by Lisa Pliscou
“Dear god,” I say softly. “What’s wrong?”
I open up the C-45 mailbox and flip through the mail. Two flyers from Crimson Travel, a postcard inviting me to an opening at the Fogg, another bill for Jessica from the Coop, and a letter for me from Columbia. I go around the corner into the ladies’ lounge and sit on the edge of the flowered divan.
Dear Miss Walker:
We are delighted to inform you …
I’ve finished the reserve readings for Soc Sci 33 and am staring down at the small stack of manila folders, one hand curled around the nape of my neck, when I hear soft footsteps, rhythmically sounding upon the corridor on the other side of the stacks. They turn along the eastern edge and come up behind me, muffled on the hard gray floor. Idly I run a finger over the cool beige surface of the top folder.
“Miriam.”
I swing my head around. “Richard.”
“Hey.” He leans down and kisses me lightly, his mouth just barely touching that tender curve of flesh right above the lipline.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” Perching on the edge of the wooden desktop, he takes his sunglasses off and puts them on top of my reserve readings. He’s wearing the tie Ric Ocasek gave him, a narrow strip of black leather negligently knotted under the collar of his white shirt. “How are you, baby?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
“Your neck hurt?”
“What? No, it’s fine.”
“Good.”
“Richard?”
“Yeah?”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been trying to track you down, baby.” One of his feet in its pointy black demiboot is jiggling back and forth, the zippers clicking softly against leather. “I get a little worried when you don’t return phone calls. And stop answering the phone.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Well, stop doing it.”
“I’ll try. It’s nice to see you, Richie.”
“It’s nice to see you too.”
I look at his foot, and then up into his face again. A long spiral of hair, dark and glossy, curls down over his forehead. “Richard,” I say, “are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.” He’s staring out the window. “Listen, I came to say goodbye.”
“What?”
“You know, aloha. Bye-bye birdie and all that shit.”
“Oh, no. You’re not going to Hawaii, are you?”
“No, I’m going to New York.”
“What? Now?”
“Yeah.”
“What about graduation?”
“No time, baby.”
“You’re not going to graduation? That’s against the law, isn’t it?”
He laughs. “Maybe. But I ain’t going.”
“What’s in New York?”
“You really want to know?”
“Of course I want to know. What’s in New York?”
He hesitates, leaning back against the carrel wall. “A recording contract.”
For a moment I am completely still. Then I reach over and take his hand, squeezing it hard. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m really happy for you, Richie.”
“Thanks. Babe, you’re hurting me.”
“Oh god.” I loosen my grip. “Your guitar hand. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“Richie?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t seem excited.”
“No?”
“You’re bummed about missing graduation, right?”
He smiles. “That’s right.” His eyes, fixed on something beyond the window, are shadowed with bluish bruised-looking arcs of fatigue.
“What about your diploma?”
“I guess they’ll mail it to me.”
“Don’t you have any finals?”
“Two.”
“So you’re coming back to take them?”
“No, they’re setting up proxy exams for me.” His fingers tap soundlessly on the desktop. “Right in the goddam studio, probably.”
“That should make your producer happy.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t let the other musicians copy from your bluebook.”
“Okay.”
I touch his arm. “Hey.”
“What?”
“How does it feel, now that you’re about to be a rock ‘n’ roll star?”
His fingers stop tapping. “I don’t know.”
“Keep me posted, okay?”
“I will. So what are you doing after graduation?”
“Me?” I blink. “I don’t know. I got accepted into Columbia.”
“Yeah?” He takes my hand and holds it lightly in his own. “That’s great.”
“I guess so.”
“You don’t seem—shit, how did you put it?”
“Excited.”
“Right. Thanks. So why aren’t you?”
“I don’t know. I just found out about it a little while ago.”
We look at each other for a few moments. Then Richard lets go of my hand and stands up. “I’m staying at my brother’s for a while, just till I get my own place.” He gazes down at me, heavy-lidded. “Got a pen I could borrow?”
“Sure.” I reach into my bag.
