A group of women had come together just inside the door. To the right of them, standing in front of the glass case that housed displays from the Classics department, were Molly Warren and Solange Levy. Two facts were immediately apparent: Solange was in deep psychological trouble, and Molly was doing what she could to help. Back in her uniform of black jeans, T-shirt and Converse high-tops, Solange was beyond wired; she was blowing out all the circuits. She was talking non-stop. As she spoke, her hands chopped the air, and her feet danced like a boxer’s. Even her black, henna-shined hair seemed charged with manic electricity. Molly listened with an expression I had seen often: capable, concerned, but with her lips tight, insulating herself against the weaknesses of the flesh that beset the rest of us.
The moment must have been one of unimaginable horror for her, but Molly Warren, as she always did, looked as if she had just stepped off the cover of Vogue. If it seemed cruel to notice her appearance, it was also inevitable. I have never known a woman to whom personal appearance mattered more. She was not a beauty – Ariel’s chiselled good looks had come from her father – but Molly took meticulous care of what she had: her skin was deep-cleansed, rehydrated, and dewy; her Diane Sawyer haircut subtly layered and highlighted; her outfits chosen with care and knowledge. Whenever she glided into her Delft-blue outer office to pick up a file or take a phone call, we patients leaned towards one another and whispered about her unerring sense of style.
That night the silk suit she was wearing was soft grey with a mauve undertone like lilacs in the mist, and her simple grey Salvatore Ferragamo pumps and bag glowed as only seven hundred dollars’ worth of calfskin can. I imagined her selecting her ensemble in the morning, holding the bag against the suit, checking the match, not knowing that by day’s end she would be wearing her perfect outfit to a vigil for her daughter.
I pulled Taylor closer. She leaned across me to peer down the hall, then up at the huge expanse of glass at the front of the library. “I’ve been here a million times,” she whispered. “But never at night. It’s different.” Suddenly, Solange caught her attention. “What’s the matter with that girl over there?”
“She was best friends with the woman who died.”
“And she’s acting up?”
“Something like that,” I said.
As we watched, Molly opened her bag, took out a prescription bottle, removed a tablet and handed it to Solange. Meek as a child, Solange took the pill and put it under her tongue. Whether it was from exhaustion, medication, or the power of suggestion, she seemed to calm down. She whispered something to Molly, then walked over and joined Ann Vogel and Rae Colby, the director of the Women’s Centre.
Molly Warren looked as alone as anyone I had ever seen. She was not a person who invited physical contact, but I had no idea how to approach her except through an embrace. Her body was stiff and unresponsive, but she didn’t step away, so I held her, staring uncomprehendingly at the announcement of a lecture on the Eleusinian Mysteries the Hellenic Society was sponsoring and wondering what in the name of God to do next.
Finally, Molly took a step back. Her words surprised me. “I had a battle with myself about coming to this. It seemed wrong to be part of an event at which Ariel’s father wasn’t welcome.”
“Someone told you that?”
“Not in so many words, but Solange hinted that Drew might find the evening uncomfortable. I’m sure her warning was intended as a kindness.” Molly made a gesture of dismissal with her hand. “None of that matters now. I’m glad I came. Joanne, have you heard the rhetoric here tonight? It’s pretty virulently anti-male.”
I shook my head. “We were late.”
“Then you haven’t heard the rumours that are swirling around.”
“No,” I said, “but I can imagine they’re ugly.”
“They are,” she said. “And they’re irresponsible. Until we have the autopsy results, no one will know whether the crime was sexually motivated. But that’s the assumption made by almost everyone who’s talked to me. Suddenly all men are suspect.” Molly raised her fingers to her temples and rubbed in a circular motion. “Joanne, I don’t know what happened to my daughter in that archive room. At the moment, I lack the courage to imagine it. But there’s one thing I do know. I will not allow Ariel’s death to become an excuse for anybody to push a political agenda.”
“Should I talk to the organizers?”
“I already have,” she said. “I hoped I’d be able to say a few words to keep the evening in perspective, but I just can’t seem to form a coherent thought. That’s why I asked the organizing committee to find you. I know I’m putting you on the spot, but you and Solange are the only friends of Ariel’s from the university that I know. You’ve seen the state Solange is in. She’s promised she won’t do anything to make matters worse, but she can’t be counted on to do much beyond that.”
“You’d like me to say something to keep the focus on Ariel,” I said.
Molly gave me the physician’s assessing look. “If I’m asking too much, tell me.”
“You’re not asking too much,” I said.
She seemed to relax. When her eye rested on Taylor, she crouched down so that she could talk to her more easily. “I didn’t mean to ignore you,” she said. “My name is Molly Warren, and…”
“And Ariel was your girl,” Taylor said softly.
Molly’s intake of breath was sharp, the reflex of a woman feeling the probe on an exposed nerve. “Yes,” she said. “Ariel was my girl.”
This time when I reached out to comfort her, she waved me off. “I’m okay,” she said. “I just want to freshen up. Is there a ladies’ room around here?”
I pointed. “Down that hall and to the left,” I said. “Would you like me to go with you?”
She shook her head. “All I need is a little time alone and I’ll be all right.”
As I watched her elegant figure disappear, I thought that it was the first time I’d heard Dr. Molly Warren give a prognosis so far off the mark. I was relieved when Rae Colby joined me.
Rae was a solid, pleasant woman who moved slowly, laughed often, and fought the good fight with a fervour undiminished by thirty years in the women’s movement. She was fond of bright colours and chunky ethnic jewellery, but that night she was in ankle-length black, her only jewellery a heavy silver labrys pendant.
She gave me a slow, sad smile. “I’ve come to ask your daughter a favour, Jo.”
“Ask,” I said. “Taylor makes up her own mind about most things.”
Rae’s broad face creased with pleasure. “A woman after my own heart,” she said. She turned to Taylor. “Here’s the drill. Everyone at the vigil is supposed to have a candle, and I need you to help me hand them out.”
“I can do that,” Taylor said.
“Good.” Rae turned back to me. “The program is pretty informal,” she said in her low, musical voice. “I thought maybe we could all just walk out there together.” She gestured towards a willowy brunette standing close to the door. “You know Kristy Stevenson.”
“We’re on the University Development Committee together,” I said.
“Then you know how proud she is of the work the library does. We’re all sick about Ariel’s death, but Kristy has a double burden. The archives are her responsibility. I think she feels a need to be part of the memorial tonight. Anyway, in her non-university life, Kristy has a trio called Womanswork.”
“I didn’t know she was a singer,” I said.
“She paid her way through university playing in a punk rock band. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? She’s so elegant.”