The Gate to Women's Country (50 page)

Faye erupted in outrage, saying the judges must all be Humbert Humberts, like in Nabokov's book
Lolita
, the one that had been banned, and Jessamine started to tell them something about herself but then broke off, very pale, and ran for the bathroom. Ophy told about her father's not wanting to pay for her education even though he could afford it, and how her mom had to go to court to make him do it, and Carolyn picked up the true confessions, tipsily telling them about Albert. Somehow she got off onto Hal's infectious grin and warm brown eyes. She couldn't put him out of her mind, she said, which wouldn't do, of course. Catholics did not get divorces or break up other people's homes. Neither did Crespins. In any case, she, Carolyn, was already promised to Albert…

“Who promised you?” Faye asked, jeering. “I don't remember your saying you promised you.”

Carolyn paused woozily, trying to remember who had promised her to Albert “I don't know,” she confessed with a pixilated giggle. “He's just… he's always been there. I don't want Albert, but I guess I think I will want Albert, because everyone always tells me I'll want Albert.”

“You know what they're doing to you, don't you?” Faye
asked, her voice slurred velvet, furry at the edges from the punch they'd all drunk. “They're cutting and pasting you, Caro-line. They're taking everything that pleasures you and cutting it off. There's a thing they do to girls in Africa, cutting off they little clits so they can't ever get any pleasure there. It's a mutilation. Maybe yours dohn hurt so much right now, but it's the same thing. That's what they're doing to you. Mutilation.”

The word was only a word, but it stayed with Carolyn like a mantra. She told herself later it was just that she was drunk, very un-Crespinly drunk, so drunk she hadn't even been offended by Faye's vulgar language, but it wasn't only that. It was true. The aunts were trying to mutilate her, and so was Albert. It was a revelation. Damn the aunts. Damn Albert.

The conversation went on to other things, and during all of it Sophy listened and listened, very much, Carolyn thought, like an anthropologist in a native encampment, her ears positively quivering.

“Where were you brought up?” Carolyn asked her during a lull in the conversation.

“Oh, here and there,” Sophy said, flushing a little. “Nowhere in particular.”

“Country or city?”

“Oh, country! Yes, very rural, my people. My upbringing was all very ordinary and dull, really. Farm life is very much the same from day to day. That's why I'm so excited about being here, learning all your stories.”

“Our stories?” Carolyn laughed. “We don't even have stories.”

“Oh, you do! You've been telling them tonight! I want to hear everything, all about you, all about women everywhere….”

She gave a similar answer every time they asked about her. Sometimes she looked uncomfortable, sometimes she smiled, but she never said anything definite. Carolyn thought she was probably part European, part Native American, or even South American, basing that idea on the panpipes Sophy sometimes played—a very Andean instrument. Jessamine remarked that Sophy played the drum, too, which was Indian or maybe Asian. They asked Agnes, who, being Sophy's roommate, should know, but Agnes only shrugged. “She won't tell me. She meditates sometimes, usually early in the morning. She says she's invoking a guardian spirit, but that's all she'll say.”

In anyone else it would have been infuriating. In anyone else it would have led to suspicion, or ill feeling. In Sophy it was part of her charm. Her drumming and piping were mysterious, her meditative exercises unfathomable, but they were part of Sophy, whom they loved, even though they did not understand her. They particularly did not understand why Sophy was constantly so troubled over men.

The defining incident happened in early November. Despite Faye's marvelous voice, she wanted a career in art, not music, and even so early in her studies she visualized things as artworks. This defining incident was remembered as a painting—perhaps of the Dutch or Flemish school, dramatically sidelit:
Interior with Figures.
The interior was the room that she and Sophy shared, full of the golden light of an autumn afternoon, amber sun-fingers reaching toward dark corners and along dusky walls. The figures were themselves: Carolyn crouched on the window seat, the slanting light making a ruddy aureole of her hair, the dorm cat sprawled bonelessly across her lap. Faye herself, wild hair bushing upward, walnut skin, eyes glittering like a jungle creature, catching glimpses of herself in the mirror as she stalked back and forth. Ophy, heaped on a corner of the bed like a disjointed marionette, wide mouth pulled into a jester's gape. And Agnes, sitting solemnly, straight-legged, against the door, staring at the trio before the mirror: Jessamine's sleek olive-brown presence at one side, Bettiann's tousled blondness at the other, and between them, staring into the mirror as into a crystal ball, Sophy.

She was like a rising star, lovely as the morning. Where had she come by that lovesome body, that perfect face? Doe-eyed Sophy. Night-haired Sophy. Sweet-lipped Sophy. Close-mouthed Sophy.

Sophy at that particular moment with swollen eyes, an angry mouth, and burning cheeks. “What do I say to discourage him?” she cried into the mirror at their reflected presences. “Think of something.”

Ophy threw up her hands. “Sophy, he's the best catch in the whole school! He's good-looking. He's rich! Have you seen that car of his? Besides, he didn't try to rape you! All he asked you to do was go on a date with him!”

Sophy's head went down, her eyes spilling, while Agnes sprang to her roommate's defense.

“What
he
wants isn't the point. Sophy doesn't want to go on a date. That's the point. She doesn't want to be asked to go. That's the point. She doesn't want to be begged, harassed, chivied, or wooed. She wants to be let alone.”

“Then she should have gone to a religious college,” opined Bettiann. “Or some girl's school.”

“My… my scholarship was to this place!” cried Sophy, tested past endurance. “I didn't have a choice!”

