No Word From Winifred

by Amanda Cross

  “Well,” Leighton said, rising from her horizontal position on the couch, “I’ve made enough off you to keep me for a week or two. Maybe something will turn up, meanwhile. Keep in touch.”

  And Kate returned the novels to Charlie, filed the articles away, and gave her attention to the gathering demands of the academic semester’s last weeks.

  Chapter 10

  The response to Kate’s ad in the MLA Newsletter was, numerically speaking, altogether satisfactory. The number of scholars interested in English writers who had been at Oxford in the twentieth century astonished Kate and pleased her. That almost everyone who knew anything of Oxford in those years knew something of Charlotte Stanton indicated to Kate that the condition of so-called minor writers was not always as obscure as she, and no doubt others, had supposed. As principal of a college, and a scholar renowned in her field, Stanton was a personage. That she also wrote popular fiction was simply ignored; so Kate gathered from perusing her letters and the articles enclosed with them that referred, often only in a footnote, to Stanton. The writing of novels, like any other barely acceptable anomaly in one’s private life, was one’s own affair. And, as Kate already knew, even an interest in a “modern” writer like Joyce or Lawrence or Woolf, had, in those years, been countenanced at Oxford only if confined to one’s publications, and not considered the subject of lectures or tutorials. All that had, to be sure, changed in the seventies. But by then one was well into the postmodern period, and the moderns, having become history, were acceptable as an academic pursuit. Odd, really, about periodization. But at least it had allowed Stanton to write her novels without encroaching upon the very literature Oxford deemed worthy of study.

  Kate read the letters with delight. Despite the fact that Winifred Ashby’s name had appeared in large type at the beginning of the ad, most of those who wrote to Kate referred only to Charlotte Stanton. Kate had the sense that they were eager to talk to, be in correspondence with, anyone who knew Stanton and her works. The loneliness of the scholar, particularly one devoted to a minor figure, is little recognized. Some who wrote were wags, either pleased on general principles with the chance to be facetious or, having met or heard of Kate, happy for the chance to josh her in what they hoped was a witty and pointed manner. Quite often, Kate had to admit, it was. Kate had long noticed that requests for information and letters to the editor were read with rather more attention than the regular articles that constituted the main part of the publication—any publication. Aside from the letters inspired by ads in general and Kate’s in particular, and those concerned only with Charlotte Stanton, there remained a few of special interest.

  The first of these, to Kate’s satisfaction, was from the woman who had presented the paper on Stanton in Houston in 1980. She said that she was not certain if she had met the right Winifred Ashby, but that she thought it likely. If Kate was in no particular hurry, she added, the woman would be happy to meet with Kate and talk with her at the forthcoming MLA convention in New York. Kate, who believed a good deal more could be learned through freewheeling conversation than from a letter, and who didn’t think it fair, in any case, to impose the writing of so time-consuming a letter on a stranger, responded by inviting the woman, named Alina Rosenberg, to her, Kate’s, room for a drink. Kate had already determined to reserve a room at a hotel for the purpose of meeting people, even if she did not sleep there.

  Her determination to attend the MLA convention had been reinforced by the other letters. One, anonymous, again offered to meet Kate at the MLA, and said, mysteriously and provocatively, that Kate might, or might not, learn something of interest to her. What was not specified. A third letter, to Kate’s astonishment and delight, said the writer had known Winifred Ashby as an adolescent in Ohio, and would that be of any interest to Kate? He also would be attending the convention, and would be glad to talk with Kate there.

  Which left Kate with little to do apart from finishing up the term, with all the last-minute rush that entailed, planning her interviews at the MLA, and breaking the news to Reed that she intended not only to attend the convention but to reserve a hotel room. She was quite prepared to invite him to share it with her or, in the face of any strong objections on his part, to refer in her most ladylike manner to recent Fansler law parties for associates. Had he not dragged her to that, her need to attend the MLA convention would never have arisen.

