Jennifer Haigh

by Condition

The preparations began two months in advance. After a long fruitless day of shopping, Paulette gave up and took Gwen to a dressmaker. Together they looked at fabric samples, silk and satin and tulle.

  No purple, which her mother insisted was vulgar. Gwen meekly agreed. She stood in her underwear as measurements were taken. In a few weeks a dress appeared. The style was simple—a deep neckline and fitted bodice, cut to accommodate the padded bra Paulette had bought her. The narrow skirt, floor length, would hide Gwen's shiny black Mary Janes, the only dress shoes available in her size.

  She hadn't seen Patrick James in years and wouldn't have recognized him anywhere but her own living room, where he appeared that afternoon, two hours before the dance. Her father had driven him over from Harvard. Gwen, her mother had whispered, knocking at her bedroom door. Come down and say hello.

  Patrick was sitting on the divan when Gwen came downstairs.

  His face was round and ruddy, his teeth straightened by years of orthodontia. He had curly blond hair of the sort found on baby dolls. He wasn't good looking, exactly, but he bore a passing resemblance to boys who were. Gwen smiled tentatively. The girls at the dance—Martha Hixbridge and the others who ignored her at school—would have to be impressed.

  Paulette came into the room with a plate of scones."Gwen, darling, you remember Patrick."

  "Hey," Patrick said. Then, seeing an adult was present, he stood.

  Gwen gulped in a way that may have been audible. He was tall.

  Not tall like her six-foot brother and father, which would have been bad enough. Patrick—a star forward, she later discovered, on the Friends School basketball team—stood six feet five inches tall. Her eyes were level with his sternum.

  "Patrick was telling me about his day at Harvard," said Paulette.

  "He had a marvelous interview."

  "Great." Gwen could feel her mother's gaze. "What are you going to study?" she asked dutifully.

  "Pre-law," said Patrick."I guess."

  Paulette patted Gwen's shoulder."Sit down, dear. Have a scone."

  Gwen sat, sorry to see her go. Paulette's too-bright smile was unnerving, but at least she had spoken. Alone, Gwen and Patrick sat in silence.

  "You're a junior?" he said finally."I thought we were the same age."

  I got left back a year, she could have said. They flunked me for being short.

  "My birthday is in September," she said instead—the explanation her mother always gave. "I missed the cutoff date." She had known Patrick two minutes and already she was lying. This seemed a bad sign.

  Her mother returned, then, and shooed her upstairs. "No sense waiting until the last minute. I'll come up later to help with your hair."

  Gwen showered and dressed. She'd grumbled about the tedious fittings, the time and money spent on something she'd wear just a few hours; yet in spite of all this she loved the dress. It was the first garment in years that had fit her correctly, with shoulder seams that actually aligned with her shoulders. The fabric was grayishblue, to match her eyes. Not the pastel blue of children's clothing, but a subtle shade, sophisticated and adult. This is nice, she thought.

  I look nice.

  There was a discreet knock at the door, Paulette loaded down with a case of electric rollers, a makeup kit, the brushes and combs and hairspray Gwen had agreed to have used upon her. She had refused to spend the afternoon in a salon.

  "Darling, look at you!" Paulette dropped everything on the bed and pulled Gwen into her arms."You look beautiful."

  Gwen squirmed, not unhappily. Usually when her mother said such things, she couldn't decide whether to be irritated or depressed.

  This time the words touched her. In the new dress she could almost believe.

  In this hopeful state she submitted to the hot curlers, the paints and powders applied to her face. The results were good, if disorienting. She looked like a different person. Which, she supposed, was the whole point.

  Her mother beamed, eyes filling."This is for you," she said, handing Gwen a small box. "Your father gave me these as an engagement present."

  Inside was a strand of pearls.

  "I don't wear them anymore," Paulette added, showing unusual restraint.

  The dance was held downtown, at a hotel in Copley Square.

  "Your mother tells me you're an excellent driver," said Paulette, handing Patrick her car keys, oblivious to his glassy stare, his gaping grin.

  Gwen had found him in Scotty's room, in a white shirt and tuxedo pants; the two boys sitting cross-legged on the floor passing an immense water pipe. Hang on, he'd told Gwen, taking the pipe from Scott. I need one more hit.

