by John Manning
“Hello?” she called out. “Anybody home? Hello?”
A dark-skinned girl walked out of the bathroom wearing a pair of low-riding jean shorts and a tank top. She was drying her face with a towel. Her hair was in long braids that hung down her back almost to her waist, and she had dark eyes and a large forehead. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.
“Are you Sue?” the girl asked. Her voice was soft, low, the intonation almost singsong. She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Malika.”
“Hi.” Sue shook her hand and looked around the room. “Is this my side?” She gestured to where her boxes were piled.
“I hope you don’t mind.” Malika said. “I got here Friday—and so I picked this side of the room. I like to be close to the bathroom.”
“That’s fine.” Sue gave her a smile before wheeling her suitcase over to the pile of boxes. She climbed onto her bed and moaned. “I don’t even want to think about unpacking.” The bed was comfortable. She stared up at the ceiling for a moment.
Malika sat down at her desk and folded the towel. She closed her laptop, and the music stopped. “I understand you’re a freshman,” she said to Sue.
Sue rolled onto her side. “Yeah. Aren’t you?”
Malika shook her head, her braids flapping vigorously. “I’m a sophomore.”
“I kind of figured I’d be with all other freshmen.”
“No. Bentley is mostly sophomores and juniors.”
Sue smiled. “Wonder how I got in here then.”
Malika’s dark eyes seemed to study her. She didn’t reply.
“Well,” Sue said, sitting up on the bed. “I guess I should just be glad. So what’s your major?”
“Poli sci,” Malika told her.
“That’s going to be my major, too.” Sue grinned. “Prep for law school.”
Malika shrugged. “You and about half the girls here. Me, I want to go work for the United Nations, work in under-developed countries.”
“Well, that’s noble of you. Where are you from, Malika?”
“Tanzania.” The other girl’s chin went up proudly. “My parents both work for the United Nations, helping countries put together systems of law and develop their economies. It’s God’s work.”
God’s work.
Malika kept talking, but Sue wasn’t really listening. The phrase had kicked up some memories for her.
“God’s work” was a favorite phrase of her grandfather’s, one he used so frequently, it had seemed to lose its meaning. The Barlows were regular churchgoers, devoted parishioners of Saint Matthew’s Lutheran Church on the Upper West Side. Sue never remembered ever missing a Sunday service. Even when they were on vacation, they managed to find a place to worship. “God’s work” to Granpa meant pretty much going to church, paying your taxes, voting in every election (for a Republican), and saying grace before meals. Sometimes, Gran would joke about it. “What’s Granpa doing?” Sue would ask, catching her grandfather nodding off in front of the television set. “He’s doing God’s work,” she’d tell her.
“Did your parents drop you off?” Malika asked.
Sue smiled. “No. I drove up from the city.”
“New York?”
Sue nodded. “My grandparents gave me a car. I’ll have it here on campus, so if you ever want to get away for a bit—”
Malika smiled. “As if the deans would ever allow that. You’ll see, Sue. It’s pretty strict around here. They’ll let you keep the car—but they just won’t let you drive it.”
An image of that tall brick wall encircling the campus flashed through Sue’s mind. “I’ll find ways to drive it,” Sue vowed.
“So if your grandparents gave you a car, you must be a little rich girl,” Malika said, smiling. “What did Mommy and Daddy give you?”
Sue felt numb—the automatic reaction she always felt whenever anyone asked about her parents.
“My parents are dead,” she told Malika.
The other girl’s face instantly became sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Sue. I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t. How would you know?”
She stood, moving from the bed to the window. She could see the tinting on the glass, but from the inside the windows didn’t seem nearly so black. They let in the sun, for which Sue was glad. She gazed down at the green campus, the fountain bubbling in the center of the yard, watching little groups of girls moving across the grass.
“My parents died in a car accident when I was very young,” Sue told her roommate. “I don’t remember them at all. But my mother went to school here. I suppose that’s the biggest reason why my grandparents sent me here as well.”
