sorry,” the operator said after putting me on hold for half a minute, “Miss Powell
is no longer attending Bryn Mawr. She’s withdrawn from the school.”
“But she was just there a few weeks ago.”
“That’s all the information I have. Her number has been disconnected.”
I wondered if I should call information in Delaware. If the Powells lived in Delaware,
they probably lived in Wilmington. Maybe Dover. Those were the only cities in Delaware
I knew. But Powell was a common name and if Mr. Powell was as wealthy as Mr. Andrews
said, he would have an unlisted number.
I thought of calling CPA Properties.
Hello, can I speak to the owner? To the owner’s daughter?
In the end, once again, I did nothing.
6
.
T
HE WATER HAD BEEN SHUT OFF AT LAST. THE DOOR HAD BEEN flung open. She had come out of the powder room without looking at me and gone along
the line of bookshelves, heading back into the heart of the party.
“Kendrick?”
I ran to head her off. Sprinted. She put her hand out for the door handle and I got
there first.
“Get out of my way,” she said. Her green eyes were not as glazed as before. They did
not seem to be normal, but it was hard to tell what was going on behind them because
they were looking right through me.
I tried to get her to focus on me, dipping my head to get on eye level with her. “You
okay?” I asked.
“What do you think?”
What did I think? The theme of the evening. The thing to which I keep coming back,
even now.
“I think you probably had a little too much to drink.”
“Fuck you,” said Kendrick Powell, defying me to say anything more.
Her skin was somehow pale beneath her tan. Her hair was slightly wet, but all the
signs of sickness had been removed, along with all traces of eyeliner and lipstick.
She still looked beautiful, but dangerous,like a jungle cat that could strike out at any time. I wanted to put my hand on her
bare arm, tell her everything was going to be all right. But it seemed like such an
inappropriate thing to do, to touch her after she had been touched so much.
I got out of her way.
She walked straight out of the library, past Mrs. Martin, who was waiting on the other
side of the door with not one but two friends, both older women wearing pale greens
and pinks and giant diamonds on their left hands. Was Kendrick’s head held high or
was she hanging it in shame? Why do I think now that she was doing both? She took
three, maybe four, steps and then her foot slipped, her ankle rolled, and I realized
she was barefoot.
Mrs. Martin and her friends went from staring at Kendrick to looking at me in horror.
What had I done to the poor girl? Kept her in a closed room with her shoes off? Sent
her stumbling out in a stripped-down, almost disheveled, state, trying to be brave,
trying not to reveal her abject level of humiliation? Oh, young man, how could you?
I thought to run back into the library to get the shoes. They were little more than
sandals, really. Small heels, thin straps, probably didn’t weigh a pound between then.
How do I know what they weighed? I never picked them up. I didn’t pick them up before
Mrs. Martin gaped disbelievingly at me, and I didn’t pick them up afterward. I followed
Kendrick instead, followed her through the sea of people in yellow sport coats and
blue blazers and Lilly Pulitzer dresses with patterns of shells that looked like flowers
and flowers that looked like shells, followed her all the way to the front door. Where
was McFetridge? Where were the Gregory boys? Didn’t Kendrick know anybody at the party?
Why was I the only one standing under the portico with her, waiting for her car?
She hadn’t even called for it. She just appeared, stood there barefoot, her arms at
her sides, and one of the smiling young black men in white jackets went and got it
for her.
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” I said.
“Fuck off,” she said.
Fuck off, fuck you
,