CHAPTER 3
Bedford University didn't so much feel like a college campus. It felt more like the downtown district of the small town of Bedford, Michigan. Residential areas of Bedford almost merged into the campus in a seamless stream. Streets of small shops and family-owned business became streets lined with buildings that exuded 16th century France; cathedral-like buildings with huge stained glass windows and spires and balconies and intricate ironwork towered above the droves of collegians scrambling back and forth between classes.
The Queen Elizabethan architecture was a pleasantry to the townies of Bedford, and many often took the long way through town just to gawk at the beautiful and eloquent campus and take pictures at the gigantic iron front gate that looked like something out of Queen Victorian eras and the bell tower and the statue of a prince on his horse in the courtyard.
The campus of the university was deserted this time of year on account of a large percentage of the student body heading home for the holidays to spend it with their parents off somewhere in the dry heat of California or the humidity of Alabama.
The rest of the student body lived in town and commuted to campus, or lived in an apartment to get the sense of living on your own without actually leaving town and having your parents just down the street.
Another tiny portion of the student body stayed on campus for the holidays.
It was a blustery mid-afternoon, still recuperating from the snowfall last night. A few flakes fell, but most of the snow was on the ground from last night. There was slight activity on campus as the denizens of the community and campus went about their respective businesses. A group of children were having a snowball fight in the courtyard.
Amidst the crowd, was a nervous looking man in a dark trench coat pacing back and forth, checking his watch every so often.
Mr. Harrison was getting worried. He heard the bell tower clanging above him.
1:30.
Clare wasn't here. She was supposed to be here at one, at the bell tower.
He paced back and forth across the cobblestone.
A bright yellow school bus bumbled past and screeched to a stop; the doors opened to spill out a dozen or so college students.
Still no Clare.
His weary face scrunched up with worry.
He checked his watch again.
1:35.
Just then, out of nowhere, something hit him. A sharp, freezing jab to his right jaw sent him stumbling and his glasses flying off his nose. He felt the freezing snow through his gloves as he touched the tender, red welt on his cheek and realized he'd been hit by a snowball. He heard the mischievous laughter from those kids having a snowball fight just a few yards away.
He went to his knees, scrabbling on all fours for his glasses.
As he fervently searched, a young man, also dressed in a trenchcoat and sporting a mane of shoulder length hair, came jogging over, picked up the glasses and handed them to the old man.
"Oh thank you," said Mr. Harrison, inspecting his glasses to make sure they weren't broken and putting them back on.
"Sorry, I should have been keeping a better watch on them," the young man said, gesturing to the pack of children still throwing snowballs.
"I should think so," Mr. Harrison said in an agitated tone, brushing the snow off his trousers and coat.
"Well, I said I was sorry," the young man said and started to head back towards the kids, when Mr. Harrison called after him.
"Excuse me!" he said loud enough to be heard.
The young man turned and Mr. Harrison approached hurriedly.
"I hate to bother you, I can see that you're busy...but I wonder if you could help me," Mr. Harrison said.
THe young man seemed to be willing.
"You see, I was supposed to meet my daughter here at one o'clock…" he checked his watch. "...and it's already half past and she's still not here,"
The young man frowned, not sure how he could help. He started to speak, but Mr. Harrison interrupted.
"Her name is Clare Harrison. Do you know her?"
The young man hesitated.
"Clare Harrison?" he said, making sure he'd heard right.
Mr. Harrison nodded.
"Uh... I think so," the young man said, straining to think.
"She lives in a sorority house, uh….it's called," Mr. Harrison tried to remember the name of the house Clare had told him over the phone. He was never crazy about fraternities and sororities and never bothered to learn the names. When Clare had wanted to be part of a sorority, he had tried hard to hide the worry and pang of dread that hit him in the gut.
He had heard the stories about what goes on in sorority and frat houses. Sex, drinking, drugs, and God knows what else.
He spit the words out slowly, trying to remember.
"Pi...Kappa Sigma?" he said unsurely.
The young man nodded.
"Oh, yeah, Pi Kappa is our sister sorority. Some of the girls are holding an event with us today, but I haven't seen Clare. The place isn't far, I'll tell you how to get there,"
Mr. Harrison's worst fears about sorority houses were confirmed as he stepped into his daughter's room.
