The Wood of Suicides (6 page)

“Girls,” Steadman warned us, good-humoredly.

I straightened up and met his eye, wanting desperately to show him that I wasn’t interested in the view outside, in anything beyond that room. I was perhaps too attentive, too rigid in my posture and intent in my gaze—that is, as long as the lesson lasted. As soon as the lesson was over, I was quick to lower my eyes. I didn’t dare look at him as he stood by the door to let me pass, to let all of us pass before him. Nevertheless, I did keep my ears sharpened to his warm, murmured farewells, even as my friends ran their mouths off.

“You have to come see the boys with us,” Marcelle was saying to me, “and tell us who you think is hotter.”

“Seamus, of course,” Amanda swanned ahead of us, a load of books pressed to her overdeveloped chest.

“No, Flynn.”

“Seamus.”

“. . . Amanda . . . Marcelle . . .” Steadman beamed down at my friends from the threshold. “Laurel. Until tomorrow . . .”

A
FTER
W
EDNESDAY
’
S
English class, I had gym, where I was free to strip off my clothes while his presence was still fresh on my mind. In the locker room, I undressed, like all the other pretty girls, out in the open. I had never felt more refreshed by the sight of my small breasts in their white lace bra, my flat stomach, my jutting hips, than after that lesson with Mr. Steadman. I cast what I hoped was a cool eye over the bodies in my vicinity, though my heart was still beating rapidly, my hands fumbling as I dressed myself in the bright red shorts and T-shirt of my gym uniform.

The class consisted of fourteen girls in identical red costumes, wielding hockey sticks as silver-haired Ms. Da Silva looked on. Legs and buttocks. Bouncing busts. My own swinging ponytail and slow trot, which dwindled to a sedate stroll, eventually coming to a standstill. I had never been one for physical activity and was content to linger on the fringes of the game. Four or five other girls did the same, gossiping and fanning away flies.

As much as I strained to, I really had no hope of seeing into his classroom from the playing field. His classroom faced east over the lake and willows and was separated from the athletic fields by a quarter mile of shrubbery, a parking lot, a mowed lawn, and the curves of the performing arts center. It was pure fancy to think that he could see me, barelegged, clad in red; to imagine that his breath, and not the humidity, was responsible for the hair tickling my nape. I sighed. I struck the head of my hockey stick against the ground and dug it into the turf.

I
T
WAS
a warm, clear Friday and no Trinity boys were in sight. He led us down to the lake for our lesson, last period of the day, carrying a crate of books and dressed in a tweed suit. As we were leaving the English department, he greeted fat Mrs. Poplar, who was in a hurry and fanning herself with a printout, and was greeted by twenty-six-year-old Miss Kelsen, who I hated on sight for her sweet blue gaze, dimples, and pert ass (but who, I later heard, was thankfully engaged to the rowing instructor at Trinity).

We collapsed in the shade of the willows, legs splayed out, faces turned up to the sun. Without being told to, we had formed a loose circle: the twelve of us sitting, him standing at the head. He seemed taller and trimmer in his tweed suit, with the crisp white shirt underneath. His hair was boyishly floppy with two dark, hanging forelocks. He placed the crate of books at his feet, with the words, “Page ninety-six, Cambridge and the Alps.”

I brushed my hair from my face, leaning forward to take a volume and briefly arresting his gaze, before settling back on my haunches. I was crouching almost directly across from him, a position ideal for watching his face as he recited—though I couldn’t help envying the girls who flanked him. He had seated himself casually with his legs apart, arm dangling from a raised knee, and bookmarked the Wordsworth with his index finger. Once we each had a copy open on our tartan laps, he flipped back to the page effortlessly and began to read aloud in his clearest, most sonorous voice.

I knew already that he was a man of extraordinary eloquence, from our lessons earlier in the week. Still, to hear his flow of words unbroken, over the course of a leisurely hour, was something else. I was at leisure, not only to look and listen, but to love and be lulled by his smoothness, by the play of light and shadow of his features, and the solidity of his presence. I was lulled into a trance of adoration, which showed through the slackening of my posture, the sprawl of my limbs, the fingers tugging and caressing at the grass with unwarranted urgency. An observer may have said that his body, positioned across from mine with legs spread, was subtly addressing itself toward me. Although little eye contact took place, our loins were in alignment; the air buzzed between us. My fingers were sensitive to all stimulation, roaming across the grass to the hem of my skirt and through my hair.

