“Yes,” Daddy said in a hushed tone, while Mama wiped her eyes with his handkerchief.
After a last farewell, I watched as the wagon drove out of the Tully dorm parking lot and over the speed bumps that led down the hill and to the tall brick gates of Nathaniel Buxton University.
“Good-bye,” I said to myself, and I was surprised by the lump in my own throat.
“C’mon, Adelaide!” Ruthie called from our dorm-room window. She was already in a church dress with her hair in a French braid. “Convocation starts in twenty minutes!”
The NBU convocation was held in the stone chapel in the center of the colonnade on the top of the great green hill. The college president, Dr. Neil G. Schaeffer, addressed us from an opulent mahogany pulpit that seemed miraculously suspended in the air, eye level with the balcony.
Jif, Ruthie, and I were on the left side of the floor-level aisle with members of the class of 1993 surrounding us. We lifted our chins up toward the pulpit to hear the speech.
“The mission of NBU is to cultivate intellectual growth in its students in a setting that stresses both the importance of individual honor and integrity and the responsibility to serve humanity through the productive use of one’s education,” he said without looking down at his notes. He was a tall, stately man about the age of Papa Great. His deep-set eyes had a way of looking into a student’s core, and his facial expressions and hand motions were confident and controlled.
Honor. Integrity. Serving humanity. Now, these were words I could get inspired by, I thought as I gave a peripheral glance at the members of the class of 1993. A lean, buff brunette to my left tilted her head to ponder the notion, and a peculiar boy to my right was snorting loudly every few seconds as though he had a nervous tic. Could someone get that poor guy a Kleenex? As I thumbed through my purse to see if I had one, President Schaeffer continued. When I looked up, he was singling me out with his black eyes.
“How will you take advantage of this opportunity, scholars?”
My purse dropped to the stone floor when he said that. I loved being labeled a scholar, and I wanted to hear more.
“Will you join the archaeological dig that Dr. Weston is leading in Mexico this summer? Will you run for a position on the school judiciary committee that enforces the honor code and a no-tolerance policy for cheating and plagiarism? Will you serve at the Troutville soup kitchen on Saturday mornings or take a biological study trip with Professor Ereckson to the Galápagos Islands? How about our award-winning Shenandoah Valley Review ? Will you help Dr. Hirsch with the selection of poetry and essay submissions?”Yes! Yes! Yes! I was saying to all of his questions as he continued to single students out with his stare. My heart was racing, and I looked around to see if everyone else was as exhilarated as me, but most folks seemed to be staring dully at the altar.
I started tapping my foot with excitement, but Jif squeezed my knee as if to say, “Get a grip,” though I could tell that she was stirred, too, at all the possibilities of how the four years before us would unfold.
After President Schaeffer concluded his address and made a regal trot down the steps of the pulpit, taking his place behind the altar, the dean of student life, Dr. Josephine Atwood, addressed us about what was in store over the next two days of orientation, and I took another moment to survey the class of three hundred freshmen.
Jif, Ruthie, and I were by far the most dressed up in the group. We had on bright makeup and church skirts, and we had donned pink-and-purple-colored pumps and carried purses that matched our tops. Almost all the guys were in khakis, some form of casual loafer, and a wrinkled oxford shirt. The girls were in tight-fitting earth-colored blouses and either pants or miniskirts that showed off their impressive figures. They had lean, muscular arms and tight calves as though they had been training for a triathlon.
As hard as it was to get to NBU, I was surprised at how attractive most of these people were. I would have expected them to look more bookwormish. Not all of these suntanned, straight-teethed preppies. Beauty and brains—Renaissance folks, I supposed. I really was in over my head.
It was dusk when we filed out the arched chapel doors and into the crisp mountain air. We were at the highest point on campus, and the sun was setting behind the first mountain peaks against a backdrop of orange and pink. Beyond it were the little ridges of blue that fanned out around us farther than the eye could see.
