And once released, such delicious little poison-toads cannot be called back. That is the nature of the genus Poison toad.
Around the octagonal table, eyes were fixed upon M. R. Neukirchen with utter astonishment, and the fascination that follows astonishment.
Had her remarks been witty? Intended to be witty? Several individuals smiled, uncertainly. Several blinked and stared. No one laughed.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one . . .
Live alone and you will be thinking non-stop. Your brain will never click off.
. . . thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty- . . .
Uncanny calm at the eye-of-the-hurricane! Despite the tremors in her hands (which she’d brought under control by gripping the edge of the shining mahogany table, hard with all her fingers) M.R. was feeling very good; M.R. was feeling assured; M.R. was feeling confident; M.R. was feeling very much the authority. Like the most patient, kindly, just-slightly-condescending high school science teacher she proceeded to lecture to this gathering of elite individuals on the subject of the phenomenon of plant succession.
“Consider: an outcropping of rock upon which there is no life but then—suddenly—‘life’ appears: airborne spores take hold, and manage to survive; these are simple lichens that cultivate their kind, and reproduce, until they create a ‘hospitable environment’ for a successor, a more complex species of plant—eventually grasses. Each species cultivates its own kind but in so doing creates an environment hospitable for a more complex successor. After grasses come plants, ever-more complex plants, and eventually—after a hundred years, or more—trees! A tree-species will grow one day on the formerly blunt rock face that has been covered in ‘soil’—depth and texture of a kind to support the ‘climax’ species. And so—you are looking at me with such bewildered expressions”—M.R. laughed, in the old M. R. Neukirchen-way of disarming critics with a smiling directness, oblivious of the fact that, in this setting, the old M. R. Neukirchen-way no longer prevailed—“because you are thinking Where am I, where is my species, in this parable? The mystery of ‘succession’ is that you can’t predict, if you’d examined the original rock-face, all that would follow: particularly, you could not predict a beautiful pine forest. The start of such a parable can’t suggest its ending for its ending is utterly at odds with its beginning. The succession of people—races, classes—must be similar, and inevitable. It is not ‘tragic’—it is not ‘socialized education’—for each species comes into existence at the expense of its predecessors and is, in nature, usually destroyed by its successors. But the human race—that is, the human agenda—‘civilization’—is not inevitably determined by such principles. A liberal is an educator and must wish well for all, must wish to create the optimum environment for all. That is the liberal principle of our great University. . . .”
Little poison toads! Hopping about the gleaming mahogany table like creatures sprung to life out of a child’s storybook.
On the bare rock we clung. Our kind will cling, desperate to survive. Why we are so dangerous!
Despite the startled silence of her audience and a look in the face of—for instance, Leonard Lockhardt—signaling intense alarm M.R. spoke warmly and without hesitation, indeed like an educator; despite the trembling within, which her fingers gripping the table-edge had precipitated, since they were prevented from trembling. And there was a sullen blood-heat about M.R.’s mouth, that was distracting to her though she thought—she wanted to think—that she had made up her face in such a way, the disfigurement was disguised.
Later she would discover, to her horror, that the thick theatrical makeup (she’d purchased at a drugstore in town, after some perusal of the cosmetics shelves) she’d applied in layers had dried erratically, to a much darker shade than she’d anticipated. In the mirror stared at her Mudwoman!
But now with an effort at charm she said, as if it were a casual afterthought: “The essence of the Quaker religion is, you know—not to sign any vow. Not to the state, to bear arms for instance. Not to surrender our moral integrity, to any state, or institution . . .” Her voice trailed off for she could not remember why she’d brought up the issue of Quakerism other than—wasn’t it the case that Reverend Charters had been of a party to persecute Quakers? Or was she trying to define M. R. Neukirchen, whose moral position as a liberal educator was under attack?
Indeed now D___ leapt to the attack.
A bald-bullet-headed man with a bulldog face, glaring eyes. You’d have thought that M. R. Neukirchen had personally stamped REJECTED across his son’s application to the University.
