She knew she was sick but she didn’t know the degree to which it was commonplace, a matter of spring flu, the usual malaise, passed from student to student and among the faculty members. One big happy family at Glenkill, James Starkie had joked, months ago, which means too, he said, winking, we pass our diseases around, and Monica and another of the guests (his face and name long forgotten) exchanged a startled amused glance. The unintentional wit of James Starkie’s remark passed otherwise unnoticed: it was a noisy festive evening at the chaplain’s house, fragrant with Jill Starkie’s Chanel No. 5 and the smell of too-sweet sherry. New York State wine, James Starkie said, as if the fact were noteworthy. Monica remembered how James had kissed her: how suddenly, how impulsively: that good-natured comradely kiss that threatened nothing and had not given pain. Now the Starkies disliked her. Their smiles were strained, their greetings subdued. She had disappointed them by failing to do something or other and then by failing a second time, she had hurt Jill, perhaps she had irrevocably offended Jill, but should a Christian woman be so easily offended. . . .

Monica looked up dry-eyed to see one of her fifth-form boys standing in the doorway. Clearly embarrassed, his voice slightly trembling, he asked if anything was wrong. “Some of us were wondering, you know, if, well, you didn’t leave after class and now it’s pretty late and we were wondering if . . . if anything is wrong,” the boy said. He was not one of Monica’s very best students but he was a reliable A–student, helpful in class, sweet-tempered, attractive. He wants me to break down in front of him, Monica thought, they are all waiting for that. So she said quietly: “No. Nothing is wrong. Please close the door when you leave.”

18

The telephone rang and rang, and finally Monica answered it, her mouth stale from sleep. Sheila was speaking—Sheila was speaking excitedly—and Monica tried to make sense of her words—such a buzz, such a flurry!—and such pretense (“Monica, why the hell aren’t you here, I don’t understand”)—and after a while, after many minutes, Monica interrupted to say she couldn’t talk on the phone any longer: she was going back to bed.

Calmer now, Sheila thanked her for the flowers—a dozen long-stemmed red roses; but Christ did she miss her! The opening had gone well enough, considering. Sheila had held up well enough, considering. But there were such marvelous people Sheila would have liked Monica to meet, old friends of hers, a handful of younger artists as well, one of them, a kid named Peck, a fantastic talent—

Monica repeated that she was going back to bed. When Sheila gave no reply she simply hung up the receiver; and the remainder of the night passed undisturbed.

19

Now my punishment has begun, Monica thought.