Dear Mr. Sorenson,
I find it absolutely unbearable that a draft dodger like yourself would be the man to profit by Judith Stanley’s work. I feel sorry for the woman herself and for her family, who may or may not know the truth about you. If I had the power to expose you for what you are, I would. Alas, I only have the power of sending these private words. I admire Ms. Stanley’s photographs greatly and only wish they were in the hands of someone with a real sense of duty, honor, and integrity. I’m certain you’ll go on profiting from her work in many ways, and I want you to know that if I could do anything to stop it, I would.
Sincerely,
David
A man who didn’t even have the “honor and integrity” to sign off with his last name, or include his return address, accusing Paul of being a draft dodger—when Paul was too old for the damn draft! Paul snorts and rips the letter right in half. Then he grabs up the whole pile and nearly strides into the kitchen to light it on fire in the sink but stops himself before getting there—it will make a mess, he’ll set off the firealarm, it’s too cold to go out on his fire escape and do it in a metal trash can out there…He throws the letters back on the hall table. Some of them slide to the floor, and since Paul can’t stand disarray, he scoops them up and stacks them neatly, his stomach churning violently the whole time.
He wanted something, needed it, and didn’t get it. But why was he looking for what he needed in the damn letters anyway? Or from someone like Charlie? Oranyone? It was just a craving he’d given in to—a craving for affirmation, a sense that he was good and what he’d done was right. But no outside voice will give him that; he resolves not to read any more unless he wants pure entertainment and has absolutely nothing better to do. He finds an empty cardboard box and dumps all the letters—even the opened, threatening ones—into it. Neither threats nor compliments matter; he won’t let them distract him anymore. He has a catalog introduction to write, and a job at Doven Gallery. He will no longer let the insignificant insults of angry girls, women, or men have any impact on his upwardly mobile life. In the end, he’s stillwinning.
26.
Paul is so in the flow of writing the next morning that when the telephone rings he lets it go for a while, hearing the sound but not responding until he thinks,Jahan. It could be Jahan.It’s 11 a.m. and the gallery is open; Jahan might have a question, or he might be checking in. Paul strides over to the armchair and grabs the receiver.
“Hello?” he says. Silence on the other end.
“Hello? Jahan?” he says, as if Jahan would call and say nothing. Paul listens deeply, pressing the telephone against his ear, and begins to hear the sound of light breathing. It reminds him of standing alone in the parking lot last night, straining his eyes for some solid threat he could sense but not see. He felt foolish and scared; he refuses to feel the same way in his own living room, and from something as trifling as a late-morning phone call. But he does think of Judith—of what she endured. Calls like this—but worse—as her stalker pressed closer, boding bad things to come. Paul swallows.
“Hello? Anyone there? I’m hanging up,” he says firmly, but he doesn’t, and the hand pressing the receiver to his ear shakes slightly. He listens hard, trying to discern if the breathing he hears is male or female. He thinks…female, but how can he possibly tell? He’s thinking of Charlie, that’s why, however incongruous it is to imagine a girl like her sitting at home alone, playing around with prank calls. He can see herpenning a cruel letter or two more easily than he can imagine her doing this.
“Hey. You need to cut this shit out,” he says at last, hearing a little gasp, or intake of breath—or was it a swallowed laugh? Paul slams the receiver down and stares at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It doesn’t.
As the minutes pass, Paul stands smoking at the window, turning to stare at the telephone more often than he’d like. He wants another chance with the caller—maybe itwasCharlie? Maybe she and her friends were grouped around the phone, listening to Paul panic and curse, when one of them let a single syllable of laughter escape. He can see it: those gorgeous girls from class sitting cross-legged on a shaggy bedroom carpet, pressing their heads together to hear, pressing their hands to their mouths, eyes bulging with merriment. Charlie wouldn’t do it alone, but she might do it with friends. And she would be the leader, the one passionate enough about Judith’s work to fuck with him. The others were just—
The telephone rings.
“Hello,” Paul says brusquely. There’s a pause; Paul can hear muffled background noise, but no laughter. The noise of a busy workplace carrying on beyond a closed door. He’s instantly relieved.
“Professor Paul Sorenson?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Detective Grant Schuyler of the Harrington Police Department. We questioned you not long ago in relation to the Judith Stanley murder?”
Paul’s relief vanishes; his stomach twists. “Y-yes,” Paul stammers. As if he could forget the small gray interrogation room where they held him after Judith’s death. Notheldhim, really, but it felt as if he were being held. He was so nervous he thought he might crap his pants at any moment, and everything he said sounded suspicious even to his own ears. But this isn’t the officer who questioned him. He can’t remember that officer’s name, but he remembers the voice: higher pitchedthan this Detective Schuyler’s. He’s somewhat relieved that it’s a different person. But why should he be?
“As you probably know, the case remains unsolved.” Paul tries to say yes, but it comes out a flippant-soundingYeah. “Well, I’ve taken over, and I’m starting from scratch. Reviewing suspects, paperwork, photographs, everything. Looking at some new angles here, too, and I’d appreciate you coming by the station this week to answer some questions.”
Paul swallows.New angles.What “new angles” might those be? Did Schuyler learn of Paul’s near-arrest for grocery store theft and think it worthwhile to reconsider “the professor” as a suspect again? But there was no record of the near-arrest, because it wasn’t afullarrest; he doubts the officer would remember his name. He doesn’t remember the officer’s—and it certainly wasn’t Schuyler. All he remembers isHarvey—the ridiculous, red-faced manager who chased him out of the store.
“Of course, Detective. I’d be happy to come by,” Paul says, trying to sound relaxed, though he’s grateful the detective can’t see how hard he’s gripping the receiver. “How’s tomorrow morning?”
“Excellent. Nine thirty all right with you?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Paul says, because what else can he say? When they hang up, Paul reaches for a nearby glass. It hasn’t been washed, but it will have to do. He pours whiskey in it almost to the rim and swallows it in two gulps. It doesn’t even begin to help, at least not immediately.
What the hell?Schuyler didn’t sound like he was winding up for an interrogation, but you never could tell. He might have played it like that on the phone, sounding polite and mild, but then Paul could arrive at the station tomorrow and find himself in handcuffs.
You didn’t kill her, though, Paul reminds himself with surprised relief; the call briefly made him forget his own innocence—not that innocence always matters. He wonders if Tom Stanley has anything to do with this—but Tom distrusts the Harrington PD more than he does Paul. It’s possible the detective saw theHarper’sissue or one of Paul’s interviews and thought,Here’s a man who’s profiting nicely from Judith Stanley’sdeath, and thought to bring him in. Or what if his harasser sent one of her pithy anonymous notes?You should take another look at Paul Sorenson, that vile worm.He directs a surge of helpless rage at Charlie and latches on to her image as he sits, mind and stomach roiling, staring toward the table where he sat not long ago, peacefully working on his catalog introduction.
27.
At the station, Paul is led straight to Schuyler’s office—not to an interrogation room. He takes this as a good sign until he meets the detective’s penetrating gaze and suffers his brief but crushing handshake. If he’d faced Schuyler right after Judith’s death, he might have confessed despite his innocence. He only hopes the man can’t hear his rabbity heartbeat in the small, closed room.
But not an interrogation room, Paul reminds himself.An office. It’s just an office.
His first impulse on sitting down is to reach for a cigarette. But there’s no ashtray, and no sign of the comforting cloud of smoke that hangs over the rest of the station. It adds to his unease, but he holds off from pulling out his pack. Tries to focus all his attention on looking the detective squarely in his gray-green eyes.