But the issue wasn’t legacies. The issue was something M.R. had totally forgotten and for a confused moment could scarcely remember—the proposed contribution of thirty-five million dollars from the natural-gas supplier whose representative M.R. had declined to meet in Philadelphia.
The bulldog jaws clenched: for D___ had been grievously insulted, President Neukirchen had not only declined the gift of thirty-five million dollars which he’d had “a guiding hand” in cultivating but she’d declined the gift “unilaterally”—“without consulting anyone, it seems”—and worse yet, she’d declined even meeting the corporation officer to discuss the proposal.
Worse yet, she’d declined by e-mail.
“ . . . tried to call you, President Neukirchen, several times in fact but you didn’t return my calls. I’d hoped . . . expected . . . you would reply . . . explain . . .”
Barely could D___ speak, his dislike for M.R., and his outrage at having been treated disrespectfully, seemed to have stopped up his mouth.
Quickly M.R. apologized: for she had certainly meant to return D___’s call. She had asked her secretary to set a time for a conversation with the trustee, but—something had intervened.
“This is a gift we can’t afford to ‘decline’! If you want to expand student aid, President Neukirchen, you will need much more money—and in any case—Excellis has been a major contributor to research institutions, and no one has yet ‘declined.’ You owe this board an explanation of your extraordinary decision to act without consulting advisers—without consulting us.”
M.R. felt a slight chill—the man’s pronunciation of President Neukirchen quavered with irony, hostility.
President Neukirchen! Don’t think you can put anything over on me.
It was so: M.R. had canceled the breakfast meeting in Philadelphia the previous week, impulsively. She’d been suffused with such repugnance for her task—the task of representing the University, prostrating itself before the “third-largest natural-gas supplier in the world”—as if in total ignorance of the catastrophic consequences upon the environment, in the United States but yet more extremely in third-world countries, the absurdly named Excellis had wrought. So repelled had M.R. been by the prospect, she hadn’t been able to bring herself even to rehearse the words she might have said face-to-face to the Excellis officer in charge of “gift-giving”; nor had she consulted anyone on her staff, not even her vice president in charge of development, or the University attorney. Instead of dictating a formal letter of apology to accompany her carefully chosen, tactful remarks, M.R. had sent the officer a terse e-mail, and deleted his reply without reading it.
Why was that so heinous? E-mail is the efficient administrator’s way of saving time.
“ . . . ‘the University is grateful for the proposed contribution but, at this time, we find that we can’t accept. Thank you very much for your interest in our institution.’ ” In his rage-thickened voice D___ read the very e-mail that M.R. had sent to the corporate officer, as if this were damning proof against M.R. “It’s as if you’re declining an invitation to a baby shower!”
Baby shower. Never had these innocent-innocuous words been uttered with such masculine contempt!
“I declined because it was the only possible—ethical—decision—to decline a ‘gift’ from this corporation which has had an
unconscionable record of despoiling the environment. I did some research into this company—they allot millions of dollars annually to burnish their ‘public image’—advertisements in high-quality print publications, sponsoring public-service TV, radio—a high school science project competition—it’s all so very transparent. With so many more pressing things to do, I thought it an utter waste of time, and demeaning, even to begin a conversation with—is it Excellis—”
“Excuse me, President Neukirchen, this is outrageous! There isn’t a university or a research institution that would turn down a gift of thirty-five million dollars from any corporation—let alone Excellis. The basic issue is, you had no mandate to behave unilaterally in this matter, this is an issue we should have planned to discuss today. . . .”
She had offended the gentleman-trustee irrevocably, she saw. For clearly, D___ was aligned with the criminal corporation; very likely, D___ was a major stockholder. But M.R. held firm.
“There isn’t any ‘issue.’ You don’t ‘discuss’ debasing the University’s reputation by aligning it with a notorious environmental polluter in a kind of money-laundering scheme.”
