"What do you say when people find out you're only in high school and don't actually go here?" my father asked.
"I get that out of the way. I tell them, 'I'm only in high school. I don't actually
matriculate
here. But I was born and raised on campus. They'll probably name a dorm after me when I die, which is quite a tribute because most buildings are named after rich people who donated big fortunes.'"
"It was a serious question," said my father. "I didn't need a facetious answer."
"Even more tricky," said my mother, "must be the question 'Will you be staying on for college?'"
"Not so tricky. I smile and say, 'I hope so.' Or 'If they let me.'"
"Did the Admissions people ask you to say that?"
"Not in so many words. But when I rehearsed in front of Mrs. Friedlander, she asked me that question—'Do you intend to stay here for college, miss?' It seemed pretty clear that the answer should be yes."
"What if a parent in your group taught in Brookline? Or was your guidance or college counselor? Do you want to leave the impression that you're aiming only as high as Dewing?" my father asked.
I said, "In the unlikely event that anyone from Brookline High shows up, I'll take them aside afterwards and tell him or her it was all public relations. I have no intention of staying here for college."
"We hate your lying," said my mother.
"Do you want me to quit my job—a job for which I hold the record for the youngest employee ever? Is that what you're trying to say?"
When they hesitated, I knew exactly what to invoke: principle. "Because you didn't raise me to be a quitter," I continued. "You want me to take on challenges and problem-solve. This is my first job, if you don't count babysitting and feeding Mrs. Knight's fish. I had to make it work, even if it involved a little creativity. Which I thank you for—my setting goals and not giving up."
For two such unadorned and allegedly vanity-proof parents, they were quite susceptible to flattery. They both looked a little dreamy, as if recalling heart-to-hearts that imbued me with my unwavering work ethic and cast-iron values.
My father beamed. "You stick with it," he said. "Every job has worth and dignity."
"No matter how seemingly thankless," said my mother.
"It's not like I'm cleaning toilets," I said.
A strategic mistake. I'd forgotten to pay lip service to the belief that all jobs, even if disgusting, were noble. "Never disparage anyone's occupation," intoned my father.
"I usually don't."
"It smacks of snobbery," said my mother.
"And elitism," said my father.
I said, "I'm no elitist. I'm just normal. Normal people know it's better to be a college professor than a chambermaid."
My mother put her hand over her heart and closed her eyes. The gesture meant either
Where did we go wrong?
or, more likely,
Power to our oppressed sisters toiling in the bowls of the rich.
L
ESS THAN A WEEK LATER
, Laura Lee French made the acquaintance of Marietta Woodbury. It wasn't at a table for two in Curran Hall, as I had envisioned, but on a tree-lined lane, recently paved with speed bumps, that bisected the campus. Mrs. Woodbury was at the wheel of her brand-new silver-mauve Cadillac, with Marietta sulking in the passenger seat. Laura Lee was walking down the middle of the road, not only holding her novel, but also reading it, the spine at eye level in the cartoon manner of a bookworm on parade. Mrs. Woodbury felt it was her duty to stop the car, lower her electric window, and say, "Miss? You're weaving while you're walking. This is a road. Wouldn't it be safer to walk on the grass? Or safest of all: not read while you walked?"
Laura Lee peered into the car and knew immediately who was dispensing advice. She said, in what I can only imagine was her silly-me, absent-minded-professor voice, "I'm so sorry. Did I scare you? I was a million miles from here. In a gulag, in fact"—she held up
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.
"Such are the perils of being a bookworm."
"Are you in our English Department?" asked Mrs. Woodbury.
If the question had been posed by a visiting parent, Laura Lee would certainly have said, "Why, yes. I teach Siberian literature.
Have you read Solzhenitsyn?" But she knew this was the First Lady of Dewing, and the sullen but rather stunning passenger was the First Daughter. "I'm Laura Lee French," she said, slipping her hand for a ladylike squeeze through the half-open window. "I'm the director of Ada Tibbets Hall"
"You'd better walk on the left so you can see the oncoming traffic," Mrs. Woodbury advised. "And save the reading for indoors."
"I'm hoping to have people over to Tibbets Hall very soon, a welcome party for all of us newcomers."
