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  His classes had moved on to the 1960s, and Bishop decided to run an episode of a civil rights documentary called Eyes on the Prize. Technically, Eyes on the Prize wasn’t scheduled until Friday, but he was too wrecked to manage a discussion. For the rest of the morning, he watched the old footage and listened to the scholars and eyewitnesses, the classroom muggy, his students lolling in their desks. Finally, the fourth-period bell rang, releasing everyone to lunch, and Bishop slumped in his chair, rubbed his eyes. His hangover had consolidated in his face. When he looked again, Lenore was the only other person in the room.

  “I talked to Coach Fink,” she said.

  Bishop had figured as much. If Coach Fink hadn’t told Headmistress Mackey, she must have gone straight to Lenore.

  “How’d you get her to keep your secret?”

  Lenore shrugged. “It’s just until after the play. Then I have to report to Mrs. Silver or Coach Fink will dime me out.”

  He waited to see if more information might be forthcoming, but she just stood there beside his desk watching him, with her thumbs hooked under the straps of her backpack, as if waiting for him to speak as well.

  “I’m sorry, Lenore,” he said.

  On his desk, between his stapler and a coffee cup filled with ballpoint pens, sat a globe the size of an apple, a thank-you gift from a former student, though at the moment he couldn’t recall which one, a paperweight printed with an antique version of the world, misshapen and misnamed continents, sea monsters emerging from the deep, and Bishop picked it up and rolled it palm to palm.

  “What for? You didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s what for,” Bishop said.

  Lenore held her hand out, and it took Bishop a second to realize that she was asking for the globe. He passed it over. Lenore frowned as if that version of the world gave her a headache.

  “I know how you can make it up to me,” she said.

  At the end of the day, he loaded Pickett in the car, and they drove out to the Disney site. They walked deep into the woods, medallions of light spilling through the branches. Pickett flashed like a figment among the trees. Bishop had wanted to get away from campus, clear his head, consider Lenore’s proposal in peace. He thought of Lenore in the snow on the day she told him she was pregnant. Of Lenore on his stoop after Poppy was suspended. Of Lenore alone in some wretched clinic.

  Now she wanted them, Bishop and Coach Fink, to drive her to Rockbridge County. She required a meeting with Eugenia Marsh. She wouldn’t say why exactly, though apparently Coach Fink had already agreed. They would leave early Saturday morning and return to Briarwood before curfew. He’d told Lenore he’d think about it, but no amount of thinking made her proposal sound like a good idea. It wasn’t so much the idea of dropping in on Eugenia Marsh again that made him hesitant. And it wasn’t fear of how Headmistress Mackey might react if she caught wind of their excursion. His job seemed the least he could risk for Lenore. What made him hesitant was the idea of spending a day in close quarters with Coach Fink. It didn’t matter that she knew the truth. He remained the agent of her unhappiness. Still, he didn’t see how he could refuse.

  Back on campus, night wisping down over the grounds, he pocketed Pickett’s tennis ball and patted his hip for the dog to follow and positioned himself in the dell between Faculty Row and Briarwood Manor. Rehearsal would be wrapping up soon, and he intended to intercept Coach Fink on her way home. A chance meeting beneath the oaks. He was just tossing a ball with his dog, and she was just on her way home from rehearsal. He would confirm her agreement and that was all. He must have chucked the ball fifty times before Pickett tired of retrieving and hunkered down under a tree with his tongue hanging out and Bishop sat beside him on a root.

  While they waited, lights flickered on in the windows of Briarwood Manor, Headmistress Mackey in there somewhere, the silver Jaguar in the driveway indicating that her husband was in town. It was a beautiful old Palladian-style house, the brick a worn, rusty brown, impressive without being ostentatious. Sometimes Bishop could stand under the oaks, most of them older than the house itself, and imagine this place before the school, the house alone atop the hill, looking down the slope of the lawn, past a cluster of long-gone outbuildings, a smokehouse and slave cottages leveled to make way for the quad, and on down to the stable at the bottom of the hill, original to the estate, could imagine the horses in the paddock as the same horses that had been here more than a hundred years ago. Headmistress Mackey hosted receptions for faculty and students and their parents in Briarwood Manor, and there was no denying the presence of history in that place. Union soldiers had died in those rooms when the house served as a hospital after Second Manassas. And young girls had studied there in the early days of the school. And generations of Brunson children had been born under that roof before Charlotte’s sons were killed in the Civil War and she allowed the school to be created. Bishop could stand beneath the trees sometimes and feel the past swirling around him like a current. But this was not one of those times.

