Rae hesitated. She had planned to wait until she had a better grip on things herself, but suddenly she wanted to tell Delta everything. She was hopeful that Delta, given her love for her two major professors, would be supportive and accepting. But no matter what the outcome, Rae wanted to pour it all out in a rush and get it over with, like pulling an abscessed tooth. Her stomach twitched and heaved with the risk of telling, and yet she felt a fluttering of anticipation too.
Rae’s mind had drifted. Delta was frowning at her.
“Are you going to answer my question?” Delta said. “I asked about your senior composition.”
“Oh.” Rae Dawn dragged her attention back to the present. “It’s going very well; I think Gottlieb will be pleased. I’ve decided to call it ‘Woman on the Wind.’ ”
“That’s a fabulous title. I can’t wait to hear it.”
“I’m still tweaking it, but I’ll play it for you later, if you like,” Rae said.
They were done with dinner. Rae Dawn pushed her plate back and steeled herself to launch into her disclosure. But she never got a single word out.
Delta jumped up from the table and jerked her by the hand. “What’s wrong with right now?” she said. “Come on, Rae. I want to hear your masterpiece.”
THE MUSIC BUILDING was deserted, so they took one of the larger practice rooms. Delta perched on a stool while Rae Dawn settled herself at the piano. She couldn’t decide if she was disappointed or relieved to have been given a reprieve from the confessional.
She shifted on the bench and fiddled with the score. “As I said, it still needs some revision.”
Delta rolled her eyes. “Always the perfectionist. Just let me hear it, please.”
Rae Dawn began to play, a minor-key, bluesy piece reminiscent of the old slave songs. Soulful enough to make you weep, the melody wound around them like a living vine, a tether forged of tears and heartbreak. Something within the music strained against its bonds, seeking release. And then, just as the agony became unbearable, there was a breath—a flash of light, a flutter of wings, a wind high in the trees. Like new life erupting from the womb, the notes burst forth into glorious movement, streaking skyward, plummeting toward earth again, soaring on the currents of the song.
The music was ecstasy, indeed, mounting up from earth-bound bondage to climb the currents of the wind. Rae Dawn played on, her head thrown back and her eyes closed as the harmony rose toward a climax of the soul so deep and powerful that it ended, for both pianist and listener, with a breathless tremor.
The final notes drifted into silence. Rae Dawn sat at the keyboard for a moment, then opened her eyes.
Delta’s face was streaked with the silver tracks of tears. Her mouth hung slightly open, and she had both hands clenched in her lap. Neither of them spoke.
Then Delta seemed to come awake. “Wow,” she said.
Rae Dawn put her hands to her cheeks and could feel the heat emanating from her skin. Unaccountably, she felt exposed, embarrassed, as if she had been glimpsed naked.
“That was amazing,” Delta went on. “It was—” She hesitated. “Pure poetry. It reminds me of Hopkins’s poem ‘The Windhover’—the bird darting and falling, rising and swinging.” She closed her eyes and tried to call up the poem from her memory: “His riding/ Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding/ High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wim-pling wing/ In his ecstasy!”
Rae smiled and ducked her head. “Coming from you, that’s high praise.”
“It was incredible, Rae. I’ve never heard any piece of music that moved me so profoundly.” Delta leaned forward. “I want you to talk to me about how it happened. What goes on inside your soul that enables you to write something like that?”
Rae Dawn gathered up the music and sat for a moment, her hands absently caressing the score. This was her invitation, her open door. She wouldn’t get a better chance than this. “Let’s go to the Goose and get some coffee,” she said. “I’ll try to explain— about the music, and about a lot of other things.”
THEY WALKED IN SILENCE. It was a glorious evening, the stillness broken only by invisible birds twittering in the rustling trees overhead. The Goose was uninhabited except for Mary Jo, the wiry, blank-faced woman who worked behind the counter. She filled their order—two cups of coffee and two slices of coconut custard pie—and then went back to reading her paperback novel.
