Sure, I say, wondering if he just wants someone to drink with. But the thought of wine is turning my stomach.
He waits, so I nip at my share. The burgundy stings going down, but it has the opposite effect on Gil. The more he's got in him, the better he starts to look.
I tip my glass back. Snow rolls across the pools of light from the post lanterns in the distance. Gil drains his second glass.
Take it easy, chief, I say, trying to sound nice about it. You don't want to have a hangover at the ball.
Yeah, right, he says. I have to be at the caterer's tomorrow by nine. I should've told them I don't even go to class that early.
It comes out sharp, and Gil seems to catch himself. Picking up the remote from the floor, he says, Let's see if there's anything else on.
Three different networks are broadcasting from somewhere on campus, but when there doesn't seem to be any new information, Gil gets up and starts a movie.
Roman Holiday, he says, sitting back down. A distant ease comes over his face. Audrey Hepburn again. He puts down the wine.
The longer the movie stays on, the more I find that Gil is right. No matter how heavy my thoughts are, sooner or later I keep coming back to Audrey. I can't get my eyes off her.
After a while, Gil's focus seems to cloud over a little. The wine, I guess. But when he rubs his forehead and focuses a second too long on his hands, I sense there's more to it. Maybe he's thinking of Anna, who broke up with him while I was at home. Thesis deadlines and planning the ball undid them, Charlie told me, but Gil never wanted to talk about it. Anna was a mystery to us from the beginning; he almost never brought her to the room, though at Ivy, I'd heard, they were never apart. She was the first of his girlfriends who couldn't recognize which one of us was picking up the phone, the first who sometimes forgot Paul's name, and she never stopped by the room if she knew Gil wasn't there.
You know who looks a little like Audrey Hepburn? Gil asks suddenly, catching me off guard.
Who? I say, dialing Taft's office again.
He surprises me. Katie.
What made you think of that?
I don't know. I was watching you two tonight. You're great together.
He says it as if he's trying to remind himself of something dependable. I want to tell him that Katie and I have had our ups and downs too, that he's not the only one who struggles in a relationship, but it would be the wrong thing to say.
She's your type, Tom, he goes on. She's smart. I don't even understand what she's saying half the time.
I hang up the phone when there's still no answer. Where is he? He'll call. Gil takes a long breath, trying to ignore the possibilities. How long's it been with Katie?
Next Wednesday makes four months for us.
Gil shakes his head. He's broken up three times since Katie and I met. Do you ever wonder if she's the one? It's the first time anyone has asked that question. Sometimes. I wish we had more time. I worry about next year. You should hear how she talks about you. It's like you've known each other since you were kids. What do you mean?
I found her at Ivy once, taping a basketball game for you on the TV upstairs. She said it was because you and your dad used to go to the Michigan-Ohio State game together.
I hadn't even asked her to do it. Until we met, she'd never followed basketball.
You're lucky, he says. I nod my agreement.
We talk a little more about Katie, then Gil slowly returns to Audrey. His expression lightens, but eventually I can see the old thoughts return. Paul. Anna. The ball. Before long he reaches for the bottle. I'm just about to suggest that he's had enough to drink, when a dragging sound comes from the hallway. The outside door opens, and Charlie stands in the sallow light of the hall. He looks bad. There are blood-colored stains on the cuffs of his clothes. You okay? Gil asks, standing up.
We've got to talk, Charlie says, with an edge to his voice. Gil mutes the television.
Charlie goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. He drinks half of it, then pours some over his hands to wet his face. His focus is unsteady. Finally he sits down and says, The man who fell from Dickinson was Bill Stein.
Jesus, Gil whispers.
I feel myself go cold. I don't understand.
Charlie confirms it by the look on his face. He was in his office in the history department. Someone came in and shot him.
Who?
They don't know.
What do you mean, they don't know?
A beat of silence passes. Charlie focuses on me. What was that pager message about? What did Bill Stein want from Paul?
I told you. He wanted to give Paul a book he found. I can't believe this, Charlie.
He didn't say anything else? Where he was going? Who he was going to see?
I shake my head. Then, slowly, it returns to me, what I'd mistaken for paranoia: the phone calls Bill had gotten, the books someone else was checking out. A wave of fear descends on me as I tell them.
Shit, Charlie grumbles. He reaches for the phone.
What are you doing? Gil asks.
The police are going to want to talk to you, Charlie tells me. Where's Paul?
Jesus. I don't know, but we've got to find him, I keep trying Taft's office at the Institute. There's no answer.
Charlie looks at us impatiently.
He'll be fine, Gil says, and I can hear the wine talking. Calm down.
I wasn't talking to you, Charlie snaps.
Maybe he's at Taft's house, I suggest. Or Taft's office on campus.
The cops will find him when they need to, Gil says, face hardening. We should stay out of this.
Charlie turns. Two of us are already in this.
Gil scoffs. Give me a break, Charlie. Since when are you in this?
Not me, you prick. Tom and Paul. There's more to us than just you.
Don't get sanctimonious on me. I'm sick of you butting into everyone else's problems.
Charlie leans forward, lifts the bottle from the table, and throws it in the trash. You've had enough.
For a second I'm afraid the wine is going to make Gil say something we'll all regret. But after glaring at Charlie, he rises from the couch. Christ, he says. I'm going to bed.
I watch him retreat into the bedroom without another word. A second later, the light beneath the door falls dark.
Minutes pass, and they feel like hours. I try the Institute again, but with no luck, so Charlie and I sit in the common room for the duration, neither one speaking. My mind is moving too quickly to make sense of my own thoughts. I stare out the window, and Stein's voice climbs back into my thoughts.
I get these phone calls. Pick up click. Pick up click.
Finally Charlie rises. Finding a towel in the closet, he starts to put his bathroom caddy in order. Without a word he heads out the door in his boxer shorts. The men's bathroom is down the hall, and there are half a dozen upperclass women living between it and our quad, but Charlie marches out anyway, towel wrapped around his neck like an oxbow, caddy in hand.
Sitting back on the couch, I reach for today's Daily Princetonian. To distract myself, I flip through the pages, searching for a photo credit of Katie's somewhere in the nether corners of the paper, where underclass contributions go to die. I'm always curious about the pictures she takes, the new subjects she chooses, the ones she thinks are too unimportant to mention. After dating someone long enough, you start to imagine she sees everything the same way you do. Katie's photos are a corrective, a glimpse of the world through her eyes.
Before long a sound comes at the door, Charlie returning from the shower. But when a key strikes in the outside lock, I realize it's someone else. The door swings open and it's Paul who enters the room. His face is pale, and his lips are blue from the cold.
Are you okay? I ask.
Charlie arrives back just in time. Where have you been} he demands. It takes us fifteen minutes to get the details from Paul, given his state.
After leaving the lecture, he went to the Institute and searched for Bill Stein in the computer lab there. An hour later, when Stein failed to appear, Paul decided to go back to the dorm. He started the trip in his car, only to have it quit at a stoplight about a mile from campus; then he had to walk back in the snow.