by Deb Elkink
“Well, they were only myths, after all,” she answered, but her own fantasizing was richer than she let on.
“Don’t underrate the power of oral story, even if it isn’t in the written form of your particular religion,” Lou said. “The adventures of superheroes of old, recounted from generation to generation and present in every civilization, adequately explicated the origins of the world and the nature of humanity for the people of that day. And the fanciful details of the lives of the gods hold real lessons for us today. In fact,” Lou continued, “I’m presenting a series on feminine deification in my women’s studies course for the summer interim session. You’d find the material stimulating. Why not call in sick tomorrow and attend my class?”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” Aglaia was genuinely sorry. “I’m tying up loose ends in the studio before I leave.”
Aglaia hadn’t missed a day of work since being hired on at Incognito a decade ago, not counting a bout of the ’flu and some car trouble one winter morning. Diligence earned her steady promotions as well as her current distinction, the ambassadorial trip to France. Her boss trusted her. That’s why he appointed her as supervisor and go-between when the CEO at head office in Montreal—who made the preliminary contact with the costume museum in Paris—tossed this crust down to its Denver branch. Finally she had her chance to visit Paris—her chance to find François! Now was not the time to jeopardize her job.
But Lou’s next words did just that.
Three
“Aglaia, have you ever considered the academic life? Our university theater department is advertising for a wardrobe consultant. It’s an entry-level position, to be sure, but it could eventually lead to some lecturing possibilities.”
Aglaia, startled at the unexpected turn in conversation, slopped her wine after all, and the cool liquid seeped through to her knee. She moved her glass to hide the stain and composed herself before answering.
This idea of a job at Platte River University must be what Lou had been hinting at for several weeks now, Aglaia thought—actually, ever since they first met. Had Lou heard the rumors about financial difficulties at the costume shop? What with the layoffs forced on some of Incognito’s staff, Aglaia couldn’t envision a better opportunity than working for PRU to bolster her vocational reputation and replace lost employment, if it came to that. Being hired by the upscale metropolitan institute would give her prestige, job security, and even a sense of identity she seemed to have misplaced along the way somewhere. She could hardly believe her luck.
“I may not have the credentials to work for a university,” Aglaia hedged, her heart hammering in her chest. She wanted to abandon decorum and bounce up from her seat, to let the grin inside her find its way to her mouth and her eyes, but this was the time for austerity. She used to hate snobs but now found herself wanting to become one. At this point she needed to be circumspect. Just maybe her work record and the recent press attention would outweigh her lack of formal education.
Aglaia had never even completed her bachelor’s degree in fine arts. She ran out of money after her first few semesters, her parents not offering any of the life insurance payment to help with tuition. After that, in those first years in the city when she was just fighting to survive, she couldn’t afford to take even the odd community college class that might catch her eye—hand-dyed batik or ethnic embroidery. But since beginning work at Incognito, Aglaia had fully accessed the annual budget for professional development. She enrolled in fashion design workshops and textile seminars and millinery sessions, and then even won a scholarship to last summer’s intensive two-week course in stage costume construction at the technical institute. It was a mish-mash of accredited and informal classes, but most of what she’d learned came from one-on-one tutelage by her boss.
So she was flattered by Lou’s suggestion. Considering the woman’s faculty position and her age—she was in her mid-forties, a dozen years Aglaia’s senior—Lou was well ahead of her in the career track and in life experience. Aglaia aspired to someday have Lou’s imperturbable grace and sophistication.
“You underestimate your potential,” Lou said. “I saw it immediately when we met at the health club in the spring. Who else sews her own workout clothes?”
“You’re too kind,” Aglaia said. She straightened her dress strap, self-conscious. She’d noticed Lou’s attire at the women’s gym, as well—all top-of-the-line athletic wear with prominent brand identification. Of course, she recalled spotting Lou several years before they officially met at the club, back when Aglaia still stopped in for lunch at the campus cafeteria on occasion to rub shoulders with real students. No longer in her twenties, she didn’t blend in as well any more. But it was back then that she first admired Lou from afar, not speculating they might someday be friends.
