Authors: KATHY
The sniffs I get from the ink of the women are always fey, old-hat, Quaintsy, Gaysy, tiny, too dykily psychotic, crippled, creepish fashionable, frigid, outer-Baroque, maquille in mannequin's whimsey, or else bright and stillborn.
Norman Mailer,
Advertisements for Myself,
1959
KAREN
had spoken
at a number of luncheon meetings. This wasn't the first time she had toyed with the idea of starting a protest movement. Serving the food before the speech might suit the audience, but it was sheer hell for the speaker. If she didn't dribble salad dressing down her front or spill coffee onto her skirt while making genteel conversation with her neighbors, she might get a scrap of lettuce or spinach caught between her teeth, with no hope of extracting it genteelly before she was introduced. If she ate too much she ran the risk of emitting what some Victorian writer had called "an unseemly sound of repletion" in the middle of a sentence.
In this case Karen wasn't tempted to overeat. The entree was creamed chicken and peas, just as Peggy had predicted. The gluey mass rested in and on a patty shell so flaky it exploded like a grenade whenever she cut into it. At least she wasn't pilloried on a podium, in full view of the audience. There had not been time for the "little chat" with Mrs. Fowler. The old lady hadn't been ready at eleven; she had dithered and fussed and misplaced hat, gloves, and purse for over forty-five minutes. They had barely made it to the restaurant on time.
Mrs. F. sat at Karen's right; the Colonel, in his capacity of vice president of the organization, was on her left. Peggy was across the table.
She had not mentioned her intention of attending, no doubt because she knew Karen would object; she had simply turned up, in full uniform— gloves, heels, fluttering skirts—except for the hat, which, she admitted, was more trouble than it was worth.
Bill Meyer was not at their table. He was present, however. "I wouldn't miss it for the world," he had assured Karen, when they met by chance outside the door of the restaurant. She had managed not to call him a rude name.
Dessert consisted of cheesecake with cherry topping. Glancing at Karen's serving, from which she had taken two small courtesy bites, Mrs. Fowler smiled and patted her hand. "Don't be nervous, dear. This is quite an intellectual audience, but I'm sure you'll do just fine."
The kindly reassurance might have been partially responsible for what happened, but at the time Karen wasn't aware of feeling anything except mild irritation and amusement. Bored and impatient, but not at all nervous, she sat through Mrs. Fowler's introduction—which described her as a distinguished lady scholar—and took her place at the reading stand amid a spatter of applause. Then, as was her habit, she looked over the audience before beginning to speak.
A few familiar faces: Peggy's, set in a sardonic but sympathetic smile, Bill Meyer, grinning in a way that made Karen want to slap him, Lisa Fairweather . . . What was she doing here? She hadn't returned Karen's calls. Catch her before she leaves, Karen thought, and introduce her to Peggy . . . Tanya, the librarian. There were only four dark faces in the room, all at the same table.
The faces of Mrs. Fowler and the Colonel blended into the mass. With a few exceptions most of them might have been blood relatives, not because of a particular physical resemblance but because they bore the same stamp of complacency. Well-fed, well-dressed, warm and comfortable, they now awaited the confirmation of their own self-satisfied sense of intellectual superiority. Half of them would doze off before it was over. The other half wouldn't understand what she was talking about.
It felt like a sudden rush of water pouring into a container, filling something that had been empty before, rising from feet to body to throat till it overflowed her parted lips—anger, cold as melted snow, consuming
as flame. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before, but it was not alien. It felt . . . right. Clearing her throat, she said, slowly and deliberately, "The Pen as Penis."
She paused, expecting a gasp of collective outrage from the audience. There was no sound at all. The faces that stared back at her were like masks, unblinking, frozen. She saw Peggy clap her hand over her mouth.
"In 1886 Gerard Manley Hopkins—he was a poet, by the way—wrote, in a letter to a friend, 'The Male quality is the creative gift.' Ruskin— I'm sure you've all heard of Ruskin—was more direct. He described the 'Penetrative Imagination' as a 'piercing mind's tongue.'
"This image of the male quality, symbolized by the male member, as the only true source of literary and artistic creativity permeated nineteenth-century criticism and nineteenth-century attitudes.
"It is such an obvious pun, such a childishly irresistible symbol, that modern critics have been unable to abandon it. A book review that appeared in
The New York Times
in 1976 remarked that women writers 'lack that blood-congested genital drive which energizes every great style.' Well, of course they do, don't they? Castrated by nature, lacking that essential instrument, they are by definition incapable of originality or a great style. Another critic, writing a decade later, employs an even more emphatic metaphor. Creativity, he says, arises from 'the use of the phallic pen on the pure space of the virgin page.' That metaphor certainly excludes women writers; it makes literature a variety of rape."
