“When do we go?” she asked.
He left soon afterward, saying he had to get up early. Once the door closed behind him her mind whirred again. She had thought she had felt a zinging tension between them at the door, but maybe it was her imagination. A week with him on the island of Corsica might clear things up, one way or the other.
The next morning in the Bartons’ kitchen, Tacey sat at the kitchen table looking at Ani over the rim of her coffee mug. “Sydney’s still asleep. She was up in the night. I gave her some aspirin around four A.M. By the way, Madame Spinelli knocked on the door this morning. She wanted to tell me that you were sneaking Arab men into the building at night. Thank God I was the one who answered the door. John left early for work. You can imagine what he would have thought.”
Ani explained. “A friend of mine stopped by last night for a while. That’s the first night I’ve ever had anybody upstairs.”
“Madame Spinelli told me he stayed almost an hour.”
“I hope the poor woman at least pulled a chair to the door. I hate to think of her standing there for all that time,” Ani said, the sarcasm embedded deeply in her voice.
“Imagine if he had stayed overnight. That would have been a scandal. Not an Arab, though, is he?” Tacey asked.
Ani disliked the tone Tacey was using. “No, not an Arab. Somebody I grew up with in Boston. An Armenian.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I didn’t think it could have been an Arab, what with you being a Jew and all. That’s what I told Madame Spinelli. But let’s be more discreet, shall we? Why don’t you go to his place next time? By the way, where is Armenia?”
Ani studied Tacey’s face, which Ani usually saw as benign if somewhat rabbity. Now there was a decidedly ratlike expression about the mouth.
“It’s part of the Soviet Union,” Ani explained.
Tacey raised a well-plucked eyebrow. “Your friend isn’t a Communist by any chance?”
Now they had ventured into the realm of the surreal.
Attempting to keep her tone even, Ani answered, “No, Tacey, he played in Little League and was a Pop Warner captain. As far as I know he’s a registered Democrat.”
“Well, just be careful, okay? There are all kinds of men around trying to take advantage of an impressionable girl like you. I’ve got to run. Check Sydney’s temperature when she gets up, will you? The children’s aspirin are in the cabinet in her bathroom.”
Ani sat on the velvet couch in the grand salon with a book while Syd slept on. Van was right. The Bartons were rich white people, living in a palace apartment paid for by corporate thievery, and she was their employee. What with your being a Jew and all.
John and Tacey Barton had everything—the large home, the posh vacations, the offhand ease of buying what they wanted. Ani envied them and at the same time wished she could spit that envy out like a bitter seed. She had often felt this conflict in the Willards’ home. Asa’s sense of entitlement was both seductive and repellent.
One afternoon Ani and Asa were sitting on the couch in his family’s living room talking about a point of geography. Asa had hunted the shelves for an atlas, and when he couldn’t locate one he said, Damn. Let’s go to the bookstore and get one. Just like that he went out and bought a leather-bound atlas, putting it on his father’s charge card.
For some reason, this detail—more than the two sets of silver, the second home on Cape Cod, or the trust fund—had dismayed Ani. Shouldn’t he go to the public library and look up the information he needed? Ani thought of her grandfather reading his Armenian newspaper at the library because the subscription was too costly. She herself had owned fewer than a dozen books by the time she finished high school. The other thousands she had read were borrowed.
When the Kersamians opened gifts, Grandma painstakingly peeled off the tape and refolded the creased wrapping paper, saving it for future use. She collected rubber bands from the daily paper by putting them on the neck of the kitchen doorknob. Before worn shirts were cut into polishing rags, the buttons were carefully removed. The Willards had no idea about this kind of economy.
In college, Ani had noticed that there were a number of students who came back from midyear vacation with deep tans. She had never before known people who used the word winter as a verb. She secretly wished to belong to this class of people. But at the same time, when given an opportunity to sneak in—whether through winning Asa’s heart or being invited to join an elite secret society—her ambivalence had checked her.
Lizzie Meadows, whom Ani knew from the French department, had approached her in the library one evening. Lizzie said she needed to speak to Ani privately. Mystified, Ani followed her into the hall.
Lizzie surveyed the corridor to make sure no one was within earshot. Then she said, Ani, you’re being tapped.
You mean someone’s bugged my phone? Ani asked.
Not like that. I’m tapping you to join Terrapin.
Ani was still perplexed. Terrapin?
Terrapin is a secret senior honor society for women, Lizzie explained. Every year the seniors choose juniors to join. We’ve chosen you.
What do you do in Terrapin?
I can’t tell you.
What do you mean you can’t tell me?
Ani, the whole point is that it’s secret.
So I’m supposed to join without knowing anything about the group’s purpose? What if it turns out you’re the women’s branch of the KKK or Hitler Youth or something?
Lizzie smiled at Ani with indulgence. Trust me. You have to believe I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that was bad for you.
Okay, Ani said slowly. So what next?
Be by the mailbox halfway down the hill toward the river at eleven P.M.