The entire house smelled like booze. He could see empty liquor bottles pouring out of the trash cans.
Hell, even the house mother smelled like booze. It was lingering on her breath and in the way she walked and slurred her words.
She had shown him to Clare's room and stumbled up the entire staircase.
God knows what Clare has gotten into. Not only alcohol, but much worse.
Jesus, he thought to himself, as he saw the bizarre artwork on Clare's wall.
One was a horribly lewd sculpture of a nude woman posed in a bizarre stature. Another was of a collage of Polaroids of an elderly woman giving a variety of obscene gestures.
What kind of house was he sending his daughter to? He wasn't paying out the ass for her to be living in this trash heap and drinking and having all this filth soaking into her mind.
And now, she was nowhere to be found and this horrible woman, who's supposed to run this house and keep it in shape, is here acting like a drunken fool.
What else could go wrong?
Now, the two were in Clare's room, glowering down at the packed suitcase still open on the bed.
But no sign of Clare.
Mrs. Mac decided to break the silence and sound as professional as possible.
"I just don't know, Mr. Harrison. Her clothes are all packed and ready to go. I bet you'll find her over at the fraternity house. They're having a party there today for underprivileged children," Mrs. Mac explained obsequiously.
Mr. Harrison didn't reply. He stared with disapproving eyes at the lewd artwork on the wall. He then gave the same disapproving stare to Mrs. Mac. A weak smile formed on her tired face as she tried to lighten up the mood, but the stare continued.
He sighed.
"Yes, I know," he said.
He paced around the room nervously, scanning all of the bizarre paintings and sculptures and shaking his head.
"I'm very disappointed in this atmosphere," he said. "And I intend to do something about it,"
He picked up a picture frame sitting beside Clare's bed. Inside the frame, was a young well-groomed college guy. His senior portrait.
He showed it to Mrs. Mac.
"Who's this?"
Mrs. Mac awkwardly tried to cover up the nude statue with her hand.
"Uh….um, that's a friend of Clare's. A very nice young man from the town, Chris Haydn," she said.
Mr. Harrison frowned and set the picture back on the nightstand.
He faced Mrs. Mac and gave a stern stare.
"I didn't send my daughter here to be drinking and...picking up boys," he said. It was almost hard for him to hear come out of his mouth.
"Oh, Clare is a good girl, Mr. Harrison, I didn't want you to get the wrong idea about that, she is a good girl," Mrs. Mac reassured him. "I'm sure you'll find her at the fraternity house. As a matter of fact, I could show you the way, I have to go to a store near there,"
Mr. Harrison still looked at her with disdain. He stood stoically, not flinching.
"...If you wouldn't mind giving me a lift," Mrs. Mac said.
He hesitated.
"I know where it is. But I'll be glad to give you a ride," he said.
She awkwardly reached for the door and opened it, still hiding the artwork from his line of sight.
She smiled nervously.
"This is very kind of you, Mr. Harrison. I'll just get my bag,"
And with that, she left the room, leaving Mr. Harrison to see the posed nude artwork hanging on the closet door.
What a pompous ass of a man, Mrs. Mac thought to herself, staring at herself in the vanity mirror.
"I didn't send my daughter here to be drinking and picking up boys," Mrs. Mac mocked him aloud.
She snatched another hidden bottle of sherry out of the top drawer and took a long swig.
What did the old bastard expect of her? To control a 19 year old girl's sexual desires? To control her urge to live a little? She was nineteen, dammit. At that age, Maude MacHenry herself had already gone all the way and started chain smoking.
All she'd ever seen Clare do was maybe have a sip of wine and kiss the guy goodnight.
Everyone expected so much of a fifty year old woman to take care of about a dozen young horny college girls who just wanted to get drunk and get their brains fucked out of them. What could she do? What the fuck could she do?
She couldn't stop them.
"Like I'm responsible for the morals of every girl in this goddamn house," Mrs. Mac grumbled angrily, taking another drink.
"These broads….these broads would hump the Leaning Tower of Pisa if they could get up there,"
She stowed away the sherry, and started applying some lipstick.
Hell, Mr. Harrison wasn't all that bad looking for his age. Maybe she could show him a night on the town and he'd stop being such an old miserable codger of a man.