There was a metallic quality to her voice, rather like a hammer striking an anvil to make first a clang, then a lingering reverberation that faded slowly into silence, an inhuman hardness coupled with an all-too-human desperation, as though two people… two creatures spoke at once. Faye stopped pacing; Ophy stopped grinning; Carolyn's stroking hand stilled. Even the lazy cat looked up, suddenly alert to a tension, a presence in the room that had not been there a moment ago. They all ceased breathing as they searched Sophy's tear-streaked face staring at them from the mirror, surprised to see only her face when that Gorgon's voice should have come from another, more terrible creature.

In later years Carolyn occasionally wakened from a sound sleep or turned from a present task, thinking she had heard the clang of that voice, like the door of a distant vault being closed, shutting something in, or out, a ringing adamant, weighty as fate itself. Yet, so she told herself, the sound was not unnatural. It had force, like the roaring of cataracts or the spume of a geyser, and it was earthly, not alien. So she felt when they heard that voice for the first time, when Sophy cried woe into the mirror:

“I don't want men to ask me out. I don't want them to think of me that way. I can feel their thoughts. It's like being raped inside their heads, little pieces of me ripped off and taken into them, used up. I want them not to think of me, not to discuss me, not to make bets with each other, can they get me to go out with them, can they kiss me, can they take me to bed!”

A silence came while the reverberations stilled. Then Bettiann said:

“It's only words and thoughts, Sophy. Words can't hurt you.”

“Words can't hurt?” Sophy cried. “Why do you believe they can't? Words have hurt all of us! It's your mother's words
that make you throw up your dinner almost every night, Bettiann. Words made you believe you're unattractive, Aggie! Words may make you marry a man you don't love, Carolyn! Words are as powerful as weapons, as useful as tools. They can injure like a flung stone, cut like a knife, batter like a club. They can open heaven or they can ruin and destroy!”

“Shh, now,” Carolyn cried in sudden inexplicable terror, afraid to let silence settle upon that outcry, afraid to let it go on to another word, phrase, sentence. That voice, that particular voice of Sophy's, had to be stilled, quieted, put at rest, or it could destroy them. “You don't need to fight with us, Sophy. We're with you. Just explain what you mean.”

Sophy wiped the tears angrily, using the back of her hand. “I… look at the lives of those who are greatly desired. I see pretty girls who burn hot, with sunny faces, their bodies like flame. They sing. They dance. They appear on the covers of magazines. I ask myself if it is merely coincidence that so many of them have such great troubles, so many die so young. It is as if they are eaten up alive, their souls nibbled away by all those who have fantasized about them, leered at them, used words and thoughts on them. In my people's stories maidens lean against the dragon's great scaled side under the shelter of a wing and learn secrets. In your stories maidens are chained to a stake for the dragon to burn or devour! The maiden may be mythical and the dragon invisible, but there is still truth in that. I don't want your dragons devouring me.”

Agnes, lost, ventured, “Like… when someone takes a picture of a primitive person? They're stealing the soul?”

“Like that, perhaps,” said Sophy, shaking her head in confusion. “If you cannot feel it as I do, then pretend for my sake that it's real. Pretend it's possible. I don't want them using me that way.”

Carolyn nodded. “Then you want to be invisible.”

“Exactly,” Sophy whispered. “Oh, if I could be invisible.”

Carolyn rose to her feet, hands on hips, jaw jutted. “Then we'll help you become so.”

It took the others a few moments to catch up with her.

“She doesn't have to be beautiful,” Carolyn said scornfully in the face of their doubt. “No law says she has to be beautiful.”

And she gathered the five of them up into her hands like a
deck of cards and dealt them out again: You go here, you go there, fetch this, fetch that, supervising Sophy's makeover without a moment's hesitation. Clothing first, baggy skirts and too-large tops, shapeless and of indeterminate colors, borrowed from Carolyn herself; a little liquid makeup on the lips and brows, fading them into the face; a little more on the lashes, making her eyes look bald. Faye saw to that. Hair pulled straight back into a knot, Bettiann's contribution. A touch of olive base, Jessamine's, to take the bloom from those cheeks. Ophy provided the glasses, frames only at first.

It was Agnes who suggested the book. “You need a heavy book,” she said. “You can carry it up against your chest and walk sort of bent over. You'll look like a brain, armed with the shield and buckler of the female intelligentsia.”

“I've got a thick book,” said Jessamine. “I found it in the bottom of the cupboard in my room, with about fifty years' worth of dust on it. I'll get it.”

She returned moments later bearing Edward Gibbon's
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
, volume one. An old leather-bound library book, checked out years before by a feckless student, never returned. Sophy rose, took it into her arms, stooped slightly over it, and shuffled across the room. They all burst into laughter, even Sophy, though hers was a sound of honest joy floating on the sea of derision. What the rest of them took as a joke Sophy accepted as a reprieve.

In time her new self became familiar to them. With them, after a shower, her robe belted loosely around her, she was lovely as the dawn, but in public Sophy wore borrowed clothing, was camouflaged like a hermit crab, no longer the object of male fascination and desire.

It was a shared secret, one that made them more than merely friends. They became a club: the Decline and Fall Club. They swore an oath to one another. Even after they left school, they would stay close to one another. They would meet every year, and each of them would find a place to stand where she could be woman as woman was meant to be, and thereafter she would never decline or fall from that place.

All of the characters in this book art fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental

This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED
.

THE GATE TO WOMEN'S COUNTRY
A Bantam Spectra Book/published by arrangement with Doubleday

PUBLISHING HISTORY
Doubleday edition published September 1988
Bantam edition / August 1989
SPECTRA
and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

All rights reserved
Copyright © 1988 by Sheri S. Tepper.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-387
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Doubleday, 1540 Broadway, New York, NY 10036

eISBN: 978-0-307-57344-5

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