An American Tune: A Novel

13 “Paint It Black”

130 “Paint It Black” Jane dreamed it for the first time in the motel room with Cam, the night after the bombing: following Bridget out of the icy night into the dark building, the explosion, and Bridget’s terrible, surprised expression in the moment before she fell backwards into the flames, her long red hair streaming. She woke, crying, and could not stop. Cam had been slumped, zoned out on the cheap orange chair he’d placed in front of the door to keep her from leaving. Now he stood, and in a step towered over her. She stopped then, because she was afraid of him. She had deep, purplingbruisesonherarms,wherehehadgrabbedher,wrestledher away from the burning building. Jane turned away from him, curled intothefetalposition,thedreamimagestanglingwithwhatsheactuallyremembered ,hermindscramblingtomakesenseofitall.Shefelt punchedwhenthefullknowledgeofwhathadhappenedwashedover her again: Bridget was dead; she, Jane, was here in a motel room with JohnCameron.Sheclenchedherjawtokeepfrommakinganysound. She was wearing an old tee shirt of Bridget’s that had been in the duffel Bridget thrust into her arms just before disappearing through the open window. It smelled of sweat and patchouli, nothing like the beautiful oxford shirts Jane used to borrow when they were roommates in the dorm with their lingering scents of starch and Shalimar. Vividly, Jane remembered the room they’d shared, moonlight falling 13 131 “Paint It Black” across the twin beds where they lay facing each other, talking about Pete and Tom. Tom. She closed her eyes and sensed Cam moving away from her, satisfied that she would not cry out again. She was shaking, her teeth chattering. If she had not stupidly followed Bridget, if she had not heard Bridget leaving at all, she would be with Tom right now. She crossed her arms on her chest and held tightly to her elbows to calm herself. She would not think about Tom–the Christmas tree they’d decorated with its twinkling white lights, the presents beneath it that they’d meant to unwrap the night before. How he’d have gotten home from Evansville, found her gone, and assumed she’d chosen to go with Bridget. Which, in truth, she had. She saw that now–how she was always choosing Bridget when she should have been choosing Tom. Even so, he would help her if she could only get back to him. “It was government property that your friend blew up along with herself,” Cam had said. “You were with Bridget; do you think the fucking FBI cares why? And if you think I’m going to cut you loose, so you can get your hot-shot lawyer boyfriend to try to make some kind of deal with them, you’re crazy.” Jane was terrified. She’d heard stories–who hadn’t?–about the FBI bursting into motel rooms, shooting first, asking questions afterwards . Someone, anyone, could have heard the explosion, come out into the street to investigate, and seen them driving away from campus . It would have been logical to be suspicious, to note the model of the car–maybe even the license number. For all she knew, the FBI was waiting in the parking lot of the motel right now. She and Cam would go out in the morning and . . . But when morning came, they walked out, got into the car, and drove away without incident. At Cam’s insistence, Jane was wearing the wig she’d found in Bridget’s duffel; with short, brown, curly hair she looked like a completely different person. Cam had chopped off his long, blond hair and used electric clippers to give himself the kind of buzz-cut her dad used to give Bobby when he was a little boy. The short hair sharpened his cheekbones, deepened the effect of his hard blue eyes. 132 An American Tune He hadn’t said a word to her this morning, except to remind her that when she talked to him–even when she thought of him–she was to call him Terry. Terry Gold. Last night, when they arrived at the motel, he’d given her a driver’s license and made her repeat the information on it until she could say it without looking. Marianne Glazier. 926 Euclid Avenue, Apartment A. St. Louis, Missouri. Birth date: 5/4/47. Marianne was 5'4" and weighed 115 pounds, close enough. She had brown hair, brown eyes. Jane’s eyes were changeable, sometimes green, sometimes hazel, sometimes gold, depending on the...