  In the car Patrick was suddenly talkative. "Your brother's cool," he said."That was killer weed."

  Gwen smiled, recalling the way Scotty had looked at her in her dress, his eyes wide and serious. You look awesome, he'd whispered as she and Patrick were leaving. From a stoned fourteen-year-old it was the highest praise.

  They surrendered the car to a parking attendant and went into the hotel. In keeping with the dance's theme—A Night in Paradise—the Minuteman Ballroom reeked of lilies. The decorating committee had been working all day, stringing lights and filling fountains, decking the perimeter with potted palms. Gwen and Patrick walked through an archway laden with flowers. They were photographed beneath a bamboo pergola, also laden with flowers. A blonde freshman ushered them to their seats, at a round table at the back of the room. The popular girls had chosen their tables weeks ago, and packed them with their closest friends. Because Gwen hadn't turned in the seat-assignment form, she and Patrick had been placed at this table of strangers. Behind them, on a makeshift stage, the band was setting up.

  Dinner was served, a rubbery breast of chicken. Patrick swallowed his in three bites, then entertained himself by laughing uproariously with the boy next to him, trading lines from a Richard Pryor standup routine. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.

  After dinner the lights dimmed; the band played at a volume that made conversation impossible. Gwen was grateful for the noise. At each slow song, she watched the couples take the floor. She glanced furtively at Patrick. Of course, they would look cartoonish dancing together. The moment he stood in her mother's parlor, this had been her first thought.

  At that moment Patrick rose.

  "I'll be back in a minute," he said.

  For nearly an hour she sat alone, watching the couples on the floor. Finally Patrick returned, his bow tie undone. He looked disheveled and slightly drunk.

  "Where did you go?"

  "There's a party upstairs. Somebody got a room. Come on." He offered his hand."Let's get out of here."

  Gwen hesitated a moment, then took his hand. Except for the shoves and slaps and head knuckling of her brothers, this was the first time a boy had touched her. She imagined her classmates watching her leave, Gwen McKotch hand in hand with an almost-handsome boy.

  They bypassed the crowded elevator and headed for the stairs.

  Patrick took the steps two at a time. Gwen scrambled to keep up.

  "Who's having the party?" she asked, her voice echoing in the stairwell.

  "Who cares? They have a keg."

  Gwen stopped at the landing. The reality of her predicament struck her. She was about to walk into a roomful of the classmates whose teasing haunted her nightmares. She had walked out of Winter Formals without dancing even once.

  "What's the matter?" said Patrick. He stood two steps above her.

  Her eyes were now level with his belt.

  "Let's go back to the dance."

  "You're kidding me." Patrick looked pained. "You want to sit there all night listening to that shitty band?"

  Gwen felt her cheeks warm."We could dance."

  "You want to dance?" Patrick grinned."Sure."

  He reached out and pulled her close.

  It was terrible. Her face was squashed against his belly, his shirt buttons pressed into her cheek. He swayed slightly—whether from drunkenness or a lame attempt at d
ancing, Gwen couldn't tell. His hot hands rested on her shoulders. They were, she noticed, bigger than her feet.

  "Nice," he breathed.

  Gwen squirmed. His hands were moist and very heavy. They seemed to be pressing her shoulders downward.

  "Lower," he said.

  She wriggled away from him."What are you doing?"

  "While you're down there, you could do me a favor."

  She shoved him with all her strength. He lost his balance and stumbled backward, catching himself on the railing. Her face had left a makeup stain on his shirt front.

  "What the fuck?" he said.

  "Get me out of here," said Gwen."I want to go home."

  In her senior year, at her mother's insistence, she applied to Wellesley. Her grades were good, except for math, but her test scores were mediocre; in Gwen's view it was a waste of a stamp. She was lucky even to be wait-listed; but when this happened Paulette was bullshit. Wellesley had to take her: Gwen's aunt Martine, her grandmother, and several great-aunts were all graduates. (That Paulette hadn't graduated—that she'd dropped out of school to get married—was yet another mistake she blamed on Frank.)

  When Wellesley finally said yes, her mother was thrilled. Her father was less than ecstatic. "Why stick so close to home?" he demanded."Why not strike out on your own?"

