Sorority Sisters

by Claudia Welch

  Some days it feels like I’m the only one out of all of us who wants us to get married.

  I know he loves me. He tells me he loves me, though not very often. I tell him I love him a few times a day, but he says he doesn’t like to “wear it out.” Like telling a girl you love her ever gets old and worn-out. I don’t even know what he’s talking about. I always tell him I love him, like shaking salt on French fries, the more the better, and he’ll occasionally tell me he loves me, like he’s sprinkling diamond dust every time he has to say, “I love you.”

  I can’t understand what’s going on. He says he loves me. He tells me he wants to marry me.

  Okay, then, marry me.

  I actually thought being a senior was going to be less stressful than this. All it would take is a little diamond ring to make everything all sparkly and bright. And safe. I want to feel safe. Being married will make me feel safe. I don’t know why that’s true, but it is. I want to get married. I’ve always wanted to get married.

  That may not sound very modern, but I don’t know anyone, any girl, who doesn’t want to get married. I guess we’re supposed to blame that on Cinderella and Doris Day movies, but I don’t believe that. Being married, sharing your whole life with someone, someone who loves you, who promises to love you forever and then actually does it, that’s in the bone. That’s not a dream you can blame on Walt Disney. As to blame, why blame anyone? Being married, being loved, those are good things. Wonderful things.

  Greg sees that. He wants what I want. He says so, but not as much as he used to.

  “I’m ready,” Laurie says, grabbing her cigarettes. “Let’s go.”

  We go down the back stairs, the stairs closest to the kitchen, and there’s the usual Monday night mob. We stand around on the stairs, waiting for it to clear once the dining room doors open and we can go in and get seated. From my perch eight steps up, I can see Mrs. Williams, our house mother, coming out of her room on the first floor, making her way down the hall. Mrs. Williams, at a guess, is about ninety-two years old, and I’m basing that entirely on the way she wears her hair. She wears it in a 1930s kind of style, gray, of course, but how old are you when you were in your prime in 1936? She’s nice, quiet, soft-spoken, and unobtrusive. A watchdog, guarding our sterling moral fiber, she’s not. Naturally, part of Monday Night Dinner is being lovely and gracious to Mrs. Williams, taking turns sitting at her table—no one really wants to sit at her table for obvious reasons. It’s a real conversation killer, even if she is only seventy-five. My grandmother, who’s eighty, has more zip than Mrs. Williams.

  How does a woman end up being a house mother? Because she never got married and has nowhere else to go in her golden years?

  Not being engaged is ruining my senior year and warping my psyche; I think that’s pretty obvious.

  We start down the stairs, one slow step at a time, like a wedding procession, and squeeze into the dining room. Ellen is already in and is standing next to Missy and Lee at one of the tables in the middle of the room. She lifts her head in hello and invites us over with her eyes. Laurie, Diane, and I dutifully obey her silent summons, slinking through the crowd until we get to their table.

  We stand behind our chairs, sing the song that starts dinner—yes, a song—and then, once Mrs. Williams has taken her seat, we all sit and start the first course: salad and a roll. The dining room, a large room full of circular tables and long windows on one side, curtained since the only view is to the side of the AG house, is done in shades of white and blue and yellow. The whole house got redecorated in the summer of ’seventy-six, turning it from a scrambled-egg blend of dingy white and golden yellow into a crisp, smart, new space of white and navy with accents in lemon yellow. It looks amazing now; I really love it. Very fresh and clean-looking. I’m just not a fan of white and yellow; that’s been well established.

  “I heard the Zetas got a new hasher,” Ellen says, shoving her roll away from her. Ellen never eats her roll, or her butter. The butter is sliced and sitting in an artful array of ice chips. Yellow and white again. It’s everywhere. “He’s supposed to be gorgeous.”

  Our hasher comes into the dining room at that exact moment, looking sweaty and overworked. His brown hair hangs in oily clumps against his shiny forehead. His white coat is covered in old stains and new. I have no idea what his name is. Hashers serve and clear and clean. They don’t speak, or I’ve never heard ours speak. Being a hasher is the lowest job on earth. It’s hard manual labor and, to the girls in the sorority, you’re invisible. Is there anything worse than being invisible to the opposite sex?

