The Panty Raid

by Pamela Morsi

  Hank noticed all these things in an instant. The instant before he realized that she was walking right past him to the office of the Dean of Women. Hurriedly, he rose to his feet.

  “Miss Wilbur,” he called out.

  She stopped, surprised and turned to look at him.

  “Ah...hi,” he said, foundering.

  Her brow furrowed as she eyed him curiously before pointing a finger. “You’re the guy outside my window,” she said.

  “Yes, I—”

  The door to the dean’s office opened.

  “Brantly,” the secretary called out.

  He gave a nod of his head in that direction.

  “I’m just going in to talk to the dean about that now,” he said. “I’m charged with Attempted Lingerie Larceny.”

  She nodded. He could almost see a hint of humor hesitating on the edge of her businesslike demeanor.

  “And you?” he asked. “What are you up for? Discharging a Wet Substance Down a Second-Floor Ladder?”

  She did smile then and it was better than he imagined. Her grin was wide and bright and her nose wrinkled slightly, making her seem suddenly less goddess, more woman. Something rich and warm and wonderful opened up inside Hank’s heart.

  “They don’t discipline you for that,” she assured him. “They award you a medal. Heroism in Defense of Underwear.”

  Hank nodded.

  “I guess that’s the university’s version of The Order of the Garter.”

  “Mr. Brantly,” the secretary called more sternly. “Got to go,” he said.

  “Hope they don’t throw the book at you.”

  He shrugged, unconcerned. “Aren’t books what college is all about?”

  Miss Wilbur laughed. It was a wonderful sound.

  At that moment, as Hank stepped into the dean’s office the echo of it still in his ear, he first managed to put his jumble of feelings into one single thought.

  I’m going to marry that woman.

  Chapter Three

  Dot had found the hallway distraction to be surprisingly welcome. Her worries of the previous night had not dissipated with morning. In fact, they’d gotten worse. After finishing the exam, she’d waited to speak to Dr. Falk alone.

  Once all the other students had left the classroom, she’d approached him. He’d glanced up, but instead of giving her his attention, he began thumbing through the book on his desk.

  Dot had spoken up, nonetheless.

  “Dr. Falk, I understand that representatives from Dupont will be visiting campus next week,” she said.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Two gentlemen will be coming in on Thursday.”

  “I understand that they’ll be scouting for employment prospects.”

  He shrugged. “The big companies are always on the lookout for promising young men.”

  “What about a promising young woman?” Dot suggested. “I would really like to meet these people.”

  He looked up at her then, his expression hard as nails. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Wilbur,” he said. “The list of students they’ll be meeting has already been put together and I’m afraid you’re not on it. Maybe if you’d mentioned your interest sooner.”

  Dot’s own expression hardened.

  “I did tell you sooner, sir,” she said. “I spoke to you about it the second day of class, as soon as the rumor went around. I mentioned it again to you two weeks ago and last week as well.”

  “Oh, did you? Well, I’m sorry. I must have failed to make a note of it.”

  He picked up his book again. “You’re dismissed, Miss Wilbur,” he said, without even looking at her.

  Dot knew she couldn’t just let that go. She needed Dr. Falk. Without his support, his recommendation, there wouldn’t be a chance for her, as a woman, to find a job in research. She was a senior. Most of the men in her class, certainly the men with grades nearly as good as hers, had already been scouted for positions by major companies in the chemical or pharmaceutical industry. Her name had never been suggested to anyone.

  And if Dr. Falk had his way, she was fairly certain it never would.

  So she’d called the office of the Dean of Women and made an appointment. All the way across campus to Chariker, she’d practiced what she was going to say. She chose her words carefully. She phrased, rephrased, stopped to make notes about it and then practiced expressing it all again.

  By the time she got to the dean’s office it was such a total jumble of thoughts and ideas that her mind could hardly keep it in a linear direction of conversation. Dot had no problems remembering every element on the periodic chart. But the fears and emotions that swirled inside her defied any attempt to be compartmentalized in a neat, ordered fashion.

  The panty raider who interrupted her thoughts in the hallway was an unexpected respite. Laughing had forced her to relax, approaching the problem more academically and less emotionally. She found she was still smiling as she walked in to give her name to the secretary. She was shown right in.

  Dr. Barbara Glidden, the Dean of Women, was a tiny little woman with such unflagging energy she reminded Dot of a hummingbird. She was in her sixties, bright eyed, with silver-gray hair piled in a bun on the top of her head. She seemed to always be smiling, but there was a strength in her that drew young women. They felt confident that she would be on their side.

  Dot hoped that would be true today.

  Calmly, accurately, she explained in detail the unpleasant reality of life in Dr. Falk’s class. Dr. Glidden listened quietly until Dot was finished. She was nodding.

  “Dr. Falk is very old-school,” she told Dot. “And his department is so overwhelmingly male, he has very little experience with women’s education.”

  “But surely he can’t be opposed to it,” Dot said. “It’s unfair not to treat me with the same respect and offer me the same opportunities that a man would get.”

  Dr. Glidden smiled. She had a beautiful smile. It was rumored in the dorm that she’d been a beauty queen in her youth. Now, however, she was a tenured professor, university administrator.