Ani hunted for Asa at his usual spots in the library to no avail. When she called the house they shared there was no answer. She hoped he was off having a beer with his friend Joe and not sneaking around someplace with the toothsome skier named Gretchen Woodbridge that she’d seen him flirting with at teatime in the library. Ani tracked Elena down in the library’s stacks.
Do you think I should go? Ani asked.
Elena said, Are you crazy? Out of sheer anthropological curiosity you have to go.
I’m not the one with the anthropological curiosity, Ani reminded her.
Of course you are, Ani. These secret societies are the invisible glue that holds the Establishment together. Every CIA director in history was a member of Skull and Bones at Yale. I didn’t know there was a secret society for women here. My God, what an opportunity.
Ani waited at the appointed spot. A beat-up Ford LTD crammed with women stopped in front of her. Before she had an instant to register the face that appeared out of the car door, a blindfold was placed over her eyes and Ani was dragged into the car.
Somebody crooned, Oh, you little turtles, you poor little turtles, you don’t know what’s in store for you. Do they, girls? A loud cackle followed.
Jesus Christ, thought Ani, this is like those creepy made-for-TV movies with the evil sorority sisters. What were they going to do to her? She had heard horror stories about the fraternities: naked rituals with hot dogs in a flooded basement; “boot punch,” where pledges were forced to drink liquor that had been vomited by upperclassmen; pledges driven to a distant women’s college and handcuffed naked to the sinks in a dormitory. Since this group was named after a turtle, there would probably be some water involved. No matter what they threatened, Ani would not remove one article of clothing.
The car careened around town until Ani had no idea where they were. When they came to a halt she was linked by hands with two other recruits and led through the woods, which she recognized by the crunching twigs beneath her feet. Ani entered a building still blindfolded and was made to sit on a crowded couch.
Okay, girls, you can take off the bl
indfolds, they were told.
Ani slid off her blindfold and glanced around at what she suspected to be a college-owned cabin on the river. She recognized the faces of everyone in the room and knew most of the names. Ani sighted Gretchen Woodbridge among the women at the front, each of whom was wearing a forest-green union suit and holding a long-stemmed white rose.
My real name is George Washington, said Lizzie, who looked like a very tall elf. George continued, You are among the best women in the class of 1982. You were chosen on the basis of your commitment to this school. As a member of Terrapin you will be expected to wear something green on your person from this day forward. Messages from Terrapin will be sealed with a green dot and shouldn’t be opened in the presence of nonmembers. When you say goodbye to a fellow member you will say Tootle-oo. You are not to tell anyone that you are a member of Terrapin or divulge any of the details of our activities. Only at graduation when you are carrying a white rose will anyone but your sisters know that you have been a member of this group. Let us now stand to sing the school anthem.
Ani rose to her feet with the rest of the women but couldn’t join the singing. She still didn’t know the words to the anthem, except for the chorus. And she disliked the chorus.
When the song had concluded, Lizzie said, I, George Washington, welcome you, Megan Lord, to Terrapin. Next year Megan will take the name George and lead this group.
Lizzie strode over to Megan, a thin, serious girl with long blond hair, and handed her the rose.
Gretchen Woodbridge stood. My name is John Adams. Belonging to Terrapin has given me an opportunity to serve the local community as well as the college. My rose is for Katie O’Brien. Welcome, Katie.
My name is Thomas Jefferson, said Maisie Zimmer, a senior Ani knew from women’s studies classes. I have found Terrapin to be a wonderfully supportive and loving sisterhood. These women will continue to provide me with sustenance and comfort for the rest of my life. This rose is for Ani Silver.
As soon as Ani arrived back at the house that she, Elena, Asa, and one of his friends were sharing that term, she peered into Asa’s closet-sized room. He was asleep on the narrow mattress amid a jumble of dirty clothes and climbing gear. The fact that he was in his bed and not hers indicated that he was in a bad mood so she decided not to wake him.
She lay on her futon, rolling in the blankets like a rotisserie chicken. What should she do? How could she possibly enlist in such a strange group? She would have to wear something green every day for the next two years. She would have to call herself Thomas Jefferson. But how could she say no to the enveloping arms of an exclusive community of women? Finally Ani heaved off the bedclothes and crossed the hall to Elena’s room.
Elena said, Oh, it’s beautiful. My real name is George Washington. It’s so perfect I can’t stand it. Can you believe somebody sat around and thought this shit up?
What should I do? Ani asked.
You should join. How else am I going to find out what they actually do? Come on, Ani, be a sport.
You want me to hang around with a bunch of women who pretend they are American presidents and prance around in union suits? In a group that’s named after a turtle? I don’t think so, Elena Torino.
The next day Ani called Lizzie and told her that she was declining the invitation. Freed from the bond of secrecy, Ani recounted the evening’s events to Asa, who wasn’t the least bit interested in the details, not even the fact that Gretchen, his not-so-secret crush, was there. Ani told a couple of other friends and a women’s studies professor she knew would appreciate the story, but not many people at all considering how many she was tempted to tell.
Lizzie sought Ani out in the library. Ani, we’ve heard you’ve been betraying our secrets. If you spoil this for us, I promise you we will make your life miserable.
I only told my boyfriend and a few close friends, Ani explained.
