Heart of Ice

by Gregg Olsen

  She saw a couple of girls in short skirts walking without coats up toward the library, cell phones pressed to their ears and puffs of warm air coming from their mouths.

  Don’t they know it’s cold outside? she thought, which made her feel like she was her mother. It was funny how much sense her mother made now when she observed the behavior of the kids younger than her.

  Parking was always a disaster on campus, and she was glad when she got the message that she’d have a spot in the lot next to the steps to the front door.

  With its half-timbered gables, narrow windows, and mix of light and dark masonry, Beta Zeta House was one of those faux Tudors that were inexplicably fashionable in 1930s America—even in a place like the South where they had no connection to anything. It had such a steeply pitched roof that workers who cleaned the gutters lashed themselves to the massive chimney because slipping on a slate roof almost guaranteed death or lifetime in a wheelchair. Unlike some of the other houses along the fringes of Greek Row, the BZ house had been built specifically for its purpose as a sorority. That meant on the main level it had a large living/meeting room, a cafeteria/dining room, and a lounge (originally it had been used for music, but playing piano and violin had been supplanted by watching Oprah and reality shows that would have made the sisters of the past cringe).

  The basement level was outfitted with three dozen study carrels, and three refrigerators with diet soda in the front and a not-so-secret cache of beer in the very back.

  The upper level was dominated by a sleeping porch which was nothing more than a darkened formation of bunk beds, like some kind of hospital ward with Hello Kitty sheets.

  Two large dormitory-style bathrooms commanded the end of each hallway with a stash of pink and blue flip-flops in rambling rows stationed just inside each doorway. One pair was high-heeled because its owner said her feet hurt “even in the shower” if she was not in heels.

  “It’s what I’m used to!” she said as if high heels were a mark of fortitude and not fashion.

  Adjacent to the sweeping staircase were four bedrooms, two to the right and two to the left. The largest belonged to the housemother; the other two were small and used by the highest-ranking women of the house caste system—the president, Sheraton Wilkes, and the social director, Midori Cassidy, who was the only Asian in the house. The fourth was the guest room, reserved for visiting moms, sorority alumnae, and representatives from the regional or national offices.

  Midori, who never missed the opportunity for a social event, put up a sign shaped like a big pink heart on the front door.

  WELCOME BIG SIS, JENNA!

  “LET’S GET BEEZEE!”

  She parked and noticed that she had a message on her phone.

  It was her mom, of course.

  “Hope you had a good flight. Call me when you get in. Chris got on a website called ‘flight tracker’ and says your plane was on time. Call me. Love you.”

  There wasn’t time to call her mother back just then. She closed the phone, grabbed her bags, pulled her coat tightly around her, and started up the steps. The sign on the door made her smile as she turned the brass knob and breathed in the smells of a meal about to be served.

  She didn’t see the man in the lot, four cars down from where she’d parked.

  Of all the BZ cooks, Glenna Tyler was probably the worst. It wasn’t that there was a whole lot of competition, either. Most of the women who served as cooks for the sorority houses did so to make ends meet. They had children of their own to feed, but the job serving the more privileged set was a means to an end. If the housemothers or directors actually cared about their charges—and most did—the cooks just wanted to heat and serve.

  Glenna was fixing her infamous “Tot Bar” meal that night. Tot Bar was five large bags of frozen tater tots paired with a variety of condiments—ketchup, cheese, chili, and sour cream.

  That was it.

  “The least she could do is deep-fry them,” said the token plus-size sister, Jasmine Rhoades, a recent pledge who hadn’t yet tired of the meal.

  In time she would, for sure.

  “Wait until you try her minipizzas,” said Sheraton Wilkes, a pretty blonde with flawless skin and the kind of long legs that looked good even in capris—even in winter. Sheraton introduced herself as she found a seat next to Jenna. “Glenna toasts English muffins and we top them with, you know, basically the same stuff we have here.”

  The familiar content of the conversation made Jenna smile. She’d been there. Done that. She smiled at a probable anorexic named Julie Lynn and took a seat.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Jenna Kenyon. I’m here from Nationals. I’m going to help out with the community involvement plans for the chapter.”

  “Won’t be much to do,” Julie Lynn said, moving a tater tot from one side of her plate to the other, like it was a hockey puck. She picked it up with her fingers and dabbed it into the ketchup. It never found its way into her mouth. Just back and forth, in and out.

  “Why’s that?” Jenna sat down.

  “We do Relay for Life and Black History Month.”

  Jenna wondered why it was these young women, these supposed “future leaders,” didn’t have a bit more imagination. In fact, any imagination whatsoever.

  “Those are great causes,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “but Nationals would like us—all of us sisters—to try to do a little more.”

  “You mean more than Date Dash and Love Cruise on the river?”

  Jenna nodded. “Yes, more than that.”

  Sheraton looked around the dining room and waited for everyone to stop their chatter and focus their attention up front, on her. Even a girl who had been measuring the number of tator tots that she could fit into a small plastic cup stopped.

  “Sisters, our special guest has arrived from Nationals! Everyone, I want you all to welcome Jenna Kenyon.”

