"Excuse me," said Janet; and she went along to 410 and knocked on the door.
It was opened by the other member of the hall discussion, a round and somber young woman the color of soy sauce. Her hair was very short. The shape of her skull was beautiful, but something in her expression made Janet wish not to know what went on underneath it.
"Is Peg here?" she said.
"Gone for a hockey stick."
Janet introduced herself. The other girl was called Sharon Washington. She was polite, but did not smile. Janet said, "I wanted to look at her Chase and Phillips for a moment; could you tell her?"
"Bottom shelf, one that's falling apart," said Sharon, standing back to let her in.
Peg's shelves were over her bed. Janet knelt on the blue-and-pink-and-purple Indian bedspread and took down a familiar thin black volume. Its binding was hanging by three strings. She found the copyright page. It was in its seventh printing, God alone knew why; but the earliest copyright date was 1941. Janet returned it carefully to its place between Homer and the Heroic Tradition and Liddell and Scott's
Greek-English Lexicon, and stood up thoughtfully.
"Anything else, I'd say borrow it," said Sharon, "but it's worth my life to let that one out of here."
"Are you a Classics major too?" Janet asked cautiously.
"Fat chance. Geo. Nobody in the department is crazy, and there are more men than women. What about you?"
"English," said Janet.
Sharon looked judicious. "Won't hurt you, probably."
"Look, do you know about the Fourth Ericson ghost?"
"Sure. I'd throw Skinner out the window too. Drove Peg crazier than she is, last year."
Skinner. "But how could the ghost have Skinner? And how could she have Chase and Phillips, either, it was published in 1941?"
Janet was sorry the moment she said it. But either this was not in fact a story made up just to confound new students, or Sharon was a consummate actress, because she looked judicious again, then grinned. "Guess some later ghost gave 'em to her.
Young ladies didn't throw books in the 1890's, did they? Somebody had to teach her to be unruly."
"Uh-huh," said Janet, unresentful. Sharon was probably a consummate actress.
"Thanks; and good luck with your hockey stick."
She went back to the room. Christina had spread one of her towels on Molly's desk and was ironing shirts. Molly was lying on the unmade bottom bunk, reading
Magister Ludi and scowling.
"Don't let them tell you about the Fourth Ericson ghost," said Janet.
"They already did," said Christina; Molly made a vague noise of the kind intended to persuade people you have heard them when in fact you haven't. Janet knew all about those. She was smiling as she went to shut the window her mother had thrown The Wind in the Willows out of.
CHAPTER 2
Three days later, emerging from a maelstrom of picnics, discussion groups, encounter sessions, hikes, tours, lectures, and demonstrations of everything from the shortcut through the library to the proper maintenance of one's bicycle in the climate of Minnesota, Janet trudged across campus to meet her advisor and discuss her first term's schedule.
It was raining, the kind of untimely rain you got in Minnesota one fall out of three. It would bring the leaves down before they had even finished turning, making October barren to the sight and the name of Indian summer a mockery. All the elms were giving up already, showering wet yellow leaves on the black asphalt of the sidewalks. The wind picked them up and plastered them to the reflecting glass of the Music and Drama Center.
They did not improve that building's appearance; it was not ugly, but it sat between the pseudo-Gothic brick splendors of Ericson and the pure limestone lines of the chapel like a shoe box among jewelry chests. The rain pooled in all the low spots of the clever brick walks and terraces surrounding it, showing clearly all the flaws in its execution. Much of the Music and Drama Center was underground, and it leaked, and was going to cost a great deal of money to repair. Janet's father called it a perfect example of Modern Maladroit.
Janet resented it the more because it stood on what had once been a fine field of wildflowers, crossing which had taken far less time than going around so large a building. At least all the reflective glass of its entrances showed you the lovely middle of campus. Janet stared instead at her passing image, between the leaves: a figure too small and too sturdy, with a too-curly cloud of very pleasing red hair.