  Reed, however, turned out to be amused. He doubted whether a night spent in the hotel room would hold any special delights; might he not await her at home? “I hope,” he added, “you have already received your name card and plastic holder.” Kate told him that the plastic holder would be acquired at the convention, and that she looked forward eagerly to possessing it. Reed grinned.

  Kate did not register at her hotel, which had turned out to be the Sheraton—foreign languages were at the Hilton—until the evening of the first day of the convention, having been warned by those of long experience that the lines for registering would be endless in the afternoon. As it was, she had a wait and was enthralled by the activity in the lobby—the calls of recognition, the glances at name cards, some furtive, some direct and challenging; the sadness of those lost, or alone, or anticipating an interview on which might depend all the events of the next few years, if not their lives. The men were assured, their faces unexpressive, their manner verging on the pompous. The women looked either weary or delighted to meet some acquaintance, more exposed, Kate decided, willing to risk more in a personal way, as though greeting the wrong person would not be a matter of moment. Never an advocate of the theory of separate cultures for the genders, Kate nonetheless often felt that a visitor from Mars might immediately conclude that men and women were different species.

  Her room, when she achieved it, having with some difficulty manipulated the electronic card with which hotels have replaced the key, proved to be as anonymous and efficient as she had hoped. There were several chairs and a table; the bed, if not slept in, would (as a receptacle for coats) offer little embarrassment to Kate. One scarcely liked to entertain total strangers in what appeared to be the ambience of one’s private life. Still, rooms at conferences must be accepted for all purposes, including the establishment of new relationships, sexual or not. She left a small suitcase she had brought as evidence of the room’s being occupied—Susan had told her that having once, like Kate, taken a room for daytime use, she had returned after an evening session to use the bathroom, and found the room turned over to a couple in no condition to be aroused, as they were, by her imperious knocking—and went out to buy some liquor, club soda, and pretzels. On her way, she stopped to pick up her plastic holder, and to slip her name tag into it. The tag at its top declared: modern language association, new York, ny, and the dates of the conference. KATE FANSLER and the name of her university had been printed below in bulletin-type letters three-quarters of an inch high. Usually opposed to tags and flaunted identification—had this been one of the reasons she had avoided conventions?—she now wore it prominently. If one advertised for information, one should make the target of that information readily recognizable.

  Waiting her turn at the liquor store, Kate looked through her program to see what, if anything, she might attend that evening. At nine o’clock, one page alone of the program offered her a choice between “Phenomenological Literary Theory After Deconstruction,” “The Image of Night in Sixteenth-Century Spanish Mysticism,” and “Theory of Women’s Autobiography.” Might the last give her a clue about Winifred Ashby? After noting the name of the meeting rooms, Kate reached her turn to buy her liquor and other supplies; she carried them to her room and found the red light on her phone blinking. Calling the operator, Kate discovered that she had several messages, but that they were written and must be picked up at the desk in the lobby. After confronting the elevators, overcrowded and infrequent, Kate, once in one, listened entranced to the conversations and watched the eager reading of name tags. Her own, it appeared, occasioned an ex
clamation from a woman standing nearby. Her tag, Kate saw, read “Alina Rosenberg.” Kate greeted her eagerly as they were ejected, with the emerging crowd, from the elevator. Achieving a corner of the crowded lobby, they shook hands.

  “I was just on my way to leave you a message,” Alina said, “to arrange a meeting. Are you busy now?”

  “Not at all,” Kate said, always eager to seize the moment, but with an instant’s regret for possible illumination on the question of phenomenological literary theory after deconstruction. “Would you like to come to my room?”

  “That would probably be best,” Alina said. “I’ve got a roommate.” Once again, they approached the elevators, hopefully pushing buttons. Attention to their conversation meant that they had not forced their way to the front of approaching elevators, and so failed to squeeze onto several. “Surely,” Kate said, when they had finally flattened themselves into one, “this is the worst part of the convention.”