  No. There is not. No amount of money is worth that.

  “Why can’t we ever get a gorgeous hasher?” Diane says.

  “Like you’d be able to do anything with him if we did,” Lee says.

  The hasher arrives at our table and we all lean back in our seats so he has clear passage to take away the dirty dishes.

  What must it be like to be the only guy in a house full of women? He is, literally, the only guy. Of course, he has to come through the back door, stay in the kitchen, and is only allowed in the dining room to clean up. He’s not here for very long either. A sorority is a female-only domain, unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. It’s actually sort of relaxing, in an emotionally charged kind of way.

  The hasher rushes through the rest of the room while we all talk, the noise level in the room rising, and then the main course is served: chicken and rice and peas. Monday Night Dinner is the best meal we get all week. The door to the kitchen, a big, sunny room, opens off of the butler’s pantry, but it’s strictly off-limits to us. I mean that.

  Anyway, during the rest of the week, we eat a lot of tuna salad. I mean, a lot of tuna salad. Sometimes Melba, the day cook, will mix it up and we’ll get taco salad. The thing is, with all the bike riding to class and my unpaid job cleaning Greg’s apartment and then all that salad, I’ve lost quite a few pounds. Ellen practically wants to hit me when I complain about the starvation diet they have us on, so after saying something in a chapter meeting about how we could, once in a while, have lasagna, I haven’t said another word about it. But I’m down to a size five, and when I joined Beta Pi I was a size seven. Pretty soon I’ll be shopping in the toddler department.

  Greg hasn’t said a word about me dropping a size. I don’t think he notices that kind of thing. He, on the other hand, has gained more than a few pounds since we started dating. And I’m the kind of person who notices. I’m not sure what that says about me. Maybe just that I’m more observant about the person I love.

  “How’s Craig doing, Missy?” Diane asks.

  “He’s fine. He’s thinking of quitting the water polo team,” Missy answers.

  “No kidding! How come?” I ask.

  Missy shrugs. “He’s sick of all the traveling, all the workouts. I think he’s seen three football games since he got here.”

  “Bummer,” Diane says. “What do you think? Do you think he should quit?”

  Missy shrugs, leaning back in her chair. She’s eaten half her chicken, all her rice, and none of her peas. “I don’t have an opinion. He can do what he wants.”

  “How’s it going with you guys?” Ellen asks.

  Missy and Craig have a volatile relationship; they started hot and heavy, had a fight, broke up, got back together a week later, were hot and heavy for a couple of months, had a fight, broke up, got back together the next day. I think their last breakup and makeup was over the summer; it’s been quiet since then. Still, with them, you never know.

  “No complaints,” Missy says, picking apart her roll.

  We all eye Missy cautiously. She and Craig have been dating since they met in the Four-O last spring. I don’t think Missy meant it to get serious, and I’m really not sure it is serious, but it’s sure starting to look serious. Missy’s a junior and Craig’s a senior; they’re old en
ough for it to get serious.

  Aren’t we all?

  Suddenly, in the middle of our hasher starting to take away our plates, the lights are flipped off, the hasher makes a discreet exit, and one of the girls brings in a bouquet with a lit candle sticking up out of the middle of it.

  Sighs and moans of excitement float through the room. At least twenty people turn to stare at me, their faces smiling. My stomach plunges down a few inches. I start to shake, my hands trembling and my knees knocking together a little. Until now, I thought knocking knees was a literary device. But, that literary observation aside, I feel sick. Sick at heart and sick soul-deep and horribly, physically sick.

  It’s not me.

  It’s not me.

  The thing is this: when a Beta Pi gets pinned or engaged, a candle bouquet makes its way around the Monday Night Dinner dining room, girl by girl. Each girl takes the bouquet, the candle illuminating her face for a moment before she passes it on. Or blows out the candle. The one who blows out the candle is the one, the girl getting pinned or engaged. If engaged, the ring is slipped over the candle so everyone can admire it. If pinned, the guys from the fraternity are waiting on the front lawn to serenade her in front of us, watching her get pinned by her guy in front of all of us. It’s the most romantic thing in the world. It’s like something out of Romeo and Juliet, if their families hadn’t been feuding and they hadn’t, you know, died.