It was perhaps a mistake, she thought now that she could see herself whole and from a distance, to wear mint-green pants and an emerald-green shirt with a dark green jacket. Christina had looked at her oddly, and Christina always looked not only tidy but appealing, so her opinion on dress was worth considering. Always granting, of course, that the opinion on any subject was worth considering of somebody who had made three earnest efforts to read A Wrinkle in Time and pronounced it "silly."
Well, at least she had Molly. And Peg Powell turned out to be possessed of a complete set of the works of E. Nesbit, which had been foolishly left at home, but which Peg promised to bring back after the Christmas break. Janet's mind, wandering fuzzily back to her first meeting with Peg, presented her suddenly with a picture that halted her in the middle of a puddle. "Peg and Sharon haven't got bunk beds!" she said aloud.
A gust of wind blew into her eyes, and she began to walk again, carefully not talking to herself. No, it really had happened. Peg had distinctly said that she and Sharon had bunk beds; Sharon, in fact, had said Peg had gone for a hockey stick. But Janet could see with perfect clarity the blurred geometric pattern, purple and blue and dark pink, of Peg's bedspread, on the single bed with the four bookshelves above it: Chase and Phillips; Liddell and Scott; Whitman; the little red volumes of The Iliad and
The Odyssey, two per epic; and a minor collection of books on music history crammed sideways at the end of the shelf. She had really seen that. She remembered the alarming dip of the bed under her knees, so that the lower s helf was almost too high
for her to read the titles on it. No bunk beds. Sharon's bed had been across the room covered with a white spread trimmed in eyelet lace and scattered with red pillows.
Janet gave up. She must have misunderstood something; or Peg had. Right now there was a class schedule to fight for, supposing she could ever find the office of her advisor.
Her advisor was one Melinda Wolfe, an instructor in the notorious Classics Department. This did not mean, of course, that one could find her in the building that housed that department. Classics and Music had been fighting it out for sole possession of Chester Hall since 1954; the only visible result of many bitter battles was the housing of the minor members of both departments in a huddle of temporary buildings put up behind Masters Hall during World War II.
Janet accordingly went on past Chester Hall where it glowered, among its ancient larches and its young maples, at the chapel surrounded by treeless lawn. She turned right and ducked around Masters Hall—another pseudo-Gothic splendor that moreover boasted a number of fat white columns. It was somewhat smaller than Ericson and pocked with window air conditioners. Once behind Masters, Janet began wandering the muddy gravel between the buildings of Masters Annex. Melinda Wolfe was in something called A40-6.
Janet found F, B, G, R, and Q. At this point she put her head into the Admissions Office and asked directions. Building A was between N and G, but set back; its address was concealed by a good growth of ivy. Room 40 was a small square room with doors opening off it, and one of these doors was numbered 6. There was no name tag, only a little wreath of dried plants: the downy gray-green feathers of southernwood, sage with its blue flowers, spiky rosemary, the carrotlike leaves and yellow flowers of fennel. The mingled smells were sharp and rather jolting. Janet was ten minutes late. She stopped woolgathering and knocked, and when a deep, pleasant voice invited her, she went in.
Melinda Wolfe had a green metal desk, stacks of books and pamphlets, a coffee maker, and a dazzli
ng presence. Janet barely managed not to gape at her. This was the first person from the adult world she had seen in a week. No, that wasn't accurate. The professors who had conducted the discussion groups, the college employees who had provided advice, even some of the RA's, were all adult. The outside world, maybe; or maybe just the world of fashion. Janet vowed to tell Christina all about Melinda Wolfe, who had smooth, short red hair; who wore makeup so artful it made you think twice about your sensible decision not to use the damn stuff; who was slender and graceful and wore a gray wool dress that argued all too persuasively that no redhead should ever wear any other color. She had green eyes, too—or tinted contact lenses.
"I'm so glad you're late," she said. "The last one thinks he wants to be a doctor but he won't take any physics courses. Your file looks a lot more promising. Are you completely bewildered, or do you have some idea of what you want?"
Janet passed her the worksheet provided for this purpose. Melinda Wolfe read it and frowned. "English 10, Philosophy 12, Anthropology 10," she said.
