Is That You, Miss Blue?

by M. E. Kerr

  I decided to tell Sumner about it; it was a strange and mysterious story, and I would ask him what he made of it. It was also a good opener.

  We stood around outside the Wales gym while I told him, watching the others file in, watching buses of girls arrive from Mary Baldwin and Miss Fern’s and Virginia Mountain School.

  “Well?” I said when I finished. “What do you make of Miss Blue?”

  “I’m going to recite my newest to you,” he said.

  “Don’t you care about anything I said?”

  “Hush,” he said. “See what you think of it.” He took a deep breath. Then he recited:

  Rooms I’ve loved I’ve left and houses, cities, worlds,

  You I could not leave.

  I love your face. I love your face.

  He turned to see the expression on my face. “Well?” he said.

  I said, “It’s very nice. But.”

  “But what?”

  “But why is it to me? It isn’t to me! You haven’t even written me or called me since September!”

  “I sent you a poem with the invitation, didn’t I?”

  “Sumner,” I said, “we don’t even know each other. You don’t love my face!”

  “Don’t be so literal!” he said.

  “If you think I’m enough bells and candles and you love my face so much, how come you won’t even listen when I want to tell you a good story?”

  “Shhhhh, Flanders,” he said. “You’re going to spoil Thanksgiving.”

  While we danced around and drank a really sweet cider punch, I kept remembering John Dowder. After he got back to West Virginia he’d written Cute a thank-you note. He’d spelled forward “fourword,” surprise “suprise,” and sincerely “cinserly,” and his handwriting had run across the page uphill. According to my father’s old handwriting analyses, uphill writing was a sign of cockeyed optimism, or “false euphoria.” I didn’t care. And he signed his letter, “Yours till the creek runs dry, John.”

  Sumner talked about suicide a lot during slow numbers. I was learning that was his favorite subject. He rattled on about a book he was going to write called Killing Yourself Successfully, because it was not as easy as it seemed. He told me that when the famous artist Arshile Gorky did himself in, he hung nooses all over his Connecticut property until he got the nerve to put his head through one.

  “I’d jump,” he confided to me near the end of the dance as we walked through the W.M.A. stables where he showed me the horse he always rode. “Even though that’s supposed to mean you feel you’ve fallen from favor. It’s still a very sure way.”

  “Who said it meant that?”

  “This shrink named Stekel. He killed himself, too, after he made a study of suicide. He swallowed 22 bottles of ordinary aspirin,” said Sumner. “How would you do it, Flanders?”

  “Pills,” I said. “I’d like to just never wake up if I was going to do it.”

  “Females are pill takers,” he said. He stopped before a black horse and hugged its head. “Men have used guns, traditionally, and females used to wade out and drown. But then, thanks to Seconal, Librium, Doriden, et cetera …”

  I didn’t ask him how his mother had done it, though I wanted to.

  Sumner was talking to the horse next. “Life is a fatal disease, isn’t it, Ebony?”

  Then suddenly Sumner grabbed me and pulled me against him to kiss me. It was one of those French numbers I’d heard about.

  There was nothing sexy about it, as far as I was concerned. I wanted to go back to Charles and boil my mouth.

  Miss Sparrow’s voice was shouting, “Pass through but don’t pause in the stables!

  “We’d better head for the buses,” I said to Sumner.

  He shrugged and walked ahead of me slowly, kicking the dirt lightly with his boot and keeping his head down. I noticed a run in my panty hose, and worried that it had been there all afternoon.

  When we all returned to Charles, there was a rumor circulating that someone had written out the meaning of E.L.A. on the study-hall blackboard. A faculty member had seen it there and erased it. Everyone was gossiping about it, but no one seemed to know what exactly was supposed to have appeared on the blackboard.

  APE was away from school for the long weekend, and whoever would have to pay for the deed would have to wait.

  I changed from my best dress to a second best, and borrowed a pair of panty hose from Agnes’ top drawer. She was not around, and I guessed she was hanging out with Cardmaker. I went off to the line for Dombey and Son, looking for Cute. Cute and I were just about the only girls who didn’t belong to some secret club.

