Love and Lechery at Albert Academy

by Dolores Maggiore

  “Katie, just give me the gist. I need a break.”

  “Oh God, Pina, They’re putting on a reception for her on December tenth and comparing it to the television program “This is Your Life.” Oh, you’ve got to hear this:

  “The Albert Board will ask Miss Whitfield to speak at its gifted lecturer series early in the New Year.”

  “But, no mention of how Craney seduced and defiled her and ran her out of town? Funny how that’s missing.” Katie smirked.

  Chapter Sixty

  The Real News

  “Holy crow!” I whispered to Katie, who had her hand plastered to her forehead.

  “My father and Joe did it; they tracked her down!” Katie sported the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. “Let’s go join the celebration,” she guffawed.

  “Wait, Katie. They’re celebrating Emily Whitfield, right? The announcement doesn’t say Craney’s goose is cooked. Maybe that’s not what their march is all about.” I shivered with a new worry.

  “Does it matter, Pin?”

  “I gotta think. Open your mailbox to get your father’s package in the meantime. Check mine too.”

  I slumped against the wall as a new group of girls read the announcement. I wasn’t convinced that I was out of the frying pan. Craney might have me burn in the fires of hell just out of revenge.

  Katie clacked her mailbox shut and thrust a newspaper article at me. “Scandal among American Elite, Gifted Teacher Removed,” from the newspaper The Guardian. This was the gift her father promised!

  “Pina, look!”

  I stared at the newspaper in a state of shock. Numb. Was this real?

  Katie shook the newspaper in my face, saying, “Don’t you get it?”

  “Okay, got it,” I mumbled. “What if Craney wants revenge?”

  “Dammit, Pina. I’ve got to knock some sense into your head. We’ve won, you boob!”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” I said.

  “We’ve got to go read every single word of this back at the dorm, but first…” Katie pulled on the sleeve of one of the older girls whooping it up. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Don’t you know? She was the best.” The older, sophisticated girl threw a haughty glance around. “Craney axed her; she’ll get what’s coming to her.”

  “Who?” said Katie.

  The girl sneered. “Use your head. Craney’s been found out. Heads are going to fly. Bye-bye. Toodles. I have some serious celebrating to do.”

  “Quit moping, Pina!” Katie grabbed me. “You heard her.”

  “Whose head is going to fly? And who’s going bye-bye?”

  “You can’t tell shit from shinola. Oops! Pina, I’m sorry. Let’s go,” said Katie, her look softening.

  We ran back to the dorm and settled in with the article. Before we could begin the article, we spotted the words, “Copy sent to Miss Craney” in Doc’s handwriting.

  I screeched, “Uh oh.” when the door flew open and Dorotea strode in singing, “Ding-dong, the wicked witch is dead!”

  We stared at her, amazed at her mastery of this song, which seemed so American. The swiftness with which the news had spread also stunned us.

  “Rumor has it,” said Dorotea, who loved this expression, “That Craney is, how you say, washed up? Ja, da gibt’s ein Gott!”

  Katie said, “What?”

  I chimed in, “She says there is a God!”

  “Holiday! We rebel!” Dorotea beamed. “I am a rebel!”

  Dorotea broke out the Schnapps, poured three glasses, and pounced on the bed. We clinked our glasses, and Katie cleared her throat to read:

  “Scandal among American Elite”

  “Attorneys for the Albert Academy, a prestigious New England institution for the instruction of young girls from several of America’s oldest families, ready themselves for an imminent lawsuit to be filed on behalf of a gifted instructor, Miss Emily Whitfield. Her removal from the Albert Academy and subsequent blackballing formed part of a systematic and thorough character assassination by the Head Mistress of the Academy, Miss Mary Margaret Craney.”

  Katie started to summarize the stilted language and then cited:

  “Instructors have often wielded their influence in a compelling manner. While the image of the youngster harking to the side of a beloved teacher for guidance and inspiration is legendary, the heinous representation of the administrator preying upon the innocent shocks and repulses.”

  Katie took a deep breath. “Oh, you’ve gotta hear this.”