  “If someone told you that life was fair, Dorothy,” she said with a certain amount of humor, “then, my dear, I’m afraid you’ve been lied to.”

  “Is there some way I can make it less unfair?” Dot asked.

  “You have to think of it from Dr. Falk’s perspective,” Dr. Glidden told her.

  “What’s his perspective? He hates women?”

  “He doesn’t hate women,” Dr. Glidden assured her. “He simply believes that with limited time and facilities, it’s a mistake to waste effort on those whose education will come to nothing.”

  “My education won’t come to nothing,” Dot insisted.

  Dr. Glidden shrugged. “Most women only work until they are wed,” she said. “That’s a reality of our time. We, in higher education, expend much effort and resources preparing young women to take their place in the workforce. Then a man comes along and they marry and stay at home. It’s an unpleasant fact of life that everyone in the field struggles with. Dr. Falk finds it less disappointing to confront it directly.”

  “But I want to work,” Dot said. “I’m good in science. It’s what I want to do.”

  The dean nodded. “That’s how you feel now,” she said. “But when you fall in love and your husband asks you to stay home, you’ll feel differently.”

  “My mother works,” Dot insisted. “I mean, she takes in laundry, but she gets paid for that. It’s the same as a job.”

  “Your mother is working class,” Dr. Glidden said. “As a college woman you naturally should aspire to more. And a middle or upper-class husband will be diminished in the eyes of the community if it appears that he’s not a good provider and his wife is forced to work.”

  “But I wouldn’t be forced to work,” Dot said. “I’d be working by choice.”

  “No one would know that,” Dr. Glidden said. “No one would understand it or believe it. And even if they did, marriage means children. What would you do about your
children? Would you be able to work while they stay home and rear themselves?”

  Dot had no idea how to respond to that.

  “I'm the first person in my family to ever go to college,” she explained to the dean. “This is a big opportunity. I can’t just take it and throw it away. I have to make something of myself.”

  “Companies aren’t looking for temporary female employees in their research labs and corporate hierarchy,” Dr. Glidden said. “If you want to work until you marry, you’d be better off taking typing.”

  “No, I don’t want to be in the typing pool,” Dot told her firmly. “I love science.”

  “Well,” she said, “then there is the College of Education. There are many small towns and rural areas that might hire a woman to teach high school science. And of course, there is nursing, which is truly the practical application of science.”

  “I don’t want to teach or be a nurse,” she said. “I want to do research in a big laboratory, expanding the boundaries of biology and chemistry.”

  The dean nodded. “Dorothy, you need to think that through very carefully. Research is a lifelong vocation,” Dr. Glidden told her. “If you truly want to pursue that and be treated equal to men in the endeavor, then you have to be willing to say that you will never want a husband and children.”

  “What?”

  “The only way that you can pursue a vocation like a man,” she said, “is to give up all the aspirations of womanhood. It’s not an easy thing to do. As a woman who’s done it, I can tell you that.”

  Dot was momentarily stunned into silence.

  “So that’s why you never married,” she said at last.

  “I never wanted to give a man the right to tell me

  what to do,” she answered. “And I don’t regret it. I have friends and colleagues. I have a half-dozen nieces and nephews. My life has been far from the empty wasteland people imagine with the term spinster.”

  That word conjured in Dot’s own mind images that were equally negative.

  “A woman who truly wants a career cannot marry,” Dr. Glidden said. “Marriage means taking care of a husband and family and having a baby every few years. By the time that’s over, the woman is far too old and worn to do anything else. Wife and work don’t mix. You’ll have to choose one or the other.”

  “Men don’t have to choose,” Dot pointed out. “They have both families and careers.”

  Dr. Glidden sighed and shook her head. “As I said before, Dorothy, the world is not a fair place. I know that. Dr. Falk knows that. You’re a senior in college— it’s time you understood it as well.”

  Dot left the office a few moments later with an admonition from the dean.

  “Think about what you really want and decide the direction of your life.”

  It was a monumental choice. And one that was not easily faced. Dot truly did not want to give up hope of actually pursuing her gifts, her talents. But she was not so immersed in the world of academia that she couldn’t imagine herself with a husband and family. Dot had dated, both in high school and college. There had been a couple of boys she’d liked a lot. But she’d never really been in love.

  Not that she didn’t believe in it.

  Her parents, for all their cares and struggle, obviously loved each other very much. Sometimes, late at night, she’d hear them laughing together, sharing the day. There was no question in Dot’s mind that the joy they had in their marriage, their children, was the most valuable and fulfilling aspect of their lives. But then, smelter work and ironing were not vocations that people went into for the love of the job.

  Dot hoped to do more important work. To discover medicines that would cure diseases or design products that would make life safer, easier. She had the God- given talent and aptitude for such work. Surely it would be wrong not to pursue it.

  Still, the thought of her younger brother gave her pause. When she’d held little Tom as a baby in her arms, she had yearned for motherhood. Did she yearn for science more?

  Dot had much to consider. As she left the building, headed down the bricked lane in front of Chariker Hall, she became vaguely aware that someone was walking next to her. It was nearly half a minute before she realized it wasn’t a coincidence.