  We were last in line. When we got inside, we had to sit at Miss Blue’s table.

  She waited for everyone to quiet down before she began grace.

  Then she said, “He that hath an ear, let him hear…. Amen.”

  I stared at Miss Blue in amazement, and Cute did, too. Perhaps this short grace was in honor of Thanksgiving; I nudged Cute and suggested the idea. Cute shrugged.

  France Shipp was at our table, and so was Ditty Hutt. While the other tables were filled, ours was not. Several girls had gone home for the holiday.

  Everyone at the table was exchanging glances, marveling at the brevity of Miss Blue’s grace. She seemed not to notice. Mechanically she wiped her hands off after passing things, and filled her plate with healthy portions of the usual Thanksgiving fare. There was a slight film over the baked candied sweet potato, and Miss Blue was oblivious to Ditty Hutt’s suggestion that it was loaded with saltpeter.

  I finally spoke up. “I didn’t know you went to school with Miss Sparrow, Miss Blue.”

  “Did you, Miss Blue?” Cute said.

  She gave us one of her flickering smiles and nodded. Then back to her own little world.

  Cute said, “Are we going to have a test tomorrow, Miss Blue?”

  Another flickering smile, a nod in the negative.

  France Shipp and Ditty Hutt were talking about the snow reports, and I tried a sotto voce conversation with Cute to fill her in on what Miss Sparrow had told me about Miss Blue.

  It was right at that point that we all heard Miss Blue say, “I talked to Jesus, and He knew I knew He was there.”

  She said it in such a dreamy voice that I had thought for a moment she was starting to sing a song, but she wasn’t. The others simply stared at her; no one said anything.

  Then France Shipp said, “What was that, Miss Blue?”

  Miss Blue had stopped eating. She touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth, placed it back in her lap, flicked her smile at us, and said, “Jesus was in my room this afternoon.”

  Ditty Hutt hunched over in an attempt to gain control, clapping her palms to her mouth. Cute began twisting her napkin in her lap, staring straight down at her plate. I tried to concentrate on national disasters.

  France Shipp spoke up again in her best supercool voice. “Oh, was He up on David Copperfield?”

  Miss Blue’s head was shaking slightly as she spoke and her voice trembled. “He was with me.”

  “Where is He now, I wonder,” said France. I suddenly didn’t have to worry that I would laugh aloud. I was beginning to feel sorry for Miss Blue, and hateful toward France Shipp.

  Ditty Hurt’s shoulders were shaking.

  “Excuse me, girls,” said Miss Blue. “You are on your honor to leave when you are all finished. I must go to chapel and pray.”

  “Run along, Miss Blue, and don’t worry,” said France Shipp. “You must have had quite an afternoon.”

  Miss Blue rose and skirted out of Dombey and Son, looking neither left nor right, rushing along, as our table burst into laughter. I laughed, too, partly because I thought it was funny, and partly because I was relieved to have Miss Blue out of France Shipp’s cool hands. I could not help remembering that Miss Blue was only around forty, not old and strange from living too long, but strange for some other reason; pretty once with all the boys after her, and now living in a cleared-out closet
of a girls’ boarding school without any friends.

  I had the feeling if I laughed any longer I’d have some terrible punishment inflicted on me, because I had the feeling what I was doing was cruel. My father had told me once that often if you did something cruel, you hurt yourself, had a trivial accident, or missed an appointment you looked forward to—as a way of making yourself pay for the cruelty. (“But there is no God up there deciding you’re not going to get this because you did that!” he’d told me.)

  With my accident-proneness for starters, I was surely headed for broken limbs and total paralysis, and I sat there morbidly contemplating this while the others began calming down.

  Toward the end of our meal, Miss Horton’s table filed out of the dining room. Suddenly there was a shrill cry that sounded like “Danny! Danny!” It came closer and closer and stopped in front of me.

  “Danny” was Agnesthatcher for panty hose. Agnes was crouched down, pointing at my legs and screaming.

