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.
It was a deeply human photograph. Real.
It was Niki’s photograph. The one Niki had dismissed as arty. On the page facing it, Ann saw her own name beneath one of the translations of Catullus she had sent in:
She says that she will love
No one but me,
Not even if god Jupiter besought her.
She says this, but the words
Of woman wishing love
Must be wind-written on the waving water.
Not an entirely scholarly translation, but she liked it. She wondered if she liked it because it was her own work, or for any virtue it actually possessed. Nobody had ever commented on her translations, more than to say—as they always said to one another, supporting—I like it.
Under her translation occurred three sentences, a short paragraph, as if excerpted from a longer work:
Sun, stars, silence, solitude, suckle. These are the strongest words. Loveliest and loneliest.
Hildy’s name was beneath this odd entry.
Ah. The magazine was organized by roommates. She read Hildy’s words again, trying to understand their formlessness. Then Ann recognized them as possible answers to one of the questions on the application form, “What are the best words you know?”
Ann wanted to know what Niki had put down for that question. If she went upstairs to dress—and she realized, remembered, with alarm, that there was a rule about appearing in the public parts of the dorm in nightwear—she might wake Niki and would be able to ask her what her words had been. And get her down to breakfast, so Hildy could meet her.
chapter 2
Niki awoke slowly, reluctantly.
At first, Ann hoped the noise of drawers and doors would rouse her But she stayed stubbornly asleep, mouth sagging a little. If there were more light, if the room faced east, Ann thought, as she stood undecided in the middle of the room. The room was lightened, but murkily so, as if she stood in some underground grotto. Not enough light. “Niki?” Ann asked softly. After all, it was almost time for breakfast. If Niki wanted to skip breakfast, how was Ann to know? “Niki?”
Niki rolled over, then back; her eyes opened, unseeing, then closed.
“It’s time for breakfast.”
A fist pounded on the mattress.
“Are you awake?” Fist still clenched. Breathing regular “Niki?” a little louder “Are you awake?”
Niki groaned.
“Oh good,” Ann said cheerfully. “You better get up for breakfast. Besides—Niki? Niki!”
“Oh hell. What time is it?”
“Quarter to eight.”
Niki clenched her eyes shut. Her voice was soggy. “Don’t you go to church or anything?”
“No. Niki?”
“What is it?” exasperated.
“Are you awake? I want to ask you something.”
Not before breakfast,” protesting. “Did you hear those bells? I just got back to sleep. Why do they have bells?”
“They’re not that bad.”
“I thought they’d never stop. Pissing bells. I’m gonna need ear plugs for God’s sake.”
“I want to ask you a question. Are you awake?”
“Ask.”
“I can’t see you.” Niki rolled over, brushed hair from her face, scowled. “Remember that question on the application form?”
“Don’t be indirect. Not at this hour. Not in the morning.”
“The one about the most important words. What did you put.”
Niki’s eyes were baleful. “People,” she recited, “environment, music, together.” She thought. “I don’t know why. Why do you want to know?”
“I wondered. Remember the magazine the Munchkin talked about?” Ann waved it in front of Niki’s nose. She started to sit down on Niki’s bed, then changed her mind. “Your picture—the photograph? It’s terrific.” No, that was inadequate. “It’s good, really good. But Hildy’s entry—”
“Who’s Hildy?”
“Our roommate. She got here late last night.”
Niki turned her eyes to the other bed. “Oh. Hot damn.”
Ann took a breath to buoy up her feelings. “Look. Doesn’t that sound like an answer to the word question?”
Niki looked at the page. “Catullus. Who’s he?”
“A Latin poet.” Ann had forgotten her poem was on that page. She reached out to take the magazine back. Niki held it tightly.
“You gave it to me.” She read silently. “Sweet,” she said, dismissing it.
Ann opened her mouth; closed it. Niki read on.
“Yes,” Niki said, no more.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, an answer to the word question. So what?”
Ann collapsed. “I just thought—I don’t know.”
“I didn’t expect them to put that picture in,” Niki said. She sat up in bed, her nakedness exposed. Ann looked away. “I just submitted it for the hell of it. I thought they’d go for sand dunes.”
“You underestimate them.” Us, Ann thought.
Niki shrugged. “Maybe. Do you think she didn’t send in any original work? And that’s why they put in her word question?”
“They told us at the Hall that Stanton wouldn’t even consider you if you didn’t have something original to show. They said it could be almost anything—even the outline of a paper—but it had to be original.”
“Me too,” Niki agreed. “What’s she like? Hildegarde.”
“Hildy,” Ann corrected. “She’s nice. She wants to meet you at breakfast.”
“Nice, hunh? Doesn’t sound like much. I mean, you’re nice. How long have I got?”
“Five minutes, maybe ten.”
Niki leaped out of bed. Ann turned to the window, so as not to seem to be staring. “Makes you nervous, nakedness,” Niki observed. Ann didn’t answer She was watching Hildy stride up the road. Hildy did not take the path to the dorm. Instead she walked across the lawn, to approach through a stand of trees. Her face looked up, but when Ann waved she did not respond.
