The Body in the Ivy (7 page)

For an instant, the room was completely still, then all at once someone dropped a glass—it shattered on the floor—and someone screamed while someone else cried out, “Prin! But you're supposed to be dead!”

Lucy got up and walked over to the door, confronting the figure poised there.

“I don't know what you're up to, Elaine Prince, but you'd better tell us and tell us quickly.” She faced the group. “Pull yourselves together, ladies. It's Elaine, not Prin. We all know that Prin died the day before graduation, and dead is dead.”

FRESHMAN YEAR

How was she ever going to get her mother to leave? Maggie Howard wondered dismally. At this rate, the woman would still be at Pelham four years from now—which was no doubt exactly what she wanted.

“Six o'clock, Big Sister, Little Sister picnic. Meet at the Bell Desk at five-forty-five. You know where that is; we passed it coming in. Every girl takes a turn sitting Bells.” She smiled coyly at her daughter. “Don't forget that if she says you have a ‘caller,' it's a young man and a ‘visitor' is female or over the hill.”

Her mother knew more about Pelham than she did, Maggie reflected, not for the first time. It wasn't that she wasn't happy to be here. She was ecstatic. From the moment she'd opened her acceptance letter, a fat, not
thin, envelope, she'd felt as if she were living in a dream come true. Except it was a dream she'd been forced to share with her mother.

Starting in second grade, Mrs. Howard had started grooming her only child for what she firmly believed was the crème de la crème of the female counterparts to the all-male Ivies. If a chromosomal prerequisite meant her little girl couldn't go to Harvard, Princeton, or Yale, then Pelham it would be. The first step was putting Maggie in private school, even though it meant that Mrs. Howard had to give up her secretarial job in their small town and take a higher paying one in Cleveland, commuting an hour each way, to pay the tuition. Then she'd honed in on Pelham alums at church, the League of Women Voters, town committees, the PTA, and cultivated them. Sometimes she would spot the discreet, tasteful school ring, but more often than not she had nothing more to go on than her own uncanny intuition. When the time came for an alumnae interview, the number of women who offered to sponsor her application had embarrassed Maggie. Meanwhile her mother had absorbed every aspect of Pelham's history and traditions, from the sublime—all those notable graduates—to the ridiculous—“visitors” and “callers.” Gentlemen callers—it sounded like something straight out of Tennessee Williams. But there would be no depending on the kindness of strangers for Maggie. Despite the fact that she had used women hardly known to her, Mrs. Howard had never relied on anyone but herself, and she'd brought Maggie up the same way. “Hoe your own row” was her maxim, probably even before Maggie's father died when Maggie was an infant.

One out-of-focus picture of her father holding her in his arms was all she had. A wallet-sized graduation shot of a serious-looking young man with a crew cut—holding his mortarboard in front of him like a shield, as if he already knew the outrageous misfortune that would be his—was the only keepsake her mother seemed to possess. Maggie wasn't sure whether her mother never mentioned him because she was angry at that most ultimate of desertions or unbearably sad at losing him. Both sets of grandparents were dead by the time Maggie could toddle, and aside from a cousin, there didn't seem to be any other kin on either of her parents' sides.

And so Maggie's little Buster Brown–clad feet were set firmly on their path toward Pelham and Weejuns. Pelham girls were well rounded, so Maggie took piano lessons, learned to play tennis, and excelled at other sports, particularly field hockey. She was a natural athlete and much happier in gym than in the classroom. The only subject that didn't require tremendous effort was math, and everybody knew that girls weren't supposed to be good at it. As for the rest, the essays, the dates of the kings and queens of England,
i
before
e,
except after
c
—she sweated away at home in private. “You don't want them to call you a ‘greasy grind,'” her mother admonished. But Maggie had to bring home
A
's. When she didn't, her mother wouldn't speak to her for days on end. If it was something that could be done over and handed back in, not for a grade increase, just for the practice, then that was what Maggie did. She hoed her own row, and it wasn't easy. She envied her classmates who seemed to be able to waltz through classes while Maggie doggedly repeated the box step, over and over again.

