Death of the Black-Haired Girl by Robert Stone

how come they got a Catholic girl to do it?”
    “Me? I’m not a Catholic girl.”
    “Sure, baby. Whatever you say. And speaking of professors, how come your adviser there, that guy Brookman, he’s your adviser, he should have known if he has your interests at heart. Where was the advice? How come he let you?”
    “Steve Brookman never saw it.”
    “Then he’s not much of an adviser.”
    “I guess not,” she said.
    Stack picked up the tube of his oxygen tank, pressed the On button, inhaled and looked up at her. Not a kid anymore, he thinks. Not anyone’s child. “He’s your lover, isn’t he? C’mon, Maudie, I don’t get to see you much but I can tell by how you talk about him.”
    “You don’t read my e-mail, do you?”
    “Never mind. Listen,” he said, “I want to tell you something. People’s religion—it’s not like opium. It don’t work that way. It’s their mother, you understand. They may not understand their mother at all. They may hate their mother. Maybe they’re ashamed of their mother. Sometimes a mother makes someone hate other people. Any thing can drive such people to anything.” He thought back for a moment and laughed a little. “When I started swinging a stick they told me: Put ’em in their place, tell ’em what shits they are, but for God’s sake don’t mention their mother.”
    “I don’t care,” she said. “I’m proud of what I wrote.”
    She thought: I can’t stay here. He will be hurt and upset but I can’t stay here.
    So later that day, when he was out to a meeting or taking his walk, she packed her duffel bag and put on Shell’s coat and went to Manhattan, where she knew some girls. When Stack returned he saw that she had gone. He was afraid and disappointed because he had thought she would stay over the holiday. At least he had thought that before the brouhaha over the article. Dizzy, he stayed on his feet.
    “Barbara!” he called. Of course, every time Stack needed his wife, she was dead.

13
    S HELL’S COLLEGE LIFE had lately taken the form of dodging the threatening calls and voicemail messages for Maud. Neither of them used the dorm room phone, but somehow or other someone had got the number. It was worse than after
The Harrowing of Hell,
when Shell had been compelled to change cell phone numbers again. And now it seemed that while people wanted to kill her and read about her being dead in the tabloids, they wanted to kill her roommate too, for more serious and worthy reasons. Three people had actually appeared at the dorm, gained access and entered in spite of the locks. All three were women; all three wanted to talk with Maud. So for Shell it was not only a matter of being herself but of being Maud’s roommate. There were individuals and groups wandering the campus over Thanksgiving break, carrying signs about Maud. Maud, Shell thought, would never be able to cope.
    An added thrill arose from the fact that the whole issue had afforded yet another conversion experience for Shell’s insane ex-husband. The experience left John Clammer awash in insight. John was able to understand now that the breakup of his marriage had been caused by Hell House—his name for the college—when it cleverly placed his wife with a demon adversary who had converted her to Lesbian Law. The enthusiast Clammer was organizing an expedition to rescue her, dead or alive.
    An e-mail from her mother set out to explain the spiritual adventures of John Clammer. Shell was tired of trying to make sense of her mother’s e-mails; interpreting her day-to-day speech was hard enough, but Shell thought her chances would improve on the telephone. She dialed her mother’s number.
    “Tell me quick, Mom. Is John Clammer still locked up?”
    “Well, he is.”
    “You say he is?”
    “Well, yes he is. But at times he isn’t.”
    “Uh-oh. What times are those?”
    “Well. John, they say, has this mentor, see.”
    “That should be good, Mom, ’cuz if any man could use a mentor it’s John