“And some paper.”
I hand him my notebook and a pen. He opens the notebook and scribbles something on the last page.
“Here.”
“Thanks.” I twist the notebook around and look at his writing.
“That’s my brother’s number.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I close the notebook.
“Don’t lose his number.”
“I won’t. Where I go, my notebook goes.”
“Sort of like an American Express card.”
“Sort of.” I smile. “Richie?”
“Yeah?”
“How soon do you have to leave?”
“Yesterday.”
“You can’t stick around for just a little while?”
“No.”
“I was going to ask you to the Radcliffe Senior Soirée.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “I was going to buy you a corsage and everything.”
“Miriam.” He leans forward and kisses me hard. I’ve barely had time to breathe in the familiar smell of him, the leather, the smoke, the faint musky scent of his skin, when he’s straightened up and stands there looking at me. “I’ll take you out to CBGB’s, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Look, I gotta run.” He flicks the unruly curl off his brow. “Hang on to that number, okay?”
“I will.”
“Good.” He turns and starts walking away between two ceiling-high tiers of stacks.
“Richard?” I call.
“Yeah?”
“Can I be on the album cover?”
He pauses, poised on the balls of his feet. “I’ll work on it.”
“Thanks.”
He starts walking again. “Sure.” He reaches the corridor and makes a left toward the elevator.
When his quiet footsteps have receded into silence, I lean back in my chair and gaze out through the window, trying to gauge the time by the slope of the afternoon light. I’m due at Robbins by six. Sighing, I look down at the desktop, and see that he’s left his sunglasses on top of the manila folders. I hear his voice from that first night at Dunster House, soft and calm under the thumping of “My Sharona” on the stereo: Yeah, I just started this new band. We’re hot. You wanna be my first fan? Smiling a little, I skim my fingers through my hair, ruffling my bangs, untangling a snarl or two in the back, and then, carefully, I slip my notebook and the pen, his sunglasses and the reserve readings, into my bag.
As I close and lock the door to Robbins, it occurs to me that I’ve only snapped twic
e at people tonight, and have even politely suggested to Raphael that he first let me stamp the date cards in the last two copies of Fear and Trembling before he carried them out in his Bergdorf Goodman bag. In fact, he consented with such alacrity that I didn’t even get a chance to tell him about my being an astrophysics major. I must be slipping. But at least, I console myself as I’m walking down the stairs, I didn’t go so far as to actually start reshelving books.
Outside, standing on the steps to Emerson, I breathe in the mild spring air and look out at Mem Yard, gazing at the newly-leafed trees silhouetted against the darkness by soft opalescent floodlights from Widener and Mem Church, and beyond, at the freshman dorms and University Hall, rising tall and regal, illuminated from within by cozy-looking yellow lights.
“Jesus,” I hear myself saying aloud. “Thank god I’m graduating.” And then my stomach gives a loud protracted gurgle. I blink, looking over toward Widener, where somebody in a track suit is running methodically up and down the broad white stairs. I watch him for a little while, and then all at once a synapse flickers keenly somewhere in the back of my mind, and I start walking down the steps.
“You want butter with that muffin?”
Tommy slops a cup of coffee down next to my plate. Leaning an elbow on the dingy Formica-topped counter, I reach for the little metal pitcher of cream. “No thanks.” I’d smile at him but I know he hates that, so instead I grin at the back of his stained white jacket as he lurches off to the grill to attend to the steaming basket of french fries, cigarette stub lolling acrobatically on his lower lip.
I take another bite from the huge lopsided corn muffin in front of me. A couple of pinball games are going on over in the corner, and behind me the jukebox blares continuously. As I’m chewing, I’m wondering if Tommy still has “Singing in the Rain” sharing the “R” button with Rick James’ “Superfreak.”
“You want more coffee?”
“No, that’s okay.” I brush some corn specks from my shirt. “You did a good job on the muffins today.”
Tommy doesn’t reply, and if anything his thick black eyebrows draw together even more, but when he takes a toothpick from his jacket pocket and drops it next to my plate, I can tell he’s pleased.