  He often asked such questions. Gwen was usually stumped for a response, though in this case she had one: she hadn't applied anywhere else, something her father might have noticed if he didn't spend every spare moment with his new girlfriend. Last fall, just as college applications came due, he'd introduced Gwen and Scott to Traci, who worked in the registrar's office at Harvard. She was in her thirties but acted younger—she used teenage slang and teased Frank about his age, trying, Gwen supposed, to ingratiate herself with his kids. Gwen knew better than to mention Traci to her mother, but Scott couldn't keep his mouth shut. Of course Paulette had gone completely mental, banning Frank from Thanksgiving and Christmas, a ruling that would stand for several years. She made such a stink about their weekend visits that Gwen found herself making excuses not to see him. It wasn't worth upsetting her mother.

  She was nineteen the fall she started at Wellesley. The campus was fifteen miles from Concord, so close that Gwen rarely slept in her dorm room. Her bed at home was far more comfortable, and her mother was happy to drive her to class, as she'd done for four years to Sacred Heart. Frank had offered repeatedly to teach Gwen to drive, but always she demurred. Her mother hadn't forbidden it, exactly, but the prospect made Paulette nervous: driving was dangerous to begin with, and Gwen's difficulties (the word Paulette used) made it even more so.

  So each morning she dropped Gwen on campus, and after Gwen's last class the old Volvo would reappear. For a time Gwen had insisted on meeting her mother a block away from campus. Later she felt differently. Halfway through her freshman year, as she was leaving Physical Anthropology, she'd fallen into conversation with a classmate, a thing that rarely happened. The girl, Cynthia Denny, was from Tennessee horse country, which explained it. Gwen had noticed a difference—an ease, an indiscriminate chattiness—in girls from the South.

  They talked about the day's class, a guest lecture by a scholar visiting for the semester. The professor, Andreas Swingard, had recently published an oral history of a little-known tribe of Amazonian Indians.

  "You're ruining the curve," Cynthia complained."You know just as much as he does."

  "I read his book. It's interesting stuff."

  "Can I ask you a question?" Cynthia said, with a sly smile that seemed nearly flirtatious."How old are you?"

  Gwen understood, then, that there was a point to the conversation. That Cynthia wasn't simply being friendly.

  "Nineteen," she said warily.

  "I know it's none of my business," Cynthia stammered."We just thought you were younger. You know, some kind of prodigy. I saw your mom drop you off the other day." Again the smile. "No offense, I hope."

  At the time Gwen had been horrified. Her classmates—the mysterious we—had taken her for a child. But the more she thought about it, the more she liked this vision of herself, which, if not exactly flattering, was preferable to the truth: it was better to be a genius than a mutant. After that she let her mother drop her off at the Hazard Quad, where all of Wellesley could see.

  (Years later, looking back at this time, Gwen barely recognizes herself: how terrified, how passive, how crippled by shame.)

  It was her grandmother, ultimately, who made her understand the gravity of her situation. Early in Gwen's sophomore year, Mamie suffered a debilitating stroke that left her right side paralyzed, her speech confused. Gwen and Paulette made frequent trips to Florida to visit. They took turns sitting with Mamie on the sunny lanai, overlooking a garden of fig and mango trees, bougainvillea and azaleas in constant bloom.

  On one of these afternoons, alert and surprisingly lucid, Mamie had grasped Gwen's hand. Dear heart, have you ever considered it? There is such a shortage of vocations. Everything happens for a reason, my love. God has a plan for each of us.

  It took Gwen a moment to make sense of this. Mamie had always been religious; she took Communion daily and had sent Paulette and Martine to Sacred Heart, scandalizing the Protestant Drews. Now she hoped—had hoped for years, she said—that Gwen would consider the convent. It may be the best life, dear, for a girl like you.

  I'll think about it, Mamie, Gwen said, because what else did you say to a failing grandmother—devout, kindly—who worried about your future?

  I'm so glad, said Mamie. Thank you, dear.

  She died a week later, of a second, massive stroke; and true to her promise, Gwen continued to think about what her grandmother had said. (For years the thought returned to her unbidden, whenever misfortune arose: There's always the convent. This never failed to make her laugh.)

