Higher Education (13 page)

“Is there more?” I say, warily.

“Five,” she snaps. “A letter from Yale Law School. A goddam summer reading list three pages long. I haven't even finished the goddam Monarch Notes for my thesis and they want me to start worrying about goddam torts?”

I clear my throat. “I thought you said there wasn't any mail.”

“Not for you.” Her tone could disintegrate steel.

“Oh.”

“Six.”

“Uh oh.”

“
Someone
seems to have borrowed a pair of my underwear.”

“Oh?”

“My
best
pair of underwear.”

“Well, now that you mention it—”

“And if you'd care to look down at yourself you might guess who I'm referring to.”

“Whom.”

“Did you have to take my black lace bikini from Frederick's of Hollywood?” she screams.

“It was on top.”

“Why me, God?” She's addressing the ceiling again. “What have I done to deserve this?”

The telephone rings and she snatches at it. After listening for a moment she drops the receiver on the floor. “It's for you,” she announces with a distinctly unpleasant look on her face. “It's your boyfriend.”

I reach down and pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Miranda,” Tim says. “It's me.”

“Sorry, wrong number.” I hang up.

Jessica stares at me, tapping her foot on the floor. “You're unbelievable. Do you have any idea of how unbelievable you are?”

“No, but if you want to tell me I'll listen.” Actually, I think I'd really rather close my eyes and go back to sleep. “But would you please stop pounding your foot like that? It's making my headache worse.”

“You're really unbelievable.”

“Jessica, I've asked Tim a dozen times to please leave me alone.”

“That's not the point.”

“Fine. What's the point?”

The phone rings again and this time I answer it. “Hello?”

“Miranda, why did you hang up on me?”

“Sorry, I think you have—”

“I'm downstairs. Can I come up?”

“No.”

“Why not? Miranda, I've got to talk to you.”

“Tim?”

“Yeah?”

“Kindly leave me alone. Your cooperation in this matter will be greatly appreciated.” I hang up on him again, and look over at Jessica. “Make that thirteen times.”

She screams. “I can't bear it, I just can't bear it.” She goes into her room and slams the door. In a minute or two I hear her throw open her door, and then the front door slams shut.

With a long sigh I slide back down on the couch until I am completely horizontal. I close my eyes and watch the purple and yellow flashes that dance against my eyelids in perfect rhythm to my racked temples.

The telephone rings again. Without moving from my prone position I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Can I please come up? I really need to talk to you.”

“This is it,” I say. “I'm calling the police.” I hang up and let my arm dangle on the floor. My limbs feel as if they're about to drop off my body at the slightest provocation. In the meantime I keep watching the color show on my eyelids, although it does seem to be making me somewhat dizzy.

When I open my eyes again, the afternoon light appears to have waned a little, and my craving for coffee, if not food, has grown more urgent. I lean over and reach for the phone.

“Darling.”

“Gal?”

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure. What?”

“A muffin and a cup of coffee from Tommy's.”

“Y'all lost motor capabilities since the last time I saw you?”

“Sort of. No butter on the muffin, please.”

His voice sharpens. “You okay?”

“I'm fine. Really. I just can't leave my room.”

“Why not?”

“Why not.” I'm smelling the rich bitter scent of coffee, picturing one of Tommy's huge, dark, dense, puffy-topped muffins just pried out of its old-fashioned metal baking tin. Too enervated to plead a sudden attack of agoraphobia, I find myself telling Michael the truth. “—so it's really just a simple case of lesser evils. Can I have extra milk in my coffee?”

“Honey,” Michael says, gently, “get it yourself.” Quietly he hangs up the phone.

I give the receiver a look of anemic shock and replace it in its cradle. “My stars,” I say aloud. Then I hang my head over the edge of the couch, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling, and do some chin exercises, opening and closing my jaw like a suffocating fish.

At a loss for anything better to do, I've been at my chin stretches for quite some time when the phone rings again. Hoping it's Michael, I answer it with my head still drooping off the couch. “Yass?” I say through a stuffed-up nose.

“Mira? Is that you, honey?”

“No,” I mumble, pinching my nostrils shut. “I'm afwaid you hab a wong number.” I hang up and roll off the sofa onto the floor, which is chilly but surprisingly refreshing. And so, when the phone rings again a few minutes later, I succumb to a false sense of rejuvenation. “Hello?”

“Mira? Is that you, honey?”

“Can you speak up? We have a bad connection.”

“Mira? Can you hear me?”

“What? I can't hear you.”

“Can you hear me now?” she shouts.

“Hi, Ma. What's new?”

“We haven't heard from you in so long.”

“I've been working hard. Phi Beta Kappa and all that.”

“Yes, we know about that already. They wrote us.”

“Why are you shouting at me?”

“Oh. You can hear me okay now?”

“What?”

There is a brief silence, during which I hear remnants of someone else's conversation, as if two telephone lines have been spliced together. “—and then,” comes a tiny far-off female voice, “the straw that breaks the camel's back, he straggles in at three in the morning—”

“How's Jackson?”

“—drunk as a skunk—”

“He's fine.”

“That's good. How's your health? Are you eating right?”

“—she's as big as a house and they only got married in January—”

“Honey? Can you hear me?”

“So how was Mexico?” I shout.

“Just wonderful. The Taggarts send their best to you.”

“That's nice.”

“—how they're going to pay for that new car I don't know—”

“Are you getting enough fruits and vegetables?”

“What? I can't hear you.”

“—and then they buy a fancy waterbed on credit—”

“Are you getting enough roughage?”

“Ma, don't gross me out.”

“What, honey? I couldn't hear you.”

“There's another party on the line,” I say loudly. “Sounds like a nosy old busybody boring some poor soul to death.”