Age was nothing but a mindset. If you had an old mindset, then you'd feel old and raggedy. It was all about the mindset.
"I don't know what the bastards expect of me,"
It was what she heard every time one of the girls parents visited the sorority house. A lecture on how she should be keeping a better watch on them, and how filthy the house was.
What the hell did she expect? For her to be a housemaid too? She already had to arrange all of the events, account for each girl every night, listen to their dreadful problems, and now she was supposed to clean up after them and wipe their asses? To hell with that.
All she could do was make sure they didn't get hurt, or worse, and that was the extent of her job. SHe had no right to inflict any morals on the girls whatsoever. THeir lives were their own.
She wasn't their true mother.
She had no right to act like it.
"Disappointed in the atmosphere…" he had said.
It's a sorority house, not a goddamn church. What did he expect? It's college. It was a time when everyone gets drunk and finds out that sex is kinda overrated.
She almost felt sympathy for poor Clare, wherever that girl was. Having a father like that must be torture.
She was brought out of her thoughts by a meowww coming from the hallway.
She turned to the door.
"Claude?"
That cat had been missing since last night.
The meowing continued.
"Is that you, Claudykins?"
The meowing stopped as she stepped out into the hallway.
"Claude? Come on, Claude… here kitty kitty kitty," she tried to call him out, but the meowing had stopped and it was quiet upstairs. All the girls were at the charity event, and Mr. Harrison was downstairs waiting.
It was too quiet.
She looked towards the ladder leading towards the trapdoor to the attic.
There was no way he was up there.
"Claude, come say goodbye to Mommy!" she called.
Silence.
Then, it sounded again. A loud and almost distressed mewing.
Was it coming from the attic? It almost sounded like it was. Or possibly from downstairs? She couldn't tell.
"Is that you, Claude?" she called over the railing. As she leaned forward, the contents of her purse spilled onto the floor.
"Oh, Jesus, Claude," Mrs. Mac cursed bitterly. "Look what you made me do!"
She climbed down the stairs onto the landing where her purse contents lay scattered, and bent down to start picking them up and sorting them.
"Come on, Claude, here kitty,"
The mewing had stopped now.
"Come on, Claude, I gotta go,"
It was all quiet now. Odd, she thought, as she continued to stuff the fallen items into her purse. She could have sworn the meowing was coming from the attic. Claude couldn't climb that ladder. So who was up there meowing?
"Here , kitty!" she called again.
No response.
It had all stopped.
"Goddamnit, Claude!" she swore loudly, growing frustrated. "You little prick!"
Just as she turned to look back towards the attic, she met eyes with Mr. Harrison coming up the staircase. He'd heard the last thing she'd said.
His eyes were as big as saucers and he looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Mrs. Mac smiled sheepishly.
"This is very kind of you, Mr. Harrison,"
He swallowed hard, trying to pretend he hadn't heard the language.
"Think nothing of it," he said, and awkwardly turned to go back down the stairs.
Mrs. Mac gave him an obscene gesture and took one last look at the ladder leading to the attic.
She surely hadn't heard the mewing coming from up there. Did she? It was probably her mind playing tricks on her.
There couldn't be anything up in that old attic.
As Mrs. Mac and Mr. Harrison walked out into the snow, Clare's corpse still rocked back and forth, ever so gently, blown by the cool draft blowing in through the open window….
The sound of Wagner-esque piano mixed with the raucous and unattractive honks and squeaks from beginner trumpet players floated out the big cathedral doors of the music hall.
Jess was standing in front of the doors, transfixed on them, frozen in time and thought.
How would he react? Once she told him? And then, how would he react when she told him she'd already made the decision to get an abortion?
Angry? Sad? Happy?
There was no way to tell.
She just couldn't handle a baby right now, not while she's in school. Sure, adoption was
an option but that would be nine months of pregnancy. And then who knows how long she'd be out of school while she delivered the child and tried to find it a good home?
Abortion was the only option. Either way she'd be guilty, and she'd have to fight through it. Giving it away to some stranger wasn't much better than terminating the pregnancy.
Peter couldn't stop her either. It was her choice.
It was her body that would be put through nine months of hell. It was her body that would have to squeeze out a human being the size of a watermelon. It was her that would have to miss class and have to deal with finding it a home.
