Bittersweet. Miranda Beverly-Whittemore
Degas would live happily at the museum for many years to come, Birch raised a glass, garnering the room’s attention.
‘It has been the Winslow tradition,’ he began, as though we were all part of his family, ‘for each of the children, upon reaching eighteen, to donate a painting to an institution of his or her choice. My sons chose the Metropolitan Museum. My daughter chose a former women’s college.’ This was met with boisterous laughter. Birch tipped his glass toward the president in rhetorical apology. He cleared his throat as a wry smile faded from his lips. ‘Perhaps the tradition sprang from wanting to give each child a healthy deduction on their first tax return’ – again, he was met with laughter – ‘but its true spirit lies in a desire to teach, through practice, that we can never truly own what matters. Land, art, even, heartbreaking as it is to let go, a great work of art. The Winslows embody philanthropy. Phila, love. Anthro, man. Love of man, love of others.’ With that, he turned to Ev and raised his champagne. ‘We love you, Ev. Remember: we give not because we can, but because we must.’
ONE TOO MANY GLASSES of champagne, one too few canapés, and an hour later, the overheated room was swimming. I needed air, water, something, or I felt sure that my ankles – bowing under my body’s pressure upon the thin, pointed pair of heels Ev had insisted I borrow – would blow. ‘I’ll be back,’ I whispered as she nodded numbly at a trustee’s story about a failed trip to Cancún. I teetered down the long, glass-covered walkway leading into the gothic wing of the museum. In the bathroom, I splashed tepid water on my face. Only then did I remember I had makeup on. But it was too late; the wetness had already wreaked havoc – smeared lips, raccoon eyes. I pumped down paper towels and scrubbed at my face until I looked like I’d slept on a park bench, but not actively insane. It didn’t matter anyway – we were just going back to the dorm. Perhaps we’d order pizza.
I traipsed back up the hallway, a woman made new with the promise of pajamas and pepperoni. I was surprised to discover the great room already empty – save the violinist packing up her instrument and the waiters breaking down the naked banquet tables. Ev, the president, Birch, Tilde – all of them were gone.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to one of the waiters, ‘did you see where they went?’
His eyebrow ring caught in the light as he raised his brows in a ‘why should I care’ I recognized from my own nights working late at the cleaner’s. I went to the ladies’ room and peeked under the bathroom stalls. Tears began to sting my eyes, but I fought against them. Ridiculous. Ev was probably headed home to find me.
‘Goodness, dear,’ the curator tsked when she caught me in there. ‘The museum is closed.’ Had Ev been by my side, she wouldn’t have said it, and I wouldn’t have quickened my departure. I plucked my lonely coat from the metal rack in the foyer, and plunged out into the cold.
There, in sight of the double doors, were Ev and her mother, their backs to me. ‘Ev!’ I called. She did not turn my way. The wind, surely, had carried off my voice. So I approached, concentrating on my steps so as not to twist an ankle. ‘Ev,’ I said when I was close. ‘There you are. I was looking for you.’
Tilde snapped her head up at the sound of my voice as though I were a gnat.
‘Hey, Ev,’ I said gingerly. She did not answer. I reached out to touch her sleeve.
‘Not now,’ Ev hissed.
‘I thought we could—’
‘What part of not now don’t you understand?’ She turned toward me, rage on her face.
I knew well what it was to be dismissed. And I knew enough about Ev to know that she had spent much of her life dismissing. But it seemed so incongruous after the night we’d had – after I’d lied for her, and she’d finally acted like my friend – and so I remained frozen, watching Tilde steer Ev to the Lexus that Birch brought around.
She didn’t come home that night. Which was fine. Normal, even. I had lived for months with Ev with no expectations of her – not of friendship, or loyalty – but by the next day, her dismissal was gnawing at me, rubbing me raw, like the heels she’d lent me, making blisters I should have anticipated, and tried to prevent.
Despite pulling on her boots and letting them cup my arches; despite allowing myself to wish, with every step I took, that the previous night’s unpleasantness had been an anomaly, the day turned worse. Six classes, five papers, four midterm projects on the horizon, a thirty-pound backpack, the onset of a sore throat, pants sodden with snowmelt, and a hollow, growing loneliness inside. Trudging up our hall as evening fell, I could smell the telltale cigarette smoke whispering from under our door and remembered our RA’s offhand comment about how next time it happened she’d be in her rights to fine us fifty bucks, and I allowed myself to feel angry. Ev had returned, but so what? I had asthma. I couldn’t survive in a room filled with smoke – she was literally trying to suffocate me. My asthma medication’s one benefit – justification for the extra weight I carried – wouldn’t do me any good if I were dead.
I gritted my teeth and told myself to be strong, that I didn’t need the damn boots. I could just write to my father and ask for a pair (why hadn’t I done that already?). I didn’t need a Degas-bestowing supermodel snob lying around my room, reminding me what a nothing I was. I gripped the doorknob and told myself to say it how Ev would say it, formulated ‘Fuck, Ev, could you smoke somewhere else?’ (I would make my voice nonchalant, as though my objection was philosophical and not an expression of poverty), and barged in.
She usually smoked atop her desk beside the window, cigarette perched in the corner of her mouth, or cross-legged on the top bunk, ashing into an empty soda bottle. But this time, she wasn’t there. As I dropped my bag, I imagined with delighted gloom that she’d left a cigarette smoldering on the bedclothes before heading out to some glamorous destination – the Russian Tea Room, a private rooftop in Tribeca. The whole dorm was doomed to go up in flames, and I would go down with it. She would be forced to remember me forever.
And then I heard it: a sniffle. I squinted at the top bunk. The comforter quivered.
‘Ev?’
The sound of soft crying.
I approached. I was still in my drenched jeans, but this was electrifying.
I stood at that awkward angle, neck craned up. She was really under there. I wondered what to do as her voice began to break into a full, throaty sob. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
I didn’t expect her to answer. And I certainly didn’t mean to put my hand on her back. Had I been thinking clearly, I never would have dared – my anger was too proud; the gesture, too intimate. But my little touch elicited unexpected results. First, it made her cry harder. Then it made her turn in the bed, so that her face and mine were much closer than they’d ever been and I could see every millimeter of her flooding, Tiffany-blue eyes; her stained, rosy cheeks; her greasy blond hair, limp for the first time since I’d known her. Her mouth faltered, and I couldn’t help but put my hand to her hot temple. She looked so much more human this close up.
‘What happened?’ I asked, when she’d finally calmed.
For a moment it seemed as if she might start sobbing again. Instead, she fished out another cigarette and lit it. ‘My cousin,’ she said, as if that told the whole thing.
‘What’s your cousin’s name?’ I didn’t think I could stand not to know what was breaking Ev’s heart.
‘Jackson,’ she whispered, the corners of her mouth turning down. ‘He’s a soldier. Was,’ she corrected herself, and her tears spilled all over again.
‘He was killed?’
She shook her head. ‘He came back last summer. I mean, he was acting