“ ‘Money-laundering’! That’s an insult.”
“Please! I don’t mean to ‘insult’ anyone—certainly not anyone in this room.” M.R. tried to speak calmly, seeing so many pairs of eyes fixed upon her in surprise, dislike, hostility; even the eyes of her University officers, who seemed to have abandoned her. “ ‘Money-laundering’ is an unfortunate term—maybe I mean ‘bribery’—good old-fashioned ‘bribery’—a criminal enterprise seeks to associate itself with a great American institution celebrated for its ideals by paying it money—‘bribes’—in this case, a ‘corporate gift’—to enhance its tarnished reputation. Maybe one day the Excellis CEO will receive an honorary doctorate from the University—but only after I am no longer president.” M.R. paused, like one who has boldly strode out to the edge of a high diving board, and has not yet glanced down at what awaits below.
She was agitated now. She was excited, and agitated, and suffused with adrenaline for she knew herself morally right—righteous; she knew herself triumphant.
“I see that you—most of you—are looking concerned—upset—and I’m very sorry that I didn’t have time to consult with you but, from my perspective, there seemed to be no need. You did elect me your president, you know. You elected me to make such judgments, which are fundamentally moral, not merely financial. As the University divested its holdings in apartheid South Africa some years ago, and divested itself of all ties with the slave trade in the mid-nineteenth century, so the University has to maintain its independence from corporations that pollute the environment. We must take as a moral imperative Kant’s ideal—‘To behave as if the principle of our action were to become by our will a universal law of nature.’ ”
This was good! This was a way of ending.
“ . . . our meeting adjourned, for the present time. If you don’t mind. And we can reconvene. . . .”
She’d given them no time to protest. She was a skilled administrator and she knew when to end a meeting as she knew how to squelch opposition from an enemy.
“Till then, good-bye!”
Mudgirl: Betrayal.
November 1978
You won’t leave us—will you? When we are alone—together—and you are grown up—I’m afraid . . .
Of course—there is no pressure on you dear Merry! Please understand.
Except if—if something were to happen to Konrad—and I was alone in this house . . .
Except if—we love you so . . .
High school teaching would suit you, absolutely. Not middle school, and not library-work. That would not be challenging for a girl as smart and independent-minded as our dear daughter!
It was like a storybook: her life was being written for her.
She did not have to write it, only just to read it.
The pages were being turned for her, too.
In this story, Mudgirl had faded, mostly. There was no Mudgirl living in the book-filled brick house at 18 Mt. Laurel Street, Carthage, New York.
Only just Meredith Ruth—“Merry.”
For like geometry this was a game whose rules you could learn and if you played with skill, you would be rewarded. And so by the time Meredith was a senior in high school she scarcely had to reprimand herself
Mudgirl needs to do this. Mudgirl take care!
She was seventeen, she had a New York State driver’s permit. She had passed the driver’s education course at Carthage High School with a very high grade and the instructor’s praise—Here’s a gal who drives like a man. Good!
In acknowledgment of the “stellar” new driver in the family, Mr. Neukirchen had bought a new—used—automobile: a 1974 Oldsmobile sedan, cream-colored, with just-slightly-corroded fenders and just-slightly-stained beige plush seats. The battered old Dodge had been worth just $250 as a trade-in.
Now, Meredith could drive the family car if one of her parents accompanied her. It was something of a family joke that the daughter was an “infinitely better” driver than either of her parents—(“Which is not meant to be faint praise,” Konrad remarked)—yet poor Agatha flushed and laughing apologetically could not seem to resist flinching in the passenger’s seat, drawing in her breath sharply and even making abortive braking motions with her right foot when Meredith drove—“Oh! I’m so sorry, dear! I just can’t help it. You are a child.”
A child! At five feet ten, weighing 135 pounds, Meredith—“Merry”—was hardly a child.
But Meredith always slowed the car at once, braking gently. She understood—her nervous mother had to be assured.
“It’s just, well—I wouldn’t want anything to happen to us, dear. To you, especially.”