  “Such was the case of Head Mistress, Miss Mary Margaret Craney, rebuffed in her unwelcome attentions to young instructor, Miss Emily Whitfield. Subsequently, the Head Mistress was recalcitrant in her efforts to have this instructor banned from public and private institutions and took it upon herself to cast doubt in the minds of Head Mistresses of other institutions as to Miss Whitfield’s stability and to indict her on issues of moral turpitude.”

  “Jesus, give me another shot,” I said to Dorotea.

  “Hats off to Joe!” yelled Katie and Dorotea.

  Dorotea added, “But…but what about Pina?”

  “Wait,” said Katie. “Look, Pina, quick look at Joe’s acknowledgements.”

  “The small print?” I said.

  “Yup!”

  “Hot damn! It says, ‘I thank P.M. for valor under pressure and for her collaboration on this piece.’ That’s me! Whoopee!”

  “Yeah. Hats off to P.M.,” shrieked Katie and Dorotea.

  ****

  By now, we were on our third shot when it occurred to me to ask Dorotea what she meant by the “rebellion.”

  “The students are protesting,” said Dorotea, who knew all about protests from watching the Tibet and Alabama Civil Rights demonstrations on TV. And with a huge grin, she added, “About time—me too!”

  “Hurray!” yelled Katie.

  “Katie, please,” I said. “We have to call your dad, right now. Craney’s going to be on the warpath.”

  Katie was slurring her words and laughing, slapping us upside the shoulders. Dorotea, who also said she had to thank Doc for inviting her to Thanksgiving, was dancing around singing, “God bless America” with the thickest German accent.

  And me? I was beginning to believe Craney would never have her way with me. I laughed and laughed and laughed.

  ****

  Walking from the dorm to an outdoor phone booth—all the school phones were tied up—we were freezing our buttocks off, but the booze helped. They might find us frozen to death, but we would die with smiles on our faces.

  We reached the phone booth a bit more sober. Katie dialed her father’s number while we steamed up the booth with our laughter.

  “Hey, Dad. It’s me.”

  Katie listened, and then her eyes bugged out of her head.

  “Holy cow! When?” asked Katie. Then, to us she said, “They’re going to remove Craney.”

  “And the Board is calling back Mademoiselle Lesage and they want to hire Miss Whitfield as Head Mistress!” Katie repeated her father’s words.

  We let go a huge, “Yahoo!”

  I stopped cold. “Katie, don’t hang up. Gimme the phone, please. Right now!” I grabbed the phone and said, “Doc, thank you, thank you. But I have to know. Could she possibly refuse to leave?”

  “First off, Pina, thank you! And if needs be, we will see that she is removed with police escort.”

  Katie and Dorotea were jumping up and down. I finally started to cheer. Snowflakes covered our smiling faces as we all linked arms to charge back to campus.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Open Door Policy

  Katie, Dorotea, and I didn’t waste any time getting home. We did an ecstatic sashay all the way back, convinced that Craney was dead in the water. Just the same, Katie and Dorotea helped me pick a chair and position it under the doorknob. They tested it and even pretended to break in. Secure!

  I said, “Better safe—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Katie.

  “You
know, I laugh, Pina, but I understand how sick Craney is.” Dorotea patted my hand in a big-sisterly way. “She really was out to get you from the start!”

  We played a dumb game of Scrabble, allowing curses and German words. Obviously, we were cheating. We even borrowed words from the Kirschwasser bottle. This helped broaden our German vocabulary; it also helped quiet any remaining nerves to the point where we fell asleep fully clothed.

  When we awoke, Katie and I were all for cleaning up immediately. Dorotea, who had been winning, begged us to continue the Scrabble game to the very end. I played my last seven lucky letters to form the word “scheiss” in German. Katie yelled, “Sh…t!” at my good fortune, and Dorotea innocently claimed that Katie’s translation was unnecessary. Needless to say, I won the game with my extra fifty points.

  “Yikes!” was our simultaneous outcry to the knock on the door. Reality had just set in again. We looked at each other blankly before Katie asked who it was.

