The girl in the poster is Ginny… I don't look like her so I am not Ginny.
She walked out of the bathroom and picked up her purse, checking for keys before she left. They were not in her bag. Her glance swept around the room, lingering over tables, until she saw them on the cocktail table in front of the sofa. She crossed the room and picked them up, her eyes going to the poster.
I'll take it down right now, she thought. Take it down and rip it up and toss it in the garbage on my way out. She stepped behind the table and reached awkwardly to the wall her knees colliding with the front of the sofa. But she couldn't do it. The poster belonged to Ginny; she couldn't destroy it.
I'll roll it up and put it away.
She kicked off her shoes and stood in the billowing cushions, losing her balance a little as the spongy softness gave with her weight. She steadied herself, palms flat against the wall, and dug her thumb and forefinger under the tack that Leo had replaced the night before.
It was another example of his neat thoroughness. The tack was deep in the wall, its head flat against the plaster. Brenda worked her nails under it, trying to dislodge his efficient repair work.
The neatly filed oval of her thumbnail split and broke off.
"Damn!" she cried out in annoyance, inspecting the damage. There was no saving the nail; it had broken off close to the quick. She peeled the rest of it away, wincing as it cut too close to the flesh. Well that ruined her manicure, she thought irritably. Oh, to hell with the poster! She'd take it down some other time. She did not feel like fooling with a knife or a screw driver now, and risk doing something to the wall that would scatter plaster dust over her clothes. Save it for some other time. She jumped down from the sofa and put on her shoes. There was a thin line of blood on her thumb from the torn nail and she put it in her mouth for a moment, then put her keys in her purse and left the apartment.
The mailman had come. The row of crumbling, corroded boxes threatened to come loose from the cracked plaster and clatter to the tiled floor. Brenda saw a cluster of envelopes in her slot and fished for the key she had just put away. Just below the lock was a fresh white slip of paper with her own name on it. She had affixed it immediately, the first day she had lived in the building, after reading about mail thefts in New York. Sometimes her parents sent her a check and she did not want them left stuck in the wall or tossed on the table in front of the row of boxes.
The sight of her name was reassuring and she looked at it a moment, then opened the box and took out the mail.
A letter from Jim, one from her mother, an announcement of an old girl friend's wedding in a thick creamy envelope. Miss Brenda Taylor… Miss Brenda Taylor… Miss Brenda Taylor.
Then she saw the others. Phone, gas and electric. Miss Virginia Walters.
She dropped them and stepped back, her body stiff and poised in fear, and stared at the fan of envelopes at her feet as she would stare, transfixed, at a roach.
A football behind her made her whirl around. It was Harl on the stairs. The intimate grin on his face froze in perplexity.
"Hi. What's the matter?" he asked, frowning. He looked from her fear-widened eyes to the letters on the floor.
"Your bills can't be that high," he said with a short laugh. "You haven't lived here long enough."
Her voice shook as she answered him. "They're not my bills, they're – they're hers! Ginny's! They were in my mailbox… But she's gone, hasn't she?" Her voice scaled up into a wail of terror. Had blinked in surprise, then, seeming to catch on, he spread his hands in amused resignation.
"So she left you with 'em, hmm? Christ, I can imagine how big the phone bill is. She was probably calling Biafra."
He stooped down to pick up the envelopes and turned them over, looking at the backs for a moment, then up to her face, his frown appearing once more.
"But you haven't even opened them," he said.
She backed away from him. "No, I won't open them! They're not mine, I'm not Ginny! Why should I open her mail? I'm not Ginny!"
Harl sprang up, surveying her twisted features with a mixture of bafflement and humor…
"Take it easy, take it easy. Shh… Somebody'll think I'm a mugger or something. Look, open the damn things before you start screaming fraud, will you? Come on," he urged, handing them to her. "We'll keep it nice and legal. They were in your box so you open them."
He was laughing at her!
"I won't touch them! I told you they weren't mine!"
"What the hell is the matter with you? Come on, baby. Okay, I'll open them for you, don't go into orbit."
His long hard fingers slit the flats and took out the computerized cards. She watched his eyes flicker expertly to the place where the totals were recorded.
"Well, I'll be damned, it's hardly anything at all. See? All your worries for nothing. Only one LD, and that only to Philadelphia. A buck-sixty." He shrugged. "The others aren't much. Ginny never cooked and she burned up more candles than light bulbs."
He shoved the bills at her.
"Pay 'em, it's simpler that way. Take my word for it. Once you start writing letters to the company things get in an awful snarl."
"I won't touch them," she mumbled. "If I pay her bills I'll be… her! I'll be Ginny… Ginny."
"What do you mean you'll be Ginny?" He frowned at her a moment, his eyes appraising. Then he lowered his voice after a quick look behind him.
"Are you turned on?"
She met his eyes and shook her head dumbly.
"I don't take pot. I'm not like her. I know she did, but I don't. I don't do any of the things she did because I'm me."
"That makes a nice testimonial," he said dryly.
"Sounds like show-and-tell at the camp meeting. What are you so uptight about, baby? You weren't this way when I last saw you."
His voice turned suggestive and he stepped closer to her. For a moment she hated him because he had witnessed her stark fear just now over the mail. She had been able to hide it before, but now the haunting spirit of Ginny was closing in, and her nerves were beginning to crack.
She gripped the bills in her fist and stepped back against the wall as Harl drew closer.
"You called me Ginny that first time," she said in a quivering voice. "You started it. That day you came in… You called me Ginny in the hallway and later on, when we were…"
"Oh, for God's sake. Can't you be cool about it? I thought you were a swinging chick, now you're making noises like the girl next door." He chuckled and made a casual move. "Which you practically are, I suppose, but… Come on, baby, let's take it from the top again. I've missed you."
He put his hand on her arm. She looked down at the long sun-browned fingers and remembered them plowing into her body that day. She hesitated a moment, then drew back.
"I want to find her," she whispered. "I've got to. I want to write to her… something." Her voice sounded far off; for a moment the light-headed feeling returned, until she felt part of herself floating away and observing the scene in the lobby, as if she had suddenly become some kind of twin.
Twins… Gemini. And now it was spring, her birthday time. Leo's sharp, watchful face rose in her mind as she stared at Harl.
"Tell me," she said urgently. "Tell me the names of some of her friends. You must know who they were! You were one of them, you have to know who the others were."
His eyes narrowed appraisingly and she saw his mouth quirk at the corners.
"You just have to step out on the street," he said with a shrug. "You're bound to meet one of Ginny's crowd. The law of averages…" He trailed off, then smiled brightly. She was too upset to see the mischief in his expression.
"Why don't you ask Sonya at the dog shop? She was probably Ginny's best friend. Yeah… I almost forgot about Sonya. They were real close."