Tell Me If the Lovers Are Losers (4 page)

It was as if the girl had materialized out of that rectangle of moonlight. From what Ann could see—white-blonde, curly hair covering the back of her head, the crescent edge of face beyond the hair, a tanned forearm extending from cotton pajamas—Hildegarde had the moon's colors. Curled in the privacy of sleep, she seemed also to have the moon's qualities, some untarnished mystery removed from the human sphere. Ann was surprised not to have awakened when the other entered the room. On the best of nights she slept lightly.

The sleeper rolled over, enabling Ann to study her face. Round and moonlike, broad cheeks, broad forehead, light eyebrows, a fine, narrow, straight nose. Her jawline was clear, strict. Her full lips were straight and stern, bearing not the
lightest trace of lipstick. The hand she could see looked large, long, strong, like the shape of the body under the covers.

Blue eyes opened wide, round blue eyes that moved without hesitation from sleep to awake and—in doing that—reorganized the face around them. It was a face framed for happy surprises, and the eyes beamed expectation. It was not a beautiful face, but it shone bright. Ann opened her mouth to apologize for staring. At the same time the girl put a silencing finger across her lips. she sat up and indicated that they might meet outside the doorway. Ann nodded agreement. Hildegarde got out of the door with an economy of movement Ann could not match. She had to find her robe and slippers, fish her toothbrush and soap out of the top drawer.

“Hildegarde Koenig,” the girl said, holding out her hand. She looked at Ann with a puzzled, squinting expression which Ann soon learned was her ordinary way when meeting strangers.

“Ann Gardner I've got to brush my teeth, first thing. I can't stand it until I do that. I was always that way. I don't know why. What time is it?”

“After six. Can we go downstairs?”

“You'll need something on your feet.”

Hildegarde bent down to two suitcases in the hallway. “I didn't want to wake you up when I came in. I'll dress in the bathroom.”

They sat on the front steps and watched the sky pinken into blue. They watched the Sunday morning world become illuminated, suffused with light.

Ann tucked her hands into the heavy wool sweater Hildegarde had given her. “What time did you get here?” Ann asked.

“Two, I think. It was beautiful, that drive up from Philadelphia. In Dakota the land is flat. At least, so it is where I live.”

“Where
do
you live?”

“In North Dakota, in the central part of the state. You wouldn't know the name of the town.”

“Why were you so late? Was there an accident?”

The girl shook her head. “Oh no. I missed the bus.”

“In Philadelphia?” Ann knew how poor the service was into the Northeast Section from Philadelphia.

“Oh no. There would have been little harm in that, only a few hours' delay. I missed the bus at Mitchell where there is only one bus a day. Once I got to Chicago, however, I could make up much of the time. So I was only delayed by half a day, at the end.”

“You took a bus here? All the way?”

“Of course. It is too expensive to fly, and the trains are inconvenient until you reach Chicago. At that time, I could have switched to a train, but my bus ticket had a special discount because I was traveling such distances.”

“How long did it take?”

“Two days. The buses can travel at night, while you sleep. If you care to sleep.”

“Didn't you?”

“Not the first night. I am interested in the stars.”

“I know. You're taking Astronomy. And Biology.”

“How would you know that?”

“Classes start tomorrow, you remember?” Hildegarde nodded. “Well, the Dean's office called to ask Niki—she's our other roommate—and me to pick up your books yesterday at the bookstore. So you'd have them on Monday, for the classes.”

“I thank you,” Hildegarde said.

“We got everything we thought you'd need,” Ann continued. “Notebooks, a few pencils, and I have extra pens if you use those. We got everything they had on the list for you, and a couple of extras. Niki said you might want graph paper and a compass.”

“I thank you,” the girl said again. Her attention turned to the morning before them. Ann looked at her face for a minute before turning her own attention to the sky. She thought she would like this roommate, strange as she might prove to all of Ann's experience. She liked the stiff way Hildegarde talked, as if she weighed every word before she spoke it. Ann yawned comfortably. The girl's eyes squinted toward the chapel across the street, at the houses lining the road, and down to the small village that lay at the end of the college road; then she looked up toward the distant hills. Hildegarde rubbed her eyes with her large hands, with her strong fingers. “In the cities,” she said, “you can't see the stars at night. Did you know that?”

