Читать книгу All The Pretty Dead Girls - John Manning - Страница 13

Sue followed the woman around the building and up a short flight of stairs that led to the back of the stage. They pushed through the curtains and down a narrow hallway. Finally, they stopped in front of a door, and the woman rapped on it before letting herself in.

“Ms. Davenport?” she called. “I have Sue Barlow.”

“Send her in!” It was the same voice Sue had just heard over the microphone. Her heart beating a little faster, she walked into the room.

It was dingy and cramped, mirrors on both walls and a long counter on the wall to her left. The walls were plaster, and in places paint was missing where notices had been taped and later ripped down. The place smelled slightly musty, and the floor was yellowed with coats of wax. Round bulbs surrounded the long mirror. Behind a partition, Sue spotted the woman who had summoned her.

“Hello.” Sue’s words were awkward. “You wanted to see me?”

Joyce Davenport was sitting on top of a stool, smoking a cigarette and drinking white wine from a fluted glass. Her legs were crossed at the knee, hiking her skirt up to her upper thighs. A long run showed in her stockings on her left leg. She smiled and tilted her head, narrowing her dark eyes. “So you’re Sue Barlow.” She set the wineglass down and gestured to her. “Come closer.”

Sue took a hesitant step forward.

Joyce stood up. Up close, her face was long and narrow, almost horsy, with a pinched nose and thin wide lips. Her eyes were brown and round, and the whites were shot through with red. Heavy makeup could not disguise the small lines around her eyes and mouth.

Joyce tossed her head to get her long hair out of her face. She threw her arms around Sue and hugged her, then stepped back and searched her face.

“Yes, I can see traces of Mariclare in you.” The woman smiled deeply. “I was kind of hoping you’d be like a twin to her, but I can see her in your face—your eyes, you have the same eyes.”

Sue’s heart jumped. “You—you knew my mother?”

Joyce laughed. “Yes, I knew your mother. In fact, we were roommates here at Wilbourne. I was very, very fond of her. And I’ve been waiting for years to meet her daughter.” Her smile got bigger. “And you are so pretty. Are you as smart as your mother, too?”

“I don’t know how smart I am, or how smart she was, to be honest.” Sue replied, staring at the older woman.

No matter what Malika had said about Joyce Davenport, Sue was suddenly thrilled to be standing before her. She knew my mother! She was my mother’s roommate! Thoughts flashed through her head—here was someone, at last, with whom she could talk openly about her mother…to whom she could direct questions…from whom she could maybe get some answers…

“Well, you’re here at Wilbourne, aren’t you?” Joyce let out a hoot. “And they don’t take idiots here!” She smirked. “The occasional lefty moron, of course—you can’t get away from that in academia, of course, especially here in the Northeast—but I have no doubt you’re going to do just fine.”

Sue managed a smile.

Joyce reached into a worn Louis Vuitton bag on the floor. “Unfortunately, I can’t visit with you as long as I would like—I have to be in D.C. tonight, which means driving over to Albany and catching a flight, and I should be gone already—but I so wanted to meet you.”

“I don’t know much about my mother. I’d love to hear what you remember about her.”

Joyce had pulled out a book from her bag. She opened it to the title page and scrawled quickly on it with a pen. “Here you go,” she said, handing it to Sue. “A copy of my latest book, just for you. I wrote my cell phone number on there as well as my private e-mail address. I want you to call me night or day if you need anything, okay? Or e-mail me—I will always answer you. Anything for Mariclare’s little girl.”

“Did you know her long? And my fath—”

“Sweetie, I can’t talk now. I promise to be back up here soon to really get to know you better. Maybe in a few weeks. Then we can talk endlessly about Mariclare. My schedule is just so insane right now.” She slipped her bag over her shoulder. “But read the book in the meantime…and I’ll give you a call to set up dinner when I can get back up here.”

Sue tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Okay, move on out!” Joyce barked to her assistants, who suddenly came running into the room, scooping up boxes and suitcases. Joyce reached over to give Sue another hug. “So good to finally meet you, sweetheart.” Then she swept out of the room, leaving Sue standing there alone.

Sue glanced down at the cover of the book. There was Joyce, dressed pretty much the same as she had been tonight, with her hands on her hips. She was standing in front of a chalkboard, where the word SMEAR was written in green chalk. Across the bottom were the words How Liberals Have Perfected the Art of Libel.

In the upper left-hand corner inside a black balloon, it read, The latest from New York Times best-selling author Joyce Davenport!

She opened the book to the title page.

For Sue, I hope this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Love, Joyce.

Her cell phone number and e-mail address, as promised, were written underneath the signature.

Sue walked out, holding the book, and headed across the campus. The auditorium had emptied out, and a cold wind had blown up. There was a full moon so there was plenty of light, but it seemed weird how fast the entire campus had emptied. There were no girls milling about now. Everyone was back in their dorm rooms, unpacking and preparing for the first day of classes, and anyone who wasn’t would be shooed inside. It seemed Sue’s grandparents weren’t the only ones to set curfews. Sue walked faster, rubbing her arms to warm them up as she headed down the path to Bentley Hall.

She was lost in thoughts of her mother.

She’d always, always, felt something missing in her life. Her grandparents had loved her, but she’d never been able to feel close to them. Whenever she was at a friend’s home—even Becca Stansfield’s—she’d missed the camaraderie, the closeness she sensed between her friends and their mothers. Her friends might complain about busybody moms, they might fight with them, even call them monsters—but every time Sue listened to them complain, all she could think was, I’d give anything to have a fight with my mother.

Her eyes filled with tears, but she wiped them away.

Suddenly, she wished she’d asked Joyce Davenport in which dorm her mother had lived.

Stopping in front of Bentley Hall, however, Sue knew the answer to that question.

Her eyes flickered up to that third-floor window where she’d seen that face earlier. Where she’d thought she’d seen a face, that is—the face of a woman screaming.

That was my mother’s room.

How she knew that for certain, she couldn’t say. It was impossible to know such a thing, but she knew.

And the woman who screamed?

Had that been in her mother?

Had that been Mariclare?

The campus was suddenly very cold. Looking around her, at the deserted walkways and windows so black that seemed to blot out the light behind them, Sue felt as if she were the only one left alive at Wilbourne.

She pushed through the front door and headed for her room.