The Secret History - Donna Tartt [132]
The librarian—a despicable woman named Peggy—was behind the desk reading a copy of Women’s Day, and didn’t look up. The Xerox machine hummed quietly in the corner. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and went around behind the foreign language section to the reading room. It was empty, just as I’d thought, but at one of the tables near the front there was an eloquent little nest of books, wadded paper, and greasy potato-chip bags.
I went over for a closer look. It had the air of fairly recent abandonment; there was a can of grape soda, three-quarters drunk, still sweating and cool to the touch. For a moment I wondered what to do—perhaps he’d only gone to the bathroom, perhaps he’d be back any second—and was about to leave when I saw the note.
Lying on top of a volume of the World Book Encyclopedia, a grubby piece of lined paper was folded in half, with “Marion” written on the outer edge in Bunny’s tiny, crabbed hand. I opened it and read it quickly:
old Gal
Bored stiff. Walked down to the
party to get a brewski. See ya later.
B
I refolded the note and sat down hard on the arm of Bunny’s chair. Bunny went on his walks, when he went, around one in the afternoon. It was now three. He was at the Jennings party. They’d missed him.
I went down the back steps and out the basement door, then over to Commons—its red brick facade flat as a stage backdrop against the empty sky—and called Henry from the pay phone. No answer. No answer at the twins’, either.
Commons was deserted except for a couple of haggard old janitors and the red-wigged lady who sat at the switchboard and knitted all weekend, paying no attention to the incoming calls. As usual, the lights were blinking frantically and she had her back to them, as oblivious as that ill-omened wireless operator on the Californian the night the Titanic went down. I walked past her down the hall to the vending machines, where I got a cup of watery instant coffee before going down to try the phone again. Still no answer.
I hung up and wandered back to the deserted common room, with a copy of an alumni magazine I’d found in the post office tucked under my arm, and sat in a chair by the window to drink my coffee.
Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. The alumni magazine was depressing. Hampden graduates never seemed to do anything after they got out of school but start little ceramics shops in Nantucket or join ashrams in Nepal. I tossed it aside and stared blankly out the window. The light outside was very strange. Something about it intensified the green of the lawn so all that vast expanse seemed unnatural, luminous somehow, and not quite of this world. An American flag, stark and lonely against the violet sky, whipped back and forth on the brass flagpole.
I sat and stared at it for a minute and then, suddenly, unable to bear it a moment longer, I put on my coat and started out towards the ravine.
The woods were deathly still, more forbidding than I had ever seen them—green and black and stagnant, dark with the smells of mud and rot. There was no wind; not a bird sang, not a leaf stirred. The dogwood blossoms were poised, white and surreal and still against the darkening sky, the heavy air.
I began to hurry, twigs cracking beneath my feet and my own hoarse breath loud in my ears, and before long the path emerged into the clearing. I stood there, half-panting, and it was a moment or so before I realized that nobody was there.
The ravine lay to the left—raw, treacherous, a deep plunge to the rocks below. Careful not to get too near the edge, I walked to the side for a closer look. Everything was absolutely still. I turned again, towards the woods from which I had just come.
Then, to my immense surprise, there was a soft rustle and Charles’s head rose up out of nowhere. “Hi!” he called, in a glad whisper. “What in the world—?”
“Shut up,” said an abrupt voice, and a moment later