Outside of the gym, she never saw Lou in anything but designer clothes—usually dark neutrals with vertical stripes that gave her even more height. Aglaia herself approached dressing differently. She preferred the originality of her own handmade clothes and often incorporated vintage fabric or bits of antique beadwork in her sewing. She dressed to state her opinion, choosing a grey plaid shirt if constrained to visit her parents’ farm or a vivid turquoise knit when brainstorming for a new costume at work. Lou, on the other hand, always exuded crisp classiness. At the moment, she lounged back on the upholstery in a studied elegance of pearls and paisley and smart leather heels. Her precise bob framed the hollow cheeks, every brunette hair keeping its place so that her earrings hardly showed.
“Your period pieces in the dramatic productions I’ve seen so far have been impressive,” Lou said. “You must do a fair bit of investigation before you start sketching.”
“I erase a lot,” Aglaia said, reluctant to take all the credit for her designs, “but my boss does keep a great reference library for us at work. He points me to the right books, and he’s a stickler for details.” Just today Ebenezer MacAdam had vetoed the use of polyester thread on a pair of cotton bloomers. According to him, even illusion was worth authenticity, his whimsical costumes reflecting what was true about reality—Little Red Riding Hood’s innocence shown in a cape woven of pure lamb’s wool or the wickedness of the villain in fur from a real wolf. “Eb always says art is only an imitation of life.”
Interest sharpened the countenance of the professor, quick as usual to discuss anything philosophical. “That’s not very pragmatic,” she said. “I think imitation is an art in itself, and that audiences expect deception as part of the game.”
“In the theater, of course,” Aglaia stipulated, but she was struck by her own duplicity when it came to everyday life, careful as she was to project just the right image.
Lou rubbed at an invisible spot on her glass. “Well, judging by your product, your form of realism works for you. The talk around the university is that you’re a rising star. The dean of the drama department apparently reads the critics’ picks in the entertainment section of the city paper. So,” Lou smiled at Aglaia as if anticipating the effect of her next words. “I’ve taken the liberty of recommending you for possible placement as the new wardrobe consultant. You’ll be hearing from the university soon.”
Aglaia inhaled her wine in surprise and, gulping for air, excused herself to get a drink of water.
Lou was gratified by Aglaia’s reaction, interpreting it as exhilaration over the possibility of a job at PRU. The girl’s loyalty might be bought after all, she thought. Her catechizing of Aglaia was proceeding as intended, and she would be very valuable in helping to shake up the university administration that kept Lou imprisoned in academic mediocrity. Lou had known it the moment she first spotted Aglaia, sweating on the gym’s stationary bike and chatting familiarly with Dr. Dayna Yates—newly appointed associate dean of PRU’s department of sociology at the tender age of thirty-five, and the person who effectively held in her hands the future of Dr. Chapman, Ph.D.
Lou’s move west to Colorado seven years ago had been motivated by the hope of securing her succe
ss in academia. True, Denver was inferior to the cosmopolitan New York City in almost every respect, but here she’d become a big fish in a small pond with easier access to those in authority, and she was a virtuoso at networking.
From the outset, it was the pursuit of tenure that had lured her from her former, dead-end posting. Platte River University recognized her proficiency in cultural studies and she accepted their offer of a tenure-track position in the faculty of social sciences—her chance at full validity as a scholar. She strategized her plan, buffering herself with a wall of professional peers—senior colleagues, department heads, and point persons within the political structure at PRU. To situate herself in the hierarchy and carve out her own area of interest, she developed a socio-anthropological program cementing the departments of art and social science through women’s studies. She could boast of a sound body of work appearing in top-tier journals in her field, she carried a respectable class load, and she regularly presented papers at conferences. She even volunteered as chair of several visible committees. Everything was ticking along nicely.