As the mass shuffled down the colonnade and turned toward the quadrangle behind it, I tried once again to make out the group. There were side conversations all around me, and it seemed as though many of the freshmen knew one another. They chuckled and slapped hands and pushed each other down the stone path. Had they arrived the week before and made friends?
“Andover, right?” a stout but handsome boy said to another.
“Yeah. We slaughtered you in lacrosse last year,” the other said.
“Don’t remind me.”
Their accents were unfamiliar—such precise pronunciation that was sharply clipped at the end of each word. Northeastern, I supposed.
“Going out for the team?” the stout boy said to the other.
“You know it. And I’ll see you at the Sigma Alpha house tonight.”
“Yeah. I hear rush is one abuse after another. But hey, it’ll be our turn next year.”
Sigma Alpha? Fraternity, I guessed. (NBU had only started admitting women in 1983, and so there weren’t sororities yet.) And what was it with lacrosse? I had never heard of such a sport. In South Carolina it was football, football, football. There were a little basketball and a little baseball, but no mysterious game called lacrosse. Every time the word came up, I pictured a grumpy Frenchman.
“I’m from Westchester, New York,” I heard the beautiful brunette who’d sat next to me say to another lean girl with straight blonde hair that grazed her shoulder blades.
“Greenwich, Connecticut,” the other one said, pulling her hair back and twisting it into a knot. Thin little wisps formed around her perfectly proportioned face. “Want to get something to eat in town?”
“Yeah. And then let’s go to the Sigma Alpha house. This junior said they’re having a bash and to come by.”
They were so natural and attractive. Buff yet feminine, well-bred and, as I was already beginning to see, privileged as they scurried to their Jeeps and BMWs in the parking lot of the dorm.
Jif, who had a keener sense of style than me, gave me a worried face as she surveyed our outfits and big, curly hair. She put her hand over her mouth and tried to temper her Low-Country drawl. “We’ve got work to do, Adelaide.”
It would be two whole days until we registered for classes, and I knew she would whip herself into the subtle, sporty look in no time. She had the raw material to do it, but I wondered how Ruthie and I would fare.
But even though these folks were intimidating, I could not squelch the thrill of being immersed in the environment that President Schaeffer had just described. A place where honor was encouraged and justice was enforced. A place where learning was expected. This was just what I wanted, and I couldn’t wait to roll up my sleeves and dig in. Finally, I was beginning to feel that maybe I wasn’t born in the wrong place at the wrong time. There would be no Averill Skaggs lobbying for the cretins in this place.
The crowd parted at the tall bronze statue of Nathaniel Buxton in the center of the quadrangle as some headed toward the Randolph dorm and others to Tully.
Like Thomas Lynch Jr. from Williamstown, Nathaniel Buxton had been a signer of the Declaration of Independence and was considered a Founding Father. He served on the cabinets of both George Washington and John Adams, and he was one of the leading commanders of the ground troops during the Revolutionary War. His family and even his horse were buried on the cemetery hill beyond the colonnade. I’d seen a photo of his gravestone fenced in with wrought iron and dripping with wisteria in the application, and I planned to make a pilgrimage there before classes started.
Now his statue seemed to be looking down on
us with a thoughtful stare as he held his battle gun in one hand and his coat in the other.
As the class of 1993 continued to move through the quad and into their dorms or automobiles, I wondered which one among them would be a Pulitzer prize winner in twenty-five years. Which one would be a senator or a Supreme Court justice? Which one would discover the cure for diabetes? Though most looked more like athletes than scholars, NBU had produced leaders who had influenced the country and the world, and each year they became more and more selective, so chances were these folks had something exceptional to offer.
“Who are these people?” I said to Jif and Ruthie as I spun around twice, embarrassing them both. I jumped up on the steps of the commerce school, made a clumsy arabesque, and shouted, “And where are they going?”
Jif acted as if she didn’t know me and made a beeline for Tully. Ruthie looked around at the other students chuckling at my accent.
“Get down, Adelaide!” she said through gritted teeth. She reached her arm up and pulled me off the steps.
