"I haven't talked to her in a while," he said. it must be ... oh, ... a couple of months now, I guess."
"You used to call her all the time."
It was a simple statement, but one that Jeff knew demanded a response. Bonnie waited.
"Well, not all the time," he said. "But I did a better job of keeping in touch than I have lately, yes. I was very worried about her, suddenly alone there. You know. It must have been a rough time."
"Yeah." Bonnie looked out the window, fixed on something in the distance for a moment, and then turned back to Jeff. "Is that all?"
"What do you mean?"
"You were just calling her all that time because you were worried about her?"
"Sure. Why?"
"I don't know." Eyes out the window again. "I had the impression there might be more to it."
"What?"
"I don't know."
"What did your mother say?"
"Not much. She would just tell me that you called, back during the time when you were calling her regularly."
"And what has she said about me lately?" Jeff felt tense now, but he had to remain cautious. Bonnie had started this, and he wanted to get something out of it.
"Nothing," Bonnie replied. "She hasn't mentioned you in some time. Why did you stop calling her?"
Jeff ignored this by crossing the room to pour a little more Scotch into his glass. It was deeply upsetting to hear that Georgianne had not spoken of him at all since February. I'm nothing to her, he thought bitterly. I'm an object. A thing. When it turns up now and then you call it friend and act nice to it until it goes away again. A couple of drops of whiskey splashed on his thumb.
"Know what I think?" Bonnie asked.
"What?"
"The same thing I thought when I first met you last year. That you have a thing for my mother."
"A thing." Jeff laughed at the word, then shook his head dismissively. "No, Bonnie, you-"
"Don't you?" she interrupted coolly.
"Bonnie, listen." He returned to the armchair. "Your mother means a great deal to me. We're old friends, we went through school together. Of course I care about her, very much. Very much."
Bonnie nodded her head patiently, as if she were waiting for him to put his official version of things on record before they proceeded with the truth of the matter.
"Well, that's about all there is to it," he concluded weakly. It was too early to tell how far he could trust the girl, and he thought it was time to change the subject. "Has she made any decision about the house?"
"It's on the market now."
"Really," he said, absorbing the news. So things were definitely moving along. He was glad to hear it, but at the same time he felt a new sense of urgency. "What's she going to do?"
"She's coming here around the end of June to look for an apartment. That's a good time to look, because thousands of students have gone home for the summer and there are a lot of places available to choose from."
"Right."
It was all going the way he had foreseen, but, ironically, he had less ability to influence the course of events now than he'd had at any time in the previous twelve months. He felt he wasn't even on the periphery of Georgianne's life any more. It was a freezing, shattering sensation. This trip was not merely a good idea; it was crucial. He hadn't come to Boston a day too soon.
"Do you think she's doing the right thing?" Bonnie asked.
"Oh, sure. I tried to encourage her to do something like this. Not right away, but when she was ready. That town was bound to get to her sooner or later. Limited contacts, not much to do, living alone. Boston will be great for her."
His tone sounded hollow, perfunctory. When he thought about all the time, effort, and money he had invested in Georgianne, the enormous risks he'd taken on her behalf, it all seemed to add up to this: he had succeeded in moving her to Boston, a couple of hundred miles farther away from him. Absurdly, the thought came to him that if he redoubled his efforts, poured all his resources and energy into the task, Georgianne might end up in London. Still the same question haunted him: What do l do now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Do you think I look a lot like my mother?"
This came two drinks later. Jeff hadn't intended to let Bonnie get drunk, but now he thought it would help if he did. He wanted her to talk uninhibitedly. He wanted to find out all she knew. Bonnie would sleep it off and probably wake up the next day not remembering much of what she'd said. Jeff didn't regard this as the underhanded, base manipulation of an inexperienced youth, but as just one more necessary step along the rocky road to Georgianne. Besides, having a few drinks had been Bonnie's idea in the first place.
"Yes, you do," he told her. "Your hair is darker and you're a little taller, but those are the only differences of any significance. You have the same eyes, the same face, and the same general bone structure."
He took their glasses for refilling, turning the volume down on the television as he passed it. He liked leaving the whiskey bottle on the bureau across the room. It gave him something to do when he needed a moment to think. This time Bonnie followed him like a cat.
"I mean,' she said, "I know I do look like her. Everybody has been saying so for years, and I've seen all those high-school snapshots of her and you guys, but..."
You look like your mother, Bonnie," he said patiently. "Take my word for it."
"What I mean is, do I look now just like she did when she was my age? When the two of you were in your senior year of high school."
Bonnie had a look of heightened interest, and her words suddenly seemed heavy with meaning. Jeff handed her a fresh drink and sipped his own.
"Yes and no," he replied deliberately. "The similarities are there, but so are the differences. The hair, for instance. Not just the color, but the style. And the clothes too."
"Is that all?"
"No. There's something else, but I'm not sure what it is. Probably just the fact that you're a separate person, not a clone."
"I'm too thin," Bonnie said.
"Your mother was never plump."
"Yeah, but you can see in the pictures that she was always kind of voluptuous."
"Well proportioned," he said as a matter of accuracy.
"Voluptuous is back."
"For some of us, it was never gone."
"You can't tell with this, but ..." Bonnie set her drink on top of the television and, in one swift move ment, took off her sweater. All she had on above the jeans was a Harvard T-shirt and the Liberty scarf. She put her hands on her hips. "There was a little more to Mom, right?"
Jeff shrugged, wondering how he could change the direction in which the conversation seemed to be moving. He wanted information, not narcissism from her.
"Do you think I'm too small? I mean, compared with the way my Mom looked when she was my age."
Bonnie smoothed the T-shirt down over her breasts, cupping them in her fingers. She had the wide-eyed provocativeness that only a teen-age girl can carry off, the flaunting of a recently discovered sexuality and freedom. Jeff tried to look unimpressed. He wouldn't hurt his chances with Georgianne by resisting Bonnie, but he might well destroy them if he made a foolish move. It could be just what she wanted him to do, reach for her, so that she could back away at the last minute in a show of anger and righteousness. Then he would be in the shit, but good.
"You're fine, Bonnie," he said paternally. "You've got the usual equipment, but I really don't remember your mother's high-school figure that well. She wasn't my girlfriend."
That last sentence scraped its way out of his throat, but it had been necessary. He started to walk past Bonnie to the armchair, but she put a hand on his chest to stop him.
"Jeff, you wouldn't try to hit on me when I was falling-down drunk, would you?"
"Of course not. I wouldn't-"
"I didn't think so. You'd feel bad about it later, like you'd taken advantage of me. That's why I'm asking now, when I'm standing up, feeling fine and tingly."