“I live in Philadelphia,” Ann said. “When we go to the
shore in the summer, that's one of the things that surprises me every year The stars.”

“The seashore?”

“Yes. Does your family call you Hildegarde?” to change the subject.

“It is my name.” The first car of the morning traveled down the road before the dormitory. Ann watched it. Hildegarde cocked an ear at it but did not move her eyes from Ann's face. “Do you mean a nickname?”

Ann nodded.

“Hildy.”

Ann turned and smiled, “I like that.”

Hildegarde—Hildy, did not smile back. That was a curious moment: Ann was accustomed to having her smile returned. Hildy's face did not respond; her blue eyes were friendly still, her expression was open and eager, she simply did not return the smile, as if she could not see it.

“It is a good name for a cow,” Hildy said. Then she did smile, to show large, even teeth. “And so for me, as you see.” Ann took in her deep-breasted, strong-limbed body, in a cotton dress and heavy sweater. “As for all women.”

“What?”

“For nursing our babies,” Hildy explained.

“Oh,” Ann said, unable to comprehend, not from ignorance but from something deeper, inexperience perhaps. “The babies I've met take bottles.”

“Not mine.” Hildy's voice was proud.

“You certainly plan ahead.”

“It isn't so long,” Hildy said. “In older times, we would already be mothers, more than once, at our age.”

“That would be terrible,” Ann said.

“You don't want babies?”

“I don't know. I haven't thought about it. I'm too young to think about that yet. Why”—in a burst of honesty—“I haven't even met a man I want to sleep with.”

“Ah well then,” Hildy said. “I can understand.”

Ann did not ask the questions that were in her mind. Instead she remarked, “The Egyptians thought of the world as flat, and the sky above was represented as a cow with her”—what was the proper word to use here?—“udders hanging down over the earth.”

There was a moment of silence broken by the low, mellow notes of the chapel bells, calling. Hildy spoke again. “Do you go to church this morning?”

“No,” Ann said.

“You can smell the trees in the air here, and the water.”

“The water? We're miles from the ocean.”

“No, the moisture in the air. It is less so where I live, because there are so few trees I think.”

“Will you go to church?”

“Yes. It is convenient here. At home, we must drive an hour. Often it is impossible to take the time to go.”

“You live in the country?”

Hildy laughed, a sound as round and golden as the bells' ringing. “Yes, yes. My father has a farm where he grows wheat and alfalfa. All around us are farms and ranches. Many many acres. And the reservation, which lies between our farm and the town. I live very much in the country.”

“Then how did you come here? to Stanton I mean.”

“Oh, that was good fortune. I learned of Stanton at my school. There was a woman at my school, a friend, who taught us P.E., who told me I might like it and had recommended books to read. She was a good friend, so I took her advice. I didn't know how I would like the mountains, but now I am here I think they too will be good.”

Ann's experience of coaches had taught her to disregard their opinions about anything other than sports. “Your coach told you about Stanton? And recommended books? What books?”

“Histories, novels, scientists—Maeterlinck, Jane Austen, Herodotus.”

“You've read Herodotus?”

“Only in translation. I thought of taking Greek as one of my courses, but there was no time to do it.”

“I'm taking it,” Ann said.

“Then you can teach me some? A little?”

“I don't know how I'll do, but sure, that would be fun,” Ann said. “I've taken Latin for years.”

“I also.”

“That's terrific,” Ann said, and meant it. “How far did you get? Who have you translated?” Any school where the P.E. teacher recommended Herodotus must have one whale of a set of academic standards.

“We had begun Caesar.”

“How many years did you take it?”

“All four.”

“And only got as far as Caesar?” Ann apologized: “I'm sorry if I'm being rude. Am I being rude?”

Hildy shook her head, no. “Our school is poor. Our students are poor.”