“Nice hair,” a pudgy girl said with that clipped voice.
“And accent,” her tall waif of a friend added.
5
Student Life
That night as Ruthie and I were catching up and thanking God that the dorm floors were staggered girl-boy-girl so we could walk around in our nightgowns, Jif knocked on our door with a hot iron for straightening hair, a stack of fashion catalogs, and a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke.
“We need a new look,” she said, opening the glossy pages. “Mama said she’d give me her credit card, so go on and help me decide.”
There were laughter and the slap of feet on stone in the quadrangle as the darkness set in. We looked out the windows and tried to make out the freshmen scurrying from Tully and out into the night. The girls had changed and were now in tight male-cut Levis and brown patterned halter tops that showed off their bronze shoulders. They didn’t take pocketbooks or backpacks, and they wore brown leather sandals with square heels.
“Where are they going?” Ruthie asked as Jif poured us a soft drink.
When the telephone rang, I answered.
“Adelaide, it’s Peter Carpenter.”
“Hi, Peter!” I said, winking at both of them.
“Tone down the accent,” Jif whispered firmly.
“Welcome to NBU, girl!” Peter said.
“Thanks,” I said in my usual drawl, taking up at least two syllables.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you.” I stuck my tongue out at Jif and waited for Peter’s response.
“Say, we’re having a rush party at the Kappa Nu house in a little while. Why don’t you and your hall mates come down and say hello?”
“A party?” I said, looking across the room at my two friends.
Jif was nodding excitedly as if to say, “Let’s go,” but Ruthie bit her lip in loyalty to Tag and mouthed a “No.”
Meeting at a fraternity house wasn’t exactly how I’d envisioned my first rendezvous with Peter. I’d had more of a dinner-and-a-movie vision in mind, but all I could see was the speedometer at “0” and a little voice inside the cocoon saying, “Why the heck not?”
“Great,” I said. “Tell us how to get there.”
Next Jif opened my closet and pulled out a yellow sundress.
“Cut the top off of this and put on some blue jeans,” she said. “I don’t know what we’ll do about shoes!”
I had four pairs in my closet. A turquoise pump, my Keds, a leather flat, and a black patent-leather pump for dressy occasions.
“Just put on the Keds, I guess,” Jif said.
“First of all, I am not cutting off my sundress, Jif Ferguson. Mae Mae just bought that for me, so you can forget it.”
“Okay,” she said, pulling a white oxford out of the closet. “Put this on and tie it in a knot above your jeans.”
“Glad we’ve got the fashion police here,” Ruthie said.
“You should be,” Jif said. “Adelaide’s gonna be thanking her homely stars I’m not at Clemson.”
We all chuckled, and she ran to her room to cut her own sundress apart. She put on tight jeans and some brown Moses sandals her mama had bought for her at Bob Ellis in Charleston, and off we went, down the great hill, through the quaint and hilly mountain town of Troutville, and to the Kappa Nu house.
Peter’s fraternity was at the bottom of the hill of Troutville’s Main Street. It was a three-story brick house with white columns that mimicked the NBU colonnade, and there was a piazza on the second floor where a Confederate flag flew below the two large gold-and-garnet letters KN.
I made a little mental humph when I saw the flag of the Confederacy. I mean, I wouldn’t exactly associate what it had come to represent with an ivory tower of enlightenment. But then again, this was the homeland of Robert E. Lee, and perhaps the KNs were more interested in the history of the flag than in its current connection with bigotry and intolerance.
“You think too much,” Jif said, guessing my thoughts as I eyed the blue X and its white stars. “Loosen up, brainiac. You’re going to have to if you ever expect to have some fun.”
I took a breath and exhaled, “You’re so right.”
“Fresh meat,” an unshaven, heavyset upperclassman called from the front porch when he spotted us on the lawn.
“What did that guy just say?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Jif said, pulling me by the wrist toward the house. “Let’s find Peter.”
Five or six boys rushed out to greet us before Peter called from the piazza, “Adelaide! I’ll be right down.”