  More pounding, followed by Jocelyn’s voice yelling, “Quick, quick. You must come, now!”

  Katie removed the chair and threw open the door. Jocelyn and Emily were roaring with bubbly laughter.

  “Get your coats. You’re coming with us!” Jocelyn commanded.

  “Good or bad,” I asked sheepishly.

  “Dummkopf.” Dorotea slapped me on the back. “They laugh.”

  “Tell us already.” said Katie.

  “No, no. It has to be seen to be believed,” said Emily.

  Katie and Dorotea carried me along at break-neck speed. We followed Jocelyn and Emily to Craney’s office.

  “Shoot. Put me down,” I screamed. “What the heck?”

  “It’s safe, Pina. I swear,” said Jocelyn, who ran to my side and pushed me into Craney’s office. “It’s just the way we found it.”

  “Empty.” said Katie.

  “Oh sweet Jesus,” I swore. “Craney’s…uh…gone?” I jumped on a chair and sang out, “She’s gone. The witch is gone!”

  Dorotea yodeled, “Ding-dong, the wicked witch is gone.”

  Emily explained, “We came to find out what was going on and found everything empty: open drawers, books missing, academic gown gone, tea pot smashed. And then this!”

  “My journal,” I said, staring at an exact replica of the one Craney had given me on my birthday. I flipped through the worn pages. There were dates and cryptic comments like “gown found” and “play delivered” and “peep hole in place.”

  On the last page, I found a poem entitled “My whimsical sprite, Pina.” It had been crossed out so vehemently that the page was almost shredded. Thank God I wouldn’t have to read it. The next to last page contained a poem Craney had sent me, “Why so pale and wan fond lover.”

  I started to wretch. Katie ran over, wrenching the book from my hands. She and Dorotea sped to the fireplace and put lighted matches to its edges. I screamed, “No” and managed to pull it out intact. “Evidence, my dears. And for that book I’m going to write with Joe.”

  We laughed, we cried, we cheered. We threw open the drapes allowing a brilliant almost-Thanksgiving sun to flood the once-dreary quarters. Snow crystals twinkled, and notes of “chestnuts roasting on an open fire” floated over from the radio Dorotea had just turned on.

  Katie picked up the phone to tell her father about Craney’s disappearance. She hung up beaming and ran over to hug Dorotea and me.

  “You, my dear,” Katie said to Dorotea. “You are going to be touring Boston with my father and Joe today and of course, dining with us tomorrow.”

  “I am so thankful! Fantastisch! I get to see history in America and eat a turkey.”

  “You’re leaving today, Katie?” I asked.

  “No. You, my sweet, you and I are driving together with your parents to make sure they don’t get lost.” Katie winked at me and pushed my lips back up into a smile.

  Everyone laughed. Jocelyn and Emily said their parents would also be picking them up today. We all hugged and started back to the dorm.

  I hummed and skipped for the first time in two months, cocky with the knowledge that I held in my pocket proof positive, the journal, in black and white, of Craney’s perversion. I patted my pocket occasionally, reveling in the security provided by its touch and the arms of Katie and Dorotea laced through mine.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Another Open Door

  I went back to my room to do some serious breathing and left Dorotea and Katie to clean up their room and help Dorotea pack. They would come and get me when Doc and Joe arrived. I also had some serious thinking to do.

  Crashed on my bed, I allowed myself to cry for all the unspoken fears. I realized that at times, I had been pretty dramatic, but that was only the half of what I had been feeling. All the Greek tragedies had played themselves out in my chest and bowels. My Italian pride had only allowed me to cry “help” when my physical and mental being felt too small to contain all that pathos.

  It really was time to switch to comedies. I thought I’d read Aristophanes. I liked frogs—I would read that play—and the thought of all those women in Lysistrata refusing to have sex with their husbands until they stopped the wars—that was definitely neat.

  Maybe the most important thing I had to cry about was not finding my voice sooner, not yelling, “No.” I could be loud; that wasn’t the problem. I didn’t think people would believe me. Today, for sure, I would tell my parents that there’s a price to be paid for being too respectful towards authority figures.

