Higher Education

by Lisa Pliscou

  I’m pawing through my few hangers of clothing when the phone rings again. This time I rush into the living room. “Hello?” I sweep the hair out of my face with a grimy hand.

  “Hello,” a cheerful, confident voice replies. “Is this—um, Miss Marian Walker, class of ’82?”

  “Miranda. My name is Miranda.”

  “Miranda,” the voice repeats with unfazed good humor. “Good. Miranda, this is Ed Calhoun the Third. Winthrop House ’82.”

  “So?”

  “Miranda, I know you’re busy—”

  “Well, as a matter of fact—”

  “—in your day-to-day life. But then, aren’t we all?” Ed gives a low vibrating chuckle. “It’s the constant round of lectures, seminars, hours at the library.” There are sounds of papers rattling. “Now, I understand that you’re an English major, um, Miranda. Lucky you the Adams House library has such a fine literature selection.”

  “I never go there.”

  “I just wonder, Miranda, in our daily rounds, from classroom to library, from dining hall to language lab, from dorm room to gymnasium, whether we ever stop to think—”

  “I often wonder that myself.”

  “—whether we ever stop to think how fortunate we are to have all these magnificent resources available to us.”

  “You’re selling magazines, aren’t you.”

  “It’s easy to take these wonderful opportunities for granted—”

  “Do you have Interview?”

  “Let me tell you why I’m calling.”

  “Oh god. You’re not selling bibles, are you?”

  “It’s my pleasure and privilege to represent the Class of ’82 Alumni Campaign.”

  “I knew you wanted money.”

  “Let me just explain this to you, Marian.”

  “Miranda.”

  “What we’re doing is trying to establish a momentum here, Miranda. A financial imperative to keep these wonderful resources available to future generations of Harvard students. Perhaps even your own sons and daughters.”

  “D. H. Lawrence. Very good.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I haven’t even graduated yet. Couldn’t you at least wait until July?”

  “What better time to join together with your fellow classmates, Miranda, as we together we—um.” In the sudden silence I distinctly hear the sound of a paper being turned over. “What we’re doing is trying to establish a momentum here, Miranda. A financial imperative to—”

  “You’ve said that part already.”

  “What?” Another low throbbing chuckle. “Well, I’m glad to know that you’re paying attention.”

  “What did you say? I wasn’t listening.”

  “I said, What better time to join together with your fellow classmates, Miranda, as we together we share these last few exciting weeks before we spread our wings and start making our mark on the big old world out there. Miranda, your contribution assures your place in a growing network—um, community, a growing community of dynamic, far-seeing Harvard graduates—”

  “It goes into the computer if I don’t give you anything, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, naturally we maintain records of our contributions.”

  “I thought so.”

  “You’ll be interested to know, Miranda, that from Adams House alone we’ve already collected over four thousand dollars in pledges.”

  “If I don’t contribute, does it mean I won’t get Harvard Magazine for the rest of my life?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I read somewhere that all Harvard graduates get a lifetime subscription.”

  “Well, gee.” Ed clears his throat. “I’m not really quite sure about that.”

  “I should have known there was a catch.”

  “Well, anyway, Miranda, just to start wrapping things up—”

  “About time,” I interrupt. “Listen, don’t you think it’s a little strange to be sitting in your room on a Saturday night making weird phone calls to people you don’t even know?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I mean, why aren’t you out partying, like every other normal person? Isn’t there a movie you wanted to see? Couldn’t you find any parties to go to? Why do you have to bother me? Don’t you have any friends, for god’s sake?”

  In the sudden hush I hear my radio playing the Beatles’ version of “Roll Over, Beethoven.”

  “I see your point,” Ed says mildly. “So why were you there to answer my call?”

  “A lucky coincidence.” I claw a hand through my hair. “Listen, put me down for a pledge of five thousand dollars.”

  “What?”

  “Payable in fifty-dollar monthly installments, so long as I keep getting Harvard Magazine.”

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “Why would I be joking? Did you get that all down on your little computer printout there?”