Two women at a table near the door pushed their chairs back and stood up. Their faces were crimson with rage or embarrassment, or a blend of the two. Karen half expected they would rush at her, swinging their big black purses like clubs. Instead they turned as one and stamped out of the room.
Karen's eyes moved coolly over the faces of the audience. Most were the same angry shade as those of the defectors, and their expressions were equally outraged. No one else left the room, though. They're waiting to hear more dirty words, Karen thought. I mustn't disappoint them.
"But what, you may ask," she went on, "does all this have to do with Jane Austen? According to certain giants of criticism, her novels are not worthy of inclusion in the lofty canon of true literature. They lack— and I quote—'a strong male thrust.' "
The paralysis that had held the Colonel immobile snapped; his face
swelled like a big red balloon and he leaned toward Mrs. Fowler, muttering in her ear. Across the table Peggy sat quietly, hands folded, eyes fixed on Karen's face. Meyer's face was equally impassive, but the corners of his mouth were quivering.
The lecture was one Karen had given on several occasions, tailoring it, as experienced speakers do, to the particular audience. The only concession she made to this audience was that of simplification. They wouldn't have recognized the names of the modem critics she had quoted, so she didn't mention them. She gave them Jane from a feminist perspective—the subtle digs at male vanity, the cynical resignation of women who were passed from one male guardian to the next, without independence or legal identity—and ended by quoting one of Jane's few overt protests against masculine domination. "Men have had every advantage of us in telling their story . . . The pen has been in their hands."
She didn't have to belabor the point. Dirty old man, she thought, smiling sweetly at the Colonel, whose complexion had darkened from crimson to purple. With a polite "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," she gathered up her unused notes.
An isolated outburst of applause drew her eyes to Bill Meyer. He was on his feet, clapping enthusiastically.
"I can't imagine what came over me," Karen repeated for the tenth time.
They were in Peggy's room at the hotel—"hiding out," as Peggy put it. Karen had collapsed onto the bed, her head in her hands.
Peggy got her amusement under control and wiped her eyes. "Well, you sure took care of Mrs. Fowler. She won't be sticking any more cute little notes under your door. And you gave me the thrill of a lifetime. I haven't enjoyed myself so much since . . . Never mind. Stop berating yourself; it was worth it, even if you did antagonize the old lady."
"Oh, I don't regret giving them a taste of feminist criticism." Karen raised her head and gave Peggy a defiant look. "Those quotations speak for themselves; all you have to do is hear them to realize how absurd and unfair and
silly
they are. It isn't what I said that bothers me—it's the way I said it. Not only was it counterproductive, it was rude! Those poor stupid pompous people can't help being the way they are. They were trying to be nice to me. And what gives me the right to assume they
are all stupid and pompous? Am I turning into a damned intellectual snob? I could have got the point across without going out of my way to offend them."
"You could have, but it wouldn't have been as much fun."
Karen groaned and hid her face in her hands. "I sounded like Bill Meyer," she mumbled.
"He loved every word," Peggy said. "I was watching him."
"Thanks, that's just what I needed to hear."
Peggy said nothing. Karen sat up with a sigh. "Ah, well. I made a mistake. I regret it, I'll try not to repeat it, but I'm not going to brood about it or go into hiding."
"Are you going to apologize to Mrs. F. ?"
"No. That would imply that I'd done it on purpose. Seems to me my best defense is innocent unawareness of wrongdoing. They claim to be a literary society, don't they? I paid them the compliment of speaking to them as if they really were."
"You're probably right," Peggy said. "It's a minor tempest in a very small teapot, after all. There was no lasting harm done." Smiling, she added, "Look at it as a symbol of how far women have come. A hundred years ago they'd have ostracized you. Two hundred years ago—"
" 'Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart, By the women of Marblehead.' "
"Is that a quote? Sounds familiar."
"It's a poem, by Whittier," Karen said abstractedly. "It was old Floyd Ireson they tarred and feathered—for his hard heart."
"They didn't tar and feather uppity women, even then."
"No, they just exiled them into the wilderness, like Anne Hutchinson, or hanged them as witches, or ducked them till they drowned, or—"
"Enough of this," Peggy said firmly. "I'm going to change out of this ridiculous outfit and then we are going to pay a business call. Lisa Fairweather has agreed to let me inspect the rest of the family papers."
"Lisa?" Karen repeated in surprise. "When did you talk to her?"
"Before your speech. Bill introduced us, and then tactfully withdrew. I'm beginning to think he really has reformed."
