“What was his relationship with Carolyn like, if I may ask?”
“He was troubled, and that trouble spilled into his marriage. It was at times…tempestuous.”
“Then she didn’t love him?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t say that. Carolyn adored Edgar. She loved Betty, too. I’m not trying to imply she didn’t. And everything was nice and cheery as long as things were going Carolyn’s way, and she made sure things went her way, whether you liked it or not. I never could stand passive-aggressiveness. I like things to be openand straightforward. Carolyn didn’t. Maybe I’m a sour old man nursing grudges, huh?”
“I think you’re very nice, Mr. Hoffman,” she said.
“Keep in touch. I want to see what you write about my Betty in the end,” he said, and when he smiled she could almost glimpse the young man who had danced the evenings away at Stoneridge.
They shook hands again. She put on her headphones and pressed play on her Discman. It was a nice day and she’d always enjoyed her walks around Boston, especially when she had music to keep her company.
Soon after leaving the apartment, she felt that someone was following her. She turned around a few times but couldn’t say who was watching her. The feeling went away and then returned, much stronger than the first time, when she reached Causeway Street.
Minerva stopped and slid off her headphones, letting them rest on the back of her neck. The Green Line train running overhead made the elevated tracks rumble, and that prickling feeling in the back of her skull that never boded well began to emerge.
On the other side of the street there was a pay phone decorated with colorful graffiti. Two construction workers were standing outside a bar chitchatting. Ahead of her a businessman hurried by, clasping a briefcase.
The Cardigans were still playing, music spilling from the headphones.
She walked faster, hurrying to the train station, and sat down. On the bench next to her someone had left a copy ofThe Phoenixopen to the section with all the adult personals. She grabbed the newspaper and pretended to read, lifting her eyes a couple of times, trying to see if she could spot the person who was following her. Because there definitely was someone after her; someone was staring even if she couldn’t pinpoint who it was.
Then the sensation dissipated and it was time to board. She clutched her backpack all the way back to town, sometimes unzipping a side pocket to brush the feathers of the talisman tucked inside.
Rather than phoning Hideo, she stopped by the liquor store andpurchased a bottle of wine and a six-pack of beer. She stuffed them in her backpack and walked to campus. She wanted more time to wind down.
By the time she reached Hideo’s place she felt much better.
“I come bearing gifts,” she said, and pulled out the beer.
“As long as you’re not Greek,” he said cheerfully. “Go sit down. Shove the books away. I’ll bring the food.”
The dining table was covered in papers and books. She piled them in a corner.
Among Hideo’s books and comic books, with the shelves crammed with CDs and DVDs and the gurgle of the fish tank, she realized how much she’d missed spending time with him. She’d truly been neglecting her friends that summer.
Hideo reappeared with two bowls and chopsticks. They sat down to eat.
“Were you working?” she asked, motioning to the books she’d pushed aside.
“Trying to fine-tune the bibliography and instead wasting time with video games. At the end of the day, I’m probably going to do a boring, tried-and-true analysis ofTurn of the Screw.I was toying with pairing ‘The Romance of Certain Old Clothes’ with the ‘Black Hair’ segment ofKwaidan,but I don’t think it works. So what were you up to today?”
“Listening to ghost stories of a different type.”
“How poetic. Hey, I was on a message board that had a story you might like. Apparently,The Necronomiconis hidden at Bradford College. Lovecraft dated a coed there and they entombed it somewhere in the tunnels beneath the college.”
“That’s a funny one. Lovecraft would have been more afraid of coeds than of nameless horrors from beyond the stars.”
“You never know. Sometimes there’s some truth in all that fiction. Hey, wasn’t Shirley Jackson into witchcraft?”
Minerva nodded. “I think she said it was a way of channeling female power.” She tapped the chopsticks against the bowl. “If you’re looking atThe Turn of the Screwyou should borrow mycopy ofAn Anatomy of ‘The Turn of the Screw’by Cranfill and Clark.”
Hideo had made matcha cheesecake to go with the meal. They ate it while watching a videotape with episodes ofAeon Flux,then talked further about James and the non-apparitionist view versus the supernatural interpretations of Peter Quint and Miss Jessel. Afterward, Hideo drove her to her dorm.
Minerva placed the bottle of wine underneath the kitchen counter and headed to the library. She looked at the stuffed birds in the room and two shadow boxes displaying a collection of moths and butterflies.
She pictured the house as it would have been in Beatrice Tremblay’s day, when the students would have flitted in and out of the library and a house mother enforced curfew, back when there were formal dances and Benjamin Hoffman and Edgar Yates might show up in freshly shined shoes with their hair combed back for an evening of merriment.
