Free The Ghosts of Lovely Women by Julia Buckley

processing one’s personal responses to the book in question and then pursuing the questions and ideas that arise. Jessica had plenty to say about
Waiting for Godot, The Stranger,
and existentialism in general
. “I wonder about the authors
,” she said
. “Couldn’t they just have suffered from depression? Isn’t hope just something that you have because you’re happy?”
    Huh. Sometimes students were such philosophers, I thought. I looked back at the notebook and noticed the name “Olchen.” I scanned down the page and got to this:
“I’m doing the psychological study project in Miss Olchen’s class, and I’ve learned a lot about people and their behavior. I’m not a psychologist, but I’ve made my own diagnoses about several people,
and they’re very interesting
.” Here I had written in the margin “This is not pertinent to your assignment, Jessica.” It sounded so bitchy, now that I looked at it. The prim and proper English teacher. But that was my job, to focus them, to tell them not to wander off on tangents or try to pad the paper with nonsense.
    “
I’ve learned that at least one of my friends is truly paranoid, and it makes her do weird things. And a couple of guys I know are major, major misogynists. They deny it, but everyone
denies what he is. I learned that, too. I think even my own father is a misogynist sometimes, and I wish he would change because I don’t want my brothers to grow up resenting women or talking down to them the way I think my father does. I know, Miss Thurber — you’re asking what any of this has to do with the assignment. You’re going to write that in the margin with your purple pen. But here’s the thing: we’ve read all these works about male-dominated
societies and oppressed women, and I think even in these existential works there’s a hint of it, and I wonder if the oppression of women doesn’t somehow contribute to the men’s despair? Women are never allowed to achieve their true place in the world, therefore the world is out of balance, or as
Hamlet would say, “Out of joint.” So here’s my theory: the men are despairing, existential, because of the very imbalance they created
.”
    This was way out there; it didn’t really make sense, but it was typical of Jessica’s writing — always asking, always reaching for ideas, never afraid to vocalize a thought. And some of the things she said, she wrote, bordered on genius. How had I never seen how gifted she was? Had I acknowledged her burgeoning feminism? Had I offered enough encouragement?
    “Who are the misogynistic friends, P.G. ?” I asked my dog, who had curled up on his seat.
    “Is this just a random assessment, or is this important?”
    Jessica’s journal was long and filled with the sort of intellectual ramblings that I had just read. The light was fading; I decided to finish reading at home. P.G. was obviously ready for some basket time, in any case.
    We drove through the dusky streets, leaving the city and returning to the very suburban aura of Pine Grove just a few blocks later. I parked in my usual spot, feeling a bit like a hamster in a maze.
Stay within the lines
. Was it Jessica’s journal that had me feeling that life was full of meaningless patterns?
    P.G. and I made our leisurely way into the building, pausing in the lobby to look at some magazines the mail carrier had deposited on the floor. “Not ours,” I murmured, and we boarded the elevator. P.G. got a kick out of the ride, and I was feeling lazy. We emerged on my floor, the third floor, and right away I knew something was wrong. It seems odd to say I felt it, but I did feel it — an unwelcome presence. A sense of incongruity. And when I moved down the hallway, brows furrowed, I saw the truth: my door was open. Not a lot; it was barely open at all. But when I went to put in my spare key, I realized that the door was ajar and unlocked. Someone was in my apartment.
    I froze; under pressure my brain had gone on vacation, and