  The candle passes from girl to girl, from one table to another, each girl’s face lit by that warm yellow glow. Some girls laugh and get rid of the bouquet as fast as they can, passing it on like a baton in a relay; others linger over the bouquet, teasing us, dragging it out before passing it on. You get a feeling for these candle ceremonies. You get to know which girl is ready to get pinned or engaged. You date a guy for long enough, the relationship calm enough and happy enough that it’s just the next logical step, then the candle ceremony feels nearly inevitable, like falling out of a tree. The yum-yum tree.

  I’m the logical choice. We’re so completely and perfectly the logical choice. Greg and I have been together for three years. He loves me and I love him. We’re stable. We’re happy. We’re graduating in a few months.

  And it’s not me.

  The bouquet is passed to our table, to Ellen first, who laughs and passes it on to Diane, who smiles at me, a smile that is a question, and then passes it on to Lee. Lee looks at the ring, makes a face that shows she’s impressed, and then she passes it to Missy. Missy, her blue eyes sparkling in the light of that single white candle, looks at Ellen and grins, looks at me and stops grinning, and then she blows out the candle.

  Missy. It’s Missy.

  There’s a stunned silence that lasts for a few seconds, a few eternal seconds when I can feel every wondering and confused eye on me, and then applause and shouts of joy for Missy and Craig. Craig, who met Missy six or seven months ago in a bar. Craig, who knows he wants to marry Missy. Craig, who bought the ring and is ready to set the date.

  “I thought it was going to be you,” Diane whispers to me.

  I smile, a wobbly smile that won’t hold its happy shape. My eyes are teary. I can’t talk.

  “You okay?” Laurie mouths to me silently.

  I nod and smile harder, forcing my features to make a happy face.

  “When are you guys getting married?” Ellen asks Missy, but I’m asking myself the same question. When are we getting married? I know the answer. I’ve known the answer for a long, long time. Maybe I’ve known for years.

  When are we getting married?

  We’re not.

  “We’re thinking June of next year,” Missy answers. “His parents and my parents are negotiating now.”

  Craig nailed her down, staked his claim, made it official, and is going to make it permanent.

  In that instant, I hate Greg.

  The ceremony over, the hasher gets back to business and brings out dessert: yellow cake with white frosting, kind of like a wedding cake.

  I can’t swallow a bite.

  * * *

  I still love you,” Greg says. “But I don’t want to marry you. Not now, anyway. Maybe later. After I get a job.”

  I start to cry. I can’t help it.

  “Shit. Do you have to do that?” Greg says. He looks around in grim embarrassment. We’re on University Avenue and it’s two o’clock and it’s Tuesday and we are not even close to being alone. A girl with chin-length brown hair and a red skirt rides by on her bike; she gives me a sympathetic look and then gives Greg an accusing one. I appreciate it.

  I sit down on the curb and bury my face in my arms.

  “I said I still love you,” he says.

  Big deal.

  I look up at him, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “I love you, too. I thought we were going to get married. You told me you wanted to marry me a month after we started dating. Didn’t you mean it?”

  “I did. I just don’t . . . I think we should wait.”

  “For what?” I wipe my nose again and then wipe my hand on the back of my pants.

  “I’m not ready. It just doesn’t feel right. You can feel it, too. I know you can.”

  If I can, I don’t want to admit it now. I haven’t wanted to admit it for months, maybe years. But I love him. I love Greg. Even now, as he’s breaking up with me, he still loves me. That has to count. That has to mean something.

  Why doesn’t it mean that we’re going to get married?

  “Come on,” he says, holding a hand out to me. I sniff and take it. He pulls me into his arms and I sob against his chest. “I’ll walk you back to the house.”

  * * *

  I’m not sure what to do now. I’ve had a boyfriend”—and a second on the side every now and then—“since I was twelve. I don’t like being without someone to love and without someone to love me; I feel amputated,” I say.