  “You must be in a very fortunate situation if you can think that,” a voice answered her, and Kate felt ashamed. “It’s a slave market, the MLA convention,” Susan had told her, and Kate blushed now at the easy assumption of her own security. So many of those in the humanities were, Kate knew, jobless, though full of talent and willing to go anywhere.

  “Funny about that,” Alina said, when they were seated in Kate’s room. “I thought the woman who may have been Winifred Ashby was looking for a job, too, and I asked her if she had any interviews scheduled. She seemed puzzled by the question, which puzzled me in turn. Then, I’m afraid, I rather lost track of her.”

  “I’d like to hear all about the session in Houston, if you don’t mind telling me,” Kate said.

  “Not a bit. The Houston convention was rather ghastly and, therefore, memorable in more ways then one. We went to Houston because Illinois and Louisiana hadn’t ratified the ERA, and while I agreed wholly with that decision, I was more than a little startled to find myself in Houston, or even to realize that Texas had ratified it. I later learned they would have liked to retract their ratification, which shows how odd life is. One would certainly have preferred New Orleans or Chicago.”

  “And you think Winifred Ashby came to hear your paper on Charlotte Stanton?”

  “Yes. She came up afterwards to say she’d enjoyed the paper. Odd the things you remember. I suppose it was because she’d caught my eye earlier, sitting there listening so intently. Tall, dressed rather elegantly in pants and a shirt, early forties, give or take a few years. Does that sound like your Ashby woman?”

  “It does. As we know, she had a great interest in Charlotte Stanton, who was her honorary aunt, and with whom she spent summers at Oxford.”

  “But you’ve lost track of her.”

  “Altogether, I’m afraid. That’s why anything you can tell me will be so helpful. Might I, by the way, see your paper on Charlotte Stanton?”

  “Of course; I’ve brought you a copy.”

  “Do you remember much about the other papers?”

  “Not a good deal. Frankly, I didn’t find them either interesting or relevant. All the other Oxford novelists were men; but you must have seen the program. I’m afraid there was a certain scorn for my female popular novelist, though I think most of the audience was there to hear about her—and perhaps about Robert Graves.”

  “They both wrote popular novels about ancient Greece and Rome, didn’t they?”

  “Well, there is that, though I don’t remember the point being made at the time. It was one of those panels where the panelists don’t really interact; we each did our own thing, and answered questions addressed to us individually at the end. There was a lot of coming and going among those who attended the session—that always happens at the MLA, but this seemed even more so. That’s why I first noticed Ashby; she just sat there, toward the front, listening, giving one that sense of being attended to which is so rare and so pleasant.”

  “And I’m very grateful to you,” Kate said. “Can I offer you something to drink? I’ve stocked up.”

  “Thank you, wine would be nice,” Alina said. “The fact is,” she added, as Kate handed her a glass, “I always find these conventions very depressing; each year I swear I won’t come again. But then, in the part of Idaho I come from, there aren’t any decent bookstores; I like to see the book exhibits, and to hear what’s going on in some of the areas I’m interested in. And, since I’m working on a woman author, it is good to meet others interested in women’s writing. There’s little of that at home either. But somehow, it’s all so competitive and discouraging. I wonder often what Charlotte Stanton would have made of it.”

  “Have you worked mainly on her life or her writings?”

  “Both, really. I’m concentrating on her work, with just a chapter on her life, but one can’t help going back and forth, particularly now when that sort of thing is becoming more acceptable; not like the New Criticism days when people weren’t supposed to have lives, or to have put them in their work.”

  “Did you know that someone named Charlotte Lucas is writing a biography of Stanton?”

  “Oh, God, don’t tell me. No, I didn’t. But that’s how it goes. Two people writing books on the same subject is always happening.”

  “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m sure in these cases each of the books has something different to say. I only mentioned it not to seem to be holding anything back.”

  “Well,” Alina said, “she’s probably able to go to England every year, and do proper research. That’s not possible for me. But then, the publisher I’m writing for isn’t that demanding. It’s a sort of introductory book, though I hope to make it good.”