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” Malika asked.
Sue shook her head. “Just Gran and Granpa. Only family I have.”
“I can’t imagine. I have three brothers and two sisters and I grew up with cousins and aunts and uncles…” Malika’s voice faded away as she seemed to catch some sadness in Sue’s eyes.
“Not me. My mother was also an only child, so there are no cousins.”
“What about your father?”
“I don’t know. My grandparents rarely speak of him.”
But of her mother, there was plenty of evidence. Given that she had been Gran and Granpa’s only child, she was pretty much enshrined in their apartment on Central Park West. Pictures of their darling Mariclare were everywhere. In one room were photos of Mariclare as a young girl. In another, dozens of snapshots captured her graduation from high school. There were pictures of her on beaches and in boats, in convertible cars and at the top of the World Trade Center, always laughing and looking happy. As a little girl, Sue had been jealous of this Mariclare, who had seemed to lead such a more outgoing life than she did. Mariclare—the apple of Gran and Granpa’s eyes.
Studying the photos of her mother, Sue didn’t see much of a resemblance to herself. Mariclare had thick red hair and wide blue eyes. She was model-pretty, with none of the flaws Sue saw in herself. Yet for all their devotion to their departed daughter, Sue’s grandparents rarely spoke about Mariclare directly. It was too painful, Sue understood. On the rare occasions Sue got the nerve up to ask Granpa about Mariclare, his eyes would glaze over and he’d shut down completely. Her only source for information was her grandmother, who doled out information in small doses.
“Your grandfather still misses her—the pain has never really gone away,” her grandmother, a slight woman with silver hair who always was dressed as though going to a luncheon, told her one day as they stood side by side in front of the shrine to Mariclare.
“Why isn’t there a wedding picture?” Sue, thirteen at the time, asked.
Her grandmother smiled slightly. “Your parents eloped. I’m afraid your grandfather didn’t approve of your father.” She then added in a whisper, “He blames your father, you know. He was driving the car when they crashed.” She wagged a finger. “So don’t ever ask your grandfather about your father.”
“But didn’t my father have any family? Don’t I have any cousins or grandparents on that side?”
Gran shook her head, her heavily sprayed hair not moving. “He had no people.” She sighed, and picked up a photograph of Mariclare in her cap and gown at high school graduation. “Every day, I thank God you weren’t in the car with them.”
“Are you going to the opening ceremonies tonight?”
Sue’s thoughts were brought back to the present by her roommate’s question.
“Well, I haven’t really thought about it. I was just thinking as far as getting here and collapsing.”
Malika smiled. “Well, I’d like to skip it. But it’s mandatory, honey. Didn’t you know? If you don’t go, they’ll give you demerits or something. Besides, there might be a protest, and I don’t want to miss that.”
“Protest? Why?”
Malika shook a finger at her. “Susan dear, clearly you aren’t reading the official statements the school sends out.”
“Well, we got so many�
��”
“Joyce Davenport is here to welcome us all to the new school year!”
Sue smirked. “Okay, clue me in. Should I know who she is?”
“Do you not watch television?”
Sue gave her a small laugh. “Actually, no. My grandparents never allowed it. My grandfather would watch the news, but that was it.”
It was Malika’s turn to laugh. “Well, can’t say you’re missing much. Anyway, Joyce Davenport. One of Wilbourne’s esteemed alumnae. And a scary forked-tongue mouthpiece for the far, far, radical right.”
“Never heard of her.”
“She is the High Priestess of the Rapturous Right in this country. Basically, what you need to know is that she’s made a career out of smearing people she doesn’t agree with. She doesn’t debate them on the issues, she just calls them names. Traitors. Perverts. Faggots.”
“So some of the students might protest?”
“Wilbourne isn’t exactly a hotbed of liberalism,” Malika said, “but there are enough girls here who oppose Davenport’s brand of politicking that you see a few hecklers.”