She couldn't even bear to call it 'he' or 'she'. It was just an 'it' to her. She wouldn't let herself get attached.
What if she did? What if she started having feelings for this….thing inside of her. After all, it would be an actual person after nine months. A actual human baby.
It was a potential human life. Potential was the keyword. That's what she had to keep telling herself.
It was merely a potential human life.
Not a human life.
She took a breath of cold air, and shivered, pulling her cardigan closer to her.
The music from within penetrated through the walls, seeping outside into a cacophany of sounds. Trumpets, violins, flutes, but somewhere she could hear the melancholy chords of a piano.
She thought she could even recognize it as Peter's playing.
Finally, she took another deep breath, tried to calm herself, and pushed open the heavy doors into the austere lobby of the music building.
"Room 30…" she repeated Peter's words.
She took a right down a long narrow hallway, her heels clicking on the marble floor at an off-tempo beat with the music.
The melancholy piano-playing grew louder and louder until she came to Room 30 and entered. Peter was hunched over the keys, his wavy brown hair wet with sweat.
Peter heard the door, finished playing with a flourished arpeggio and looked up at her.
There was silence between the two of them for a moment, and Jess leaned against the piano, facing away from him.
The words came out fast, but her voice was tight and contained.
It came out faster than she'd expected and she didnt even hear herself say it.
It just flowed out. Just like that.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
Silence. She didn't turn to look at him to see what his reaction was.
"What?" he asked.
"Peter, I'm pregnant," she said again. This time she heard the reverberations of her words bouncing off the concrete walls of the practice room and it sank in.
She really was pregnant.
"Jess, that's fantastic!" Peter said.
She sighed.
A pang of dread hit her hard in the stomach. It was if someone was twisting her insides around.
He actually was happy. He actually wanted it.
She tried to hide her breaking voice.
"I don't want it," she said.
There was a long pause, much longer than the others. Peter's chest was sinking behind her.
"You don't want it?"
"No," she said. Her next words were hard to say and hit the heaviest. "I'm going to have an abortion,"
She heard the bench squeak as Peter stood to his feet, his knuckle accidentally hitting a jarring note that sent chills up Jess's spine and jolted her.
"You can't make a decision like that, you haven't even asked me," Peter said, trying to control his rising anger.
He walked around the piano towards her, and she subtly angled her body away from him. She didn't want to look him in the face and see the despair….the sadness in his eyes.
It would be too much to bear.
She stayed quiet.
"Jess…" he said, moving closer. "I want us to have a baby,"
My God, Jess thought. He actually does want it. This was her worst fears coming true.
"Peter, I can't," she said softly.
"Oh, Christ, Jess," Peter huffed out almost immediately.
Jess gave no response, she just hugged her arms against her chest and tried to fight the tears.
Peter shoved away from the piano and went to sit back down.
He stopped and turned to her, after taking a moment to fight the shakes and slow his breathing.
"Don't you ever consider anyone but yourself?" he asked.
Jess sighed, still not looking at him.
"I've thought this out very carefully, and I know what I'm going to do,"
Peter's jaw tightened.
"Do you know how important this afternoon is to me?"
How could she drop a bomb like this the day of his exam? Peter thought angrily.
"Yes, I do," Jess said flatly.
"Why don't you just get outta here," Peter said, taking a seat back at the piano. WIth that, Jess finally turned to look at him with pleading eyes.
But there was nothing left to say. He hunched back down over the keys and started to play, trying to keep himself from saying something he might regret.
Jess made a beeline for the door, her heels on the marble floor were as loud as her heartbeat when Peter stopped playing and called after her.
"Jess!"
She froze.
"I want to talk to you tonight!"
She pursed her lips.
"There's nothing to discuss, Peter,"
"I think there is," he retorted firmly.
"I'm not going to change my mind!" Jess affirmed, still not bothering to look at him.
"We will see. Will you be there at 9:00?" Peter asked.
Quickly, Jess searched her mind to make sure she didn't have plans.
"Yes," she replied.
It was the least she could give him, a chance to try and talk her out of it, but she was positive that her mind was made up.
"Ok. I'll see you tonight," Peter said, and with that, Jess went out of the room as quickly as possible, the bang of the door shutting behind her stayed with her until she left the building.