"The hell with him, I don't want to talk about him. That's good news, Peggy."
Peggy pulled a blouse and skirt off their hangers and headed for the
bathroom. "I'm not counting on any great discoveries, but it's a loose end we have to tie up. Be with you in a minute. Have a drink while you're waiting."
"No, thanks."
Karen sat unmoving, her hands limp in her lap. Peggy was one hundred percent right; the incident had been a tempest in a teapot. Even if Bill Meyer reported it to their colleagues, it would arouse mild amusement in some quarters, and enthusiastic commendation in others—the quarters whose approval meant most to her. So why did it bother her so much?
There had been no alien intrusion into her mind that day, no eerie sense of another voice speaking with her tongue. The voice had been her own, amplified ... by what? Anger, vast and uncontrolled. And hate. For an hour-long interval she had hated those poor silly people. And she had felt the hatred hidden behind their smiling masks, even before she started to speak.
She couldn't get the image out of her head—the image of a mob, out of control and bent on violence. Peggy was mistaken. Women—fallen women, prostitutes—had been tarred and feathered and run out of town as recently as a hundred years ago; Mark Twain mentioned it in
Huck
Finn.
Huck had seen the King and the Duke being ridden out of town by such a mob. "They didn't look like nothing in the world that was human," he had said, adding, "Human beings can be awful cruel to one another."
Lisa's apartment was in a new development on the outskirts of town. The buildings looked like thousands of others in thousands of other towns across the country: rectangular blocks of brick, with minuscule balconies and neat conventional landscaping. Karen knew the style; she lived in a building very much like Lisa's. Even in this peaceful country town security had become a problem. They had to ring from the lobby before the inner door unlocked.
Neat and slim in well-cut pants, her hair tied at the nape of her neck with a bow, Lisa greeted them at the door of the apartment. A blast of cold air issued from the living room; she had the air-conditioning on full. The living room looked just about as Karen had expected: a few hanging plants, a few good prints, a conservative muted color scheme
of oatmeal and brown. The only unexpected feature was an Oriental rug, its blend of peacock blues and greens exquisitely faded by time.
"That came from Amberley," Lisa explained. "It's not very attractive, but I needed something on the floor; it's in my lease. And carpeting is so expensive."
"It's Turkish or Kashan," Peggy said. "Antique."
"I haven't decided yet whether to put it in the sale," Lisa said. "I'm told it's rather valuable and it sure doesn't go with my other things. But I'm forgetting my manners. Please sit down. Could I offer you a cup of tea or a glass of wine?"
Peggy accepted the latter and Karen followed her lead. She wondered whether Lisa would mention her speech. She had no intention of introducing the subject herself.
After they had discussed the weather and admired the apartment, Lisa said politely, "I enjoyed your speech today."
"Thank you," said Karen politely.
Peggy's method of breaking the ice was to use a club. "I'll bet that reaction wasn't universal," she said with a laugh.
Lisa's faint social smile broadened. "Not hardly. The Colonel was fit to be tied. I heard him tell Miz Fowler she ought to evict you."
"That would be a nuisance," Karen said calmly. "But I can always find another place."
"Oh, she won't." Lisa's pretty lip curled. "She's like all the other old folks, always talking about honor and dignity, but when her principles come up against cold hard cash, guess which loses. She needs money. Like all the rest of us."
Peggy's methods seemed to be effective; Lisa was speaking more candidly than she ever had to Karen. "Including Cameron?" Peggy asked.
"Especially Cam. He's as anxious to get out of this hick town as I am. Why do you suppose he's dirtying his nice clean hands fixing up the house? The minute he gets enough money to stick his mama in a nursing home, he'll be gone."
"Oh, is his mother ill? I'm so sorry," Peggy exclaimed.
"She's not sick, she's just old and senile. The only places that will take people like that cost a bundle." Lisa dismissed the subject with a shrug. "But I'm boring you with all this gossip—"
"No, not at all," Peggy said sincerely. "I hope the auction is a great success and that you make lots of money."
"So do I," Lisa said with equal sincerity. She gestured. "There are the boxes of papers you wanted to see. Cam refused to put them in the auction and I didn't argue, because I didn't suppose they were worth much. Have a look if you like. I trust you to do what's fair."
She sat watching, ankles crossed and hands primly folded, while the other two inspected the contents of the two cartons. It was a dirty job; the envelopes and albums had been given a superficial dusting, but they were encrusted with the mold and grime of decades. Karen didn't doubt that Lisa had already inspected them thoroughly.
It took Peggy less than half an hour to reach a conclusion. She sat back on her heels and shook her head.