“Well, she has a right to her opinions, don’t you think? Isn’t there such a thing as freedom of speech?”
“Oh, of course. I don’t want to shut her up. But if she has a right to spew her views, then the students have a right to say what they think, too.” Malika shook her head. “She’s really scary, Sue. Wait till you hear her. She’s written some really terrible books about politics—even one defending Joe McCarthy, if you can believe that. They always trot her out on the twenty-four-hour news channels to say something outrageous about women’s rights or minorities or gays. She suggested after 9/11 that the United States should just nuke the Middle East and be done with it. She calls the Palestinians savages.”
“Sounds like a real doll.” Sue suspected this Joyce Davenport was a favorite pundit of her grandfather’s. Politics weren’t discussed much in their household; indeed, as Sue quickly learned growing up, her parents weren’t the only forbidden subject for conversations. If Sue ever voiced an opinion that differed from her grandfather’s, she was told she was wrong—no questions asked. When she asked once why a woman couldn’t be a minister in their church, Granpa had said simply, “That’s God’s will,” and Gran had gestured with her hand to be quiet, to drop the subject, to not push Granpa too far. For when he was pushed too far, his anger could fill the entire apartment, leaving Sue and her grandmother suffocating for air.
Sue’s grandfather was a formidable man, despite his stooped shoulders and white, wispy hair. He was a senior partner in a large law firm that specialized in representing major corporations. Sue had often heard Granpa thunder about the evils of labor unions, welfare, minorities, women in the workplace—and every pronouncement that came from his lips seemed almost like a command from on high. He was convinced there was a massive liberal conspiracy to turn the country into a Communist welfare state with “everyone on the dole!” When he was in one of his rages, he would slap the dinner table with his hand and dishes would literally go flying. “Tax and spend, tax and spend, taking money from the hardworking to give to the shiftless and lazy!” he’d bellow. “That is not the America the Founding Fathers envisioned when they created this great country! No prayer in school indeed! Abortion on demand! Is it any wonder God has turned his back on this great nation?”
Opposing all of these horrible liberals was doing “God’s work”—and Granpa truly believed that was his mission in life. “And God has rewarded me,” he’d say, “not only for my devotion to His commandments, but for doing His work.” He’d gesture around at the massive dining room, the fine china on the shelves, the sparkling chandelier hanging over his head. “Look at the bounty He has blessed me with! Look at my beautiful young granddaughter, who will someday carry on my work!”
Indeed, when Sue was young, she would parrot whatever Granpa said. “Liberals are going to hell” or “Abortion is murder” she’d chime in her child’s voice. How Granpa had beamed when she said such things around his friends.
Yet as she got older, and actually began studying these issues at the Stowe Academy, a few thoughts of her own dawned on her. She wasn’t as liberal as Becca, who went through a “hippy phase,” as Gran called it, and declared all inheritance laws should be abolished. But still, Sue began to see the value of labor unions, how they had protected the American worker—and while she struggled with the idea of abortion, she did think a woman should have the final say about what happened to her own body. But she knew she could never share such heresy with her grandfather. He believed she remained true to his ideals. So when she eventually decided to go to law school, he’d been pleased.
“That’s my girl!” he’d said proudly. “You’ll go straight from law school to an associateship with my firm—and then there won’t be any stopping you, my girl!”
What she didn’t tell him was she wanted to be a civil rights attorney.
There’s plenty of time to cross—or burn—that bridge, Sue thought, as Malika kept up a steady tirade against this Joyce Davenport person. After I get out of law school, I’ll be free to do what I want.
“Of course, you might like her,” Malika was saying.
“You mean, the speaker?” Sue asked.
Her roommate’s eyes twinkled. “Yeah. Who knows? Maybe you’ll turn out to be a real firebrand right-winger.”
“I like to think of myself as being part of the sensible center.”
