Chapter Twenty-Four. Betty, 1964
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“[Psychic] Dorothy Allison of Nutley, New Jersey, has assisted police in more than four thousand investigations and has received many letters from law enforcement agencies describing how she helped them.”
—US Department of Justice
It was a brilliant day for football. The early November afternoon shone clear and windless, with a sun so blindingly bright it appeared to be celebrating, too.
Everyone at Marquis was rallying for the boys in red jerseys.
All week long, signs had sprouted up in dorm room windows and on banners hung outside buildings: Stomp ’em, Wolves!
and Nip those Lions! The marching band’s trumpets and the roar of the crowd could be heard a block away from the stadium.
“We’re going to be late!” Ivy cried, struggling to walk quickly in her kitten heels. Pregnancy had affected her center of balance.
“It’ll be fine.” Kathleen hooked her arm through Ivy’s to steady her. “Nothing interesting ever happens in the first few minutes.”
“But David…” Ivy cut herself off, falling silent. It wasn’t the first time she’d struggled in discussing her husband.
When Betty and Kathleen talked about their men, it was with fondness or occasionally fond exasperation. Even Helen had shyly revealed details about a man she’d developed a crush on—he was tall, dark, and handsome, but he didn’t seem to have the slightest romantic interest in Helen.
Ivy, the most outgoing of the four, was the opposite. Whenever she was asked about David, she tensed up, and her comments felt scripted.
David was the team’s assistant coach; there was no way Ivy could miss the game even though she should be home with her feet up, since it was a rare day off from their work at the institute.
Silas Trimble didn’t yield to the typical rhythms of eating and sleeping.
He was a man of enormous appetites, but like a hibernating bear, he alternated feasting with famine.
He wouldn’t eat for a day or two, the meals his wife delivered for him congealing on his desk beneath a layer of waxed paper and ending up in the trash.
Then sometimes, as if remembering he needed fuel to continue, he’d wolf down a dinner big enough to satisfy three men.
He never seemed to sleep, either. No matter how early or late they were instructed to come to the institute, he was there.
But Douglas had revealed that every now and then, Dr. Trimble disappeared for twenty-four hours.
He’d sleep for most of it, shower, then refuel for the next work marathon. He was taking one of those breaks now.
Betty couldn’t help but think that Dr. Trimble was gaining strength while the four girls were losing it, almost as if he were siphoning it out of them. She was dreading the week ahead.
“Thank goodness we made it.” Ivy sighed as she showed her ticket to the student manning the gate.
They began climbing the steps up the bleachers, with Ivy gripping the handrail tightly. Betty decided she’d buy some peanuts and cherry Cokes for the group. Ivy needed to keep her strength up, no matter what her scolding doctor said about her weight.
Cheerleaders in red swishing skirts twirled pom-poms as they chanted: “Give me an M! Give me an A! Give me an R! Give me a Q! Give me a U! Give me an I! Give me an S! What does that spell? Marquis!” Then the players ran onto the field, announced by the broadcaster, as the crowd erupted.
“Number forty-four is handsome.” Kathleen nudged Helen. “But rumor has it he’s engaged to a girl back in his hometown.”
Helen gave a nervous laugh. “As if he’d be interested in me.”
“Stop it,” Kathleen ordered. “You’re darling.” She appraised Helen. “You know, I think it would suit you to try your hair a bit shorter. You’ve got such delicate features, like Mia Farrow. And how would you feel about tweezing your brows?”
“I never know how to do those things,” Helen confessed.
“Next time we’ll get together at my place. I’ll fix you up in a flash,” Kathleen promised. “The dreamboat you have a crush on will notice you, I can guarantee that.”
Betty was listening with half an ear. She was so acutely aware of Ivy’s discomfort she felt it as if it were her own.
Ivy was shifting on the hard bench, occasionally reaching behind her to rub her knuckles into her lower back.
Whenever the crowd shouted, Ivy cringed, as if the yells were reverberating inside her skull.
Even when Betty bought snacks for the group, Ivy didn’t seem revived.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Betty whispered.
“Just tired,” Ivy replied. She grimaced. “And I keep getting these twinges. My doctor told me they’re false contractions and that I should have a cocktail to relax.”
“Does that help?” Betty asked.
“Sometimes. But then I always feel like I have to go to the bathroom. I need to go right now, but the thought of all those stairs again—”
An explosion of groans and shouts interrupted her; the South Carolina Wolves had scored against Marquis.
“Oh, no!” Ivy cried. She leaned forward as much as her stomach would allow as the field goal kicker lined up and made the extra point. “Damn!”
It was the first time Betty had heard Ivy swear. She lifted an eyebrow. “It’s a long way to the finish. They’ll make it up.”
“David just hates it when we lose,” Ivy muttered, almost to herself. “He gets all sulky.”
She watched a little longer, then tapped Betty’s arm. “I really have to go to the ladies’ room now.”
Betty stood up to let Ivy pass. As she watched Ivy begin to descend, she felt a sudden compulsion to accompany her. She stood up, squeezing past Helen and Kathleen and the rest of the row, frantically trying to reach Ivy.
Several people were in front of Betty and she couldn’t push past them on the narrow flight of stairs.
“Ivy, wait!” she called.
But her voice was swallowed up in another roar from the crowd.
She gasped as she saw Ivy’s ankle turn and her body drop down as her hand slipped off the railing. Ivy sprawled forward before catching herself on her hands and knees. Two male students hurried to help Ivy, guiding her onto the bleachers.
Blood was running down Ivy’s shins from her scraped knees, and she was pale as a ghost by the time Betty reached her.
“Are you badly hurt?” Betty asked.
Ivy shook her head. “Just embarrassed. I hope I didn’t miss an important play.”
“Let’s sit here a moment while you catch your breath,” Betty said.
A boy passed Ivy a flask of whiskey and she took a sip. Someone else gave Betty a handkerchief, and she dabbed Ivy’s legs with it, then wrapped her arm around Ivy’s shoulders and felt the trembles racking her friend’s body.
“I wish this was over,” Ivy whispered, leaning her head on Betty’s shoulder. “I’m just so tired.”
Betty didn’t have to ask what she meant because she knew Ivy meant all of it: the game, the uncomfortable last few weeks of pregnancy, and most of all, the experiments with Dr. Trimble.