The Wood of Suicides Read online

  It was a relief to come back to my own beauty, after all this. My beauty was youthful and delicate, and didn’t need to be laden with costume jewelry, of the kind that Amanda favored. In fact, my only adornment was a pair of peridot studs, which I had worn ever since my mother took me to have my ears pierced as a sniveling six-year-old. As soon as I was old enough, my mother had also taken me cosmetics shopping, telling me that I was what Mary Spillane would call “an Autumn type with hazel eyes.” I still owned the selection of lipsticks that she’d chosen for me, in warm colors with boring names—cinnamon, burnt sienna, terracotta. I didn’t wear them as they were, but typically blotted my lips after applying them, leaving only a trace of the original color, and escaping the attention of even Mrs. Faherty—one of those deputy types who spoke at assemblies and whose sole responsibility seemed to be upbraiding girls on their dress and comportment.

  I was hopeless when it came to arranging my hair, never able to master the intricate braids and twists I saw other girls wearing. Nothing was more charming, however, than the loose, Pre-Raphaelite curls that fell to the middle of my back and needed no arranging. Having seen the way that Steadman looked at me, that day under the willows as Marcelle toyed with my hair, I knew that these curls were among my greatest assets.

  IN THE last week of every month, we were given the choice to take a day trip to San Rafael. These trips began at ten A.M. sharp, when we were expected to have congregated in the main parking lot before a convoy of school buses rolled up. What was meant to be only a thirty-minute bus ride, out of sheer disorganization, always ended up taking longer. In my year at Saint Cecilia’s, I only ever took advantage of three of those day trips. The first of these was in September, my first month at the school.

  We sat toward the back of the bus: Amanda and Marcelle together; me in the seat behind next to Karen Harmsworth, who spent the whole journey leaning across the aisle and talking to the Smith twins. Homecoming was a week away and the girls still needed to put the final touches on their outfits. As for me, having submitted to their offer to find me a date—the seriousness of which I didn’t realize until it was too late for me to back out—I had yet to find a dress.

  Who my date would be was still a subject of discussion. Leaning over the back of their seat, Amanda and Marcelle chattered away about my options. “The only guy left on the rowing team is Scott Maccoby, and he’s, well . . . a bit of a sleaze.”

  Marcelle snorted with laughter: “You would know!”

  “Marcelle, shh. It was only that one time and . . . I told you, Marcy, shut it . . . It was nothing, really. Okay.” Amanda rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. “It was a hand-job. But that’s it, I swear. It’s not like I slept with him.”

  I lowered my eyes and nodded primly, waiting for her to go on.

  “He’s not really my type, but you might like him. And he’s friends with Seamus.”

  “And Flynn.”

  “And Flynn. So if you go with him, we can all sit together. You can always ditch him when we’re there if you think he’s too much of a sleaze.”

  All this sounded pragmatic enough, if distasteful. I nodded again. “Fine.”

  “But I want her to go with Larry!” Marcelle protested. “Laurel and Lawrence would be so cute!”

  “Laurel and Lawrence. Oh my God, that is cute.” Amanda deliberated. “But he’s not friends with the rowing guys, and they’ll all be at the same table. If only we’d asked earlier, we could have set her up with Xavier. Now he’s taking Therese . . .”

  By the time we arrived in San Rafael, my pairing with the illustrious Scott Maccoby seemed to have been decided. We alighted from the bus and, after a quarter hour of being instructed on how to comport ourselves, were released until five o’clock—at which point, we were to meet back in front of city hall. How we would pass six hours in that place was beyond me and, by midday, I was already sick to death of the rows of colorful, cheaply made dresses that Marcelle and Amanda suggested to me. When, after another hour of fiddling with shoulder straps and inhaling the close, conditioned air of fitting rooms, Marcelle began to whine outside my curtains about hunger pangs, I decided to abandon the project altogether. My funeral dress would suffice; there was no need to go to further lengths for Trinity boys. I exited the fitting room, coolly handing my rejections over to the pencil-browed salesgirl, who gave me a withering simper. “Nothing to your liking?” As I left the store, flanked by noisy blondes, her eyes burned into my back.

  “Pizza?” Amanda queried Marcelle, when we emerged into the sunlight and exhaust.