But then Yates came on board—hired, Lou surmised sourly, mainly for fundraising skills that brought to the university multiple large research grants from the federal government. She was fast-tracked by the administration, and Lou’s own prospects for academic security began to dissipate. Then simultaneously several journals rejected Lou’s latest papers without even asking her to resubmit, and the members of her tenure committee—now prejudiced by Dayna Yates—started criticizing the adequacy of her research. She was being shut out.
Lou ground the heel of her red-soled Louboutin into Aglaia’s living room carpet, fuming as she thought about her failure to stop the snubbing.
In order to get tenure, she needed to gain some sort of social capital, and she had an inkling that she’d found it in the most unlikely person of Aglaia Klassen. She conceptualized her opportunity that day at the gym when she saw Dayna—who usually wouldn’t give Lou the time of day—chatting up the cute blonde on the stationary bike beside her. Lou maneuvered an introduction to Aglaia and the girl jumped at her overture. Over coffee the next day, Aglaia told her about her renewed acquaintance with Dayna, whom she’d met years ago and not seen again until recently. The two younger women seemed to get along famously, and Dayna even asked Aglaia to her home for a back-yard barbeque that was attended as well by the provost of the university. Lou had not been invited. However, she hoped a three-way friendship would soon remedy her status.
The fortuitous reunion of school chums would further work in Lou’s favor if Aglaia succumbed to Lou’s employment scheme, which was truly inspired if she had to say so herself. She’d exaggerated when she insinuated that, as wardrobe consultant, Aglaia might deliver a classroom lesson or two; no unaccredited teacher took the lecturn at PRU. But in Lou’s economy, exaggerations didn’t really equate with lies.
Lou drained the last drop from her glass but Aglaia, whom she heard closing a cupboard door in the kitchen and turning on a tap, hadn’t offered to open a second bottle. Never mind, Lou thought; they’d be sharing many more evenings like this if Aglaia accepted her proposal. She was growing fond of the girl and wanted to spend more time with her. Despite Lou’s coolness—her clinical inquiry about Tina, for example—she was anything but unaffected by Aglaia’s ingenuous charm.
But all the talk of mother-daughter relations earlier tonight did nothing to curb Lou’s ongoing disquietude in her personal life, which she traced back to the day she lost all respect for her own mother—the day her father left. Lou reviewed again that last morning in her childhood before theirs became a “broken home.” It might suggest how she could breech Aglaia’s rigid exterior. She didn’t have much other experience of family to reference.
In retrospect Lou didn’t think that her mother and father had been arguing with any more vehemence than usual, but on that morning in her first week of grade school the housekeeper pushed her out the door with gentle urgency. Lou still heard her parents’ verbal slashing and the way it faded as she trailed along the sidewalk behind her older sister, watching the kick-flip of the navy pleats on the back of Linda’s uniform.
Within a few years, Lou recognized her father’s signature on the child support checks more readily than his picture in her baby album. She never blamed him. He was weak and Mother’s moods—of explosion and then disengagement—were impossible for her husband or daughters to bear. Mother would rage until the three of them rose to her goading, and then she’d beat them into submission with her club of silence.
The abuse should have drawn her closer to her sister, she supposed, but each dealt with the pain in her own way. While Lou pursued her career in education, Linda jettisoned her future and got married to a boring accountant who, at least, was able to afford the mortgage on their bungalow.
Now, between driving kids to sports events and running a home business, Linda spent all her spare time at the hospice where Mother was contained, helping the nuns spoon mashed banana between her gums and change her diaper. It was the easy way out for Linda, Lou supposed, and once again she thanked her stars that she’d managed to gain independence through self-determination, just as her father had done in leaving her mother. Long ago, Lou left Mother, too.