  There was a round of polite applause and Jenna stood up.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad to be here. I look forward to working with you tomorrow when we look at solutions to make our pledge drive more effective next year. You are an amazing group of young women. We can make this house even better if we work together.”

  Jenna hated the speech. But the women at Nationals wanted her to improve the quality of the sisters there, or the place would be shut down. It was that simple.

  “We’ll be meeting at eight a.m. sharp. I expect you all to be there.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Saturday at the Beta Zeta House was filled with breakout sessions and pep talks. The forty girls that made up the current membership of the Dixon chapter were at their breaking points. Four were supine on the twin sofas; three more were curled up in a heap next to the turned-off big screen. Motivation and education were hard work. They’d worked on “Building Stronger Bonds with Your Sisters” and “Blonde on Blonde: How Recruiting Sisters of Your Own Hair Color Works Best.”

  Jenna hated that one. She presented the material exactly as written—which she was required to do—but with obvious disdain for the message. It clearly smacked of racism. She caught Midori’s eyes and they felt like ice picks boring into her own.

  “All right, sisters,” she said, “we’re done for the day. We’ve accomplished a lot, but we have more to do. Tomorrow, each of you will bring down your top three outfits for next week’s recruitment. I want to see an outfit in our colors—taffy and mango—and an outfit in black accessorized with gold.”

  “What about the third one? You said three outfits,” said a girl from the back of the room.

  Jenna could finally see some lights come on in the brains of the women clad in an array of Juicy velour tracksuits. “Someone’s paying attention. Thank you! The third outfit is your choice. It can be anything you want it to be as long as it is a skirt and sweater. We want you to show your individuality. That’s what makes all of us special.”

  Again, it was a line that Jenna loathed, but she did what she was asked and followed th
e program.

  As the girls filed out for the evening, Jenna went upstairs to her room and dialed home.

  “It’s me.”

  “Hi, baby,” Emily said. “How’s it going in the Deep South?”

  “How’s it going in the deep freeze?”

  Emily laughed. “Things are OK here. Moving forward with the Crawford investigation. We’re at a snail’s pace, but we are making headway.”

  “How’s Chris?”

  Emily waited a second. “He’s here,” she whispered.

  “Mom, that’s so cool. Why don’t you tell him ‘yes’? Don’t mess this up, OK?”

  “Since when did you turn into the mother, here? That’s my job.”

  “Since you started acting like a big baby. Kidding.”

  But she wasn’t of course. Jenna felt that her mother’s decision to not make a commitment to the man she loved was nothing short of stupid. It was about pride. About being hurt again. About all sorts of things that discarded the part of the equation that could end with a “happily ever after.”

  “OK,” Emily said. “What’s going on there?”

  “Same old, same old. These girls got themselves into a bad situation and now they have to rebuild. We’ve been working on what needs to be done all day and I think I’m getting through to them with what’s really important.”

  “You mean, purses and shoes to match?”

  Jenna knew when her mom was pulling her chain. “No, I was thinking more about when to wear an up-do and when to wear a half-ponytail.” She let out a laugh. “The girls are great, but this job completely sucks.”

  “Hang in there. Summer will be here soon and we’ll figure out something else before you head off to law school.”

  “I have to pass the LSATs in March first.”

  “That’s no problem. You’re a smart girl. I love you.”

  “Love you more, Mom. Bye.”

  Jenna snapped her phone shut and looked around the room. Everything was in order. Her laptop was cable-locked to the sink. She had the complete data file of every living BZ member in the United States, which made it a security concern. She touched up her makeup and ran her fingers through her hair, giving it a little volume.

  I’m in the South, and no matter what they say, hair is bigger down here, she thought, a mist of hairspray falling to hold everything in place.

  There was a knock at the door. Sheraton and Midori were there to take her out to dinner at the Boarding House, a restaurant downtown that was popular with college students yet nice enough to take your mother. A little expensive, but the chapter had an account. The meal was on the BZs.

  “Hi-hi!” Midori said, seemingly over the hurt of the presentation. “Ready to go out?”

  Sheraton pushed the door open. “I’m soooo hungry! Let’s get going! I saw your rental car.” She paused and made a sad face. “We’ll take my Lexus.”

  Jenna knew she was in for a night of mind-numbing conversation, but she was getting paid for it. What’s more, she knew the food would be good. She’d Googled the restaurant before she left Cherrystone.

  Just as they were about to leave the house, a voice called out. The three young women stopped.

  “Aren’t y’all little dolls?”

  Shelby Barker’s sweet voice was dipped in cornmeal, as Southern as could be.

  “I’m Shelby Barker, but y’all can call me Ma Barker.” She waited a second. “I know, I know. But everybody else does!”

  Ma Barker had been the house director for almost twenty years. She was a warm woman, rather large, with spun-sugar hair and a penchant for housedresses that had to be from an old Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. They were shiny and full. Jenna had talked to Ma Barker on the phone the week before Christmas, letting her know she’d be coming.

  “Don’t call me the house director, either. I’m a housemother, and that’s good enough for me.”

  Jenna gave her a warm hug. She couldn’t help herself. Ma Barker was like a kind sponge for good feelings.