  “I—um—”

  “Good. Ed, I’ve got to run. I’m on my way to the Spee Club’s pajama party. You’ve heard of the Spee Club, haven’t you?”

  “Can you hold on a sec?” He’s rattling papers again.

  “Well, Ed, it’s been nice talking with you.”

  “Um, just a minute—”

  “Why don’t you drop by Adams House sometime? We do let Winthrop people in from time to time.”

  “I, um— What?”

  “Bye now. Have a good evening.” I hang up and glare at the Matisse print.

  The phone rings again, shrilling noisily in my hand. “Shut up,” I snarl, jumping up and retreating to my room, where I kick aside the big garbage bag and stand in front of my bureau. The phone keeps on ringing. “I’ll kill you,” I scream, and then the phone is quiet. Savagely I rummage through my bureau drawers, finally emerging with a faded flannel nightgown patterned with tiny purple flowers.

  “Gag me, Laura Ashley.” I pitch the nightgown on top of the garbage bag.

  The radio launches into the Beach Boys doing “Good Vibrations” and I glance at the clock. It’s almost midnight. I shove my bureau drawers shut. Skipping the post-run shower, rapidly I disrobe and change into jeans and Jackson’s t-shirt. I find a comb underneath some books and tease my hair to make it look even frowsier, and dash some black mascara onto my eyelashes and add a little to my eyebrows. My reflection in my Estée Lauder mirror looks wan and unfamiliar. I show my teeth in a ferocious smile, drop the mirror onto the garbage bag, and reach for my jacket, feeling sufficiently uninspired to leave off my customary dab of Paco Rabonne.

  “Love your pajamas, Miranda.”

  “Sleep in your jeans, Miranda?”

  “Huh?” I’ve been peering around the ice sculpture to watch Robbie and Adolfo feeding each other canapés from the buffet. The two of them are wrapped in filmy champagne-colored peignoirs, and when I peeked under the table a little while ago I could see their feet in high-heeled mules with fluffy little pompoms on the toes. Now I drag my gaze away and twist around to face Beatrice and Alicia. The scent of their leather nightshirts is a bit overpowering.

  “It’s a pajama party, Miranda.”

  “Don’t they wear pajamas in California?”

  “Or do you sleep in the nude?”

  “We do.”

  “Goody for you.” I wheel around to stand next to Walt, who’s reaching for a grotesquely large stuffed mushroom. “Is that your third or your fourth?” I ask, watching out of the corner of my eye as Robbie bends forward over the table, his peignoir falling open to reveal a smooth muscular chest.

  “Sixth, but who’s counting.” Walt’s diction is somewhat blurred by the pâté sticking to the roof of his mouth, which he struggles to dislodge with his tongue. Finally he swallows, and whispers, “I saw you looking.”

  “What?” I feel myself starting to blush. “Yes, well, who wouldn’t gawk at a life-size ice sculpture of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

  “Yes, isn’t it fabulous?” Walt nods and plunges a Wheat Thin into a bowl of taco dip. “But why Napoleon for a pajama pa
rty?”

  “Notorious insomniac.”

  “Oh, really? That’s interesting.”

  “I thought everybody knew that.” It seems as plausible an explanation as any, I congratulate myself, taking another sip of my drink.

  “Well, you learn something new every day.”

  “That’s Harvard for you.” Although Robbie’s leaning forward again, inspecting the grapes, I’m diverted by the sight of Walt chewing away on his Wheat Thin. He grins at me, displaying flawlessly white, even teeth.

  “’S good,” he says. “I call it Wheat Thin Olé. Can I make you one?”

  “No thanks.”

  “How about a Sweet ‘n’ Sour Triscuit?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “You’re missing out, Miranda.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Golly, what a spread here.” Beaming, Walt surveys the vast white-draped table. “Let me tell you something, Miranda.” He bends conspiratorially close. “There is a free lunch.”

  “Don’t you mean to say free buffet?”

  “Will you look at all this food? What a great party.”

  I swirl the ice around in my greyhound. “Yep.”

  “I’ve eaten at least sixty-three dollars’ worth so far,” he boasts. “With luck I should break a hundred tonight.”

