminated the big picture.

Julia Bogardus and Susan Lane: Just because you helped with material that didn’t end up making it into
The Virgins
doesn’t mean you didn’t help. My fault, not yours. Same goes for the late, warm-hearted Louis E. Catron.

My pals at Zoetrope Virtual Studio—too many to name, but I want to offer special appreciation to Mary Akers, Roy Kesey, Pia Z. Ehrhardt, Alicia Gifford, Myfanwy Collins, Ellen Meister, Cliff Garstang, Darlin Neal, Len Joy, Marko Fong, Jim Tomlinson, Anne Elliott, and Mary Lynn Reed—keep me feeling that the writer’s life is not only survivable but a privilege.

Claudia Putnam and Elena Sigman have always shared the passion and listened to the complaints.

The Seasoned Moms—you know who you are—maintain my balance so I can put the words on the page.

No copy question is too minor for Phyliss Greenberg to deal with at the eleventh hour, and my husband, Jonathan Ratner, is also a crack pro bono proofreader.

Kathy Melillo: Thanks for making everything run smoothly while I was upstairs.

It feels corny to say it, but my mother, Patricia Erens, always believed I really was a writer—or at least she did a good job of hiding any doubts. It’s time for a shout-out, Mom.

Jonathan, Abraham, and Hannah: You are my life’s grounding and grace.

PHOTO © MIRIAM BERKLEY

PAMELA ERENS
’s first novel,
The Understory,
was a finalist for both the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for First Fiction and the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing. For many years she worked as a magazine editor, including at
Glamour.