  “Pizza!” Marcelle confirmed. My opinion didn’t matter; they seldom saw me eating.

  All through the afternoon, Marcelle was belching, her breath revolting with the smell of second-hand garlic and pepperoni. I had put away two diet colas, ice included, and a half-pitcher of water while watching them consume their lunches—a slow, unsavory spectacle of threaded cheese, swapped slices, finger-licking, and sex-talk—and, as a consequence, was constantly needing the bathroom. On my third or fourth excursion, Amanda let out a massive groan of impatience. I paid no heed; I was lightheaded from too much walking and not enough to eat. Returning from the white fluorescence of the ladies’ room, I was momentarily disoriented by the dimness inside the arcade. It took me several blinks to see that my friends had deserted me.

  I sighed. Though my pride was wounded, the wound was dulled by my fundamental indifference to the matter. There was a bookstore across the way where I could pass what remained of the afternoon.

  AT FIVE P.M., laden with shopping bags, Marcelle and Amanda blustered up to the steps of city hall, where I sat with my nose in a book. “Laurel! Where were you? We were looking all over!”

  “We had to keep shopping without you. We didn’t know where you went.”

  “Ditching us! So rude. Look, Mandy got new shoes that make her look like a dominatrix. What did you buy. . . ?”

  Alas, it wasn’t fine literature that I was reading, but something far cruder: a three-hundred-page volume called The Conclusive Book of Body Language. On the cover were two smiling chumps—psychologists who were also married—in exaggerated poses: he with his arms crossed, she with her hands on her hips. In bright red lettering, they advertised: “Get What You Want Through Non-verbal Communication.” Amanda cooed when she saw it. “Oh, I love psychology books!”

  I was still reading it on the bus ride home, in bed that evening, and over the spillages of lunch hour the following week. By far the most frequented section was one titled “Seven Signs that She has Sex on her Mind,” which Marcelle and Amanda read aloud over my shoulder on Monday afternoon.

  “ ‘ Number one: preening the hair. Preening in front of a man is a way for the woman to show that she cares how he perceives her. By flicking her hair back, the woman also disperses pheromones, which we all know are nature’s most effective perfume.’ How do I smell, Mandy?” Marcelle flicked her hair and thrust her neck in Amanda’s face.

  “Like B.O. Go away.”

  “ ‘ Number two: licking and pouting the lips. By licking and pouting her lips, the woman makes them appear fuller and wetter, signaling the ready state of her genitals . . .’ Oh, yuck! Listen: ‘Lipstick in bright red shades is an easy way for the woman to suggest her own flushed, engorged labia . . .’ ”

  “Marcelle, oh, Marcelle!” Amanda snaked her tongue over her lips salaciously.

  “ ‘Number three: the limp wrist. Drawing attention to her weak, slender wrists allows the woman to arouse feelings of dominance and protectiveness in nearby males . . .’ ”

  “Well, that’s just stupid. You look like a queer.”

  “ ‘Number four: crossing and recrossing the legs. The woman who crosses and recrosses her legs in front of a man does so to draw his attention to that part of her body . . .’ blah blah blah. ‘Number five: swaying the hips . . .’ ”

  “Boring. Next.”

  “ ‘Number six: self-touching.’ This is a good one! ‘When in the company of a man she
likes, the woman may call attention to the most sensitive areas of her body, such as her neck, her thighs, and her earlobes . . .’ ”

  “They forgot the clit.”

  “Mandy! ‘. . . Touching these areas lets her show him what he’s missing out on, while also acting as a socially acceptable form of self-gratification. Number seven: touching a phallical object . . .’ ”

  By this point, Marcelle was so crippled by laughter that she was unable to go on.

  I took to consulting that list mentally during his classes, asking myself whether I was doing everything I could to capture his attention. Could he see my wrists? Were my lips wet and plump? Was I touching the sensitive skin of my body or, better still, a phallical object? I had, often enough, caught myself performing these gestures, along with other positive signals—steady eye contact, arched back, body angled toward his—without thinking. Once brought to my awareness, however, I had them down to a science, even adding flourishes of my own.

