“I had no idea this place was even here,” Livia said. She moved closer so she could see the poem inscribed on the bronze. “ ‘The Road Not Taken,’ ” she said. “I haven’t thought of Robert Frost in a hundred years.”
“Most of us leave him behind after freshman English,” I agreed, “but I still like him.”
She came over and took a place at the other end of the bench, as far away as possible from me. “I assume you want to talk about the march tonight,” she said.
“Among other things,” I said. “Livia, do you have any idea who wrote that open letter?”
“ ‘To All Who Seek Justice’? I’ve come up with some possibilities. Nothing definite.”
“I thought at first it might have been Ann Vogel,” I said, “but she was a student of mine. I’m familiar with her writing. Even with the spell-checker and grammar check, she couldn’t have managed this. The constructions are too sophisticated.”
“I would have said Solange. She’s the one who travels in the really radical feminist circles. The women she knows wouldn’t stick at publishing an autopsy photo.” Livia ran a hand through her hair distractedly. “Why does it matter?”
“Because that letter is an incitement to mob action, and mobs are unpredictable and dangerous. This march would be a lousy idea even if Charlie Dowhanuik were guilty, and I don’t believe that he is.”
“Do you know something the rest of us don’t?”
“Just that Ariel had another close relationship that was causing her concern.”
Livia gnawed her lip. “Solange,” she said finally. “We should have been more careful.”
“ Who should have been more careful?”
“Those of us on the committee that appointed her.” Livia’s face was etched with regret. “Her references were… questionable.”
“The files for the short-listed candidates were circulated. I read them all. Solange’s letters of reference were glowing. Ariel’s letters were the ones that seemed doubtful. All her referees were positive, but, as I recall, at least two of them expressed reservations about her commitment to academic life. They picked up on the same ambivalence the committee sensed in her interview.”
“There were other considerations,” Livia said crisply. “I phoned all the referees, pressed them to give me more detailed profiles than a letter would permit. The people with whom Ariel had studied spoke so eloquently about her potential that I knew we had to have her.”
“Even if she wasn’t certain this was where she wanted to be,” I said.
“This was where she wanted to be. Joanne, when I met Ariel at the women’s retreat at Saltspring, there was an immediate kinship. Despite the difference in our ages, we were at parallel stages in our lives. We were both at that point where… what was it Frost said?”
“ ‘Two roads diverged,’ ” I said.
“That’s it exactly, and because each of us knew how the other felt, we were able to support one another. That was the mandate of the retreat: women empowering women.”
“And you empowered Ariel to continue to her studies.”
Livia’s eyes were shining. “Yes, and she empowered me to find my essential self.”
“So that’s why you supported her candidacy when she applied here.”
“It was a good decision. Solange wasn’t. As you say, on paper she was perfect. But when I spoke to her referees, all three of them alluded to psychiatric problems in her past.”
“Livia, if universities went through their faculties and fired everyone who’d ever seen a shrink, post-secondary education would grind to a halt.”
“Solange’s difficulties go well beyond trouble dealing with a stressful environment. She’s obsessive. She was obsessive about Ariel when Ariel was alive and she’s still obsessive about her. Wouldn’t you characterize as obsessive all the hours she’s spent riding that bike of hers? Even our students are concerned. A young man who was in one of Solange’s classes was at a loft party in the warehouse district a couple of nights ago. When he came out, he saw Solange riding her bike. It was two-thirty in the morning, Joanne. Our student offered to put the bike in his trunk and drive Solange home, but she just rode away. The student said Solange looked, and I’m quoting, ‘as if she needed professional help.’ ”
“Grief isn’t guilt,” I said.
“I’m not saying Solange is guilty of anything.” Livia’s voice was tight. “I’m just saying she’s unbalanced, and that means there’s no way of predicting what she is or is not capable of doing.”
I thought of the girl at the Ice Capades, so determined to survive that, even as her body was being violated, she was able to find refuge in imagining that the cheap sequinned costume of a professional skater could be protective armour. Solange had spent a lifetime creating a persona that would make her impervious to assault. Not many of us had seen the woman beyond the persona, but Ariel had. Solange had allowed Ariel Warren into her private world. How had she reacted when Ariel announced that she no longer wanted to be a part of that world, that she wanted a different kind of life, one that didn’t include Solange? Charlie’s words echoed. “She’s done some terrible things.” How terrible was “terrible”?
“I think we have to talk to Bob Hallam about this,” I said. “If he knows how fragile Solange is, he’ll be gentle with her. I can call him if you like.”
“No.” Livia’s response was swift. “I’ll handle this, Joanne. It was my mistake. I’ll fix it.” Her voice had been so decisive, I expected her to head straight for the parking lot; instead, she stopped before the cairn with the copper plaque. Then, in a small, private voice, she read the third stanza of
‘The Road Not Taken.’ And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
The gesture seemed stagy, theatrical, but when Livia turned, her eyes were filled with tears. “Why is it that we never know how ‘way leads on to way’ until it’s too late?” she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, she walked away.
CHAPTER
12
“To paraphrase my favourite old lizzie, Gertrude Stein, ‘a cage is a cage is a cage.’ ” Ed Mariani and I were standing in front of the pastel silk and bamboo pleasure dome that housed his nightingale, Florence. “Barry and I can’t bear to come into this room any more. It’s so depressing.” Ed shot me a sidelong glance. “Taylor was quite taken with the whole set-up. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in
…?”
“Not for all the tea in China. Willie is already grinding me down, and if you think a caged Florence is a bummer, consider how you’d feel if Bruce and Benny decided to make her the blue plate special.”
Ed laughed grudgingly. “You’re sounding chipper.”
“I’m faking it,” I said. “It’s been one hell of a week, and it’s not showing signs of improvement.”
A shaft of sunlight hit the corner of Florence’s cage, and Ed adjusted a plum-blossom silkscreen to diffuse it. “I’ve been keeping up with the Web page,” he said. “Ann Vogel is pulling out all the stops. If she’s not careful, she’s going to find herself in court. That letter is libellous.”
“Livia doesn’t think Ann Vogel wrote it,” I said. “According to Livia, Solange is the one who travels in circles so ideologically pure they would have no compunction about making autopsy photos public if it served the cause. I tend to agree with Livia about Ann, but not for the same reason. When she was my student, even subject-verb agreements strained her thought processes, and that letter is elegantly written.”
“The phrasing may be elegant, but it reflects an ugly mind.”
“Or a troubled one,” I said. “This morning Livia told me that Solange has a history of psychiatric problems.”
Ed frowned. “And this just came to light?”