  There—a cluster of girls milled out of the auditorium, headed for the dining hall. A minute later Coach Fink appeared under the exterior lights with Lenore. She rested her hands on Lenore’s shoulders. Lenore bobbed her head at whatever Coach Fink was saying. It was like watching TV with the volume muted. Finally, Lenore trailed off after her cast mates and Coach Fink trudged up the hill, swinging her arms. Pickett trotted down to meet her, gave her knees a sniff. Coach Fink ignored the dog and glared at Bishop, her body leaning slightly against the grade.

  “I’m taking Littlefield to Rockbridge County.”

  “I know,” Bishop said. “I’ll drive.”

  XXI

  They talked every night, and every night it was the same, the phone ringing in the dark and that seashell rushing and then her voice, Elizabeth’s voice, wavering down the line. They talked about clothes. They talked about roommates. They talked about boys. Somehow they were never interrupted. There was nothing profound in these conversations. They did not discuss the possibility of true love or the nature of death or the inevitability of sorrow. Elizabeth shared no insight regarding the mysteries of the beyond. They talked about teachers and Drama Club. They talked about Poppy. They talked about Eugenia Marsh, not as she was now but as she had been, rambunctious and defiant and baffled by her life.

  “She told me once that she wished she was a nun,” Elizabeth said.

  “Was she religious?”

  “She liked their clothes.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “She said they looked romantic, all covered up, everything but their hands and faces.”

  “I’m nervous,” Lenore said.

  “Don’t be. She’ll be glad you found her.”

  They never said good-bye, at least not that Lenore was able to recall, and she never could remember hanging up the phone. One minute she was talking to Elizabeth, the next she was waking up right where she started, light seeping in under the blinds. And so it was on Saturday morning, Lenore blinking suddenly awake, the clock on her nightstand glowing, 6:54 a.m. Melissa was still asleep, her hands folded neatly on her chest. Lenore pulled a sweatshirt over her head, stepped quickly into her jeans, and carried her shoes into the hall. A sink running upstairs, some early riser brushing her teeth. Lenore crept out the back door, careful to shut it quietly behind her, and sat on the curb beside the dumpsters to wait, the exact same spot she’d waited with Poppy in her last few minutes at Briarwood.

  She hadn’t spoken with Poppy since Union Station. They’d tried to phone, Lenore and Melissa both, but Poppy’s mother always answered, and she was still screening Poppy’s calls. One time Lenore called in the morning, hoping to sneak past the defenses by varying her routine, and Poppy’s mother let it slip that her daughter was at work, though she didn’t say where, and Lenore had been too surprised by the idea to ask. She tried to picture Poppy with a job—manning the hostess stand at Ruby Tuesday? Folding blouses at the Gap?

  She heard Mr. Bishop’s ca
r ticking around the corner before it appeared, Coach Fink riding shotgun, Pickett hanging his head out of a window in the back seat.

  “So what’s the plan?” Coach Fink said.

  Lenore buckled in and rubbed Pickett’s ears while he beat his tail and nudged his head against her chest.

  “Eugenia Marsh,” she said. “That’s the plan.”

  “You sure this is a good idea?” Mr. Bishop said.

  Lenore said, “Pretty sure,” and this was more or less the truth. She was having nightly conversations with a dead girl. That was impossible. Far more reasonable to believe that Eugenia Marsh would be present and available simply because Lenore needed her to be, that she would have answers to the questions Lenore didn’t know how to ask. Still, she cupped Pickett’s head in both hands and let him lick her face to avoid meeting any human eyes.

  “No matter what,” Coach Fink said, “we’re back by curfew.”