“But the coach, the P.E. woman—”

“I see what is confusing you. She is an Indian. She would not be hired to teach an academic subject, not to white children. It was fortunate that she had also studied physical education.”

“Why?”

“She has three children to support, and her man.”

“Her husband doesn't work?”

“She is not married. Two of the children are her own, one is of her younger sister.”

Ann put all that into her own frame of reference, “A common-law wife.”

“No, no. She does not want to be a wife. Not to the man who will marry her.”

“I don't understand,” Ann said. “What about the children? They have to have a father.”

“Of course. The father is this man who lives with her If she were to marry him, he would gain rights over her and over the children. So she will not marry him, for her own sake. And for the sake of the children. She has the chance to make them free if she does not marry. She educates them. If he interferes, she drives him out. When he drinks too much, or threatens to beat them, or take them back to the reservation, she sends him away.”

“And he doesn't work.” Ann assimilated this piece of information. “Then why does she keep on with him?”

“A woman needs a man,” Hildy said. She peered into Ann's face. “It must be strange to you.”

“Very strange.” Ann thought about it. “Sad. Our roommate, Niki, comes from California.”

Hildy's face lit up. “I am glad,” she said.

A more distant bell tolled. Hildy looked up at the sound. “I must go now. If I go to a seven-thirty service, I can be back in time for breakfast.”

“Are you Catholic?” Ann asked. “Or Protestant.” There was a pretty little Episcopal Church near the Inn. She had noticed it yesterday.

“Neither,” Hildy said. “I am nothing. I just worship.” She stood and dusted off the back of her skirt. “Will you be at breakfast? Will Niki be there too? I am eager to meet her. To meet everyone. I am eager to begin this year, aren't you?”

Ann smiled and, once again, the smile was not returned. “See you,” Ann said. Hildy raised a hand and turned to walk down the hill to the village. She walked easily, her legs loose and her back straight, as if she could walk miles without tiring. Ann watched her progress, her mind drifting over their conversation. Curiouser and curiouser. The most curious thing was Ann's own reaction to her. She had met the girl without self-consciousness. As you meet a tree, Ann thought, that stands tall and strong, that roots deep into the earth. As you meet something that is entirely itself, and deeply is. An oak or a white birch or a sycamore.

Wondering what to do until breakfast, Ann recalled the magazine that the Munchkin had mentioned. She had yet to look at it, although she'd seen copies of it in some of the rooms she'd visited the night before. Gathering the skirt of her robe tight around her hips, she went back inside.

The living room of the dormitory had a sense of spaciousness, a large, open room, with sofas and wing chairs. Lamps stood on the floor; tables were set before two sofas. The curtains had a rosy-red color, splotched with yellow flowers. From one coffee table, Ann took a copy of the yellow-covered magazine that was titled simply “Stanton College: 1965.” The date gave her temporary pause, until she realized that it was their graduation date, the name of their class, too far away to consider real.

Ann pulled back one of the long curtains and curled her legs under her in an armchair. Sunlight fell across the pages of the magazine.

It was not in alphabetical order, but in some other order, the design of which she could not perceive. She flipped pages. The entries appeared to divide about equally between word and picture. Poems and graphic art were most common. Her eye was caught by a photograph that had a page to itself.

Photographed in black and white was a lunch counter Six
people, four men and two women, sat eating. A waitress had her back to the camera. The cook looked at the photographer. The diners, two blacks, four whites, were all hunched over their plates, as if to protect their meals. Their faces, two young, three middle-aged, one old, were closed off, eyes fixed on food or fork. Mouths were open to receive food; hands gripped utensils. There may have been hunger; there was no pleasure. The waitress, large and black, stood on one leg, her shoulders heavy, her uniform tight over fat hips, her neck angled as if in a last exhausted effort to withstand blows. The cook wielded a spatula, his smooth Oriental face placid except for dark, almond-shaped eyes. Of them all, only he suggested movement, the possibility of change, despite the stained white apron strapped around his slight frame. His eyes, the center of the photograph, were deep and dark in his face. Holding the capacity to dream? Or to hate? He stared out of the picture.