Under Her Pillow

            by Hannah Johnson

 

    Vera Rogers was a curious girl, with eyes like cardboard but a mouth like a snake. Her figure was thin and frail, but she was always on her toes. I often wondered about her, she lived on the floor above me in the dorms and she occasionally caught me peering out the open door of my room as she climbed the stairwell. Vera and I had public speaking class together; we gave speeches every week. Her speeches were all very serious, she used a steady but brazen voice as she recited her weekly political banter. All they really wanted you to do in that class was be loud though, we really could talk about whatever we wanted. I gave my speeches on how to make stovetop popcorn and how good it feels after you shower, hair and skin still soaking wet, the simple pleasure in putting lotion on your freshly shaved legs: topics of that nature. Not Vera, though, Vera gave speeches on the morality of chemically-enhanced corn fertilizer, and why she would never eat gelatin again. It really did puzzle me, how seriously she took everything. While I was sitting at the back table with my friends laughing spastically at my boyfriend Derek's speech on how unkempt the women in Berkeley were, I'd glance over in her direction and Vera was always in a trance, staring blankly at the wall or floor. Just staring, not even looking out the window for excitement or escape. Vera never smiled or . I could tell she was hiding something, and I had a feeling I could get it out of her.

    One afternoon when I 'happened' to be on Vera's floor, using the community bathroom for a mere two hours, applying my makeup, she finally came in. I waited anxiously while she went into one of the stalls, planning my introduction to sound as casual as it would intriguing.

  She emerged from the stall and headed for the door. She doesn't wash her hands? I thought to myself, now how am I supposed to talk to her? "Hey, you didn't wash your hands," I blurted out, not thinking. She turned red, I felt bad, but pleased with my ability to make her feel exposed. She back-tracked toward the sink, and we caught eyes in the mirror. "Aren't you in my public speaking class?" I asked her—failing at seeming intriguing, but hopefully putting her more at ease.

            "I don't recall," she answered, avoiding my stare in the mirror.

            "We are," I clamped shut my eyelash curler. She tore off a paper towel, "in the same public speaking class, I mean," I spoke firmly, almost defensively. "I'm Karen."

            "Oh," Vera smiled at me-- just with her lips though, not her face, "see you Thursday then." She turned and threw the paper towel in the trash, wiping off any excess moisture on her hips. I squinted at my reflection. My eyelashes were sticking up straighter than the walls of the bathroom, I was beginning to realize my intuition may not have been as good as I'd thought. Vera might not be the thoughtful introvert I had pinned her as, Vera might just be miserable. I’ve always resented that some people can’t tell the difference between innovation and depression, I'd hoped Vera was the first of the two. 

Fall was really setting in on campus, there was a drought of the young adults stewing with spirit and brimming with adventure who I'd arrived along with. We had all developed routine and realized the importance of school itself. Although it never really got cold in Berkeley, it never really got warm either-- the sun shone like I'd imagined it would in California, but the wind shot through your bones like a dozen bullets. Derek and I spent a lot of time together-- watching movies, sneaking into bars, taking advantage of the newfound 'no curfew' concept. Sure, we had a good time together but there was something missing when I was with Derek. Weeks went by and I looked forward to hearing Vera's speeches most of all, Vera's speeches alone. I loved watching her stand awkwardly in front of the class, preaching her beliefs to a bunch of jocks and sorority girls, taking the easy route through college. Although Derek was funny and athletic, his boyish charm was wasted on me. The stark contrast of Vera’s melancholic indifference never ceased to intrigue me, even when she was only talking about Why minors should not be tried as adults. I needed to help her unveil her secret and I was convinced I was the only one for the job. I never explained to my friends why I used to always break from our girlish cackling to listen to this skittish autist's long, fervent pieces.

 After class that day, I let Derek and all my friends file out in front of me. I pretended to be looking for something in my book bag, waiting inconspicuously by the door for her. I felt immediately guilty after grabbing her arm as she attempted to leave. "Oh, sorry," I said, "I thought you were someone else." I pursed my lips. She gave me a petrified glance, "Vera? Right?"