"Nothing that interests you?" Lisa asked.
"I'm afraid not. There doesn't seem to be anything earlier than the turn of the century. This century. There's no reason why you should take my word for it—"
"There's no reason why I shouldn't." Lisa uncrossed her ankles and put her feet primly together. "I could see by your expression that nothing hit you. Mr. Meyer's reaction was the same."
Peggy began returning the dusty bundles and old photo albums to the cartons. "The old boy was certainly a pack rat, wasn't he? He even kept newspaper clippings and advertisements. Some people collect those things, I believe. And old photo albums."
Lisa nodded, but did not reply. When the cartons had been repacked, Peggy rose stiffly to her feet. "Damned arthritis," she muttered.
"I'm sorry you didn't find anything," Lisa said. "Would you like another glass of wine?"
"No, thanks, we've taken up enough of your time."
Karen had remained silent, feeling it was better to let Peggy handle the matter. She wasn't as good as Peggy at hiding her feelings, and at the moment her feelings for Lisa were not especially friendly.
Lisa escorted them to the door. "Will I see you at the auction?" she asked.
Peggy nodded. "I don't suppose there was a family Bible?"
They were like a pair of duelists, Karen thought, thrusting and parrying.
Lisa pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. "I don't remember offhand. It might be among the books. They'll be sold Saturday."
As soon as they were outside, Peggy let out a crow of triumph. "One up for me. She's a tricky little devil, though. By this time she must have a pretty good idea of what we're after, and she's going to milk us for all she can get. And I doubt she'll share with Cousin Cameron."
"You think there is a Bible?"
"Yes. And I don't think it is among the books that will be sold."
They got in the car, and Peggy looked distastefully at her grubby hands. "I need to wash. I'd have asked Lisa if I could use her bathroom, but somehow I got the impression she wasn't crazy about having us hang around."
"Maybe she's got a date tonight—with another prospective customer. I still think she and Bill are in cahoots."
"But she doesn't trust him, so she's getting a second opinion from us? Could be. She didn't expect us to find anything in that lot. I'll bet she's got more enticing material squirreled away."
"Those boxes were full," Karen said. "There wouldn't have been room in them for much else."
"But how many boxes were there?"
After a moment Karen said, "There's one way to find out."
"Cameron."
"Right." She turned onto Main Street. It was lined with handsome, carefully restored old houses. Some were antebellum, with the classical porticoes and white columns of that era; others displayed the sprawling extravagance of Victoriana, with towers and verandas and yards of gingerbread trim.
Karen brought the car to a stop at a traffic light. Peggy wiped the perspiration off her face with the back of her hand. "Haven't you got air-conditioning?"
"There's no point in turning it on. We're almost there."
Peggy grunted critically but did not pursue the point. "Is that the main library?"
"The one and only. And that," Karen said, "is the librarian."
The light changed and traffic began to move, but not before Tanya had seen them. She bared all her teeth in a broad grin and raised a clenched fist. Karen waved.
"One supporter," Peggy said. "Do you know her?"
"Slightly. I checked out the library first thing. There's nothing there."
"You sure you don't want to go to my place?" Peggy inquired delicately.
"No. I want to change out of this ladylike ensemble. And I'm not going to sneak in after dark."
Mrs. Fowler was sitting on the porch. She held a piece of embroidery, but when they caught sight of her, her eyes were fixed on the street. Karen had slowed to make the turn into the driveway; moved by an irresistible impulse, she put her arm out the window and waved vigorously. She slowed even more, waiting for a response, but there was none; Mrs. Fowler sat like a statue and glared like Medusa.
"That is not a happy person," said Peggy, chuckling. "But I guess she doesn't intend to confront you directly. Maybe she's left you one of her little notes."
"Or sent an emissary?" Someone was sitting on the bottom step, his head bent over a book. Hearing the car he looked up and rose to his feet. Karen went on, "He arranged for me to rent the place; if she wants me out, she'd likely get him to do the dirty work."
Cameron didn't look like the bearer of bad news. After greeting Karen he hurried to open the car door for Peggy, who had remained in her seat looking particularly demure. "I hope you haven't been waiting long," she murmured, accepting the hand he offered and stepping more or less gracefully out of the car.
"Only a few minutes. I was just about to leave a note." He flourished the object he had been reading—not a book, a thick sheaf of papers. "I thought you might like to see the auction catalog. I just got a copy myself."
"And you brought it straight to us? How sweet!"
"I do appreciate it," Karen said. Cameron seemed to be enjoying the byplay, but Peggy was inclined to overdo her performance. "Come in, if you have time."