  Wow! I am so lucky my mother believed me!

  Yeah, and I’ve got to believe Katie when she says I can ask her for anything. That’s a hard one. As if I deserve it…Hmm. Something new to try.

  ****

  “Coming?” Katie crept into my room.

  “Wish I was…” I had been having a pleasurable daydream when she entered.

  “You little piglet, you.” Katie tickled me, pulling me off the bed. “C’mon, my dad and Joe are here.”

  There was no end of the hugs and thanks we had for Doc and Joe. Joe winked and joked about his mighty pen and about my skills as a safecracker. Doc confessed to questionable behavior too: somewhat slippery convocations of the Boards in Craney’s absence.

  I fished out Craney’s version of the journal and slipped it into Joe’s hands. “If you need any more documentation.”

  Dorotea embraced us with tears in her eyes. “I am so thankful, especially that you have taught me friendship.”

  “See you tomorrow, D. We can even do the wishbone with you,” said Katie.

  “Not papier-mãché bones, D, a real turkey bone to make wishes on.” I explained the tradition to erase the big question mark on Dorotea’s face.

  “I want our friendship to go on and on and on,” she said.

  “Javohl!” I answered.

  Katie and I watched Doc’s Lincoln drive off. I turned to Katie and whispered, “Come home with me?”

  Katie’s soft, open look took me back to our plane ride to Andover. Then our eyes reflected back to each other all the energy and expectations we had entrusted to Albert: our room awaiting us, free, rampant expression of feelings, easy sailing and adulation by the flock of girls and the shepherding staff.

  Well, that didn’t happen, but that moment of hope and belief and of holding our breath—that moment was here again, now.

  I opened the door to my room and with reverent fingers removed Katie’s coat. She stared into my eyes and brushed her lips across them. “So so long…” she whispered.

  “I was scared we didn’t have anything left, no feelings, no touch,” I breathed out slowly.

  “Shush,” said Katie.

  Katie led me to the bed and unbuttoned my shirt. She kissed my neck and shoulders and cupped my breast.

  I shivered with all those pent up feelings. I wrapped my legs around her and slid along her long body to fit into the right grooves together. I felt her tongue in my mouth, the key that opened all my yearnings and readiness for her, all of her.
<
br />   I pressed her to me and felt her dampness ooze into mine. Our bodies found their rhythm, slow and easy; we were a stream flowing lazily, softly swelling up at bends, dipping into valleys.

  “You fill me up,” I whispered.

  Katie brushed my lips, sighing. “Whole and holy.”

  I brought her fingers to my lips and then to my heart.

  ****

  We were still that way at sunset. A reddish sun lit up the whole horizon, followed by a special huge moon surrounded by a pale red aura.

  “Did you lock the door with a chair?” Katie asked.

  I laughed and laughed. “No,” I confessed. “Everybody could have walked in.”

  “Maybe they did!” She mussed my hair into my eyes and my mouth. She had to kiss my lips to extract the three strands caught there.

  “We will have to lock doors, you know,” I said.

  “Not at my father’s,” said Katie with a twinkle in her eye.

  Her eyes softened. A tear threatened to swell. Katie sniffled “We really do have a lot to be thankful for.”

  “Each other, our folks, how this worked out,” I said.

  “I’m so glad you and I will be coming back here and Dorotea too!”

  “Hey, but let’s have Thanksgiving first! Tell me, did you get a hint from Joe about Alda?” I asked.

  “Well, duh! Something about sharing the Vin Santo? Pina, I gotta tell you. Joe made me promise not to say anything about relocation and visits—”

  “Really…at Thanksgiving?” I pulled a surprised face.

  “Here, you’ll definitely want to read this now.” Katie laughed as she handed me a note with handwriting I recognized so well.

  “See you real soon, maybe here, maybe there,” spiraled all over the small square, larger than life just like Alda.

  Katie had a dreamy look on her face, and she started doing that hair-twirling thing. “But something else is happening, something about us.”

  “Something is happening to us,” I said. “It’s like you’re the same, Katie, but you’re not. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah. Like we’re different somehow.”