  But the conversation had another, more immediate effect. Gwen realized, suddenly and powerfully, the need for a change. That fall, without telling anyone, she applied for transfer to the University of Pittsburgh, where Andreas Swingard had been hired as the new chair of anthropology. She chose it for its large student body, where she could be perfectly anonymous, and its undemanding admissions profile: according to Barron's they'd be perfectly happy with her B average, the undistinguished board scores that had wait-listed her at Wellesley.

  When the acceptance arrived in the mail, Gwen told her father first.

  "Pittsburgh?" Frank paused a moment, gathering his thoughts.

  Gwen could see a lecture taking shape in his head. "I have some experience with that part of the world," he said tentatively. "It's quite different from here, in many respects."

  Gwen nodded, waiting. It was strange to see her father at a loss for words.

  The University of Pittsburgh, while a fine school, was not Wellesley. Gwen understood that, didn't she?

  "Yeah, Dad," she said."That's kind of the point."

  She explained, then, about Andreas Swingard and cultural anthropology. Pitt's department was larger than Wellesley's, and more specialized. And of course, Pitt offered the PhD.

  Frank brightened visibly. Gwen knew her father, knew what pleased him. Shamelessly she invoked the Steelers, the Pirates, the Penguins. She could see that she had him. There was no need to mention that Pitt, unlike Wellesley, was coed.

  She had no intention of taking the veil.

  That spring Frank became her hero. She would go to Pittsburgh, he promised; her mother would be convinced. Gwen stood back while her parents battled. In the end, her father prevailed.

  All that summer Paulette raged. I can't believe you're leaving, she said again and again—alternately angry and weepy, in a way Gwen hadn't seen since the divorce.

  Gwen's response was always the same: Mother, it's time.

  To her father's amazement, she requested driving lessons. Together they cruised the back roads between Lincoln and Lexington, practiced three-point turns in parking lots. Frank called it a fascinating experiment: most Turne
rs had difficulty in judging space and distance, he explained, and Gwen was no exception. In spite of this she was a better student than Scott, whose lessons nearly killed Frank and had, in fact, finished off his transmission. After Scott passed his test, Frank had unloaded the old sedan, and Gwen learned to drive on his new Saab 900.

  Her brother Billy, who ridiculed Frank's love of all things Swedish, called the new car Dad's Nobel Prize.

  Before she left for Pittsburgh, her father gave her another gift.

  Gwen learned to scuba dive. The certification class, an early birthday present, was held twice a week in a high school swimming pool two towns over. This gift would be important later, in ways Gwen couldn't yet imagine.

  The Stott Museum sat north of the Allegheny, just over the Seventh Street Bridge, in a cavernous brick building that had served as the original Stott brewery. The place had been gutted in the early 1980s, a renovation financed through the generosity of Juliet Stott, the oldmaid heir to the Stott brewing fortune. Miss Stott had poured millions into the project, imagining her museum a centerpiece of Pittsburgh's renaissance, the city's transformation from dying steel town to gleaming technology center, from Rust Belt dinosaur to American Florence, a center of intellectual and cultural life.

  Or something like that.

  The Stott's collection was vast but eclectic (some said incoherent), its acquisitions guided largely by the whim of Miss Stott—who, accompanied by her cook, maid, and driver, had tagged along on a few archaeological digs back in the 1940s. Miss Stott had a great respect for the indigenous art of Oceana. The Minoans interested her. She was fascinated by all things Egyptian. The atrium of the Stott displayed a painstakingly reconstructed Maori meeting house. Yet the collection was light on the Cretaceous period; and when it came to the Jurassic and Triassic, virtually nonexistent. "No dinosaurs," the grande dame had decreed early on, and though the staff had bent this rule with small tetrapod fossils, they had never broken it. Now eighty-nine years old, Miss Stott still visited the museum occasionally, prompting a flurry of activity among the development staff. Buffets were laid, fresh fruit and pastry from an outside bakery. (The rest of the time, the staff bought weak coffee and thawed bagels at the dank basement cafeteria.) Miss Stott, despite her generosity on certain fronts (folk arts, Egyptiana) could be tightfisted when it came to what development called added value and what Miss Stott called frills. Development had lobbied for years to get funding for an IMAX theater which, they claimed, would increase traffic by 30 percent in the first year. In the second year, it would wipe the Buhl Planetarium off the tourist map.