I wasn’t the only girl who showed signs of being affected by his articulacy. There wasn’t one among us who didn’t appear relaxed—though there was an ambiguity, in some cases, as to whether the drooping bodies and lobotomized expressions were the product of enchantment or utter boredom. Many seemed half-asleep, reclining on the grass or leaning on their friends for support. Marcelle, I saw, was biting her thumb, while Emma Smith had her head in Karen Harmsworth’s lap. The heat, combined with the dullness of the poetry, the soothing resonance of Steadman’s voice and the distraction of being outdoors, seemed to have produced in all of us a perverse dreaminess, which expressed itself as an enhanced physicality. Enchanted or not, there was no doubt in my mind that he had brought us there as his attendant nymphs. Until the hour was up, he would be our patron god.

The hour had to be up at some point, though I was unprepared for it happening while the sun was still out and his lips still moving. I was admiring, yet again, the prominence of his cheekbones, the downward point of his Roman nose, and the shadow on his upper lip from where he had shaved. With his jacket on, I was prevented from appreciating the sinewy, golden-haired forearms; instead, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the wide-open legs and, more importantly, the crotch. In the presence of such virility, it was impossible not to imagine that I knew how it all worked; that I was ready for it, virginity aside. I adjusted my limbs. The willows bristled. The lake was wide, receptive, taking on their green.

A moment later, it was over. I looked down at the pages of my book without comprehending what had happened, why he had stopped. He thanked us for our patience, told us that he looked forward to seeing us again the following week. We were instructed to pass the books back his way. I relinquished mine with difficulty. As we rose from the grass, brushing off our kilts and stretching languorously, the end-of-day bell sounded. He hoisted up the crate of books, scanning our faces with embarrassing eagerness. “Does anyone want to help me carry these upstairs? Anyone. . . ?”

Our eyes met briefly over the others’ heads. My heart leapt at the opportunity. I looked away, swallowing my desire. I knew I regretted my decision a moment later, as I shouldered my satchel and followed my friends uphill. By the time that I cast a glance back in the direction of his beloved, tweed-clad form, I saw that he was already some distance away; that I’d given up my only chance of being alone with him again that week.

M
ORNING
BROUGHT
with it a loathing for daylight, the stale smell of the pillowcase against my nose. I closed my eyes and occupied myself for a few minutes longer in the warm dimness beneath my lids. We were standing by the lake. He had singled me out to help him carry the books. I assented. I ascended with him, up two flights of stairs to the dusty storeroom. He took the load from my arms. He locked the door behind us. He pressed me into a corner and began to unbutton my blouse: slowly, expertly . . .

There were giggles outside my dorm, a stifled knock. I had made a late-morning date with the others: takeaway coffee and a walk to the Trinity campus to scope out the boys. I wondered whether they would leave me alone if I ignored them for long enough; realizing, however, that my train of fantasy had been broken, and that I had nothing else to do that day, I decided to get up. I opened the door to find them standing in the frame, brassy blonde and white blonde, dressed almost identically in denim skirts and low-cut, flutter-sleeved blouses. “You’re
still
in your nightie?” Amanda sneered.

“Sorry, I slept in.” I let them into my tiny room, hoping they couldn’t smell my fingertips. I went to my wardrobe, where I knew I had a white blouse—albeit, with a prim, lacy collar instead of a plunging V-neck. In the absence of denim, I chose a plain black skirt to go with it. “Just give me a minute in the bathroom to change.”

“Change here. We don’t care,” Amanda said dismissively.

“We promise we won’t perv!” Marcelle covered her eyes in demonstration, then uncovered them, catching sight of something she liked in my wardrobe. “Oh, look, Mandy! This is just like that dress I wanted to buy in San Rafael last year.”

Amanda sidled closer. “You have some cute things.”

I left them there, skulking across to the other side of my room to change. It dawned on me that I’d have to forgo fresh underwear, at least for the morning. When I was dressed, I began working on my hair, which sleep had tangled into a dense auburn thicket. My face in the mirror was as unmade as my bed, but not unpretty. “I’m ready,” I turned to them.

“Finally,” Amanda heaved a sigh, more huffily than was necessary. “Come on. I’ll just
die
if I don’t get to see Seamus today.”

O
UTSIDE
,
THE
Saint Cecilia’s grounds were bustling with girls out of uniform, heading to their Saturday-morning extracurriculars, escorting visitors around campus, or simply loafing about on sunny lawns and around the shopping precinct. Sipping from paper cups, the three of us crossed through the vacant foreign languages department and made toward the lake where we’d been less than a day before with Steadman. My heart leapt. I glanced back at the school building and tried to identify his classroom from the rows of arched windows on the upper floor.