They settled themselves in a corner booth near the glass wall that looked out onto the patio. Rae Dawn, facing the window, could see her own reflection in the glass as clearly as if she were looking into a mirror. She lowered her eyes and busied herself with the pie.
Delta took a sip of coffee. “So tell me,” she said, “where does genius like that come from?”
“Genius?” Rae Dawn shook her head. “I wouldn’t call it genius.”
“I would.” Delta smiled. “You’re going to say I don’t know much about music, and that’s true, but I know plenty about poetry. ‘Woman on the Wind’ is a poem, the kind of poem that evokes deep and significant images in the listener. Don’t be modest, Rae. It’s genius. It’s artistry. It’s a gift.”
Rae took a bite of her pie and pushed the plate back from the edge of the table. It was delicious, but her stomach swarmed with fluttering wings. Maybe she could finish it later, afterward.
“What images?” she asked Delta, trying to buy time while her mind scrambled for some semblance of order. She had thought she was prepared for this, but now that the moment was upon her, her brain had gone to mush. “What images does the music evoke in you?”
Delta bit on the tines of her fork while she considered her answer. “Well, in the beginning, the minor-key part, I felt weighed down, trapped. In chains, perhaps, but less like forged metal chains than natural chains, if you know what I mean. Like heavy vines growing and wrapping around my limbs. I felt as if gravity had increased, pulling me downward toward the earth.”
Rae nodded. “Go on.”
“And then something—I don’t quite know what it was— broke free. The sun came out. The air was fresh and clean, the way it is after a rainstorm. And I began to fly. Not just released from gravity, but soaring, dancing in the air, chasing the clouds and darting toward the heavens. It was liberating, powerful. It was—” she paused. “ ‘Woman on the Wind.’”
Rae Dawn smiled. This was exactly the response she had hoped for, exactly the reaction she had experienced when writing the music—and when coming to grips with the truth about herself. “What about the ending?”
“Whew,” Delta said. “I can still feel it. It was like—” She shook her head. “This is going to sound strange, I know, because I’m not religious and I don’t usually talk about God stuff. But it was like being present at the moment of creation. Like making love to God and the universe.”
Rae felt tears sting at her eyes. “Thank you.”
“No, I should be the one thanking you, ” Delta said. She tapped her fork rhythmically on the table top. “I’m fascinated with the imaginative process, with what goes on in an artist’s mind and heart during a moment of creativity. Is it just instinct, or can you articulate where it came from?”
“I can try.” Rae Dawn had the sensation of standing on a cliff edge, the precipice of now or never. “You know my background, know what my childhood was like,” she began. “I always felt different, ostracized.”
“Because of your parents and your living situation. Because you didn’t fit.” Delta nodded. “That experience is reflected in the minor-key section at the beginning, feeling trapped and held down.”
“Yes. But it has to do with more, much more, than just growing up poor and isolated. It has to do with—” Rae Dawn felt her resolve weakening. “Well, it’s a little hard to explain.”
Delta leaned forward, her expression intense. “Something happened to you during spring break, Rae. A change. A transformation. I see it in your eyes. I felt it in your music. Trust me to understand. Tell me.”
“All rig
ht.” Rae Dawn took a deep breath, peered over the ledge, and leaped. She told Delta about the dark flame of jealousy that had overcome her concerning Lacy s relationship with Trip, about that visceral memory from junior high when Kate Killian kissed Maria Curtis, about her conversation with Frankie Bowen and Suzanne Hart and her self-examination during spring break.
“I suppose I’ve known subconsciously since eighth grade or so,” she finished, “although I couldn’t admit it, not even to myself. Maybe I felt I was different enough already and didn’t have the courage to add anything else to the mix. But I can’t deny it any longer. I have to accept myself, even if other people don’t accept me.”
“And when you finally did name it and accept it,” Delta said, “you experienced a miraculous burst of wonder and freedom and lightness and joy, all of which poured out into your score— that soaring, leaping dance of passion and intimacy.”