Humming under my breath, I take the cellophane wrapper off my toothpick. She’s a very funky girl …
“Well, hi. Long time no see.”
You don’t take home to Mother. I crumple the cellophane and drop it in an ashtray next to the creamer.
“Hey, Miranda. You deaf or something?”
I put the toothpick between my lips and then turn my head to look at Pablo Esperanto. “What?”
“I haven’t seen you in ages.” He sits on the stool next to me. “Since our little rendezvous at the Ha’Penny, in fact. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Studying.” Gently I probe the space between my upper left incisors. “School and all that.”
“Listen, there’s a whole bunch of us over there.” He jerks his thumb at the row of booths against the wall. “With some folks I know’d love to see you.”
“They’ve got eyes, haven’t they?”
“Oh, come on, Miranda. Have some fun for once.”
“Fun?” I look over at the booths. “Let me guess. You’re sitting with Dean, Anthony, and Roald.”
“You’re such a bright girl. I love that.” He puts his arm around my shoulder. “How come we never went out together, you and me?”
“Darn.” I stand up, dislodging his arm. “I knew there was something I forgot to do.” I walk over and slide into the booth next to Roald. “Hi, guys. How’s everything?”
“Hi, Miranda.” Roald smiles at me. “I heard about your job with First Boston.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah, that’s great. Fifty thousand a year to start.”
“Sixty.”
“Wow, great.”
“Free business suits.”
“Wow.”
“Six weeks’ vacation a year.”
“Neat.”
“Doesn’t Miranda look great?” Pablo squeezes in next to me. “Don’t you think so, Deano?”
“Sure.” Dean looks at me obliquely across the table.
“Yeah, gorgeous,” Anthony chimes in wistfully.
I watch Dean take a long drag on his cigarette, his hair gleaming in shimmering brown waves under the fluorescent light. Shifting my toothpick to the other side of my mouth, I ponder if he hasn’t perhaps let it go too long between shampoos.
“Want some Coke?” Pablo thrusts a cup at me.
“No thanks.”
“I’ll have some,” Roald says, reaching across me.
“Get your own.” Pablo pulls the cup away.
“You look really great, Miranda,” Anthony says. “Did you do something different with your hair?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
I lean back against the booth, watching Dean. He studies the overflowing ashtray and exhales smoke right in Roald’s face, who doesn’t seem to notice as he picks away at a scab on his cheek.
Anthony sighs, poking at the soggy remains of a plate of french fries. “You really do look great, Miranda.”
“Thanks.”
Pablo nudges me. “Hey, Miranda. You’re coming to Roald’s big party tomorrow night, aren’t you?”
“What big party?”
“We’re throwing another big party in our room tomorrow night,” Roald explains. “John and Clark and me.”
“John and Clark and I,” Dean says quietly.
“Oh, are you helping throw the party?” Roald looks confused.
Pablo grins at Roald and then at me. “It’s a reincarnation party, Miranda.”
“What’s a reincarnation party?”
“It’s a come-as-you-were party.” He laughs. “Get it? Get it?”
I slide a little closer to Roald to avoid Pablo’s elbow. “No.”
“You smell nice, Miranda.” Roald sniffs at my neck and I veer an inch or two back toward Pablo, who’s flexing his fingers in my face.
“I’m coming as Chopin. The child prodigy, natch.”
“Ringo Starr,” Roald says, beaming. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Pablo frowns at him. “He’s not dead, chump.”
“He will be someday.”
“Who are you coming as, Miranda?” asks Anthony.
When the cat’s away … I take the toothpick from my mouth and flip it into the ashtray. “Good question. Maybe I’ll wear a mouse outfit.”
Roald peers at me. “A mouse outfit?”
“Ask Dean.”
He’s lighting another cigarette, eyes downcast.
“What about you, old boy?” Pablo is smiling again. “I was thinking Ashley Wilkes would be a good choice for you.”