If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up, Ani, Lizzie said menacingly.
No problem, George, Ani replied. My lips are sealed.
Ani hadn’t wanted to be a member of Terrapin any more than she had wanted to marry Asa. There, she had admitted it. In her secret heart she was relieved that their relationship was over. When she had seen Peggy Willard’s social stationery—engraved with the name Mrs. Benjamin Willard—Ani had recoiled in horror. Ani had feared she herself would be transformed into a brittle woman, riven with jealousy and insecurities, whose name was Mrs. Asa Willard.
“Mommy,” Sydney called from her room. “Mommy, where are you?”
Ani took the stairs two at a time and made the child’s doorway in a flash. “Hey, Sydney, your mom isn’t back yet. How you feeling?”
“I don’t feel well at all.”
Little Sydney was flushed with sleep and fever. Ani pulled the child onto her lap and felt her forehead.
“What do you think, Syd? Aspirin. A little juice. Then I’ll read you a book.”
“Can I have some ice cream?”
“Sure bet.” Ani felt sorry for Sydney. With parents like Tacey and The Asshole, what chance did the poor kid have?
without the wind, no leaf will move
Ani lurked at the lobby door, peering out into the dark wet street. As the rain poured down, a frantic mouse ran on a wire wheel inside her belly. The wheel squeaked as it turned, making the sound that she associated with long hours and sometimes days of waiting for Asa. She lifted her sweater cuff to check her wristwatch. Eleven minutes after five. Van was eleven minutes late. Well, her watch was actually three minutes fast, so he was only eight minutes late. And she had come downstairs ten minutes early, which had made the span seem longer. In the street, a black sedan rolled by without stopping.
Maybe she was mistaken about the date and tomorrow was the morning he was coming for her. No. This was the day she had written in her calendar. She laid her cheek against the door’s cold glass, staring at a streetlight’s reflection in a puddle on the sidewalk. The man in the blue coverall should be appearing soon to sweep the gutters with his tall twig broom. Perhaps her telephone was ringing at that very moment: Van calling to say he had decided to go to Corsica alone.
A gray Peugeot pulled up and Van stretched to push open the front passenger door. Ani leaped through the downpour, tossing her pack into the backseat. She shook the rain from her hair.
“Some morning for a drive,” Van commented, as he pulled away from the curb. “Did you have breakfast?”
“No,” Ani answered.
Van hadn’t shaved in a few days, so there was a dark mask spread over his jawbones and cheeks. Ani recollected the Van of her childhood, but for a moment she wondered what she knew about this inscrutable man.
“I downed an espresso and picked up a couple of croissants. The bag is on the backseat,” he said.
She grabbed one and pulled off a long flaky strip of pastry. “You want some?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
They left the city and rolled onto the highway. The windshield wipers kept up a steady rhythm that soon made Ani drowsy. She had been up late, taken by one of those frenzies of indecision that required trying on each item of clothing before stowing it in her bag. The dilemma about whether or not to pack the diaphragm had been difficult to resolve. Bringing it was presumptuous; why did she think she would have any need for it on this trip? But then she might kick herself for leaving it behind if the occasion arose. In the end she decided to follow Elena’s dictum: Take birth control with you the way you do a toothbrush.
When finally she climbed into bed, she had waked repeatedly during the night to check the clock, worried that she might oversleep.
“You mind if I rest for a while?” Ani asked Van.
“Why don’t you push your pack onto the floor and lie down on the backseat,” he suggested.
When Ani opened her eyes again the skie
s were clear and the terrain mountainous. Her spirits had lifted as well. An adventure was unfurling around her like a colorful banner. Perhaps she would have an exciting life after all. She sat up and climbed through the bucket seats to the front.
“How long was I out?” she asked.
“About two hours,” he said.
“Sorry to be such dull company,” she said.
“No worries. I’m not much of a conversationalist when I drive.”
They stopped briefly at a small-town café for lunch before heading south again. They chatted amiably, or rather Ani noticed that she chatted and Van gave short, companionable replies. Making an effort to check her patter, she stared out the window at passing farms. Rolling clouds cast long shadows over broad plowed fields and farmhouses with red tile roofs.
On the southern outskirts of Lyon they heard a loud Klaxon and saw a white police sedan draw up behind them. Ani glanced at the speedometer and noted that they were well within the limit. She had no idea why they were being pulled over, unless the car’s taillight was broken or something like that.
“What’s the problem?” Ani asked Van.
“We’ll see,” he said grimly.
Van halted the car at the side of the highway. The officers asked them to step out of the car with their identity cards. While Ani rummaged in her bag for her passport and carte de séjour, Van reached into his jacket’s interior pocket for his documents.
One of the cops stood a few paces back inspecting their papers. The other one looked at Van contemptuously. Nodding his head toward Van, he asked Ani, “What are you doing with this dirty Arab?”
Ce sale arabe were the exact words.
“Why did you stop us?” Ani asked the flic. “Do you check every sixth car?”
The cop gibed, “We do it by the smell, mademoiselle.”
Dreams of Bread and Fire Page 11
