My Dark Vanessa(49)

“‘What do you want?’” Strane says. “Is that really how you want to play this?”

I drop my cigarette and grind it out even though it’s only half smoked, then immediately grope through my purse for another, waving off the divorcé when he offers me a lighter.

“Fine,” the divorcé says. “I’ll leave you alone. I can take a hint.”

On the phone, Strane asks, “Who is that? Is someone there with you?”

“It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s nobody.”

The divorcé scoffs, turns on his heel like he’s going back into the bar, then checks over his shoulder as if I’m going to stop him.

“Why did you forward me that email?” Strane asks. “What are you planning on doing?”

“I’m not planning anything,” I say. “I just wanted you to see it.”

They’re both quiet, Strane on the phone and the divorcé holding the door open, waiting for me to tell him to stay. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on when we hooked up before: black jeans, black T-shirt, black leather jacket, black combat boots—the uniform of the aging punks I always seem to end up going out with these days, men who claim to be turned on by strength but can only handle women who act like girls.

“I understand it might be tempting,” Strane says, choosing each word with care, “to join in on the hysteria going on right now. And I know it would be easy for you to depict what happened between us as . . . inappropriate or abusive or whatever other label suits your mood. There’s no doubt in my mind you’d be able to turn me into whatever you wanted . . .” He trails off, takes a breath. “But my god, Vanessa, do you really want this attached to you for the rest of your life? Because if you do this, if you come forward, it’s going to stick to you—”

“Look, I’m not going to do anything,” I say. “I’m not going to write her back, not going to tell. Ok? I’m not. I just wanted you to see what’s going on, you know, on my end. You should realize this isn’t only about you.”

Through the phone, I feel the tide pull in his direction, a sudden gathering of feeling. He lets loose a bitter laugh. “That’s what this is about?” he asks. “You needing attention and sympathy? Right now, in the midst of this shitstorm, that’s the time you decide to act wounded?”

I start to apologize, but he cuts me off.

“You’re comparing what I’m facing to you getting a couple of emails?” he asks, practically yelling. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

He reminds me that, in this situation, I have it good. Don’t I realize how much power I have? If the story of him and I came out, no one would blame me for a thing, not one fucking thing. It would all fall on him.

“I have to carry the weight of this alone,” he says. “And all I’m asking is for you not to make it worse.”

I end up crying, my forehead pressed against the brick alley wall. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sorry, you’re right, you’re right. He cries, too. Says he’s scared, that everything’s starting to feel ominous. He’s back teaching, but half the students transferred out of his classes, he was stripped of all his advisees, no one will look him in the eye. They’re waiting for a reason to get rid of him.

“I need you on my side, Vanessa,” he says. “I need you.”



I go back inside, sit at the bar, and hang my head until the divorcé touches my shoulder. I bring him home, let him see the mess, let him do whatever he wants, I don’t care. In the morning, he takes a hit off my weed while I pretend to be asleep. Even when he leaves, I don’t open my eyes, don’t move. I stay in bed until ten minutes before the start of my shift.

I don’t see the article until I’m at work, sitting behind my desk. It’s published on the front page of the Portland newspaper: “Longtime Boarding School Teacher Suspended Amid Further Allegations of Sexual Abuse.” Five girls accusing him now, it says. Taylor Birch, plus four others: two recent graduates and two current students, all minors at the time of alleged abuse.

For the rest of my shift, my body carries on working. I use muscle memory to call restaurants, confirm reservations with guests, write out directions, wish everyone a lovely evening. Across the lobby, valets push luggage carts piled high with bags, and at the front desk Inez answers the phone in her high, sweet voice, “Thank you for calling the Old Port Hotel.” Tucked away in the corner of the lobby, I am rigid and empty-headed, staring off into middle distance. The hotel owner passes by and notes how professional I look. He likes my posture, how there’s nothing but empty appeasement behind my eyes.

The article says Strane groomed the girls. Groomed. I repeat the word over and over, try to understand what it means, but all I can think of is the lovely warm feeling I’d get when he stroked my hair.





2001




“Vanessa, you must be better about showing your steps,” Mrs. Antonova says, smoothing the crumples out of my geometry homework for that week’s tutoring session. “Otherwise how will I understand how you arrived at the answer?”

I mumble something like why should it matter so long as the answers are right, and Mrs. Antonova gives me a long look over her glasses. I should know why it matters; she’s explained it many times.