  “Is that retail or wholesale prices?”

  He pauses in the act of spearing a meatball. “Oh, gee.”

  “Have you accounted for staff wages? Transportation costs? Breakage? Trash pickup?”

  “Hmm.” Walt chews with slow small bites. Then, as he’s swallowing, his brow clears and he reaches for another meatball. “Oh, what the heck. It’s a party, isn’t it? I’ll just eat till I’m completely gorged and ready to puke.”

  “That’s using your noggin.”

  “That way I can be sure.”

  “Better safe than sorry, I always say.”

  “That’s what I say too.”

  “Great minds think alike.”

  A tall, severe-looking girl passes by us holding a bottle of Moët. Squinting, I notice that there’s a toothbrush dangling from the back of her coiffure.

  “Heck. Why the heck not. It’s a party, right?” Walt flips a meatball into the air and catches it in his mouth.

  “Two points,” I say. “Now wipe your hands and let’s dance.”

  “Dance?” His eyes widen in alarm. “What do you mean?”

  “Like dance. Boogie, cut the rug, trip the light fantastic, shake a tail feather. Let’s go.”

  “Sounds like fowl play to me.” He snickers but his face remains set in an expression of obstinate dread.

  “Very funny.” I take hold of his arm. “Come on, your dance card’s not filled yet, is it?”

  “But seriously, Miranda.” He doesn’t budge. “I’ve got work to do in here.”

  “Please,” I wheedle. “Just one dance.”

  “That’s what they all say. One dance, and the next thing you know, wham! Heroin addiction.”

  Sighing, I release his arm. “You’re so dedicated.”

  “You bet. Have some fondue?”

  “I’d rather die.” I finish my drink and set the glass on the table next to a plastic tableau of little white sheep jumping over a fence. “Ciao. And good luck.”

  “You too,” he says, already engrossed in twirling bread cubes.

  They’re playing Bowie’s “Fashion” in the ballroom, and as I head for the high arched doorway I run into Dean and Jennifer emerging from the coat check. “Well, hi!” I waggle my fingers at them. “Some party, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Dean mutters, looking embarrassed. He’s wearing baggy flannel pajamas and a long droopy red nightcap. I look over at Jennifer, who floats alongside him in a ruffled flannel nightgown sprigged with wee curlicued violets. Her hair is rolled up in big pink curlers and her face is smeared with what appears to be cold cream.

  “My,” I say, “aren’t you just the cutest couple.”

  Jennifer tucks her arm through Dean’s. “We like to think so,” she coos.

  “Maybe you two’ll win the prize for best costumes,” I coo back, and as I pass by them I wink coarsely at Dan. “Nice slippers.”

  He looks even more discomfited, if such a thing is possible, and as I pass under the arch I glance over my shoulder, long enough to see him shake off her arm. Humming along with the music, I enter the ballroom.

  The vast domed ceiling is draped in mosquito netting and the walls have been completely covered with dark-red bedsheets. As I look around it seems to me that the cumulative effect is less that of a cozy boudoir than of an overblown parody of a padded cell. Turning my attention to the dance floor I note that it’s the usual riot of PJs and nightgowns, along with a goodly sprinkling of nightshirts, kimonos, and long underwear, as well as the occasional housecoat. A number of girls have opted for the ever-popular French-chambermaid couture and are decked out in corsets, garter belts, fishnet stockings, spike heels, and a few well-placed feathers. The most daring males, of course, sport only boxer shorts. So far, though, I haven’t spotted a single outfit in here that can hold a candle to Robbie’s diaphanous little ensemble. Yawning, I’m considering decamping to the bar and then popping into the screening room to see if Pillow Talk has started yet, and am in the middle of a tremendous second yawn when somebody bumps into me, elbowing me in the ribs and almost causing my jaws to lock in surprise.