  When I got back to my room on Little Dorrit, there was a note waiting for me in her handwriting. Those were my good Christian Dior panty hose I was saving for a special occasion! I intend to get even! Not tomorrow or the next day, maybe, but someday. You will know when I do! A.T.

  Before I fell asleep I pondered the reason I hadn’t had an asthma attack after my visit to the stables with Sumner. Maybe animal dander hadn’t caused the first attack. Maybe it was just soul dander, when your own soul just got fed up and gave off something like dandruff to show you.

  On Sunday after APE returned, the culprit who had written out the meaning of E.L.A. in study hall was uncovered. It was Agnes Thatcher.

  No one else could figure out why she would do such a thing, but Cardmaker told me why. It was Cardmaker’s idea; it was Cardmaker’s assignment—Agnes’ Major Act of Unfaith.

  For the first time in 150 years at Charles School, everyone came to know that all E.L.A. meant was Episcopal Library Association.

  Thirteen

  DEAR FLAN-TAN,

  I’m sorry that the television show embarrassed you. I admit that I didn’t realize how low he’d punch. I would not have consented had I known. BUT: You must realize by now that anyone in my position is subject to criticism, distortion, sarcasm, et cetera. Do you remember how Tripp tried to imply my last name might not be Brown? “Mr. Brown, if that’s really your last name—”

  Not everything was true, at all, but sex is a part of our inquiry and a legitimate one. Don’t always think of sex as something dirty or you’re going to be sadly disappointed with a fair percentage of your love life…. As for your mother’s participation—she was my associate. Ask her, Flan, if it seems important. You should be in touch with her anyway.

  I hope we can schedule a visit soon, for I’m anxious to have you look over the place. But it is almost Christmas, isn’t it? I miss you terribly.

  Love,

  Dad

  P.S. We’ll spend Christmas in Auburn with Grandma Brown. You can see your old friends. Okay?

  I had slipped around a corner outside study hall to read the letter from my father. Just as I was finishing it, I saw Miss Able pull Miss Mitchell into the same corner, a little ahead of me. Miss Able slammed her against the wall and snarled “… ever forget that part of it!”

  Miss Mitchell was ripping something into pieces and crying.

  Did either one see me? I doubt it. It was all over almost as quickly as it had started. I was alone there. I could hear the students beginning to pour into study hall for evening hours. I took a last look at my father’s letter and tore it up, noticing whatever it was Miss Mitchell had torn up ahead of me on the floor. I walked over and picked up pieces of a photograph. There was Miss Able’s ear and half of her face. I bent down and picked up the rest, putting all the ripped things into the waste-basket near the water fountain.

  CLANG—DONG DONG made the start of study hall official.

  “Dand!” I saw Agnes waving at me as I entered, indicating that she’d saved me a seat.

  “Flanders?” I saw Cute pointing to the seat beside hers.

  On my way to accept Agnes’ offer, I stopped to explain to Cute, “Agnes was really mad at me because I borrowed her panty hose without asking. She was swearing revenge. I think I’ll let her make up with me. Okay?”

  Cute said, “Okay. But I still think what she did was lousy. E.L.A. didn’t force her to join. What’d she join for, just to expose them?”

  “She says she’s against clubs like that and they should be exposed.”

  “Big possums climb little trees,” said Cute.

  “Take your seats!” Miss Able’s voice rang out.

  I hurried into the one Agnes was saving for me. “Thanks,” I whispered as she watched my lips. “I’m glad you didn’t stay mad long. You need all the friends you can get.”

  She stuck out her tongue and made an obscene gesture with her fist.

  Agnes wasn’t a big hero around Charles School since she had exposed the Extra Lucky Asses. Some of the students equated it with breaking nuns’ vows and worse. But there were just enough of us who appreciated what she’d done to exalt her to a sort of minor hero. I secretly think some of the faculty were for her, too: Miss Horton, for one. I had a hunch she’d seen France Shipp that night out on the playing fields with Peter Rider. I had a feeling Miss Horton didn’t think certain girls should be more privileged than others any more than I did, any more than a small but very vocal and aggressive group of others did. We were the ones who delighted in discovering that essentially E.L.A. had been formed so the library would be tended, and that their motto was O sancta simplicitas! (O sacred simplicity!). Cardmaker said she had this big picture of them summers, stretched out on the decks of their yachts while they sailed around the Greek islands, murmuring to themselves, “O sancta simplicitas!” Cardmaker always had very definite visual images where The Rich were concerned. They were in places like “their drawing room,” “their library,” “their Rolls-Royce”; or they were “on their way to the stock market,” or “on their way to a huge costume ball overlooking a canal in Venice,” or “just coming back from safari.”