Why wasn't she leaving? How could Maggie start her new life—this new life of freedom—if her mother continued to sit on her bed reading every inch of type in the orientation materials she'd already read ten times at least at home? All the other parents were gone, and Maggie was sure the reason her roommate had stuck her head in, introduced herself, then ducked out was that she assumed Maggie wanted private time with her mother. Maggie had had eighteen years of private time with her mother and that had been more than enough.

“Well, I guess I'd better get ready for the picnic,” Maggie said.

She was wearing a Villager shirtwaist with tiny flowers, almost a twin of the one her mother had on. Her circle pin was on the appropriate side of her collar. There were a bunch more shirtwaists hanging in the closet, along with a John Meyer suit for church, John Meyer skirts, several round-collared oxford-cloth blouses—the female equivalent of Ivy League button-down shirts, and, in the chest of drawers, matching sweaters. It had strained their budget, but Mrs. Howard had pored over
The American Girl
and
Seventeen
to get it all just right. Never mind that “big-boned” Maggie—a sharp contrast to her whippet-thin, petite mother—looked far better in slacks and other casual clothes than in these that emphasized her thick waist, muscular calves, and broad shoulders.

At last Mrs. Howard stood up. “Wear the new madras Bermudas with your yellow blouse—and tie the blue Pelham sweatshirt around your neck. I'll see you downstairs; I want to have a last word with your housemother.”

Maggie started to protest. Her mother had already had many words with Mrs. MacIntyre, the housemother. But it wouldn't do any good; if Maggie had learned one thing, it was to keep her mouth shut and let her mother do what she intended.

She'll be gone soon. She'll be gone soon.
Maggie had been repeating the words as a mantra to keep herself calm for the last hour.

“Sure, that will be fine,” she said.

Maybe she could run back upstairs and change into jeans after her mother left and before the picnic. No, she thought ruefully, she'd be streaming out the door with the rest of the freshmen and their Big Sisters from the junior class, with Mrs. Howard waving a cheery good-bye to them all. The picture of devotion. Devotion to herself. Maggie had never been fooled into thinking that her achievements had anything to do with her. It was all for the glory of the Howard name, the Florence Howard name.

“You know the ‘Mrs.' is not a courtesy title, like British cooks. Pelham housemothers have to have been married—and widowed, not divorced,” Mrs. Howard said, nodding in satisfaction. She expected no less of Pelham.

Maggie didn't bother to reply. She'd heard it all before, and besides, her mother wasn't listening. She was rehearsing what she planned to say to the housemother. Maggie knew what that was, too. No, Mrs. Howard would not give her daughter
blanket permission
—Pelham's term for the permission slip that had to be signed if a freshman was to be allowed to stay overnight anywhere but at the house of a Pelham student, alum, or
designated relative. Even with the signed form, students had to notify the housemother forty-eight hours in advance. Mrs. Howard thought all freshmen should be restricted, and that the form—just look at the name the students had coined—was an open invitation to licentiousness.

The door closed. Maggie stood in the center of the room. It was good-sized, much larger than the one she had at home. One bed was near the window, the other by the door. There were two plain oak chests of drawers, similar desks, bookcases, and desk chairs. Un-bleached muslin curtains hung at the diamond-paned window. The dorm, Felton, was one of the original ones, and the bricks were covered with enough ivy to please even Mrs. Howard. Maggie closed her eyes and spun around, her arms outstretched. When her roommate, Roberta Dolan, walked in seconds later, she was speechless for a moment, then the two girls started to giggle and fell on the beds laughing. It was going to be a wonderful four years.

 

Would she ever get used to the sound of so many female voices? Rachel Gold wondered. Her head was pounding after the picnic and soon she had to go to a meeting in the housemother's living room—a discussion of the Bluebook, Pelham's rulebook. There would be another one tomorrow night. What rules could possibly be so complicated as to require two meetings? Her Big Sister had warned her to pay attention. That they would be tested on their sign-outs and other regulations.