The tightly wound spring inside Rae’s chest let go, and a flood of love and gratitude flowed into her. “You understand,” she whispered.
“Well—” Delta shrugged. “I can’t really comprehend what it means, since I have never experienced those particular feelings. But I think I do understand about breaking free, about taking the risk to be true to yourself no matter what the cost.”
“I—I wasn’t sure you would,” Rae said quietly. “The first time we heard the rumors about Bowen and Hart, back during our freshman year, I got the impression you weren’t quite certain what you thought about the idea.”
“I’m an English major, for God’s sake,” Delta shot back with a mocking scowl. “I spend most of my time with those two, and I’m neither stupid nor naive. Besides, I think we’ve all grown up since then.” She tilted her head. “Well, maybe not Lauren, but the rest of us, anyway.”
Their laughter drew the attention of Mary Jo, who left her post behind the counter and brought them a refill of coffee. “You two okay?” she said, narrowing her eyes at them as if she were certain they’d been drinking. “Black coffee, that’s the ticket. Lots of it.”
She moved away, muttering to herself. When they had finally regained their composure, Delta pushed Rae Dawn’s plate back across the table. “Eat your pie,” she said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
SEVENTEEN
THE OUTING
But everything wasn’t fine. On Saturday afternoon, all hell broke loose.
By the time Rae Dawn got to the quad in front of the administration building, it was packed with people, many of them carrying signs and yelling. She made her way across the grass, scanning faces as she ran. At last she spotted Delta near the front of the building. She threaded her way through the press of bodies until she reached her, flushed and panting.
“What’s going on?” she shouted above the clamor.
Delta turned. She looked haggard and worn, and her eyes held an expression bordering on panic. “It’s Bowen and Hart,” she said. “Apparently someone called the academic dean and complained about them. The Board of Trustees is having a special meeting right now, to decide whether to fire them or not.”
“Fire them?” Rae repeated. “For what?”
“For being gay, I guess,” Delta said. Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears. “They’re the best teachers this college has ever had.”
The bottom dropped out of Rae Dawn’s stomach. “Shit,” she muttered. “They can’t get fired.”
“No? Look around.”
Rae Dawn looked. The quad seemed to be divided straight down the middle by an invisible barrier about ten yards across. On the opposite side of the fountain stood a group of people, mostly adults, holding up hand-lettered posters.
PARENTS AGAINST IMMORALITY
one of the signs read. And another,
GOD HATES DIKES AND FAGOTS
“Jeez,” Delta breathed. “You’d think they’d learn to spell, anyway.”
Despite herself, Rae let out a chuckle. “Thanks, Delta. I needed that.” She peered into the crowd. “Who are these people, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Delta said. “Some are townspeople, I think. Most of them are parents—I recognize a few of them. Over there on the right, the tall woman with auburn hair and the man in the Ole Miss jacket? Those are the Austins.”
“Tabitha’s parents?”
“Yep.”
“I should have known. Tabby looks just like her mother.”
Nearby a group of students milled about, carrying counter-protest signs that read
LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL
Some of the faculty were there as well, looking nervous and angry.
“Seems like the professors have a good many supporters, though,” Rae said.
“Yeah, but the other guys are louder.”
“How did this all come about? Bowen and Hart never did anything to hurt anyone. Who on earth would call the administration?”
Delta sighed. “I don’t know.”
“I do.” The voice came from behind them, and both Delta and Rae turned. It was Tabby Austin, looking even more miserable than Rae felt. “It was all a mistake,” she said. “A huge, awful, terrible mistake.”
Rae took Tabby’s elbow and steered her to the edge of the crowd where the noise wasn’t so deafening. “Who told?”
“I did.”
“What?” Rae, still holding Tabby’s arm, gripped harder and shook her a little.