“The center’s just for people afraid to take sides,” Malika told her, only half joking, Sue thought.
“That kind of thinking only keeps people divided, in my opinion.”
“Maybe so.” Malika sighed. “But where Joyce Davenport is concerned, I just can’t see reason. I can only imagine the hate she is going be spewing from the lectern tonight.” The girl shivered. “When I think of her, I think of the devil.”
“Okay,” Sue said, smiling, “now that is extreme.”
Her roommate’s dark eyes had closed in on her. “You girls who’ve grown up in sophisticated cities think there is no such thing. But even though I have been well educated all my life, I am not so far removed from my origins. In my father’s village back in Tanzania, there is a strong belief still in evil spirits. I believe they are real. And I think this school is full of them.”
6
Sue spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking. Malika helped her set up her computer and get hooked up to the college wireless Internet system. Every so often, one of Malika’s friends would stick her head in the door—she apparently was one of the more popular students at Wilbourne—and after the first two or three, Sue gave up trying to remember their names.
Around six, Malika took her over to the campus cafeteria for dinner before the welcome ceremony. The food wasn’t bad, and Sue found herself relaxing a little bit, starting to feel at home. As the sun sank in the west, the wind got cooler and Sue began to wish she’d worn something heavier than a cotton blouse. A chill wind blew as they walked across campus to the auditorium and found seats near the back.
The hall was filled with girls talking, laughing, giggling, and gossiping, getting caught up with friends they hadn’t seen since the previous semester. Sue was a little startled to see a few young men scattered throughout the audience. Although Wilbourne was a private academy for women, it did accept some men for graduate studies.
At promptly eight o’clock, a large older gentleman stood up, waddled across the stage, and introduced himself as Dean Gregory. He led them all in a short prayer—although Wilbourne was nonsectarian, many of the instructors had not abandoned their Lutheran roots. After the prayer was concluded, Dean Gregory introduced some of the faculty also seated on the stage. The names meant nothing to her, other than Dr. Virginia Marshall, a professor of theology. Sue was taking one of Dr. Marshall’s courses; she’d read some of her books for a paper she’d written at Stowe and enjoyed them.
Dean Gregory went on to officially welcome them to the new school year
, and expounded about how bright their futures were. He had the kind of voice that put an audience to sleep, and indeed Sue’s eyelids were starting to droop as he droned on and on…until he introduced Joyce Davenport to polite applause from the crowd. Sue sat up straight. Malika gave her a little nudge.
Joyce Davenport walked across the stage to the podium as though she owned it. She was wearing a tight black off-the-shoulder dress that barely reached her thighs. Her long thin legs were perched on top of a pair of what Becca Stansfield used to call “come fuck me” pumps. Her shoulders were narrow and bony, and her arms long and thin. She had thick, long black hair that hung down almost to her waist, and it was all the same length. From the back of the auditorium, Davenport’s face was just a white oval in the bright lights.
She started speaking, and Sue winced. Joyce Davenport’s voice was shrill, and through the microphone it sounded very similar to fingernails on a chalkboard. Other girls in the audience started fidgeting and whispering amongst themselves, but as Davenport continued to speak—about her days at Wilbourne and what they had meant to her—her voice came down an octave or two and became almost hypnotic. The fidgeting and whispering stopped, and Davenport’s voice became full of passion as she went on and on about how Wilbourne had prepared her for the real world, for great success and fame…
“No politics,” Malika whispered. “She’s staying away from politics.”
“You sound as if you’re disappointed.”
Malika shrugged. “I was just hoping for a little drama.”
When Davenport finished—to, again, polite applause—Dean Gregory led the students in a closing prayer and then dismissed them.
“I can’t believe it,” said one of Malika’s friends, a plump brunette, rushing up to them outside. “Not a controversial word! I saw that bitch on CNN the other night and wanted to put my fist through the television. I was all ready to stand up and shout her down.”