At least she had a single. If she didn't want to talk to
anyone, she could shut the door. Thank God for that—and she could, Yahweh, more specifically. Another Jewish girl at the school she'd attended in Manhattan had told her Jews always got singles at schools like Pelham. There were thirty-four freshmen in this dorm and she was the only one in a single, so it appeared the information was correct. Someplace, they'd put three girls in together. There was no Hillel chapter listed among Pelham's clubs, so she'd have to rely on chance to identify her lansmen, or rather,-women. What was the college nervous about? It wasn't contagious and far more likely that a Jehovah's Witness or fundamentalist would try to proselytize than a Jew. But then there wouldn't be too many of them, either, if any. Too extreme. Too “not one of us.”

Required morning chapel had only been discontinued last year; two semesters of Biblical Studies had not. She'd seen several black girls at the picnic. Presumably they'd be in singles, too. And any Asian girls. Anyone different. The Chinese Civilization course was called “Chink Civ.” Her Big Sister was taking it and had rattled the course nickname off without hesitation.

Rachel was willing to bet that the majority of those girls at the picnic happily consuming burgers with their straight teeth, tossing their shiny hair, showing off their smooth, not too dark, tanned skin in sleeveless oxford-cloth blouses, believed firmly that God was an Episcopalian and the Jews, clever as they were, had messed up forever and ever, world without end, when they killed Christ. Amen.

Depression settled over her like a sour washcloth. She missed her room in the Golds' Upper West Side
apartment with its view of tall buildings, sidewalks, streets, rooftops, and water towers. At night, she always pulled her shade up when she turned out her light so she could see the White Way outside—a sight that never failed to enchant her. She still couldn't understand why her parents had refused to let her go to Juilliard—or any other music school. Her teacher had pleaded with them, but they had been firm. Her mother had gone to Pelham and her best friends were still her Pelham buddies. They wanted Rachel to have what they called a “normal college experience.” There would be plenty of time for her music later, and besides, Pelham had an excellent music department, although you couldn't major in it. “Normal!” Rachel had shouted at them. What was normal about a place that didn't let you major in music? And what was normal about being in a school without men? And what was normal about living on a campus in the middle of nowhere? Sure, there was a bus to Boston and Cambridge from the center of town, but it took an hour. Students couldn't have cars until second semester senior year, not that Rachel cared. She didn't even have a driver's license. You didn't need to have one in the city. Her brother, Max, didn't have one, either. Kids from the suburbs had licenses and cars. She would never live in the suburbs.
Again,
she amended bitterly, gazing out the window at the walls of foliage that bordered the grassy quadrangle below.

Max. He was the only one who understood. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought back to last night. He'd known she wouldn't be able to sleep and had slipped in to talk to her. He didn't try to reassure her with any bullshit, just said he knew how she must be feeling. He'd
be feeling the same way in a year. Max was even more talented than Rachel. From an early age, he had demonstrated extraordinary gifts—a perfect ear and the ability to pick up virtually any instrument in no time. For a while, he'd stayed mainly with the violin, but by age ten, it was clear that his real talent was the piano. His hands were the hands of a born pianist, long tapered fingers, strong. When he played, they flew across the keys in a kind of dance, an extension of his swaying body. He was a traditionally romantic-looking musician—dark, curling hair, always a little too long.

But if, in fact, Max was a prodigy, he never acted like it, nor did his parents treat him like one. He played sports, excelling at basketball, much to the chagrin of a string of music teachers. He broke a leg—stepping off a curb on Amsterdam Avenue directly into a pothole—but never injured his hands. Like his sister, he explored the city with friends, hanging out in the Village, heading to Chinatown for Sunday-morning dim sum breakfasts, and attending as many performances of as many different kinds of music as possible. Both Rachel and Max attended one of New York's special public schools, the High School of Music and Art. Even though they were a year and a class apart, they shared the same group of friends, all aspiring performers. They were like twins, everyone commented. They had had a special language growing up that had been reduced to a few words and phrases now. Their fights were bitter, passionate, and brief. Their apologies profuse.

When Max had said he would be going through the same thing in a year, Rachel had been tempted to wake her parents up and tell them she would only go to Pel
ham if they didn't make Max try for an Ivy. She felt her anger bubble up all over again. It was four years! A waste of four years! Max was already being hailed as one of the most promising musicians of his generation. The
Times
had done a story on him last year after a school concert at Carnegie Hall. The headline had read, young max gold doesn't need to practice to get to carnegie hall, a reference to the old “How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice” joke.