  “Don’t want to interrupt your thoughts,” he said as she glanced over at her panty raider, Mr. Brantly.

  “Are you following me?”

  “Escorting you, I hoped,” he said.

  He was cute. There was no getting around that. He was tall and muscular. In the sunlight his wavy brown hair looked almost red. He had bright eyes that crinkled at the comers, as if he were smiling all the time.

  ‘To where are you escorting me?” she asked.

  He considered the question. “Dorm?” he asked. “Library? No wait, Swimms,” he said. “After a conference with the dean, you’ve got to go to Swimms.” He dug down in his pocket. “I even think I’ve got a quarter.”

  He pulled out the shiny coin and held it up for her inspection. “Why don’t we take Lady Liberty here over to Swimms and see if we can bust her up?”

  Dot’s first reaction was to say no. She had things to think about, things to consider. But her head ached from thinking, considering. There was nothing she needed more than vacation from her own worries. This guy had made her laugh in the hallway. Maybe he could do it again.

  “All right, Mr. Brantly,” she said. “Lead on.”

  To Dot’s surprise, he took her hand. “I'm not that kind of guy,” he assured her, smiling. “I never lead on. A girl always knows where she stands with me.”

  “Oh, really,” she said, as she pointedly withdrew from his grasp and folded both arms across her chest, her books held tightly against her heart. “And where is it that I stand?”

  He was smiling, but there was some seriousness in the softness of his tone.

  “On the brink of an amazing romance,” he said.

  Dot laughed in his face.

  “Does that sort of talk work with other girls?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never tried it with other girls.”

  “Oh, so I’m the guinea pig,” she said. “Hmm. Well, I'll try to think of myself as a scientific subject.”

  They walked toward the edge of campus.

  Swimms Malt Shop was just across Bow Street, an off-campus hangout, close enough to hear the bells from Founder’s Tower, but far enough away that the rules of university life need not apply. The tiled corner doorway led into a huge building lined with booths along two sides, an array of tables in the middle; everything was matched to the university’s colors, and the team’s wily mascot adorned the walls. The place was busy, noisy, hectic. But there was an exuberance that was pure optimism. Perhaps because all of the customers were college kids, relaxing among friends.

  Since all the tables were filled, he led her to the long marble counter and helped her up on one of the dark green vinyl stools. The soda jerk came over with a rag and wiped the area in front of them.

  “What’ll ya have?” the guy asked Brantly

  Her escort turned to look at Dot, his eyes narrowing. “Hmm, should I try to guess?” he asked.

  Dot laughed lightly. “You can try,” she told him. “Well, an ordinary girl would probably go for vanilla malted,” he said. “But you, Miss Wilbur, have never impressed me as an ordinary girl.”

  He hesitated. She gave no hints.

  “Cherry-pineapple shake?” he suggested.

  “Not even close,” she answered. “Chocolate-coconut malt,” she told the soda jerk.

  He nodded and turned to Brantly “You?”

  “Just bring me an extra straw,” he said, laying his shiny quarter on the counter. “I think I’ve got a lot to learn about Miss Wilbur. Do I have to keep calling you that? Miss Wilbur.”

  “That’s my name,” she said. “You don’t like it?”

  “It doesn’t suit you,” he said. “It sounds like some dried-up old maid.”

  “Ah...wel
l, we among the dried-up prefer the term spinster," she said.

  “I prefer the term sweetheart,” he told her. “But I’m not sure you’d be willing to let me call you that.”

  “No, not hardly,” she stated flatly. “You can call me Dot.”

  “Okay, Dot,” he said, “you can call me Hank, as long as you call me.”

  His mischievous grin made the words seem charming rather than bluster. She chose to ignore them.

  “So, how did your session go with the dean?” she asked him. “I suppose that bringing me here means you weren’t restricted to your dorm.”

  “No, that would have been cruel and unusual punishment,” he said. “I requested a firing squad at dawn. They give you a last cigarette, you know. It’s the only time we get to smoke on campus.”

  The solemnity feigned in his explanation brought a burst of laughter from her throat.

  “No seriously, what happened?”

  “Well, the truth is, it’s worse than execution. We’re being punished by party making.”

  “What?”

  “The dean wants the men of Baldridge to learn how to interact with ladies in a more socially acceptable manner,” Hank explained. “So we’re required to hold a formal dance and invite the ladies of Compton to attend.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” Dot said.

  “And it gets worse.”

  “How?”

  “Because some snitch, under torture no doubt, revealed that I was the ringleader of the panty raid,” he said. “I’ve now been drafted as dance committee chairman.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes,” Hank said.

  Dot was really laughing now. The image in her mind of the loud, clumsy, boisterous residents of Baldridge

  Hall sedately sipping punch and passing plates of petits fours was too funny to keep a straight face.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” he said. “To me it’s similar to the feeling of having cold water doused on my head.”

  Dot put her hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle the hooting that threatened to break out.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed. “Not for defending my dorm, but for imagining your punishment to be a great joke. I’m sure you guys will give a lovely party.”