38

Diana walked into the shambles that was Lida’s living room and called her name. There was no reply. She hadn’t expected one. Lida’s car was gone, and she hadn’t been there to answer her phone.

A week’s wardrobe, at least, was heaped on the living-room chair. Two pair of pantyhose lay rumpled at the foot of the stairs. Another pair hung wanly over the side of a wicker wastebasket.

She remembered the wrath Lida had directed against pantyhose manufacturers. “You know why the damned things never fit?” she had shouted. “You know why? Because the assholes sit around the planning table and can’t bring themselves to use the word ‘crotch,’ that’s why.”

She went into Lida’s bedroom. And then, of course, she thought of Lou.

She glanced around the room. She could not imagine bringing Lou, or bringing anyone, here.

It looked as though it served as the dressing compartment for an entire chorus line. More pantyhose. Creams and perfumes and eye makeup. Shoes and boots strewn about. It was amazing that Lida appeared out of this rubble, daily, like a phoenix from the ashes.

Diana admired the clothes that Lida wore, and more, the way she wore them. Carelessly. As though they couldn’t help but look good.

She had said something of the sort to Lida once, and Lida had laughed, lapsing into the black dialect that made Diana cringe. “Oh, yes, my fine self. I like to dress my fine self in this fine way …” There had been two black students in the room at the time, and they had laughed.

Lou had called last night while Diana was in her bedroom being “sick.” At least, she thought it had been Lou.

“That guy called” was the way Eddie had phrased it.

Could it have been Allen?

No. Then Eddie would have said, “Some guy called.” That guy meant Lou, whose voice each of her children had heard.

She wished it had been Allen.

She looked at the clock. She decided she would wait for half an hour, and then, if Lida hadn’t come, she would leave a note. She took a stack of fashion magazines off the chair, put them on the floor, and settled into the seat. She would need something to read. Something to look at. Something to keep from thinking.

She picked up L’Officiel and leafed through it. No. No. No. No. None of these clothes would suit her. They were all for someone younger. Or for someone more daring. For someone like Lida.

She remembered a woman she had seen in the street. From behind, the woman had seemed a girl. The swing of her hips. The length of her hair. And then Diana had passed her, glancing back. She was embarrassed to be looking at someone dressed so foolishly. She had resolved that she would never dress that way.

But why was she thinking about clothes? Lida’s influence again. But she hadn’t gone too far. She would not, as Lida sometimes did, spend whole weekends surrounded by hand-washables, spread like scarecrows to dry. She’d gone just far enough.

She would not adorn herself as though she were entering some contest.

She put the magazine aside and prowled the room for more substantial reading. A book. She reached for the one on Lida’s night table. And her hand stopped dead.

It was Ronald Wendolyn’s book. Renaissance Stagecraft. Dear God, why did Lida have it? Did Lida already know about Allen, about New Hampshire? Had Lida arranged it? Was she going to spring from the closet, laughing, “Aha! Holding out on me, Diana!” She waited, but Lida didn’t appear.

It was a curious coincidence. That was all.

She picked it up, flipped through its pages. She found the photograph. So that was the man who had lived in Allen’s house. The man who had endowed the Wendolyn Professorship: The man who …

Strange.

She looked at the clock again. More than half an hour had elapsed. She would leave Lida a note and get home in time to make supper for the boys.

She went to Lida’s desk. She pulled open the drawer, looking for paper. She smiled.

There was Lida’s list. The tally she had drawn up of all the men she’d slept with. It had been crumpled, she noticed, and then smoothed out again. She thought of Lida’s anguish over Jerry and unfolded it, pressing it open with the side of her hand. It was a good sign, probably, that Lida hadn’t thrown it away.

She looked at the last name.

But the last name wasn’t Jerry’s. The last name was Duvivier. And then a line had been drawn through that name, and the name Ronald Wendolyn printed alongside.

Impossible. Ronald Wendolyn was dead. Allen had said so. Diana could close her eyes and hear Allen’s voice saying so. “Very dead.”

She folded the list, feeling crazy. It was all a joke, wasn’t it? It was some sinister joke that Lida was playing. It was Lida’s way of getting even with her for cutting short last night’s conversation. Or Allen’s way of laughing at her. Lida and Allen’s way of laughing at her.

She took the list up again, looking for Allen’s name. Not there. God, she was crazy. She put the list in her purse.

She called her children. No answer.

She called the college. The secretary was just leaving, she said. But yes, Lida had called. Lida was ill, didn’t Diana know? She had canceled all her classes tomorrow. Flu or something. You’re welcome.

Flu? Lida never had flu. She never took the flu shots that the college offered and she never got the flu. Diana saw the diary then and opened it without any of her customary soul-searching.

Monday’s entry in felt-tip pen: “Diana to NH.”

Then, in another ink: “Duvivier! In person! In bed! Blitzed Bill. Diana blitzed me. Blitzed J and was Sempled. Just did call S&J. And Duvivier (wonderful liar!) is Ronald Wendolyn (can’t deny it, picture and all)! He (not he, but He) comes tomorrow. All this and Herod too.”

Diana puzzled over this entry. Had Lida met Duvivier? Surely she would have known if Lida had. She read the thing again. If Lida had met Duvivier while she, Diana, was in New Hampshire, she could not have known. Such was obviously the case.

What had Lida done to Bill? No time to wonder. J must be Jerry. She couldn’t fathom S&J. Nor Herod. But the fact that Duvivier was Ronald Wendolyn—what else could that entry mean?—made her shudder. Because Ronald Wendolyn was a murderer. And Ronald Wendolyn was dead.

She picked up the telephone and asked for the New Hampshire area code.