  Pickett settled down once they reached the highway. Mr. Bishop and Coach Fink were mostly quiet. They had, it seemed, decided to handle her with care. There was nothing much to do except watch the world scroll by outside the windows, and there was nothing much to see beyond the crappy little towns with their tire shops, their muffler emporiums. The occasional burst of wildflowers in the median. Lenore was reminded of her family’s trip to Disney World, six long hours between Charleston and Orlando, her mother in the passenger seat working hard to distract Lenore from her boredom, her parents’ marriage already beyond repair, the trip a last gasp, the place itself a false promise, a fantasy of joy. Lenore looked at the back of Mr. Bishop’s head and wondered how it was possible that, even so young, she had failed to notice her parents’ unhappiness. But they hadn’t seemed unhappy standing in the lines, riding the rides, watching the fireworks. They hadn’t seemed unhappy eating corn dogs and buying Mickey Mouse ears. And maybe they hadn’t been, she thought. Not for those few days. Maybe the trip had been a respite from whatever ailed their marriage, and maybe that wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was possible to pretend your way back to happiness or, at least, for a little while, to forget that you’re pretending. That’s what she’d tell Poppy next time they spoke.

  She leaned forward in her seat. “Coach Fink,” she said, her voice too loud in the quiet car, “have you ever been to Disney World?”

  Coach Fink wiped a hand over the dashboard, then brushed it off on the leg of her jeans, visibly displeased by the volume of dust she had picked up.

  “I’ve been to Disney World,” she said.

  Mr. Bishop shot a surprised glance in Coach Fink’s direction.

  Lenore said, “Did you have fun?”

  Coach Fink shrugged. “I was a junior in college. I got selected for a national all-star basketball team, and the prize was a trip to Disney World. Did I have fun? I guess. We got to ride in the parade one night.”

  “Mr. Bishop hates Disney World.”

  “I never said that.”

  Was he blushing all of a sudden? Lenore couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the backs of his ears had flooded pink.

  “You hate Disney’s America,” she said.

  “Hate is the wrong word. I’m not against families having a good time, but they intend to build that park right in the middle one of the most history-rich places in the country, and the way Disney operates is so purely commercial, it’s downright mercenary—the movies, the action figures, the theme parks. They don’t care if they get it right. They only care about what the customer wants to hear. I don’t like the idea of generations of little kids weaned on Disney’s version of the past.”

  “What difference does it make?” Coach Fink said.

  Mr. Bishop gripped the wheel with both hands.

  “If individual experience molds us into who we are as human beings, then surely community experience—national experience—defines us too. As a group, you know, a tribe. We take pride in the same triumphs, share disappointment in our failures. Our history is what makes us into a country in the first place. The way we perceive ourselves. The reason we feel patriotic when we hear the ‘Star-Spangled Banner.’ No doubt all history is subjective, but it follows that if we have a false impression of that history, then we have a false impression of who we are.”

  They had merged onto I-64 by then, traffic streaming along the interstate. Coach Fink cranked her window down halfway, as if to clear the air of Mr. Bishop’s words, then rolled it back up and turned in her seat to face Lenore.

  “Is this what he’s like in class?” she said.

  Mr. Bishop’s Subaru started acting up just after the exit. He said it felt like the wheel was jerking in his hands. Coach Fink didn’t comment at first, but Lenore could see her jaw clenching in profile. They’d driven a few miles from the interstate when Lenore heard a clunking noise, loud, like the engine had suddenly flopped onto its back, and then the motor shuddered quiet. They coasted to a stop on the shoulder, and Coach Fink said, “I told you we should have taken my truck.”

  “There’s not enough room in your truck,” Mr. Bishop said.

  “There’s room enough without the damn dog.”

  “Right,” Mr. Bishop said, opening his door and stepping out. “Three of us jammed onto a bench seat. That sounds great.”

  “At least my truck would still be running,” Coach Fink said.

  She got out, too, and stood in the weeds, and they continued their bickering over the roof of the car.

  “That little country store’s not far from here,” Mr. Bishop said. “They’ll have a phone. We’ll just have to walk.”