  “Jesus Christ.” The Spee’s Vice President hurries past, his thinning blond hair flapping loose over his forehead. He wears a red pillowcase that’s been ripped open and pinned shut in more or less the appropriate places. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  Scowling and feeling my lumbar region for kidney damage, I lower myself into a loveseat covered with what seems to be a bearskin. But even as I’m examining the fur, I suddenly catch sight of Tim threading his way toward me through the crowds on the dance floor. I ricochet to my feet and begin a headlong retreat to the kitchen, where I know there are two cavernous pantries and a fire escape. But before I’ve taken more than a few steps, I’m halted by an arm clasping my waist. Oh shit. Bristling, I turn to face my captor.

  “Miranda,” Gerard shouts into my ear. “Hi.”

  “Thank god,” I shout back over the music. “Let’s dance.”

  We plunge into the throng, everyone convulsing to “Turning Japanese,” and I samba us toward what I hope is an inconspicuous corner. We end up next to the makeshift stage, an immense wooden platform that’s flanked by a pair of gargantuan sleep masks, at least six feet long, that hang from the ceiling by oversized velvet cords.

  Thus concealed, I’m doing a subdued little equine two-step and am kept busy trying to indicate to Gerard that we’re finished with the samba routine and he can take his hands off my hips. He’s flailing zestily about, his bathrobe flying open in an exuberant display of boxer shorts and thin hairy legs. Finally I peel his fingers off me and start swinging my hands defensively in time to the beat.

  “Come on,” he shouts. “Get down.”

  I ignore him and keep a wary eye on the mob. My sedate finger-snapping shuffle is getting hard to maintain. Richard Amidei. Where’s Richard?

  “Oh baby.” Gerard does a spin and almost bangs his head into one of the giant sleep masks. Grinning, he advances toward me, wriggling his hips like a crazed incarnation of Elvis Presley en déshabillé.

  “Calm down,” I shriek, threatening him with a clenched fist which I shake at his nose.

  He drops to the floor and clutches at my ankles, helpless with laughter. “Kick me, beat me,” he chokes.

  I roll my eyes at the mosquito netting. My gaze descends onto what I think is Jessica in the middle of the dance floor doing one of her favorite routines from “Solid Gold.” Isn’t that her rainbow sock I see swinging high in a vivacious squat-kick?

  “Come on, kick me hard.”

  “Oh, shut up.” I scowl at him, noticing with dismay that his boxer shorts have little red hearts all over
them.

  “Please. Don’t spare me.”

  “Miriam.” In a rush of black leather and cigarette smoke, Richard kisses me without pausing in his pointy-shoed strut toward the stage, a guitar slung over his shoulder.

  “Richard.” I grab for him, trying to disentangle my feet from Gerard’s hysterical embrace. “Wait a minute.”

  Richard squeezes my hand, crushingly hard, and keeps moving. “Later, babydoll.” His eyes shine like onyx, dominating his face with their lush fringe of black lashes. “After the show.” Then he’s disappeared behind the stage, his musicians in impenetrable tow behind him.

  Gerard’s fingers are creeping up my leg. “Get off,” I scream at him, frantically scanning the crowd in search of Jessica. Batting Gerard away, I’m almost sure I’ve located her underneath the strobe light, dancing with somebody in fireman-red long johns, and I’m about to dive toward her when a giant teddy bear steps in front of me, blocking both my view and passage. “Jessie,” I wail, and the teddy bear twists around to look at me. Cornered, I shrink back against the wall, nearly squashing Gerard who’s now crouching on top of a stack of bedspreads.

  “Do it again,” he urges me, slyly.

  “Hi, Miranda,” the bear says, his round glassy eyes boring into me. Monstrously, his muzzle doesn’t move as he speaks. “How’s it going?”

  Aghast, I sidestep Gerard and plant myself more staunchly against the wall.

  “It’s me,” says the teddy bear. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Me who?” Gerard inquires helpfully, as I remain mute.

  “Loomis. Rolf Loomis. Winthrop ’82.” He extends a scabrous-looking paw.

  “Get away from me,” I snarl. “I don’t shake hands with stuffed animals.”

  “But Miranda.” His furry shoulders sag. “Don’t you remember me?”

  “Aw, now you’ve gone and hurt his feelings.” Gerard pinches my calf in reproof.

  “Ouch. Cut it out, Gerard.” Glowering, I twitch my leg at him.