"I want to get started on the English courses, since that's my major," said Janet.
"And I need the other two for distribution. I thought the Philo sounded wonderful and the Anthro awful, so it makes a good mix."
"It's an intelligent schedule," said Melinda Wolfe, "if you're sure you want to be an English major. Wouldn't you like to look around a little first? You've got six credits from your AP course, and you're exempt from Freshman Composition, which is what most of your fellow English majors will be taking this term. You said in your entrance essay that you're interested in languages?"
Janet nodded. She was half impressed and half alarmed that Melinda Wolfe had bothered to notice all this. That was, of course, what good advisors were supposed to do, and all those exams and credits were a matter of public record. She still felt, obscurely, that her privacy had been violated.
"Well," said Melinda Wolfe, with a sharp look at Janet, "you might be better off majoring in Classics. Latin and Greek will give you an enormous advantage in learning any other Indo-European language, and introduce you to much of the work that's the basis of English literature. You could still get a Master's degree in English if you liked." She made these practical suggestions in a voice that sounded like Lady Macbeth urging on her reluctant husband. She couldn't help it, perhaps, any more than people with thin voices could.
"What would you recommend?" said Janet, trying not to sound wary.
"Greek Literature in Translation; that's how we snag most of our majors. Keep the Anthropology; you aren't going to like anything that department offers, and you might as well get it over with. I'd advise against this section of Philosophy—it's our visiting professor, and while his books are brilliant, he has a heavy Czechoslovakian accent."
"But I'm interested in the philosophical problems of classical science," said Janet. "I can sit in the front."
"All right. What about the Greek course? You can always take English 10 this winter or spring."
"But I want it from Evans," said Janet, "and he only teaches it in the fall."
"Are you sure you want it from Evans? He's reduced more students to tears than any three other professors put together."
"But he's good," said Janet, half as a question.
"Oh, he's magnificent, if you can stomach him. Don't sit in the front of his class, that's all. You can wait until next fall, surely, with all these extra credits?"
"But I'd be a year behind in my major, if I decided I didn't want to switch to Classics," said Janet. She thought it over. Something about Melinda Wolfe put her back up; she hoped it wasn't just that Wolfe made her feel grubby. She asked, "When's beginning Greek offered?"
"Winter term."
"Well, that might work. Because I want English 11 from Evans, too, and he only does that in the spring."
"I really hate to see all you kids limiting your choices so soon," said Melinda Wolfe.
Janet discovered in herself a desire not to disappoint her advisor. She wanted to seem intelligent, not stubborn. She took a deep breath and said, "But if I can start an English major my sophomore year, why can't I start a Classics one then, if I decide I don't want the English?"
"True, O King," said her advisor, with perfect mildness. "All right. Let me sign that. But if any of those classes are closed before your number comes up, remember Greek Literature in Translation."
"Okay," said Janet. "Thanks."
Melinda Wolfe wrote her name with economy, no flourish; and looked up at Janet. "If you read science fiction," she said, "you'll like Herodotus."
Now how did she know what Janet read? "I'll bear it in mind," Janet said, collected her signed schedule, and got herself out of there.
It had stopped raining. It seemed very dark for eleven in the morning. The wind was breaking the clouds up, and the whole sky was taking on the luminous grayish-yellow that always gave Janet a headache. The ivy rasped against the corrugated iron of the temporary buildings. There was no other sound.
Janet was puzzling over Melinda Wolfe rather than looking where she was going, and found herself blinking at a dead end. A faded handwritten sign half grown over with ivy said, "Greek 2 will meet in Library 406 from now on."
Janet sighed and turned to retrace her steps. It was getting darker, but the air was still now. She stood looking through a dusty window into a room piled with boxes, trying to orient herself. Around the next corner, gravel crunched.
Janet stooped for a rock, shoved her hand into her pocket, and backed herself up against the ivy. What are you doing? she asked herself. It's only another lost person.
The gravel crunched again and the other lost person came around the corner. She was tall, taller than Tina. She wore a long red cape so heavy that it hardly moved as she walked, and red boots. She had red and black hair, the red like her cloak and the black like coal. On her broad forehead and high-boned face was no expression at all.