He accepted readily. As she preceded the other two up the stairs, Karen wondered if it was the presence of a chaperone that had made him agree to an invitation he had been reluctant to accept before. Peggy would love that idea. She'd probably go all out for the role of duenna, nodding and smiling in a rocking chair, with a wad of knitting on her lap.
Propped against the door was a large white box. For one insane moment Karen thought Mrs. Fowler had been there to leave, not a note, but a bomb or some less theatrical demonstration of disapproval. Peggy identified it at once. "Someone's sent you flowers," she exclaimed, lifting the top to display a bouquet of tulips, daffodils and ferns nestled in green tissue paper.
"Not I," Cameron said, frowning. "I didn't even come up the stairs."
Leaving Peggy to carry the flowers, Karen got her key out and opened the door. She had a strong suspicion as to the identity of the sender, so she let Peggy lift the container out of the box and search for a card. "Well, well," said Peggy. "Guess who."
"Bill Meyer, I suppose."
"Right on the mark. He says, 'With heartfelt admiration and deep respect.' "
"I take it," said Cameron, "that you and Dr. Meyer are no longer at odds?"
Wooden and stiff as a cigar-store Indian, he stood in the doorway.
"We are certainly not collaborating," Karen said. "I don't know what he hopes to gain by ... Oh, never mind. Come in, Cameron, and sit down. Please."
"How about a drink?" Peggy asked. "All we've got to offer is Scotch, I'm afraid; Karen's no drinker. It's one of the few flaws in her character. Oh, come on, you wouldn't let a lady drink alone, would you?"
Cameron lowered himself cautiously into a chair and Karen excused herself. When she returned, cleaner and cooler in loose shirt and slacks, the others were looking over the auction list. She was in time to hear Peggy exclaim in tones of deep disgust, "Silver dollars, Indian-head pennies, stamp collection, Meissen figurines . . . Was there anything he didn't collect?"
"Not if it was cheap. You should have seen the place; every room was crammed with junk. There were stacks of old magazines and newspapers, from the present time all the way back to the twenties. Most worthless, unfortunately, because they are in such poor condition." Absently Cameron rubbed a patch of red, roughened skin on his cheek. It looked like poison ivy. "On the other hand, he kept everything he'd inherited, which included some good things. The Meissen was his mother's, and there's a lot of old silver."
"Some wheat among the chaff," Peggy muttered, scanning the list.
"A lot more chaff than wheat. That's why I handed the whole mess over to Jack Wickett. He's reputed to be honest, and it required more expertise than I possess to weed out the junk. I was surprised he kept so much of it, but he tells me some people collect anything."
"Correct. Barbed wire, soft-drink bottles, license plates . . . Yep, here they are on the list, along with old clothes, linens, paintings, books." Peggy turned over the last sheet. "I want to have a look at this stuff, Cameron. At my leisure, before the public viewing."
"I could arrange that, I guess. Jack is giving other people the same privilege."
"Including Bill Meyer?" Karen asked.
"If he requests it, there's no reason why I should refuse, is there? It's to my advantage to have you two bidding against each other."
So that was why he had appeared annoyed at the suggestion that she and Bill were on good terms. "You're right," she said, in a voice as cool as his had been.
"I'll call Jack and let you know." Cameron got up. "Keep the list if you like; I can get another. Oh—I almost forgot. I've found a couple of guys who will dig out that ruin in the woods if you're still interested."
"I'm interested," Peggy said. "Not before next week, though."
"Let me know the day and I'll have them there."
"What's your hurry?" Peggy asked amiably. "We're going out to dinner before long; care to join us?"
"I'm afraid I can't. Thanks anyway."
"Scared to be seen in public with the person who scandalized the haut monde today?"
Again Peggy's sledgehammer tactics had the desired effect. Cameron's face registered shock and then reluctant amusement. He leaned against the door, hands in his pockets. "I hope you don't think I'm that much of a social coward."
"You heard about the speech, then," Karen said.
"Miz Fowler was on the phone as soon as she got home," Cameron admitted. "I found three messages on my answering machine."
"So you rushed over here to defuse the situation," Peggy said. "How gallant."
Cameron shifted his shoulders and looked uncomfortable. "I was going to bring the list over anyhow. Miz Fowler was lying in wait for me. She gave me an earful, all right. But she never had any intention of kicking you out, if that's what you're afraid of."
" 'Afraid' is hardly the word," Karen said sharply.
"I beg your pardon." He straightened and took his hands out of his pockets. "It was the wrong word. As I pointed out to her, you can easily find another apartment, and I have a feeling that her disapproval isn't going to worry you much. That's all she can do—disapprove."