He’s never come clean about her being his wife and not a “friend.” He never mentions her at all—why would he? Why would he not? There’s zero evidence of her, no wedding ring, no photo in his office. Maybe she’s mean to him, maybe she’s boring, maybe he’s unhappy. Maybe since meeting me, he’s had moments of thinking, I should have waited. I force myself to think about her because it seems like the moral thing to do, but she’s only a fuzzy figure on the periphery. Penelope. I wonder if Henry calls her that or if he uses a nickname. I look up her staff profile on the Browick website again, imagine the possibility that she might be talking to Strane at the exact moment I’m talking to Henry. Strane, who calls and calls, who says he needs me, that this radio silence is cruel and uncalled for. Maybe my neglect is making him so lonely he has to resort to flirting with the pretty young counselor. I bet she’s easy to talk to, easier than I ever was. I imagine her sitting through his rants with a patient, unwavering smile. The perfect listener. He’d love that. My brain keeps going to the point I almost forget it’s all in my head: Strane making Penelope laugh as I make Henry laugh; Henry at home, up late in the living room, writing me an email as Penelope sits in the bedroom writing to Strane.
Yet it always comes back to this hard reality: Henry must know I would let him touch me but he never tries. That, I know, is the most meaningful detail. It negates everything else.
February 13, 2007
It’s been six weeks since I spoke to S., when he told me that people are out to get him and that one of his enemies might try to contact me. I swore my loyalty, and I’ll stick to that loyalty forever (what’s the alternative? turning on him? unthinkable), but ever since that night at his house, I haven’t been able to stomach him. I have an inbox of voicemails. He wants to take me out to dinner, he wants to know how I’m doing, he wants to see me, he wants me. I listen to a few seconds of each and then throw my phone across the room. This is the first time it’s ever really felt like he’s chasing after me. No coincidence that it comes after a confession, on his part, of bad behavior.
I can’t bring myself to write out what he did, though being evasive makes his action seem horrific. It’s not as though he killed anyone. He didn’t even really hurt anyone, though “hurt” is such a subjective thing. Think of all the thoughtless pain we inflict. A mosquito on your arm; you don’t even hesitate to smack it dead.
After class, Henry says he needs to ask me something. “I thought about emailing you,” he says, “but figured it would be better to do it in person.”
When we get to his office, he shuts the door. I watch him rub his face, take a deep breath.
“This is uncomfortable for me,” he says.
“Should I be nervous?” I ask.
“No,” he says quickly. “Or, I don’t know. It’s just, I caught wind of a rumor about your old high school, something about an English teacher being inappropriate with a student. I heard the story secondhand, don’t know any real facts, but I thought . . . well. I don’t know what to think.”
I swallow hard. “Did your friend tell you about this? The one who works there?”
He nods. “She did, yes.”
I wait through a long beat of silence, plenty of time for him to offer the truth.
“I guess I feel a little responsible,” he says, “knowing what I know.”
“But it’s none of your business.” He gives me a startled look and I add, “I mean that in a good way. You don’t need to worry about it. It’s not your problem.”
I try to smile like my throat isn’t squeezing into a fist, cutting off my air. I imagine Taylor Birch crying on a sofa, confessing to Penelope the sympathetic counselor—Mr. Strane touched me, why did he do it, why won’t he do it again—but my brain goes too far, ends up back in Strane’s office. Hissing radiator, seafoam glass.
“Look,” I say, “it’s a boarding school. Rumors like that happen all the time. If your friend hasn’t been there very long, she might not know what to take seriously and what to ignore. She’ll learn.”
“What I heard sounded pretty serious,” Henry says.
“But you said you heard it secondhand,” I say. “I know what actually happened, ok? He told me. He said he touched her leg and that’s all.”
“Oh,” Henry says, surprised. “I didn’t think—I mean, I didn’t realize—you’re still in contact with him?”
My mouth goes dry as I realize my misstep. A good victim wouldn’t still talk to her rapist. Strane and I still being in contact throws into question everything I’ve let Henry believe. “It’s complicated,” I say.
“Sure,” he says. “Of course.”
“Because what he did to me wasn’t rape rape.”
“You don’t need to explain,” he says.
We sit in silence, my eyes lowered to the floor, him gazing at me.
“You really don’t need to worry,” I say. “What happened to that girl is nothing like what happened to me.”
He says ok, that he believes me, and we let it go.
The first week of March a manila envelope arrives in the mail, addressed to me in Strane’s blocky hand. Inside, I find a three-page letter and a stapled packet of documents: a photocopy of the statement he and I signed on the day we were found out, dated May 3, 2001; handwritten notes from the meeting he and Mrs. Giles had with my parents; a poem about a mermaid and an island of stranded sailors that I vaguely remember writing; a copy of the withdrawal form with my signature at the bottom; a letter about me, Strane, and our rumored ongoing affair, addressed to Mrs. Giles, written in a hand I don’t recognize until I see the name at the bottom—Patrick Murphy, Jenny’s dad, the letter that set the whole thing in motion.
I lay all the documents across my bed, one paper after another. In the letter addressed to me, Strane writes,
Vanessa,
I’m not doing well over here. I’m not sure how to take your silence, if you’re trying to communicate something by not communicating, if you’re angry, if you want to punish me. You should know I’m punishing myself plenty already.
The harassment mess is ongoing. I’m hopeful it’ll be sorted out soon, but it might get worse before it gets better. There remains a possibility someone might contact you with the aim of using you against me. I hope I can still count on you.
Maybe I’m a fool to put this in writing. The power you hold over my life is immense. I wonder how it must feel to go about your day, masquerading as an average college girl, all the while knowing you could destroy a man with one well-placed phone call. But I still trust you. I wouldn’t send an incriminating letter if I didn’t.
Look at the documents I’ve enclosed here, the wreckage of six years ago. You were so brave then, more a warrior than a girl. You were my own Joan of Arc, refusing to give in even as the flames licked your feet. Does that bravery exist in you still? Look at these papers, evidence of how much you loved me. Do you recognize yourself?
I transcribe the letter and post it on my blog without any context or explanation other than, at the bottom of the post, in all caps: CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW IT WOULD FEEL TO HAVE THIS ARRIVE IN YOUR MAILBOX? A question posed to nobody, anybody. I rarely ever get replies to my posts, have no regular readership, but the next morning, I wake to an anonymous comment, left at 2:21 a.m.: Cut him out of your life, Vanessa. You don’t deserve this.