She walked past Janet in a waft of some bitter smell like the ivy's only more complex.
Janet opened her mouth as the woman walked right at the faded sign, and left it open.
The red cloak, the long mass of streaked hair, mingled with the ivy and, rustling, disappeared.
Janet threw her rock at the sign. It bent the fragile paper back and disappeared.
Fine, thought Janet. The ivy hides a doorway. She went the other way, quickly.
Janet came around Masters Hall again and looked across the wide green space, set randomly with young oak trees, that separated Masters from the chapel. Between the green grass and the pale glowing sky, the chapel's gray stone looked white. The deep red of the oak leaves was as rich as blood. The day wasn't dark at all. It was just those narrow walkways full of the bitter smell of the ivy that seemed so. Janet rubbed her eyes briskly, and went to meet Christina and Peg for lunch.
Peg had a perverse fondness for eating in the dining hall that cowered under the mass of Taylor Hall. Since she also possessed a much stronger will than you would expect from her size or the meek way she blinked at you from behind her glasses, Janet had already spent a great deal more time than she liked in the dim vastness of Taylor.
It was especially bad today; three of the fluorescent fixtures were flickering and two were out. The light seeping in through the high, barred basement windows looked left over from the previous century, like Fourth Ericson's ghost. The dark wooden tables, round and square and rectangular, that made Eliot Hall charming to eat in, sank into the gloom here as if they had something to hide. The red or green coverings of the chair seats looked like gray that had been bled on or brown that had grown mold over itself. The smell of vegetable soup seemed to be last week's, and the general air last year's.
Janet got herself a bowl of soup, a grilled-cheese sandwich, and a couple of apples to smuggle out again, and went looking for Peg and Christina.
They were at a square table that had been set too close to the line of people waiting for lunch, but Janet knew already that budging either of them
was almost impossible. She sat down with her back to the steam tables and hoped nobody would trip over her.
"How was your advisor?" she said to Christina, who had expressed enormous apprehension at the discovery that her advisor was a member of the Religion Department, as if he might require her to eschew learning evolution.
"He was just fine," said Christina. "He tried to get me to take some Latin, but that was all. I might take some next year."
"Who is he?" said Peg.
"Fields," said Christina.
"Oh, you should have asked me about him; he's great. I'm taking New Testament Greek from him this term. He has a wonderful sense of humor. Sharon said you had some nut in the Religion Department, and I thought it must be Olsen."
"Why'd he want you to take Latin?" said Janet.
"Oh, you know, because of medical terminology and biological jargon and all that; he said it made them easier to figure out."
"My advisor tried to get me to take Greek," said Janet.
"Who's your advisor?" said Peg.
"Melinda Wolfe."
"Well, she's in the Classics Department; what d'you expect?"
"Fields didn't try to get Tina to take any Religion courses, did he?"
"No; but Classics is full of demon recruiters. Wolfe is okay, though. She lives in Ericson Apartment, and gives a big party each spring."
"You've got to get a look at her, Tina," said Janet. She was halfway into her description of Melinda Wolfe, and was actually holding all Christina's attention, when Molly arrived with a tray that contained nine little china bowls of tapioca pudding.
"Bleah!" said Peg, edging away from her.
"I'm having my period; I can't eat anything else. Talk about something distracting."
"I'm telling Tina about Melinda Wolfe," said Janet. Molly looked dubiously at her tapioca, which Janet decided was a license to continue. "She made me think gray was the only color for redheads."
"It depends on your complexion," said Christina. She was wearing gray herself, it made her eyes look very blue, which was most unfair. "You could get one of the Blackstock T-shirts in gray, and see how it looked. It might wash your eyes out; I'm not sure." She had been picking all the pineapple out of her fruit cup as Janet spoke; now she speared a bleached and wrinkled grape with her fork and scowle d at it. "Oh!" she said. "I thought that name was familiar. Some of the kids on the Bio Tour were talking about Wolfe. They said she's a—"
Pamela Dean Page 3