“Like I said, it was a mistake,” Tabby wailed. “Somebody—I don’t know who—called my dad. He’s given a ton of money to the college over the years, and there are a lot of alumnae in our family—”
“Yeah, we know all that,” Rae snapped. “Five generations or something, dating back to the Civil War. Get on with it.”
“Apparently a rumor was going around, some student who had told her parents she was a lesbian. She said she had talked with a couple of professors who helped her come to an acceptance of herself. Everybody got all riled up, like they had recruited her or something, and then my father said he was determined to find out who they were and put a stop to it, and that he had the clout to do it. I said I didn’t know why it had to be such a big hairy deal, when they were just nice, normal people—”
“You didn’t.”
“Well, yeah. I never dreamed it would come to this—”
“So what happened then?”
“My parents made me tell them—” Tabby choked and began to sob. “And then my father called the dean and the president, and—”
“And here we are.” Rae Dawn rolled her eyes. “I swear, Tabby, if Bowen and Hart are fired, I will have your head on a plate. Count on it.”
RAE HAD VANISHED with Tabby, but Delta hadn’t moved. She stood on the front edge of the crowd, her eyes scanning the opposition. In the center of the quad between the two groups stood a fountain, a square marble base with a bronze likeness of a woman, reaching upward toward the heavens. Water fell around her like tears, and on the ledge of the base were inscribed words from Tennyson’s poem “Ulysses”: ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world… To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
A newer world. Delta sighed. If memory served, Tennyson published “Ulysses” in the 1840s. Evidently the new birth was a long time coming. She felt the labor pains in her own soul every time the Delta Belles sang, every time she faced down racists at voter registrations, every time she read a hateful picket sign. Where was the hope for a newer world when malice still reared its head at anyone who was deemed different?
The crowd across the way had resumed its chant: “Fire the queers, fire the queers. ”‘
“They won’t be fired,” a voice at her elbow said. “They’ve got tenure.”
She turned to look. Beside her stood a man in blue jeans and a brown suede shirt—not tall, but well built and modestly attractive. He seemed vaguely familiar to Delta, but she couldn’t place where she had seen him. He had shaggy brown hair and a beard, and his eyes, also brown, brimmed with confidence and an expression she could only define as joy. A hippie. A flower child.
He grinned at her. “You’re Delta Fox, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I—” She hesitated. “Have we met?”
He extended a hand. “Rankin Ballou. Our paths have crossed. I’ve heard your group sing on several occasions.”
Awareness flared in Deltas mind, a light bulb coming on. “Right. You’ve been at a couple of the voting rallies.”
“And the antiwar demonstrations, and the civil rights sit-in over at the courthouse. I’m surprised we haven’t been formally introduced before now.”
She regarded him with interest. His gaze was warm and entreating, and she felt immediately drawn to him. He was older than she—late twenties, thirty, perhaps—but wore no wedding ring…
Delta jerked herself back to reality. She was here to support her major professors, for pity’s sake, not to get a date. Besides, she had just broken up with Ben Rutledge and vowed not to get involved with anyone else, at least for a long, long time.
“How do you know they won’t get fired? Tenure can be overturned.”
“True. But the chairman of the trustees is a—let’s just say a close acquaintance of mine. He says the charges won’t stick. There’s no evidence of any wrongdoing, any inappropriate behavior or undue influence on students, and although I suppose they could be dismissed for moral turpitude, a handful of distraught parents won’t be enough to turn the tide.”
“Looks like more than a handful to me.” Her eyes drifted to the crowd across the way.
Rankin smiled again. “Hatred always seems to shout louder than love,” he said. “But love will win in the end.”
It was an odd thing to say. “Do you really believe that?”
“I do,” he answered. “And so do you, deep down. I’ve seen you in action. You’re far too passionate about justice and truth not to have hope.”
Delta felt herself at a distinct disadvantage. He seemed to know her so well, seemed to look right down into the depths of her heart. Her first instinct was to be obstinate, to tell him he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. But he was right about the hope, and even though Delta had a stubborn streak, she recognized the truth when she heard it.
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