Ever more, Agatha was becoming edgy, fretful. Her ankles were swollen, her breath came quickly. Her long skirts, peasant dresses and shawls and rattling copper-coin-jewelry were not adequate to disguise her fleshy downward-sagging body, still not-old, yet very visibly not-young; even her girl’s face with its tight, smooth-rosy skin was beginning to show signs of strain at the corners of her eyes. She’d cut back her workdays at the library to just Tuesdays and Thursdays. Always she seemed to be on a diet—rarely did she lose more than a few pounds, and at great effort: Konrad could not resist joking, to all who might hear, that his dear wife had lost, over a period of years, “somewhere in the range of six hundred thirty-six pounds.” Poor Agatha made doctors’ appointments but seemed somehow never to quite get to see a doctor—at the last minute she called to cancel, without telling Konrad.
“And please don’t you tell him, Merry! Pro-mise.”
“But I think—”
“Of course, I’ll reschedule. I will reschedule the appointment of course. But don’t tell Konrad, will you? Pro-mise?”
“But—”
Agatha clutched at Meredith and kissed her hotly on the cheek. Mischievously she giggled—they were girls together, sisters perhaps. And Meredith—“Merry”—was the elder, as she was the taller and the more responsible.
“Downtown, dear! There is research I must do at the ‘big’ library—Beechum County archives.”
Saturdays were errand-days for Konrad. It was a pleasure for Meredith to drive her father as it had been to ride with him in the past—so long as fretful Agatha remained at home. Yet more loquacious in the passenger’s seat than he’d been behind the wheel Konrad entertained his daughter with tales of the personal lives of “illustrious Americans”—George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, Benjamin Franklin, Andrew Jackson and “Stonewall” Jackson and Sojourner Truth; his great fascination was with Abraham Lincoln who, he believed, possessed a soul “as deep, as capacious, and as profound” as the Grand Canyon yet, in this “TV-polluted” present-day America, would probably not be elected to the presidency since he lacked “a sunny-superficial disposition” and “p
hotogenic features.”
Ever the bright schoolgirl Meredith asked if Konrad thought that Abraham Lincoln had been justified in declaring war against the South, to prevent the South seceding—why not just let the Southern states go? Why was the preservation of the Union so very important, that thousands of young men should be killed for it?
In her high school history class Meredith had tried to ask this question of her teacher but had been met with a look of startled repugnance as if she’d uttered an obscenity or worse yet an outrageous anti-American sentiment.
But why? Why was the preservation of the Union so very important, that even a single soldier should be killed for it?
“What a good question, Meredith! A profound question, in fact.”
Konrad was always pleased when his smart-schoolgirl-daughter asked what he believed to be profound questions, though often he could give no particularly profound answer.
“There is the fundamental question—whether an abstract principle is worth a single human life, let alone thousands of lives; yet there is the question—whether anything else in life is as significant as the ‘abstract.’ In other words—are individuals as consequential as principles? Would you wish to die to ‘preserve the Union’— would you consent to the deaths, injuries, maimings of others?”
Meredith gripped the steering wheel tightly. Despite its corroded fenders and slightly-stained plush seats the cream-colored Oldsmobile was what Konrad called a “classy”—“swanky”—car. She felt a thrill driving it—a sense of elation particularly as she drove over one of Carthage’s several bridges. Away! Away from here! There is no stopping Mudgirl once she begins her journey,
“I—I don’t know, Daddy. I—would not want—to make such a decision. . . .”
“Well! If you had to, dear. If you were, for instance, not vice president of the esteemed Class of ’79 of Carthage High School”—(for Meredith Neukirchen had recently been elected to this office)—“but our own President Harry Truman, in 1945, giving orders to drop atomic bombs on Japanese cities while knowing that most of the ‘casualties’ would be civilians—women and children. Yet, demoralizing the enemy would accelerate the end of the war, and would save the lives of American servicemen. How would you decide?”
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