There is utter silence for a few seconds, and then the little voice says: “Will you
look
at the time? I'm going to be late for my dentist appointment.”

“Yeah, right,” I shout. “You're not fooling anybody.”

The line crackles in the sudden hush.

“Hello? Mira? Are you there?”

To my regret, the connection is now much improved. “Why are you screaming at me, Ma?”

“What? Was I screaming?”

“How's the weather out there?”

“It's wonderful. Honey, any news from Columbia yet?”

“No.”

“Honey, I hate to bring this up—”

“Done any golfing so far this spring?”

“A little. But honey, have you given any thought to—”

“How's your handicap?”

“Same as usual. But have you thought about what you'll do if they don't accept you?”

“What?” She's probably sitting at the kitchen table, I muse, with her mid-afternoon cigarette and cup of coffee, yellow Trimline balanced on a hunched-up shoulder, drawing invisible patterns on the tablecloth with a restless forefinger. The dishwasher's probably going full blast, and I'd wager there are three or four avocado pits sprouting in old Laura Scudder peanut butter jars on the shimmeringly clean windowsill that overlooks the backyard.

“Mira? Did you hear me?”

“Sure I heard you. You want to know what I'll do if I don't get into Columbia.”

“Well?”

“No problem. If it doesn't work out with Columbia, I'm going to be a singer in a rock band.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, my second choice is to be a rock singer.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Why would I be joking?” I prop my feet up on the sofa. “It's got a lot of things going for it, Ma. No typing, and the chance to travel.”

“I don't appreciate your sense of humor.”

“The way I figure it is, it shouldn't take more than a year to learn how to play the bass guitar. I mean, it's only got four strings, right?”

“I don't appreciate it at all.”

“I guess it really depends on my finding a good guitar teacher.”

“Miranda.”

“Yes, Ma?”

“I think you'd better call me back when your attitude improves.”

“Don't hold your breath.”

“What did you say?”

“What? I couldn't hear you.”

“When you call, let the phone ring for a while.”

“Pardon?”

“Your father and I'll be in the backyard weeding the lawn.”

“Okay.”

“We'll be expecting your call.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have anything else you'd like to add?”

“Yes, tell Dad not to strain his back on those weeds.”

“Remember to let it ring for a while.”

“What?” I hang up and let out my breath in a soft rush of air. Then I scramble to my feet and lurch into my room for my clothes. Within seconds I'm dressed and am on my way downstairs. It's only as I reach the ground floor that I realize that I've forgotten to brush my ludicrously tousled hair. “Oh, shit,” I say aloud. Then I shrug, and stop to check the C-45 mailbox. There's something in there.
Mail
.

But it's just a little note for me, scrawled on the back of a mimeographed
GREEN TORTOISE TO PHOENIX
advertisement, doubtless ripped from a nearby bulletin board.

Miranda,

I've got to see you. Please call.

Tim

Carefully I tear the note in two. The part with my name on it I stick into my trouser pocket underneath a damp shred of Kleenex. The other part I fold and slip into the C-16 mailbox, which I happen to know belongs to a suite of lonely juniors, at least one of whom isn't more than ten pounds overweight.

The dining hall is quiet and dimly lit in the pre-meal lull. In the kitchen the staff bustles about, bantering among themselves and clattering metal bowls and serving trays as they get ready for the start of dinner. Nobody bothers me as I slip in before official opening time to take two cups of coffee; Serge tosses me an orange and compliments me on my hair. I smile at him and go back into the dining hall, where I sit at the end of a large rectangular table that seats the French Club on Tuesdays and the Italian Club on Wednesdays. I stare at the tabletop, trying to remember every single Italian verb I've ever memorized.

Abruptly overcome by a yawning fit, I've decided to try the French verbs instead and have almost finished my second cup of coffee when an indolent voice speaks nearby, making me jump a little: “Early bird for dinner, aren't you?”

“Huh?”

Jackson's roommate Gerard stands next to my chair. His eyes are puffy and ringed with dark circles and he looks as if he hasn't shaved in a few days. His chin sparkles with sparse golden-reddish stubble. “I said, you're an early bird, aren't you?”

“You bet.” I pull off a long piece of orange skin. “I hear they're serving worms tonight.”

He laughs and sits down next to me. “God, I miss you. How come I never see you anymore?”

“I guess it's not that small a world after all.”

“Well, I feel abandoned,” he chides, wagging a nicotine-stained finger at me. “Can I have some of your orange?”

“Sure.” I give him half.

“Thanks. Love your hair.”

“Thanks. Trying to grow a beard, I see.”

“Somebody finally noticed.” He preens, turning his face left and right so that I can examine his profile. “Like it? It's very Robert Frostish, don't you think?”

“It's wonderful, Gerard.” I wink at him. “In a year or so you may have a full-blown goatee there.”

“It's only been five days, Miranda,” he says defensively through a half-chewed section of orange. “Give it some time.”

I'm stretched out on Jackson's bed, clipping my fingernails, when I hear the front door open and close
.

“
Hello?” Gerard calls out. “Ollie ollie outs'n free!
”

Bending my head over my hands, I cut the nail on my forefinger dangerously close to the quick
.

“
Jackson?” The door to his bedroom swings open
.

I look up. “Haven't you ever heard of knocking first
?”

“
Hi, Miranda.” Gerard stands in the doorway smiling at me, hands in his pockets. His baggy khakis and oversized flannel shirt emphasize his wiry thinness even more. “How are you
?”

“
Fine, thanks, and you
?”

“
I'm fine, thanks. What are you doing
?”

“
Cutting my fingernails. Isn't it obvious
?”

“
Didn't you do that just a few days ago
?”

“
You're probably wondering why I'm here.
”

“
No, not really. You're here a lot.
”

“
I'm here because Jessica's entertaining someone in our room.
”

“
Entertaining
?”