Aglaia was tipsy. Her wine glass was now empty and she had a drowsy, after-bath feeling as she slumped on the sofa. She checked her watch. She didn’t actually want Lou to leave, or at least didn’t want Lou to know she wanted her to leave. But the other woman rose to her feet, smoothed out her skirt, and stepped towards the hallway. She approached the table and rested one hand on the outer pouch of the suitcase, then worked at the zipper.
“Are you looking for something?” Aglaia stammered, instantly sober.
“No, just curious about this Bible. You know my penchant for cultural investigation, and biblical literature is, after all, the foundation of Western values.” Lou removed the book and Aglaia was astonished at her audacity. Lou continued, “More than that, the devotional interaction we see between the reader and the text is based on an almost magical view of reality. It’s fascinating.”
Aglaia found her feet and almost shouted, “That’s private!”
Lou’s brows shot upward. She ignored Aglaia’s outstretched hand. “Private? I should think it’s the most public writing of all time. The world’s bestseller, isn’t that what they say?” She weighed the book in her hand, her thumb slipping into place ready to open it. “In fact, your theologians have very publicly discussed angels and heads of pins for centuries now, although recent literary scholarship has brought to light issues worthy of more serious debate.”
“Then you must have several versions of it in your own bookshelves.” Aglaia sounded petulant to her own ears. She didn’t want Lou misunderstanding; she had no desire to support any theologians. She just wanted that Bible shut and safely stowed away before Lou discovered the subject of the writing in the margins.
“I have one or two copies, although my area is more generally anthropological than theological. What version is this?” To Aglaia’s relief, Lou kept the cover closed and read the spine, then moved back to the couch and sat again. Maybe she wouldn’t open it after all. Lou said, “You should use the King James Version instead for its literary worth. It was first printed in 1611 and heavily influenced subsequent English vocabulary and literature. Of course, the value of biblical myth to society goes far beyond linguistics. The stories in these pages, if properly informed by content from every religion and reinterpreted within the contemporary milieu, speak of the metaphysical yearning of all humanity for the divine.”
A faint ringing emanated from the suede bag at Lou’s feet. Aglaia was thankful for the interruption, only in part because it forestalled the danger of Lou opening the Bible. Something in her rebelled at the professor’s instructive tone and vocabulary, but she couldn’t let that show now—not after the job offer Lou had just dangled before her. When Lou set the Bible down to answer her phone, Aglaia took her seat, slid the b
ook off the coffee table, and clamped it to her lap with both hands.
Her own wariness of the Bible went beyond Lou’s dry, academic dismissal. After all, hadn’t she read it in the fervor of her youth for sheer joy—read it in her room every morning under crumpled bed sheets, submerged in the poetry and the prophecy, memorizing lines that sang in her heart?
It wasn’t just the stories, either, of Daniel in the lions’ den or the good Samaritan. Gullible as she was, she’d known back then with such certainty that this was God’s true Word to her, God speaking directly from His own heart to hers.
And the gullibility didn’t stop with just her reading. In spite of her shyness, she was always ready back then to impart her convictions to anyone who’d listen. It was natural to talk to François about it, too—in the beginning at least. She thought of the first time she and her older brother took him to their youth group.
“You can follow along in the English,” she says, and opens François’s brand-new Bible to the Psalms for him.
He tilts his head at her, his smile mischievous. “You will sit close to me and help, non?” And he moves his leg so that his knee brushes hers.
Joel snorts. “Nice going, Sis. Your sucking up in French class pays off at last. Lucky you didn’t take German after all.”
François ignores the brotherly bantering but she’s embarrassed, and even more so as he looks over at her own Bible every now and then throughout the reading. There’s no hiding the verses she underlined at a different time in a different frame of mind, and François smirks as Pastor Reimer reads aloud other verses on the facing page, and he presses his leg closer to hers: As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you… All night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears… You turned my wailing into dancing and clothed me with joy. This is new magic to her, the magic of words that shield implication beneath connotation. François’s silent reading of the words, his flickering glance and half-smile, give her goose bumps.
