There were two distinct personalities in this room. He had never seen Muriel Stark alive, had known her only as a corpse on the floor of a tenement hallway, the ceiling above her about to burst from a water leak that had swollen it to grotesque proportions. But she was here in this room as certainly as was Patricia Lowery, and the contrast between the two girls was as palpable as their possessions.
In Patricia Lowery, there seemed to be much of the child.
Full-color photographs of Robert Redford and Paul Newman covered the wall behind her bed, but at the same time — though surely she had outgrown them long ago — a collection of dolls sat like rag-and-plastic siblings on the shelves above and to either side of her dresser. The dresser top itself was neatly arranged with collections of shells, bottles, glass animals, scraps of brightly colored cloth, oddly shaped pieces of driftwood. She had stapled last year’s Christmas cards onto a strip of pink ribbon, and had hung this from the ceiling like a mobile; it twisted gently now in the faint breeze that came through the partially opened window. On another ribbon she had similarly stapled picture postcards, and these hung above the full-length mirror. The mirror was lined with photographs tucked into the lacquered white frame, pictures of girls mostly, probably classmates, one of Muriel making a face at the camera, another of her brother Andrew standing on his head and grinning.
In the desk drawers Carella found her stationery (pink with P. L. in the left-hand corner, in delicate script lettering) and an address book, and school notebooks, and an assorted collection of letters she’d been saving for years, some of them addressed to her in Bunk 11 at a camp called Bilvic in Arlington, Vermont. The postmark on the envelopes told Carella she’d been at the camp five years ago, when she was ten. The letters were all from her parents or her brother Andrew. And in those same drawers were compositions Patricia had written in the sixth grade (How to Train a Turtle was the title of one of them) and arithmetic tests from God knew how long ago (she was apparently very good in math — all of the tests were graded in the high nineties) and some poems he guessed were recent, judging from the greater sophistication of the handwriting. A look at the paperback novels on one of the shelves told him that her taste in fiction ran to Gothics, or books about nurses, or in one instance (an obvious regression), a book about a little girl and her horse. The magazines she read were Seventeen and Mad. The calendar on her side of the room was a Charlie Brown calendar, and her piggy bank was a replica of Snoopy. Her records were rock. Hard rock, acid rock, schlock rock — but strictly rock. The clothes in her dresser drawers and on her side of the closet reflected a taste that was somewhat uncertain, somewhat experimental, sometimes babyish, sometimes outrageously sexy; her clothes, in short, were the clothes of a fifteen-year-old moving uneasily toward womanhood.
Muriel Stark, at seventeen, seemed to have got there already.
Where Patricia still clung to a childhood that was slipping away — the various collections, the correspondence, the school compositions and exams, even last year’s Christmas cards — Muriel already seemed to have thought of herself as a woman. The lack of any souvenirs may have been due to the fact that she’d lost her parents in an automobile crash two years ago and had come to live in someone else’s house; presumably, you didn’t carry a trunkful of seashells with you when you were accepting someone’s hospitality. But in contrast to Patricia’s dresser top, Muriel’s was strictly utilitarian, a place for her to put her perfumes and cosmetics, her nail polishes and her jewelry. There was a good light on the dresser, and a mirror over it, and Carella assumed this was where she applied her makeup after having washed in the hall bathroom. A floral-design paperweight was on the far end of the dresser, and it rested on a sheaf of articles clipped from various magazines, each of them describing various career possibilities for women. She seemed particularly interested in becoming an airline stewardess. In addition to several articles on flying, there were two brochures from two different airlines, explaining their requirements, training programs, salaries, and opportunities. The books on her shelves ran mostly to nonfiction, and reflected an interest in a wide variety of subjects. The magazines she read were Harper’s Bazaar and Cosmopolitan, though on the top shelf of her side of the closet Carella found a copy of Penthouse — presumably an excursion into the forbidden and not part of her normal reading diet. The clothes on her side of the closet clearly expressed an already developed, sophisticated taste. Her record collection (she presumably had shared the record player with her cousin) consisted only of LPs. There were some albums by rock groups, but she seemed to have outgrown these and was moving more into original Broadway show albums and albums by female vocalists — judging from the preponderance of such material on her shelf. One album seemed to have been played countless times; the sleeve was ragged and the disc inside was worn and scratched. This was Carly Simon’s No Secrets.
In the top drawer of the dresser, buried under a pile of nylon bikini panties, Carella found a dispenser for birth-control pills. There were twenty-eight slots in the dispenser. The outside ring showed Carella that the last pill Muriel had removed was from the slot marked SAT. She had been killed on September 6, and September 6 had been a Saturday. There was one pill left in the dispenser.
In the hallway outside, Carella heard footsteps.
The door to the room next door — Andrew’s room — clicked shut. He listened. He could hear the squeak of the bedsprings in the next room as someone’s weight collapsed onto the bed. In a little while he heard someone weeping, the sound clearly penetrating the thin wall that separated the two rooms. He went into the corridor outside, and knocked on Andrew’s door.
“Mrs. Lowery?” he said.
“Yes?”
“I’ll be going now,” he said.
“All right, fine,” she said.
“Mrs. Lowery?”
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Lowery, I wouldn’t drink any more this afternoon, if I were you. It’s not going to help, Mrs. Lowery.” He listened. “Mrs. Lowery?”
“Yes?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I heard you.”
In the lobby of the building downstairs, Carella took out his notebook and was leafing through the pages when he heard an argument at curbside. A uniformed cop was yelling to the superintendent about having put out his garbage cans too early. The super maintained that the garbage trucks would be here at 6:30 the next morning, and unless he chose to get up at the crack of dawn, he had to put them out the night before. Yes, the patrolman agreed, but this isn’t the night before, this is still the afternoon before, this is still only 2:30 the afternoon before. And you’ve got these dozens of garbage cans lined up at the curb here, stinking up the neighborhood to high heaven, and that’s a violation sure as I’m standing here. The super explained that he’d been doing it this way for years now, rolling the garbage cans up from the basement at 2:30, 3:00, and he’d never had any complaints from the cop who used to have this beat. And he sure as hell hoped nobody was looking for a payoff because he wasn’t the type of man to go paying off anybody who was supposed to be doing a damn job for the city. The uniformed cop asked the super if he was insinuating that somebody was on the take, and the super said all he knew was that he was always allowed to roll his garbage cans out at 2:30, 3:00, and now all of a sudden it was a big violation. The cop told him it wasn’t such a big violation, it was in fact a small violation, but it was a violation nonetheless unless he chose to wheel those cans right back down to the basement again, where they wouldn’t stink up the whole neighborhood to high heaven. The super spit on the sidewalk, two inches in front of the cop’s polished black shoes, and then he spit again and said that was probably a violation, too. But he rolled the cans brimming with refuse back down the ramp into the basement. In the morning the Department of Sanitation would find the cans at the curb again, ready to be emptied into the big clanging garbage truck and driven to an area on the Riverhead shore, near the Cos Corner Bridge, where the garbage would be dumped for land fill. But in the meantime, it would not stink up the whole neighborhood to high heaven.