Breakfast was served buffet style. Flanked by two bowls of eggs, a hotplate held a pan of bubbling water Further down the sideboard stood boxes of cereal, two pitchers of milk, one of canned orange juice, and a mound of discouraged-looking toast on a china platter. Jam, butter and water were at each plate. Hildy had taken a plate and was eating alone. When they had cooked their eggs and selected toast, Ann led Niki over.
Hildy peered at Ann and smiled. Her face turned to Niki. “Hello. You’re Niki.”
“Hi,” Niki answered. “Don’t talk to me until I’ve finished breakfast, OK? Where the hell’s the coffee?”
Ann pointed to a side table. She sat next to Hildy and cracked her eggs open. “How was church?” she asked.
“Oh well, it was fine,” Hildy answered.
Hildy did not use that word, fine, the way others did, Ann decided. If Ann said something was fine, that meant it was only OK, unexceptionable. Hildy said church was fine in the same way people remarked that it was a fine morning.
Niki sat down and hunched over her plate, eati
ng silently.
“Which church did you go to?”
“I don’t know. It was white and small.” Hildy chewed. “The preacher spoke about the fall of the year and the fall of man. It was not clever, although he wanted to be thought clever. But there was much time for silent prayer, and the choir sang beautifully. I am going to get myself coffee. May I get you a cup?”
“No thanks, I don’t drink it.”
“She went to church?” Niki asked, in her dramatic whisper.
“Yes,” Ann said. Defensive.
Niki returned to her coffee.
Ann, whose spirits were lifting, asked, “What are you going to do today?”
Niki shook her head, whether to decline conversation or to deny plans, Ann could not tell.
Hildy sat down. She looked toward Niki, then spoke to Ann. “You have gotten all my books?”
“They’re all upstairs, on your desk. Why are you taking two sciences?”
“I want to. We had a correspondence about it, and the Dean decided that I could try it. She would have liked to refuse, I think. But I explained that at my school there was little in the way of equipment, microscopes and slides, so I know much less than I should. Here, they have good equipment. And the observatory is close enough to use as part of the astronomy course. I didn’t want to miss such an opportunity.”
Niki left to refill her coffee cup.
“Are you good at science?” Ann asked.
“No. But I am very interested.”
“Two sciences will be awfully hard, unless you’ve got a real aptitude.”
“So the Dean said. Miss Dennis. Have you met her?”
“She spoke at the assembly yesterday,” Ann said.
“You’re talking about the Munchkin.” Niki’s voice interrupted their quiet talk. “I’m awake now. Hello, Hildy.”
“Hello, Niki.” Hildy held out her hand. Niki took it.
“The Munchkin is OK in my book,” Niki announced.
“I don’t understand,” Hildy said. “Who is the Munchkin?”
“Miss Dennis is, because she’s small, miniature,” Ann explained. The question did not disappear from Hildy’s face. “It’s in The Wizard of Oz,” Ann said, “the Land of the Munchkins, a sort of merry midget race.”
“In her letters she seemed a rather large person,” Hildy said.
“She would,” Niki pronounced. “I saw you go by last night,” she remarked to Ann. Ann flushed. “Some of your prep school friends?”
“Yes. Why?”
“No reason.”
“How was the game?”
“OK. We won, fifteen-three, fifteen-twelve.”
“Volleyball?” Hildy asked.
“Yeah,” Niki said. “Do you play?”
“It was my sport, in high school. I plan to take it here this fall.”
“Good God, why do that? It’s not a real sport.”
“It isn’t?”
“Of course not. Tennis is. Basketball is. Swimming.”
“And field hockey,” Ann added.
“I’ll take your word for that,” Niki said. “But volleyball—that’s just for horsing around.”
“Why should you think that?” asked Hildy.
“It’s true, for one thing,” Niki answered. “And then, there’s no skill and not much exercise, except for the spiker.”
“If you think that, then you know little of the game,” Hildy remarked.
“I know something,” Niki said, challenge in her voice. “Want to play a game this afternoon?”
“Is there time for that? There is nothing else we must do?”
“There’s a tea at four. A get-acquainted tea.” Ann thought further. “Nothing else.”
“Can we find enough people to play?” Hildy asked Niki.
“Sure. Easy.” Niki was pleased. “Where are you from that you played volleyball as a sport?”
“Nowhere,” Hildy said.
“Is that really the name of the town?” Ann asked.
“Yes. Peculiar, isn’t it? But the high school was not there. It was fifty miles away, at Huger Ford.”
“Did you have interscholastic matches?” Niki asked.
“No. There were no teams nearby. Only the basketball team competed with other teams, the boys. They had to travel many hours to play a game. And they seldom won.”
Niki sipped her coffee, studying Hildy’s face. “What do you think of winning?”
Ann giggled: “Preferable to losing.”
“Butt out. You hear?” Niki glared at her.