  “Not there. No way. I nearly smacked that woman last time.”

  “It’s too far to backtrack. It’ll take too long.”

  “I’d rather get hit with a shovel than set foot in that crazy woman’s store.”

  “Then why don’t you wait with the car?” Mr. Bishop said.

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Maybe you should. Maybe that’s better anyway.”

  Pickett’s leash was coiled on the floor. Lenore gathered it up and clipped it to his collar and opened the passenger-side door and followed Pickett out. Mr. Bishop and Coach Fink went quiet, as if just now recalling her presence. Pickett relieved himself in the weeds, then started down the shoulder like he knew where he was going. Lenore let him tug her along. It was her fault they were in this mess. After a few seconds Mr. Bishop trotted up beside her, and a few seconds after that Coach Fink caught up as well, matching Pickett’s pace along the road.

  “I thought you were waiting with the car,” Mr. Bishop said.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Did you lock the doors?”

  “You think somebody’s gonna steal that car?” Coach Fink said. “It’d be your lucky day if somebody stole that hunk of turd.”

  They’d been walking for maybe fifteen minutes, Pickett in the lead, his nose close to the ground as if tracking some specific scent, when the country store came into view around a bend in the road, sign rising from a gravel parking lot, the lot washed nearly clear of actual gravel by who knows how many rains, leaving packed earth and potholes and battered railroad ties marking the spots. Mother’s Best. The letters as weathered as the porch planks. A solitary car out front, a blue Mercedes with a broken taillight.

  Mr. Bishop and Coach Fink stopped abruptly side by side.

  “Somebody’s yanking my chain,” Coach Fink said.

  Lenore was holding Pickett’s leash, and he dragged her a few steps more before she was able to bring him to a halt. “What is it?”

  Mr. Bishop said, “That’s her car,” and just then the door of Mother’s Best swung open and Eugenia Marsh stepped out, a brown-paper shopping bag cradled in her arms. Lenore recognized her right away. From that distance she hardly seemed to have aged since her Briarwood days. Eugenia Marsh noticed them and smiled.

  “You don’t mean to tell me that you walked all this way? It’s true that I receive the occasional pilgrim but never anything so extreme.”

  Mr. Bishop point
ed back the way they’d come. “My car broke down.”

  Eugenia Marsh set the bag on the roof of her Mercedes and crossed the parking lot in their direction. She extended a hand to Lenore.

  “You must be Jenny March,” she said.

  Given the circumstances—Mr. Bishop’s car breaking down, Eugenia Marsh’s sudden appearance, the effect of those developments compounded by everything that had happened in the past few months, including but not limited to her recent conversations with the ghost of Elizabeth Archer—she might have been forgiven for forgetting her real name, but she managed to blurt it out after a second.

  “How alliterative,” said Eugenia Marsh. She flicked a hand at the paper bag. “I came for snacks. I don’t generally keep snacks in the house, certainly not the sort of snacks a teenager might enjoy.”

  “You were expecting us?” Coach Fink said, and Eugenia Marsh said, “I had a dream last night,” as if that explained anything at all.

  Pickett whined and darted his gaze from face to face. He sat suddenly, as if commanded, then stood up again. He gave his tail a tentative wag. Lenore knew how he felt. She passed the leash to Mr. Bishop.

  “Here’s an idea,” said Eugenia Marsh. “Why don’t Lenore and I adjourn to my house, while you two ring for a tow? Try Toby Giles. He’s in the book. He’s kept my Mercedes running far beyond the span of its natural life. Once you’ve squared everything away, you can join us. Toby will be happy to give you a lift.”

  Mr. Bishop said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t be silly. I appreciate your concern, but you know I’m harmless, and besides, your car needs repairing, and Lenore and I require time alone.” She looked at Lenore, her eyes excited. “That’s why you came, isn’t it, dear?”

  “I guess,” Lenore said, still a little dazed, but despite the uncertainty in her reply, she understood that this was, in fact, precisely why she’d come. A private audience with Eugenia Marsh. That’s what she’d wanted all along. Mr. Bishop and Coach Fink would only be in the way. “It’s all right, Mr. Bishop.”