  I occasionally committed the faux pas of wearing a black brassiere beneath my white blouse or of fiddling with my collar and buttons, in a manner reminiscent of undressing. One day, when he came and did his crouching trick by my desk, I made a point of tossing my hair from my throat, tugging at my collar and rubbing the nape of my neck, my clavicle and, beneath my shirt, my shoulder blades, as he spoke to me in smooth, murmured tones. Another time, when I noticed that he was calling girls up to his desk to discuss their essay results in private, I covertly undid an extra button of my blouse so that he could see my bra when I bent over. I’ll never forget the juxtaposition between his large, hairy hand and my elongated white one over my A-grade assignment; the way that his dark eyes skimmed over my small bust as lightly as they did my face; the way he told me that my paper was meticulous and well-researched, though could have benefited from some more specific examples. “Have you read any Milton?” he asked me irrelevantly before I went back to my desk.

  It was evident that he saw me, from the way that his eyes were occasionally drawn to my swinging legs or paused often and for a longer time on my face; even that he saw me as a nice-looking girl. His gaze did not betray anything further, however; no inappropriate feelings, no bubbling, uncontrollable lust. It wasn’t the gaze of a felon, on the brink of committing statutory rape. At most, it was an aesthetician’s glance, with just the hint of something fatherly that was also an extension of his profession—a desire to protect, perhaps, to edify and see succeed one of his most gifted and sensitive students. It was a glance that I thought I’d seen before.

  ON WEDNESDAYS, we continued to see the rowers from the classroom window. I wasn’t at all interested in them, but it amused me to gauge Steadman’s reaction to the weekly disruption. Every Wednesday, there were jokes about forgotten binoculars and pleas for him to let us take the lesson outdoors. Mr. Steadman would fold his arms and affect weariness, before resorting to terse humor, even threats.

  “Careful, girls, or I might have to have a talk with the rowing instructor about their training hours.”

  Or: “Marcelle, if you don’t stop gawking soon, I’m going to have to draw the curtains. And that will make the room dark. And stuffy. And no fun for anyone.”

  He said this with a sly, gruff, tiger-glance my way—challenging me, perhaps, to find a better specimen than himself among that group of boys. If that was his game, I played along, smiling past Marcelle’s shoulder with my chin in my hands. I gazed out only for as long as it took his own gaze to settle on me. Then my narrow eyes darted back to him and my lips tightened into a subtle yet knowing smile.

  That I could come out with stuff like that despite my shyness and inexperience, was a testament to how well-versed I had become in the arts of seduction. Still, there were times when I forgot myself; times when, walking alone in the hallways, I lost face completely at the sight of him. I would purse my lips instead of licking and pouting them. Instead of swinging my hips, I would tug at my kilt and attempt to pass him by as quickly as possible. I could never be sure whether I turned his head or not, at such moments. Nevertheless, I had faith in the lure of my long legs, the grace of my gracelessness.

  I was convinced that I was on the right track; that I had done nothing so far to repel him. All the same, I knew that more needed to be done to set myself apart from the crowd and make a lasting impression. I considered and discarded a number of ideas, before hitting upon a plan of genius. Remembering how I had arrived late to his first lesson, and how he had stared at me so openly when I walked through the door, I was inspired to restage the scene. I wouldn’t have to miss too much of his class, I assured myself: only enough to ensure that I entered the room alone and that he would be compelled to look my way.

  The first time that I tried this, it was a great success. I had loitered in the restroom for some minutes after second bell, making myself pretty, before setting off at a leisurely pace for English class. As predicted, everyone turned the heads when I entered the room, including Mr. Steadman. I met his eye and read his relief, barely restrained and bordering on jubilation.

  I repeated the act the next day, and the day following that. By the third time, I could see that he was suspicious; that he had come to expect the performance, without knowing exactly what it was about. Even Marcelle and Amanda had noticed that something was up, wanting to know why I was late for English and nothing else. He said nothing about his suspicions, however; only raised his dark brows and smirked, as if daring me to come later the next day. Lesson after lesson, I did just that.