Dean blows out his match and with a graceful arch of his wrist he drops it in the ashtray, but the tiny wooden stick tumbles off the pile of butts and napkins and french fries, landing on the tabletop, still smoking a little.
“You’d look sharp in a cravat,” Pablo goes on. “Don’t you think so, Miranda?”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to say.” I pick up Dean’s match, puff on it lightly, and toss it on top of the little pile. “But I know he looks good in gray.”
Dean lifts his head, his mouth tight. “Funny.”
Anthony looks back and forth between Dean and me. “Why should Dean come in a mouse outfit?” he says suspiciously. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t let it bother you.”
“That’s right.” Sniggering, Pablo rattles the ice in his cup. “Ignorance is bliss, huh, Miranda?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I look over at the pinball machines and see the three big-nosed Dunster House girls from Saturday night standing in front of Jungle Lord. “You’re such a bright boy,” I say to Pablo. “Help him figure it out. Would you excuse me, please?”
As I’m sliding out of the booth, Roald says, “You’re coming to the party, aren’t you?” He lo
oks up at me, a tiny trickle of blood running down his cheek. “Huh, Miranda?”
“I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Please? It won’t be a party if you’re not there.”
“You might have to struggle along without me.”
Pablo slides back in next to Roald. “How about if Dean brings the cheese?” he says with a malicious smile.
I look at him. “Such a bright boy.” I turn and walk over to the pinball machines and tap one of the girls on the arm. “Excuse me.”
She turns. “Oh, hi.” The other two swing around also. “Hi,” they chorus.
“Hi. Listen, I just wanted to apologize for calling you guys Dunster House sluts the other night.”
They look at each other, then at me. “That’s okay.”
“We’d forgotten all about it.”
“Besides, we’re not from Dunster House.”
“Ah.”
We all nod pleasantly, and I turn away. When I’m at the door, Roald calls out:
“Miranda!”
I pull the door open and gaze over at him.
“Help me figure what out?”
So that’s why it’s called higher education. “Never mind, sweetheart,” I say loudly, holding the door open to let some people in. Then I release the handle and step outside.
10
FRIDAY
Even with a quick detour into Lamont to flip through the latest issue of Rolling Stone, I’m still ten minutes early when I get to Soc Sci 33. Taking a seat in the center of the lecture hall, I open up my notebook and uncap a pen, then sit quietly as the room fills up.
At five after eleven Professor Nimitz arrives, teaching fellows in tow, and strides up to the podium, where he takes his notes from his briefcase and removes his pipe from his mouth. Then he nods at us and begins to speak, his voice deep and measured.
“As I walk along the familiar streets of Cambridge, with their stately homes, their historic buildings, yes, with their busy restaurants, their bustling shops, the crowded movie houses, well, ladies and gentlemen, the issues of social responsibility are never far from my mind. This morning at breakfast I said to my wife Sheila, ‘How in good conscience can we justify these blueberry pancakes, no matter how delicious they might be, when everybody doesn’t have blueberry pancakes for breakfast?’ Now as you can imagine, Sheila, who makes what are quite possibly the best blueberry pancakes in New England—”
I must have fallen asleep, for when I jerk my chin upright I realize that I’m just about to start drooling all over my notebook. Swallowing hastily, I shift my head and find myself being scrutinized by my section leader, Stu, a dead ringer for Chagall. He’s sitting across the aisle and a few rows up, so close that he doesn’t even bother to put on his glasses. I give him a little wave and turn my attention back to Professor Nimitz, who is, as I surmise from a peep at my neighbor’s wristwatch, wrapping up today’s lecture. I wait for him to tie it all together with a remark about breakfast foods, or about lunch perhaps, since it’s now twelve o’clock, but instead he closes by reciting a passage from this week’s reading assignment. I listen appreciatively, and join in with the applause that follows his final dramatic pause, clapping till my palms hurt. Looking gratified, Professor Nimitz sticks his pipe back into his mouth and his papers back into his briefcase, and hustles down off the proscenium and out the fire exit before anyone can catch up to him.