Mrs. Woodbury must not have grasped that a gracious response was called for. She murmured something like "I'm sure the students will enjoy that."
Marietta said sharply, "Ma. We're late."
Her mother's toe pressed the accelerator and the car shot away without, in Laura Lee's view, a proper good-bye and, simultaneously, exceeding the five-mile-per-hour campus speed limit. Mrs. Woodbury hadn't even projected a silent apology, a roll of the eyes or a tilt of the head to signal,
Excuse the scowling teenager.
Laura Lee reported that she was left by the side of the road like an undesirable hitchhiker, as the Caddy sped its way to Griggs Hall and waiting passenger Frederica Hatch.
As I slid into the back seat seconds later, Marietta said, "We just passed your best friend."
"Who's that?"
"The new housemother. The one you told me about."
"Is she a little batty?" asked Mrs. Woodbury.
I thought so but knew better than to agree with a negative evaluation that might end up in Laura Lee's personnel file. "What gave you that impression?" I asked.
"She had her nose in a book while walking up the middle of Longfellow Lane. And she appeared to be wearing a raccoon coat."
I said, "I haven't seen any raccoon coat yet, but I know she collects old clothes."
"October is hardly fur coat season," said Mrs. Woodbury. "I think it's a sign of schizophrenia when a person overdresses to that extent."
"October in New England can be chilly," I said. "In fact, they're predicting an overnight frost."
"Is she the one I'm supposed to look for at dinner?" Marietta asked.
I said, "Yes. Did you introduce yourself?"
"Didn't have to," said Marietta.
"And you're on friendly terms with her because she's a neighboring dorm parent?" asked Mrs. Woodbury.
I said yes. We ate together occasionally when my parents were busy.
"I've met your parents, haven't I?" she asked.
I said yes, and for good measure underscored that the doctors Hatch were not only dorm parents but also tenured faculty of long duration. Perhaps she remembered that they had marched in her husband's inaugural procession? In matching purple and white doctoral hoods? Or perhaps she'd noticed a round-shouldered middle-aged man on a bike, briefcase strapped with bungee cords to the rear fender? That was David Hatch.
"Do they have to live in a dorm?" asked Marietta.
I said no, it was their choice. They liked the convenience. And honestly? Who could wean themselves off free room and board? They wouldn't be good at living in a real house, having to shop and cook and call a plumber and buy light bulbs—
"They're hippies," Marietta informed her mother.
"We have a hippie," Mrs. Woodbury said pleasantly. "Our older daughter Monica. She wants to be a farmer after she gets her MSW."
"Good for her," I said.
"She thinks she has a good recipe for making cheese from goats," Mrs. Woodbury said.
I looked out the car window. Three tall Griggs Hall sophomores were walking single file, toes pointed, along Longfellow Lane. Three high-fashion umbrellas, red, pink, red striped, were raised to identical heights. "I think Laura Lee was a Rockette," I said.
"You think, or you
know?
" asked Marietta.
"I'm not positive. All I know is that she owns Rockette shoes."
"See?" said Mrs. Woodbury, patting her daughter's thigh. "Who said there were no interesting people at Dewing? Here we have someone who stepped down from a New York stage to share her experiences with the residents of ... which hall, Frederica?"
"Tibbets."
"Tibbets and beyond. The dancing certainly puts a different spin on that ratty coat."
"Why?" Marietta asked.
We had left campus and were at a traffic light. Mrs. Woodbury addressed me in the rearview mirror. "You know what I mean, don't you Frederica? Wardrobe department versus Salvation Army?"
I said, "Absolutely. She arrived here with her clothes in two big steamer trunks."
"Green light," Marietta barked.
Mrs. Woodbury edged forward in distracted maternal fashion. "I wonder if Eric knows that we have a retired Rockette in our midst?" she murmured.
I said, "Historically, the president of the college hasn't had much to do with dorm parents."
"I know Eric wants very much to change some of the preconceived notions about who fraternizes with whom. In fact, I think your parents may have expressed an opinion about that."
I said lightly, safely—Mrs. Woodbury didn't think me capable of irony—"Really? They're usually
so
supportive of the status quo."
"There's no reason why I couldn't plan something myself, an afternoon tea. Dr. Woodbury doesn't have to preside at every college function."