“Are you angry at Ann?” Hildy asked. Niki shook her head. “Oh. I thought you were, to hear you speak that way.”
“Morning isn’t my best time,” Niki mumbled. Ann thought that might be an apology, but didn’t know whether it was directed toward her or toward Hildy.
“When is your best time?” Hildy inquired.
“I don’t have one,” Niki answered.
Ann sputtered with laughter Niki turned to her, glaring, the nose thrust forward, the mouth stiff with anger.
Ann said quickly, “Come on, that’s funny.”
Niki grunted, subsided.
“How many people do you need for a volleyball game?” Ann asked.
“Any number,” Niki said.
“That’s not so,” Hildy protested. “You must have six on each side, no more.”
“What the hell,” Niki said. “If you say so.”
“Can you find twelve people to play?” Ann asked quickly.
“We’ve got three right here,” Niki said.
“Not me,” Ann shook her head. “I don’t know how to play volleyball. I’ll cheerlead but I won’t play. I’ll time, how’s that? How much time to a half?”
“No time. You just play until somebody gets to fifteen, with a margin of two points.”
“That isn’t the way,” Hildy said, leaning forward. “You must limit yourself to eight minutes a game for two out of three games. If at the end of eight minutes neither team leads by two points, you play on in sudden death.”
“Judas Priest, Hildy,” Niki said, “if you crap up the game with all these rules it won’t be any fun. Where’d you get them?”
“The woman who coached me had had a chance to coach an Olympic team,” Hildy answered.
“Why didn’t she take it?” Niki was impressed.
“She had family obligations.”
Niki spoke sagely: “Families aren’t worth a pot to pee in.”
“That isn’t right,” Hildy declared. Niki stared at her, silent for a moment, then said, “Since when do they play volleyball at the Olympics?”
“Since the next games,” Hildy answered. “It is something new.”
“So these are international rules you know,” Niki said.
“National, International, the rules are the same I think,” Hildy said. “Although, I am not sure about the time limit. That may not apply.”
“We’re going to have to figure out what rules we play under,” Niki said, “before we start. I wonder if I can find ten people.”
“Nine. Ann.”
“Ann isn’t playing,” Niki said.
Hildy’s blue eyes studied Ann. “Why don’t you want to?”
“I don’t know how,” Ann answered. “I’ll watch, I’d like to watch. You’ll need an audience. Every sport needs an audience.”
“I can think of one that doesn’t,” Niki said, smirking.
Ann, her face held bright in a smile, blushed and was furious with herself.
“Volleyball’s easy. You can learn while you play,” Niki explained. “It’s sort of like tennis. You must have some athletic ability. You play tennis all right.”
Ann refused stubbornly. She never played a game well unless she had been playing for a while. She didn’t want to go out and make a fool of herself.
“OK then. How do you feel about winning, Hildegarde?” Niki returned to her original topic.
Hildy considered. “I like it,” she decided.
“What abo
ut losing?” Niki asked.
“That doesn’t matter,” Hildy said.
Niki pounced: “But winning does.”
“I didn’t say that. Neither is important, not really. I like to win. But—” She apparently had no words for further discussion of the point. “I like to play,” she explained. “If you play well you win, usually. If you play well and lose, then it will still be a good game.”
It was clear that Niki didn’t believe her “I’ll go see who I can find. To play. What do you think, two o’clock?”
“There is a net already set up?”
“There’s an outdoor court and lots of indoor ones. Volleyball seems to be popular around here. Lots of pick-up games. There’s some kind of inter-class tournament, in all the sports, each season. Some people last night were talking about it. Freshmen never win of course. Anyway, there are volleyball teams, as well as the rest. It’s a friendly game,” she concluded, looking at Ann. Ann, in whose memory was clear the image of Niki’s arm upraised, fist clenched to hammer down on the ball, smiled.
Niki had Hildy and Ann down on the lawn beside the volleyball net by one forty-five. She had found two volley-balls. She went to the side and did deep knee bends, while Hildy tried to show Ann how to hit the ball.
“I’m not going to play,” Ann said.
“I know. Wouldn’t you like to see how it’s done though?”
Ann learned to hold her hands so that the heels would contact the ball. She stood across the net from Hildy and returned a few soft shots. It wasn’t all that difficult. But it wasn’t as easy as it looked. Ann could be sure of getting the ball up over the high net; however, she had no idea of how to put it where she wanted it to go. Hildy had no trouble returning her shots, no matter how wildly they flew. Hildy didn’t always make contact with the heels of her hands, as she had told Ann: sometimes—if the ball was low—she would dig at it with her fists; a couple of times—when it flew high—she brought it down with her forearms. Every shot she sent back to Ann was easily within reach.
Other girls came to join them, and Ann stopped playing. “You’re good, aren’t you?” she asked Hildy as she walked over to return the ball. Ann had played enough tennis to know how good you had to be to return the ball well to a beginner.
Tell Me if the Lovers Are Losers Page 4