  “You will,” Kate said, thinking: What fortunate lives we lead, Charlie and I. Thinking: Perhaps Charlie will get in touch with her, and share some of the goodies. But Kate only said: “Did you ever see the woman who might have been Winifred Ashby again at the convention in Houston?”

  “I met her once in the lobby as one does,” Alina said. “We smiled, and she told me again how much she had liked my paper. That’s when I asked her if she was there for interviews. But I didn’t get the impression she wanted to hang around and talk. She seemed on her way somewhere. I’m sorry there isn’t more. I’m afraid none of this has been the least helpful.”

  “You’re wrong,” Kate said. “It’s been immensely helpful, and I’m grateful to you. From what you know of Stanton’s life and novels, do you think she ever had a child?”

  Alina stared. “Good heavens, no. Her whole life seemed a careful avoidance of marriage and children, as far as I can tell. Whether she didn’t have the opportunity to marry the right person, as we used to think, or chose not to marry, which I now believe, she clearly had decided to hell with ironing men’s shirts and darning their socks. Probably,” Alina added, with more sophistication than Kate had yet seen in her, “I’m what the psychoanalysts call projecting. Saying to hell with it wasn’t possible in my day.”

  “I don’t suppose it was ever easy; it may not even have been a conscious choice. Have you ever wondered about Jane Austen?”

  Alina let this pass as a rhetorical question. She rose slowly, putting down her glass and gathering up her belongings. “Thanks for the drink,” she said, “and for the conversation. Get in touch with me if I can be of any further help. I’ve written out my room number and my home address. It’s a pleasure to talk to you, and I’d welcome another opportunity.” Which Kate, seeing her to the door, and accepting the piece of paper with Alina’s address and room number, took to mean: There aren’t many like you in my part of Idaho. We New Yorkers, Kate would have liked to tell her, but didn’t, are a breed apart, often scorned, sometimes cherished. She wished there was something especially nice she could do for Alina, but she was afraid the generosity would have to be Charlie’s. Because she had met Alina in that fortuitous way, Kate had not picked up her messages. She set out once again in search of
them, bracing herself anew for the elevators. “Just remember,” Susan had told her, “don’t complain too loudly about the elevators. If they hear you, they stop between floors and can’t be moved for hours, or simply sulk and refuse to open their doors.”

  Kate had a number of messages by the time she retrieved them, most of them jocular comments on her presence by friends and colleagues who had seen her name posted on the “Who’s Where” notice board. But two of them had to do with her Ashby quest: one, from the anonymous correspondent, said: “I’ll knock on your door ten o’clock on the first night of the convention, the 27th. If you can’t see me then, don’t answer—obviously, the result also if you aren’t there.” Kate looked at her watch. She had five minutes to brave the elevators and return to her room. The other message, from the man who had known Winifred in Ohio, simply left his room number, saying he would be interviewing all day, but would be glad to see Kate for breakfast in his suite on December 29th or 30th, if she would only leave a message to let him know. Kate observed that the important assignations of the convention took place at very odd hours indeed. Kate never met anyone for breakfast, for any reason, a policy like so many, as she had discovered in her later years, she would have to abandon. It occurred to Kate that she was down to practically no policies at all, perhaps a blessing.

  She had gained her room two minutes before the knock came, and she opened her door to a tall and conventionally handsome man who shook her hand, said he hoped she had something for him to drink, and announced that he had heard of her. Whether this was a compliment to him or her was unclear as, Kate feared. Would be the motives of most of what he said. His whole attitude and body language declared what was his major pursuit at this convention and all others. As he spoke, Kate realized that his avidity for observing the sexual encounters of others equaled his delight in his own. He wore a wedding ring, thus confirming Kate’s more cynical views on marriage. But, she reminded herself, this was all instantaneous supposition. He might prove Jane Austen’s dictum about the unreliability of first impressions. As he accepted his drink, however, and began to speak at length, it became clear that first impressions, in some cases, still held.