Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [75]
Tom furrowed his eyebrows and wrinkled his nose, as if he were about to sneeze. Then he opened his mouth and vomited all over the table.
Mr. Ferguson pushed back his chair. “Jesus Christ, son,” he sputtered.
Mrs. Ferguson ripped open a Handi Wipe and dabbed at her sweater. “Maybe he has food poisoning. We’d better get him out of here.”
Shipley was already on her feet. “I think he’s just really tired.” All Tom needed was a glass of water with some Alka-Seltzer and some sleep. It occurred to her that once she got him tucked safely into bed she could drive out to Adam’s party and spend the rest of the evening making connections with people she’d never had a chance to meet because she’d been too busy with Tom. And of course Adam would be there.
It was getting colder. Mrs. Ferguson drove them back. Adam’s party must have been a success because the Dexter quad was deserted. Even Tom’s dorm was quiet. A lone exchange student from Japan sat in the common room watching a videotaped episode of Northern Exposure. Everyone else, it seemed, was off campus. It was a good thing too, because Tom’s trip from his parents’ car to his dorm room was not a pretty sight.
Tom staggered and wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist. Despite the bib, the front of the white dress shirt his mother had brought for him to put on after the play was tie-dyed with vomit.
“I love you, Mom,” he mumbled.
“We’ll have to throw his clothes away,” Mrs. Ferguson commented as she staggered under her son’s weight.
Shipley took hold of Tom’s elbow. “Come on. Let’s get you to you room.” She reached inside Tom’s pants pocket for his key.
“Hey, stop it. That tickles!” he gasped.
Mr. Ferguson held open the door. “You get him settled. I’m just going to buy him a cola from the vending machine. And I think I’ll make a quick phone call while I’m at it.”
The room was a mess of old paint tubes, coffee cans full of dirty water, empty milk cartons, and lolling paintbrushes. Nick’s bed was still upended and the linoleum floor was tacky with spilled paint. Tom collapsed onto his bed. Shipley removed his sneakers while Mrs. Ferguson peeled off his soiled black pants.
“I’ve been to the zoo,” Tom murmured with his eyes closed.
“Now your shirt,” Shipley instructed.
“Come on,” Mrs. Ferguson coaxed. “Help us out a little, Tommy.”
They succeeded in stripping him down to his underwear and tucking him under his quilt.
“I’m glad to see he’s using the bedding I ordered,” Mrs. Ferguson said, standing back to watch her son sleep.
Mr. Ferguson pushed open the door and grimaced at the sight of the messy room. “I spoke to that professor. She said he’s just plain exhausted. Said he’s locked himself in his room all week trying to get that damned painting done.”
He stood in the doorway, unwilling to walk all the way into the room. His mouth was drawn down at the corners, and his usually neat gray hair had sprung up on one side. He looked tired and disoriented, like someone who’d been through an ordeal—a storm at sea or a car accident.
He looked at his watch and then back at Tom. “We were planning on waking up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to head back,” he went on. He shook his head and stamped his loafered foot on the linoleum floor. “I’ve got to get back to the office, dammit. I don’t know, darling,” he sighed. “What do you think? Maybe we should stick around tomorrow and check up on him.”
Mrs. Ferguson was that particular breed of Westchester mother who was not easily fazed. She’d raised two rambunctious, strapping sons and was married to a man who, on more than one occasion, drank so many martinis with his cronies at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central that he came home, passed out, and wet the bed.
“Oh, he’ll be all right.”
She went over to Tom’s desk and sorted through the discarded paintings of Eliza’s naked body parts. Frowning, she picked up the paint-smudged Polaroids of Shipley with the red Macy’s bag over her head. “I’m certainly ready to hit the hay,” she announced, placing the nude snapshots facedown on the desk.
Shipley stepped away from the