"Yes, that's my name,” her eyes flickered nervously. Why is she being like this? I was getting anxious.

"I was wondering if you would help me edit my speech later? I thought yours was really good today."

"Oh, I don't think I can help you. You should get somebody else," for the first time she looked me square in the face; I could feel her detecting my disappointment though my eyebrows. I quickly lifted my features.

"Alright," I dragged it on a little too long, there's no way she could overlook how badly I wanted her help, her presence, her. "Thanks anyway." I turned away, feeling my cheeks burning. When I stepped outside, the sun was so bright I had to close my eyes, and got one of those dizzy flashes people often get after being in a jacuzzi for too long. The cold wind felt good against my cheeks though, still burning from the contact high.

That evening, I stopped by her room. I knocked too quietly at first, then, standing slightly pigeon toed, I knocked harder, "Vera?" I whispered to the door. She opened it, "Vera!" I said, throwing my arms up in the air. "Ready to help me edit my speech?"

She was a little taken aback. Actually she was a lot. I knew what she was thinking, but I also knew her well enough to know she would not object. She had no idea I would be coming, her hair was pulled back and she was wearing an old Duke University sweatshirt and a pair of basketball shorts, folded over at the waist. "Karen," she said softly, nervous exasperation dancing behind her every word, "nice seeing you." Her eyes darted around the room; I followed her gaze closely.

"I wanted you to read this, that's all," I smiled at her shyly, she did not return the gesture. I took a notebook out of my bag, and offered it to her. "Here," I said boldly. She looked down at the notebook in my hand as if it were a bag of meal worms, "it won't bite, come on Vera." My tone was playful and I shamelessly stroked her upper arm.

Vera looked at me with disgust and slowly removed the notebook from my grasp. She looked at me blankly as she opened the cover. She looked down and her eyes widened. The notebook I'd given her was blank. "It's blank."

"Oh really? Whoops, wrong notebook. Will you pass me my book bag please Vera? It's by the door." Vera looked at me, turned around and tried to open the doorknob. To her credit, she was able to push it part way open, but I quickly slammed it shut. I grabbed her shoulders and turned her around briskly, "But Vera, you promised to help me with my speech, remember? Please help me Vera." I looked at her knowingly, and her flat brown eyes just stared at me in awe. Pushing her against the wall, I was finally free to do to her what I had always wanted. Her legs were freshly shaved, just as I'd pictured. I no longer cared whether or not she felt the same way, I had my work cut out for me, "What are you crying about Vera? Why are you so unhappy? I didn't put chemicals in your fertilizer, did I? Vera?" Forty long minutes later, I was closing the door to Vera's dorm room. I left her a switchblade under her pillow, just in case she needed it.

The blue and red flickering reflected on the wall opposite my bed, illuminating my Pink Floyd poster in steady, two second intervals. After I'd conjured up enough energy and waited long enough for it to seem natural, I headed downstairs in my sweats and reading glasses, just like any other college girl. I politely asked the cops and other dorm dwellers what had happened. "Some girl committed suicide, I guess," they'd answer nonchalantly, and no, they didn't know her first or surname.

It came out in the UC Berkeley newspaper the next day, 'Freshman Suicide in Dorms Brings Tragedy to the School,' they held a memorial for her in People's Park, where a bunch of us sat in the sunny riptides of grass, mourning the loss of our classmate. 'It was so sad we didn't know her,' we'd all agreed, 'suicide is so depressing.'

"Just like Vera herself," I'd thought aloud. My heart choked when I realized my error, I looked around, nobody had noticed my remark. I went back to mourning, soaking up the little sun that did bear through the winds.

"I heard they never found the knife she used," Derek said, waving his fingers and widening his eyes in effort to spook us.

“Really? They didn’t?”

“They did tests and there was no trace of blood on the knife the police found under her pillow. They haven’t published anything yet, but I heard my forensics teacher talking about it.”

"Oh," I said decidedly, "they'll find it."