  “Cardmaker,” I would protest, “not every Extra Lucky Ass is a millionaire.”.

  “Those that aren’t are ‘old names,’” said Cardmaker. “They’re even worse. There was a bishop I remember named Pilling from Philadelphia. Pilling is one of the ‘old names’ in Philadelphia. This Bishop Pilling got everything handmade, even his shoes, but he never had to pay for them because he said his wearing them was a good advertisement ‘Old names’ are always up to things like that, hanging out at the Ritz without paying for it, and other gross things, just because they’re ‘old names.’ They’re parasites.”

  “SILENCE! SIIIIII-LENCE!” Miss Able was literally screaming, with her eyes bulging from their sockets.

  Out of the side of my mouth I tried to warn Agnes that she was in a foul mood, but there wasn’t any way for her to read my lips.

  Everyone shut up and opened books, and for a long while you couldn’t hear anything but the turning of pages and the scratching of pens and pencils. Miss Able herself was writing page after page on light blue stationery, bent over her task with utter concentration. I remembered that just that evening before dinner she had begun chapel with hymn #489: “Blest Be the Tie that Binds.” What had happened between chapel and study hall?

  As I was wondering this, Agnes Thatcher suddenly jumped to her feet, holding her bottom and crying out in one of her loudest banshee wails. I looked up amazed to see that the hand not holding the bottom was pointing at me.

  “Deuce!” she complained.

  Translated from Agnesthatcher, “deuce” was “goose,” and Agnes Thatcher had her revenge. Everyone in study hall, including a wild-eyed, feet-stamping Miss Able, was sure I had goosed Agnes while she was quietly studying.

  “She’s lying,” I protested to Miss Able.

  “Go directly to Mrs. Ettinger’s office with this note,” Miss Able answered, writing s
omething across a piece of notepaper.

  “She is lying, though,” I said, wanting desperately to avoid this confrontation with APE. “You have to believe me. I mean, look what she did to E.L.A.”

  But Miss Able was still in the very foul mood she’d been in when study hall had begun. “Hurry! Out of my sight!” she ordered.

  As I passed Agnes, she had her head in an E-Lit book, her eyes refusing to look in my direction. I just hoped she could feel my vibrations; I was sending them straight at her, loud and clear.

  Miss Able’s note said:

  I cannot keep discipline with Flanders Brown present. She pinched Agnes Thatcher in order to make her cry out and disrupt study hall! Ellen Able

  It was a very whiny-sounding note. I think APE thought so too, for she spent very little time reprimanding me, beyond the predictable announcement that I was to forfeit all the Mondays until Christmas. (So much for Christmas shopping, I brooded. I’d be left behind with Cardmaker and Agnes for company!)

  Then The Inquisition began.

  “Flanders, you’re an intelligent girl, and Miss Blue is your faculty chum. What do you think of her health?”

  “Her health is fine, I suppose.”

  “Do you know what I mean by her health?”

  “How she feels?”

  “Physically and mentally.”

  “She feels fine, as far as I know.”

  “According to France Shipp you were present at the dinner table on Thanksgiving when Miss Blue mentioned speaking with Jesus.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well?”

  “She’s very religious,” I said.

  “Flanders, I’m not questioning that. I’m simply concerned for Miss Blue. I don’t think she’s herself lately. Putting up a picture of Jesus in the W.C. and so forth.”

  “As far as I know her, that’s like her,” I said.

  “Do you take her afternoon class or her morning class?”

  “Afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Was she up to par today, for example?”

  “Yes. She was very up to par. We learned about snob gases.”

  “I beg your pardon?”