I said, "Laura Lee is planning some sort of get-together in Ada Tibbets Hall. We discussed it the other night at the library." I might have added, She loves the limelight. She wants everyone to know her and to admire her. She can show off her vintage shawl with missing fringe that purportedly belonged to Gypsy Rose Lee's sister, Dainty June.
"Does she still dance?" asked Mrs. Woodbury.
I said, "Not professionally."
"I wonder if our Dance Department knows."
I said, "Dewing doesn't have a dance department. We have two levels of modern dance, offered through Physical Education."
"How do you know this shit?" Marietta asked.
"Language," murmured her mother.
I said I was a substitute campus guide. We knew a lot of ... stuff.
"It won't be long before Marietta is just as well informed about our new home," Mrs. Woodbury said.
"Don't count on it," said Marietta.
"Imagine if you came here as a potential applicant, and the daughter of the president was your campus guide? Wouldn't that be something?" her mother asked.
"Not if it was me," said Marietta.
We were two blocks from Brookline High. Marietta, who didn't like being seen in next year's Caddy, or as someone too young to drive, said, "Pull over!"
"What for?" her mother asked.
"Just pull over. We'll walk from here."
"It's sprinkling," said her mother. "Let me get a little closer."
"This is fine," I said. "Thanks for the ride."
I had one foot on the curb when I heard Mrs. Woodbury say, "Tell me the name of the new housemother again."
"Laura Lee French."
"I took the girls every year to the Christmas show at Rockefeller Center when they were little. Do you remember, Marietta?"
Marietta had already closed the passenger door. I said, "I'm sure she remembers very fondly."
Marietta and I had walked up Sumner and turned onto Greenough before I asked, "Why is your mother so interested in Laura Lee's dancing career?"
"She's not," said Marietta. "She's jealous. Have you ever noticed my mother's ankles? She doesn't have any. She's obsessed with other women's legs. And what are Radio City Rockettes world-famous for?"
"Great legs," I said.
Therein lay the problem: Mrs. Woodbury's preoccupation with thick ankles, and Dr. Woodbury's unfortunate habit of pointing out better-turned sets to his wife. Marietta said it was incredibly stupid of him. Why couldn't a man with a paranoid wife learn to keep his mouth shut?
I said, "She doesn't seem paranoid."
"You didn't notice how the whole conversation turned into Rockette, Rockette, Rockette?"
"I didn't think it was
that
odd. People get excited about show business."
Conversation ended as soon as we passed through the double doors of the front entrance. "See ya," Marietta said, slowing down to her promenade pace, a signal that I should leave her unchaperoned.
"Game today," I said. I refrained from adding, "Home. Against Dedham. Which hasn't lost a game this season," because Marietta wasn't interested or listening. We were inside the building, and boys were walking past.
Since learning about my father's divorce, I'd become particularly interested in adultery among the unlikely. As best as I could observe, Dr. Woodbury exhibited no signs of anything improper that would explain his wife's apprehensions. Husband-wife tension hardly existed under my own roof, where much was made of freedom of expression. My harmless, gravy-spotted father could nudge my mother and note companionably, "Now
there's
a pretty girl," eliciting only a mild "yes" or "no" or "I can see why you'd say that, but I disagree."
Who better than David Hatch, in-house psychologist and administrative watchdog, with whom to discuss Mrs. Woodbury's low self-esteem? I visited during office hours, feigning a casual drop-in to his famously messy office in the old wing of Hogan Hall. The posters on his wall—yet to be identified by a single Dewing undergraduate—were black-and-white photographs of Erik Erikson, Sojourner Truth, and Eugene V. Debs. The visitor's chair had disappeared under manila files spewing union business, and the room smelled of bicycle chain lubricant and rotting fruit. David was on the phone when I arrived. He puckered his lips in a silent kiss and made a sweeping gesture that I interpreted as
Move the crap and have a seat.
I transferred the files to my lap and opened the top one, which argued the case of a female assistant professor (business math) allegedly denied tenure due to same-sex cohabitation. As soon as he got off the phone, I said, "Dad! This stuff shouldn't be lying around for the whole world to see. Now I know that Helene Lanoue is a lesbian."