“So are you ladies from South Carolina?” a brawny boy named Derek inquired. He had on the fraternity uniform: a well-worn polo shirt, khakis that were frayed at the bottom, and dark hunting boots.
“Williamstown,” Jif said. “And what about you?”
“Houston, pretty girl. The Lone Star State. This is the Southern fraternity. Why don’t you let me get you a beer.”
“All right.” Jif winked to me as Peter ran down the stairs and out onto the lawn. He gave me a big squeeze and spun me around. He smelled like beer and smoke and sweat, but I was thrilled to have the warm welcome.
“It’s so good to see you,” he said. His eyes were sincere, but a little glazed over. “Hey, come on inside and I’ll introduce you around.”
Jif was already on her way inside with Derek. The other boys ran farther down the lawn to meet a new heap of freshman girls who were waddling by in tight jeans and halter tops.
Inside was a zoo. Wide-eyed freshman boys were nervously sipping from plastic cups of red punch served out of trash cans as they met the upperclassmen. A heavy heat was rising from the crowd, and every forehead across the room seemed aglow. The music, which seemed like nothing more than the pulse of a bass guitar and some deep whines, pelted the walls with its steady beat.
A short guy with a thatch of blond hair and a light case of acne whom I recognized from the freshman floor below us spotted me and said, “Hey, you’re third-floor Tully, right? I’m Frankie Wells, second floor.”
“You’re here to meet the fraternity brothers, Pizza Mug,” Peter reminded him. “Not girls. Just because you’re from Georgia doesn’t mean you’re a shoo-in, so get to schmoozing.”
“Yikes,” I said as Wells scurried away. “He was just introducing himself.”
Peter chuckled and tugged on a strand of my permed hair, then whispered in my ear, “I just have to mess with these guys, you know?
It’s part of the rush chairman’s job.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Hey, what’s with the big hair?” some tall guy with a beard shouted, and I think he was pointing at me.
Peter rolled his eyes, and I started to rub my jewel nervously.
He grabbed my hand, pushed through the crowd, pulled us through the kitchen door, and grabbed a beer with a picture of a moose on it from a cooler hidden in the pantry.
“Try this,” he said, thumbing through a kit
chen drawer for a bottle opener. “And when you’re finished, I’ll show you how to inaugurate your first visit to the Kappa Nu house.”
I had been at the house for less than five minutes, and I was already a fitting character for some cheesy after-school special. I didn’t really drink—except for champagne on special occasions—and I could barely stomach the taste of beer. Was this a worthy environment in which to step out of my cocoon?
Then I thought about Jif telling me to loosen up, and I let Peter pop off the cap and hand the green bottle to me.
“I guess I’ll try a little,” I said.
He grinned and his lips glistened with saliva beneath the fluorescent kitchen lights. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had a thin outline of a beard growing around his jowls.
“So Mama told me you gave the valedictorian address,” he said before sipping from his own green bottle.
“Yeah. You heard about Georgianne?” (Peter’s family home was just two doors down from the Mayfields’.)
“Knocked up, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And she was a promising one too,” he said. “But Peach had to have her.”
“Well, I hope they’ll be happy.”
“Carpenter, where are you?” a voice hollered from the microphone in the main room.
“That’s Yates, the frat president. He wants me to address the rush candidates. Come on out to the party, and I’ll find you in a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
When I pushed through the kitchen door into the darkened haze, I looked for Jif or anyone remotely familiar from my dorm. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Peter taking the stage with the guy who made the comment about my hair. They were welcoming the freshman boys who were coming out for rush before naming the reasons why Kappa Nu was the house of choice for the true Southern gentleman of NBU.
Frankie grinned sheepishly at me as I made my way through the crowd. “I’m from Milledgeville, Georgia,” he said, holding out his hand. “What about you?”
“Williamstown, South Carolina,” I said, giving his hand a gentle shake. “So you wanna be in this fraternity?”
Adelaide Piper Page 7