  “You are a good hugger,” Ma Barker said, smiling and taking it all in. “You have the kind of spirit this place needs.”

  Jenna returned the smile. “I hope so.”

  Ma Barker cocked her head and looked over at the TV lounge, a half dozen girls staring blankly at a reality show about Hugh Hefner’s Playboy mansion. “Ya’ll gonna kick some ass? ’Cause these girls need it. I’ve been here longer than any of them have been alive and I’ve never seen a lazier bunch of girls. No wonder this place is going to hell in a handbasket.”

  Sheraton and Midori stood mute and Ma Barker didn’t seem to care one whit about them and how they might regard her assessment of the house.

  Jenna liked Ma Barker and the “eyes and ears” part of her job would have called for her to let Nationals know that Ma had spoken of her girls in a “less than flattering manner.” But she wouldn’t do that. The lady was probably one hundred percent correct. She lived with the girls every day. The women back at Nationals were living in a fantasy world of white gloves, teas, and closed-mouth kissing.

  “That’s why I’m here.” Jenna said.

  The old lady proceeded to tell Jenna about the house, the fact that it was built of the “finest materials of its time, but, well, things have gotten better since then.” She indicated that Jenna would be staying in the only room with a private bathroom.

  “The hot water heater has been givin’ me fits, but I think we’ve got it fixed now.”

  “I hate a cold shower,” Jenna said.

  Ma Barker indicated she understood. “That’s not the problem. The dang thing had been making a racket when it heated up. Hot water’s no problem. But sleeping next to that contraption has been a nightmare for the last few moms who’ve stayed in there. We got it fixed, I think. I hope. I really do.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will be. Now, go ahead and head out to dinner. All y’all could use some meat on your bones.”

  “Thanks, Ma Barker,” Jenna said, trying very hard not to laugh at the name.

  “You’re welcome. Now get. OK? Get some food!”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Jenna set her alarm clock for 5 A.M., jumped from the bed, turned on her laptop, and headed for the private bathroom of the Beta Zeta guest suite. Despite the thumping of the stairs a few times during the night, she was remarkably refreshed and ready to tackle the issues that awaited her. She was there to get the house back on track. The chapter was in trouble or she wouldn’t be there. Occasionally, once popular sororities found themselves in a state of decline. One of the women in the national office told Jenna during her training that the decline experienced by a formerly top-tier house was sometimes due to the trivial.

  “Fashion, dear. Dark-dyed jeans work today, but acid-washed or lighter colored jeans make those of us who know better want to scream,” said the woman, an attractive redhead with obvious extensions and green-tinted contacts. “We have a couple of, shall I say, problem houses. We started on that path and should have nipped it in the bud right away. But we didn’t and now we pay for it. The girls were nice enough, but they didn’t attract the correct kind of pledges and the spiral started.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” Jenna said. “At Cascade, we have a house that no one calls by its proper name because a couple of the girls two years ago were on the chunky side.”

  The woman talking from behind her mahogany desk nodded. “That’s right. That would be Ate-a-Pie, right?”

  Jenna smiled a little nervously. It seemed peculiar that this fifty-something-year-old would know something like that. “Yes, Beta Pi.”

  “We have to keep our chapters up to par, beyond par, really. As a national consultant, your job will be to be our eyes and ears. You’ll be the keeper of our ideals and expectations. You’re the one we’ve hired to stop the spiral and keep the quality of our southern region as it should be. No detail is too small. The way the girls dress. The GPA. The kinds of cars in the parking lot. All of
it adds up to our Beta Zeta image.”

  Jenna understood, though she felt the “keeper of our ideals” comment was not only stupid, impossible to do. She didn’t say so, but she knew the real reason was to keep the chapter dues flowing. A dying house is a cash drain. For all the talk about sisterhood, the Beta Zeta was a big business, too.

  Remember, she told herself, this job is only temporary. Maybe when I’m a lawyer I can help some “chunky” girl sue a sorority.

  Jenna looked around the guest suite and went into the bathroom. It was clear that the bathroom needed updating. It still had the orange-and-green daisy appliqués of almost forty years ago. It also had an accent wall covered by a mod print by a designer named Vera.

  It sure wasn’t Vera Wang. Just Vera.

  As she let the water run over her, she picked at one of the edges of a daisy decal.

  This could come off pretty easily, she thought, resisting the urge to remove it. God knew these girls needed help, but she was not there to help with their décor. She was there to save them from probation and the revocation of their status as a BZ sorority.

  As she laid out her clothes for the next day—a “snappy professional” look consisting of a fitted pink blouse and black wool skirt, J. Crew—she replayed the conversation she had with Sheraton Wilkes before she went to bed.

  “Of course,” Jenna had said, “you know that what we said is between us.”

  “Yes, sister to sister.”

  “That’s right. But not sister to sisters, if you get what I’m saying.”

  “I can’t tell Midori?”

  Jenna shook her head slowly and deliberately. “No. That’s the way it’s done. Nationals sent me to save you from being drop-kicked out of the system. It would be absolutely demoralizing if your girls knew that.”