  “You’ll be fine. It’s only been a few days,” Ellen says. Laurie doesn’t say it. Diane doesn’t say it. Of course not. Ellen doesn’t know what it feels like to be cut into chunks. I hope she never does.

  “I guess,” I say, sitting on the floor of my room, shaking the dice for our backgammon game, the smell of popcorn strong in the air.

  “You just need a date,” Ellen says. “Want me to set you up?”

  “No!” Laurie says before I can open my mouth. I let the dice fall out of the cup. “No offense, Ellen, but that guy you set me up with was either on parole or on his way to do a bank job. What did you ever think we’d have in common?”

  Ellen winks at me. “I told him you were loaded. He sure liked you.”

  I move my backgammon pieces, not really thinking about the game. Ellen shakes, rolls, moves, and kills me. Game over.

  “Let me set you up with one of my guys,” Diane says. “At least they’ve passed a background check.”

  “Which one?” Ellen says before I can open my mouth. I keep shaking the dice in my cup, the sound hopeful somehow, as if things can still roll out okay, that you can win if you just keep shaking the dice.

  “Rob Thompson,” Diane says immediately.

  “Isn’t he the guy you set me up with last year?” Ellen says. “The one who ignored me all night at the Halloween party?”

  “He’s matured,” Diane says. “He’s a junior now.”

  “I’m too old for him,” I say.

  “Does he have a crush on her?” Laurie asks, scooting me over so she can take my place at the backgammon board, facing off against Ellen. Ellen is the queen of backgammon. She could hustle backgammon and live like royalty. I lift myself onto my bed, looking out the window at the side of the AG house. There’s nothing going on. I’m not used to having so much time on my hands. Without typing Greg’s papers and doing his dishes, the hours crawl by.

  “I don’t know,” Diane says.
“A date’s a date. He can crush on her later.”

  “Too young,” I say, still staring out the window, my shoulders resting against the wall.

  “Russ Bromley,” Diane says. “He’s such a doll. And he’s a senior, so you won’t be cradle robbing.”

  “I had a class with him last spring,” Laurie says. “He’s cute, Karen. You should go out with him.”

  “Why don’t you go out with him?” I say, looking at Laurie. It’s a rotten thing to say, and I regret it instantly.

  “If he asked, I would,” Laurie says quietly.

  “Well, he hasn’t asked me either, so we’re in the same leaky boat,” I say.

  “You could thumb wrestle for him,” Ellen says, moving the backgammon pieces into the starting position. “Best two out of three.”

  We all laugh and the mood in the room lightens.

  “It’s only been a couple of weeks,” I say. “I’m just not in the mood to date yet.”

  “Okay,” Diane says, “but after Christmas break for sure.”

  “Triple date?” I say. “Fix up Laurie, too, and then I’ll go. We’ll all go. Someplace ritzy. Like Sammy’s.”

  Laurie snorts.

  “Laurie?” Diane asks.

  “You’re sure about the background check, right? I don’t want to end up as the getaway driver in a jewelry heist,” Laurie says.

  Ellen throws a piece of popcorn at her. It hits Laurie on the forehead and then drops into the hole of her crossed legs.

  “Two points! And a rim shot, too,” Ellen says.

  “You don’t need any extra points,” Diane says. “You’re the only one of us with a steady guy. How’s it going with Mike?”

  “Okay,” Ellen says. “Grad school’s going fine.”

  “When’s he going to graduate?” Laurie says.

  “He’s not sure,” Ellen says. “It depends on if he can get the classes he needs or not.”

  I exchange a look with Diane, who’s sitting on the floor against the bed opposite mine. Mike Dunn was an undergrad for five years and now he’s in grad school. Just when is this guy going to get out and get a job? Of course, it’s one of Mike’s friends who is the bank job guy, so I’m not actually disposed to trust him. Ellen is. I still can’t figure that out. She didn’t even like the guy that much, and suddenly, mostly because he worked at it so hard, she’s in love with him and it’s serious. Or it looks and sounds serious. Looks can be deceiving, can’t they?