intense girl, thin, long dark hair, attractive in her own way. He had seen her more than once on campus with Edith Foster, he remembered now.
“That’s a good point,” he suggested. “I’d like all of you to take another look at the films we’ve studied so far, from Hitchcock’s
Psycho
to
Pulp Fiction
, and ask yourself what impact they have on the way we look at women and the violence that’s done to women in our society.”
“That’s that old argument,” a serious film student objected. “People don’t kill people because they see someone doing it in a movie.”
“What about you, Professor?” one student challenged. “What do you think is all right for us to see?”
Dave hesitated. He was saved by the bell.
S HERI K UTTNER LINGERED at the side of the room as it emptied out, approaching Dave’s table as he was gathering up his lecture notes.
“Good morning … Sheri, isn’t it?”
The girl nodded. Hugged her books against her chest. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something else.
“You were a close friend of Edith Foster, weren’t you? I’m very sorry … it must be hard for you to lose a friend like that.”
“A detective questioned me.”
“Really?” How many crime films had he viewed, studied, dissected over the past fifteen years? Movie detectives were like old friends, but Dave reflected that in real life he had never actually spoken to one. “Oh … because you were close to Edith.”
“Yes … I had to identify her. Last night from a photograph, and this morning …”
“You had to go to the morgue?” Dave asked, appalled. “That must have been awful.”
“Yes.” Sheri Kuttner looked at him solemnly. There were dark shadows under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept. “We were roommates. But you knew that. Edie would’ve told you.”
“Edith would have … I don’t understand, Sheri.”
“I knew about you and Edie. Last semester, I mean, when you … well, you know. I didn’t say anything to the detective yet, but …”
The unfinished sentence hovered ominously between them. Dave felt a chill of alarm. “What are you talking about? What didn’t you tell the detective?”
Sheri Kuttner’s body language changed subtly. She hugged her books tighter, took a small step backward, avoided Dave’s eyes. “I knew how she felt. We talked a lot. Then when she started going out again this semester, I figured …”
“What—that it was me?” Dave exclaimed. “You have to be joking.”
“You think it’s funny?” Sheri burst out. “She was so … so beautiful. She had so much to give, and all you people do is take, take, take. Oh, I don’t know if you were the one who … who did that to her. But I know all about you! I know …”
Abruptly she turned and ran to the door.
“Miss Kuttner—Sheri! Wait!”
But the student fled into the corridor. Dave started after her, then stopped. He couldn’t chase her down the hallway. Not today of all days, with the whole campus on edge.
Sheri Kuttner was overwrought. The trauma of having to identify her friend’s dead body must have been almost too much to bear. She wasn’t thinking clearly.
Roommates, Dave thought. Girls of that age would have been very close. Close enough for long, whispered confidences in the small hours of the morning. Edie Foster revealing her feelings for someone, talking out her fantasies. But surely she hadn’t actually named
him
! Why would she do that?
Dave flashed again to the sometimes provocative approaches the coed had made to him. Her open invitations took on more significance. Such situations were not uncommon for many college instructors, and Dave thought he had always handled them as well as possible, principally by acting as if nothing were wrong, as if long slim legs and vibrant bosoms were outside the range of his tunnel vision, and sexual invitations from girls scarcely out of their teens were incomprehensible to him. You couldn’t respond to what you didn’t see. No
“That’s a good point,” he suggested. “I’d like all of you to take another look at the films we’ve studied so far, from Hitchcock’s
Psycho
to
Pulp Fiction
, and ask yourself what impact they have on the way we look at women and the violence that’s done to women in our society.”
“That’s that old argument,” a serious film student objected. “People don’t kill people because they see someone doing it in a movie.”
“What about you, Professor?” one student challenged. “What do you think is all right for us to see?”
Dave hesitated. He was saved by the bell.
S HERI K UTTNER LINGERED at the side of the room as it emptied out, approaching Dave’s table as he was gathering up his lecture notes.
“Good morning … Sheri, isn’t it?”
The girl nodded. Hugged her books against her chest. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something else.
“You were a close friend of Edith Foster, weren’t you? I’m very sorry … it must be hard for you to lose a friend like that.”
“A detective questioned me.”
“Really?” How many crime films had he viewed, studied, dissected over the past fifteen years? Movie detectives were like old friends, but Dave reflected that in real life he had never actually spoken to one. “Oh … because you were close to Edith.”
“Yes … I had to identify her. Last night from a photograph, and this morning …”
“You had to go to the morgue?” Dave asked, appalled. “That must have been awful.”
“Yes.” Sheri Kuttner looked at him solemnly. There were dark shadows under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept. “We were roommates. But you knew that. Edie would’ve told you.”
“Edith would have … I don’t understand, Sheri.”
“I knew about you and Edie. Last semester, I mean, when you … well, you know. I didn’t say anything to the detective yet, but …”
The unfinished sentence hovered ominously between them. Dave felt a chill of alarm. “What are you talking about? What didn’t you tell the detective?”
Sheri Kuttner’s body language changed subtly. She hugged her books tighter, took a small step backward, avoided Dave’s eyes. “I knew how she felt. We talked a lot. Then when she started going out again this semester, I figured …”
“What—that it was me?” Dave exclaimed. “You have to be joking.”
“You think it’s funny?” Sheri burst out. “She was so … so beautiful. She had so much to give, and all you people do is take, take, take. Oh, I don’t know if you were the one who … who did that to her. But I know all about you! I know …”
Abruptly she turned and ran to the door.
“Miss Kuttner—Sheri! Wait!”
But the student fled into the corridor. Dave started after her, then stopped. He couldn’t chase her down the hallway. Not today of all days, with the whole campus on edge.
Sheri Kuttner was overwrought. The trauma of having to identify her friend’s dead body must have been almost too much to bear. She wasn’t thinking clearly.
Roommates, Dave thought. Girls of that age would have been very close. Close enough for long, whispered confidences in the small hours of the morning. Edie Foster revealing her feelings for someone, talking out her fantasies. But surely she hadn’t actually named
him
! Why would she do that?
Dave flashed again to the sometimes provocative approaches the coed had made to him. Her open invitations took on more significance. Such situations were not uncommon for many college instructors, and Dave thought he had always handled them as well as possible, principally by acting as if nothing were wrong, as if long slim legs and vibrant bosoms were outside the range of his tunnel vision, and sexual invitations from girls scarcely out of their teens were incomprehensible to him. You couldn’t respond to what you didn’t see. No
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