  It was only after it had been going on for more than a week and his smug looks had prompted me to arrive a full fifteen minutes late, that I knew the game was up. He didn’t turn his head when I entered the room; merely carried on intoning, moving his hands emphatically, before assigning some pages of reading to the class. I had barely begun on the first paragraph when he called me to the desk, under the surveillance of eleven open textbooks, eleven lowered heads.

  Mr. Steadman was sitting back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head and legs in the figure-four position that The Conclusive Book of Body Language had taught me was a crotch-display. His dark eyes were twinkling. Though he didn’t smile, he seemed on the verge of doing so. I was looking down at my oxfords, one arm slung across my body to clutch the other, when he spoke.

  “You are obviously very intelligent, but that doesn’t mean you can get away with missing out on class time. It isn’t fair to the other students. Or to me.”

  He was smiling by then. The whole thing was a joke to him, as it was to me. Why didn’t he extend the joke, give me a detention? It was within his rights; nay, it was his duty! Instead, he merely extended his hand, reached for my wrist unexpectedly. He circled its frailty with ease between his thumb and forefinger, while drawing up the sleeve of my gray knit with his three remaining digits. Without explanation, he turned my knobby wrist around in his fingers, exposing its pale underbelly. We both stared down for a moment. Another moment . . . my heart suspended in time.

  “You should wear a watch,” he said.

  And at that, he let me go.

  I HAD been dreading the dance at Trinity since our day trip to San Rafael. Soon enough, it was upon us. Leaving him on the lawn that Friday afternoon, I couldn’t have been farther from where I wanted to be.

  The next day was a flurry of preparations for everyone but me. I hadn’t made an appointment at the salon, as my friends had. Instead, I spent the afternoon in my arbor, reading Paradise Lost and deluding myself that I felt nothing of the October chill, creeping over my bare limbs. An hour before the dance, I put on my flapperish funeral dress, a light layer of cosmetics, and some black high heels. These raised me two whole inches above my usual five foot eight. I arrived at Amanda’s dorm room with thirty minutes to spare. Her face fell when she saw me. “Laurel! But, Laurel, you’re hardly dressed!”

  She ushered me into her bedroom in a confusion of perfume and costume jewelry. Her face was made and her hair high, but she was only wearing a skimpy r
obe. I could see the flesh-colored bra cupping her breasts, which were the size and shape of ripe mangoes. “Where’s Marcelle?” I asked, for something to say.

  “Marcy? Who knows. Probably still doing her makeup. Quick, sit down. Let’s see what I can do with you.”

  I averted my eyes as she leaned over me, breasts joggling, piling further creams and powders onto my modest efforts and making conversation like a hairdresser. Within a quarter of an hour, my face had a snide, provocative look and my hair was as high as her own. She held alternate pairs of earrings up to my face and asked, “Which ones?” I plumped for the plainer.

  In a few minutes, Marcelle was scrabbling outside the door like a stray cat. “Merde. Laurel, can you let Marcy in?” Amanda said, shedding her robe and reaching, fully fleshed, for the orangey-red, gold-brocaded gown that hung outside her wardrobe.

  “Laurel! You look like a model!” Marcelle herself was wearing turquoise. With all her cosmetics, she looked as disarmingly overdone as a child beauty queen.

  “Marcy! So. Hot.” Amanda smooched her lips from across the room. She was still struggling with her dress. “Merde, I forgot how hard this is to do up. Oh, double merde, these shoes are already pinching. . . !”

  THE TRINITY boys proved, predictably, to be an abhorrent bunch. Seamus Head, who took Amanda’s arm walking into the ballroom, was a tall, well-fleshed Alpha male with militantly cropped hair—her obvious mate, and as unappealing to me as a mountain gorilla. Flynn Radley, Marcelle’s date, was arguably even worse, with the shaggy red hair and low nasal bridge of a Neanderthal, and eyes somewhere to the side of his head. I could only imagine what odd-looking children they would have had. I was still marveling over the poor taste of my friends when my own prince showed up at my elbow, leering at me with moist, hazel eyes.

  “You must be Laurel Marks.”

  His was a Southern Californian drawl. He had too many muscles and was at least two inches shorter than I would’ve been without my high heels. He had a boy’s haircut and swollen cheeks; his upper lip, however, was faintly but darkly mustachioed. I wondered if he had grown the thing for the occasion.