Higher Education (16 page)

“Sixth, but who's counting.” Walt's diction is somewhat blurred by the pâté sticking to the roof of his mouth, which he struggles to dislodge with his tongue. Finally he swallows, and whispers, “I saw you looking.”

“What?” I feel myself starting to blush. “Yes, well, who wouldn't gawk at a life-size ice sculpture of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

“Yes, isn't it fabulous?” Walt nods and plunges a Wheat Thin into a bowl of taco dip. “But why Napoleon for a pajama party?”

“Notorious insomniac.”

“Oh, really? That's interesting.”

“I thought everybody knew that.” It seems as plausible an explanation as any, I congratulate myself, taking another sip of my drink.

“Well, you learn something new every day.”

“That's Harvard for you.” Although Robbie's leaning forward again, inspecting the grapes, I'm diverted by the sight of Walt chewing away on his Wheat Thin. He grins at me, displaying flawlessly white, even teeth.

“'S good,” he says. “I call it Wheat Thin Olé. Can I make you one?”

“No thanks.”

“How about a Sweet ‘n' Sour Triscuit?”

“I'll pass.”

“You're missing out, Miranda.”

“Don't remind me.”

“Golly, what a spread here.” Beaming, Walt surveys the vast white-draped table. “Let me tell you something, Miranda.” He bends conspiratorially close. “There
is
a free lunch.”

“Don't you mean to say free buffet?”

“Will you look at all this food? What a great party.”

I swirl the ice around in my greyhound. “Yep.”

“I've eaten at least sixty-three dollars' worth so far,” he boasts. “With luck I should break a hundred tonight.”

“Is that retail or wholesale prices?”

He pauses in the act of spearing a meatball. “Oh, gee.”

“Have you accounted for staff wages? Transportation costs? Breakage? Trash pickup?”

“Hmm.” Walt chews with slow small bites. Then, as he's swallowing, his brow clears and he reaches for another meatball. “Oh, what the heck. It's a party, isn't it? I'll just eat till I'm completely gorged and ready to puke.”

“That's using your noggin.”

“That way I can be sure.”

“Better safe than sorry, I always say.”

“That's what I say too.”

“Great minds think alike.”

A tall, severe-looking girl passes by us holding a bottle of Moët. Squinting, I notice that there's a toothbrush dangling from the back of her coiffure.

“Heck. Why the heck not. It's a party, right?” Walt flips a meatball into the air and catches it in his mouth.

“Two points,” I say. “Now wipe your hands and let's dance.”

“Dance?” His eyes widen in alarm. “What do you mean?”

“Like dance. Boogie, cut the rug, trip the light fantastic, shake a tail feather. Let's go.”

“Sounds like fowl play to me.” He snickers but his face remains set in an expression of obstinate dread.

“Very funny.” I take hold of his arm. “Come on, your dance card's not filled yet, is it?”

“But seriously, Miranda.” He doesn't budge. “I've got work to do in here.”

“Please,” I wheedle. “Just one dance.”

“That's what they all say. One dance, and the next thing you know, wham! Heroin addiction.”

Sighing, I release his arm. “You're so dedicated.”

“You bet. Have some fondue?”

“I'd rather die.” I finish my drink and set the glass on the table next to a plastic tableau of little white sheep jumping over a fence. “
Ciao
. And good luck.”

“You too,” he says, already engrossed in twirling bread cubes.

They're playing Bowie's “Fashion” in the ballroom, and as I head for the high arched doorway I run into Dean and Jennifer emerging from the coat check. “Well, hi!” I waggle my fingers at them. “Some party, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, looking embarrassed. He's wearing baggy flannel pajamas and a long droopy red nightcap. I look over at Jennifer, who floats alongside him in a ruffled flannel nightgown sprigged with wee curlicued violets. Her hair is rolled up in big pink curlers and her face is smeared with what appears to be cold cream.

“My,” I say, “aren't you just the cutest couple.”

Jennifer tucks her arm through Dean's. “We like to think so,” she coos.

“Maybe you two'll win the prize for best costumes,” I coo back, and as I pass by them I wink coarsely at Dan. “Nice slippers.”

He looks even more discomfited, if such a thing is possible, and as I pass under the arch I glance over my shoulder, long enough to see him shake off her arm. Humming along with the music, I enter the ballroom.

The vast domed ceiling is draped in mosquito netting and the walls have been completely covered with dark-red bedsheets. As I look around it seems to me that the cumulative effect is less that of a cozy boudoir than of an overblown parody of a padded cell. Turning my attention to the dance floor I note that it's the usual riot of PJs and nightgowns, along with a goodly sprinkling of nightshirts, kimonos, and long underwear, as well as the occasional housecoat. A number of girls have opted for the ever-popular French-chambermaid couture and are decked out in corsets, garter belts, fishnet stockings, spike heels, and a few well-placed feathers. The most daring males, of course, sport only boxer shorts. So far, though, I haven't spotted a single outfit in here that can hold a candle to Robbie's diaphanous little ensemble. Yawning, I'm considering decamping to the bar and then popping into the screening room to see if
Pillow Talk
has started yet, and am in the middle of a tremendous second yawn when somebody bumps into me, elbowing me in the ribs and almost causing my jaws to lock in surprise.

“Jesus Christ.” The Spee's Vice President hurries past, his thinning blond hair flapping loose over his forehead. He wears a red pillowcase that's been ripped open and pinned shut in more or less the appropriate places. “Why don't you watch where you're going?”

Scowling and feeling my lumbar region for kidney damage, I lower myself into a loveseat covered with what seems to be a bearskin. But even as I'm examining the fur, I suddenly catch sight of Tim threading his way toward me through the crowds on the dance floor. I ricochet to my feet and begin a headlong retreat to the kitchen, where I know there are two cavernous pantries and a fire escape. But before I've taken more than a few steps, I'm halted by an arm clasping my waist.
Oh shit
. Bristling, I turn to face my captor.

“Miranda,” Gerard shouts into my ear. “Hi.”

“Thank god,” I shout back over the music. “Let's dance.”

We plunge into the throng, everyone convulsing to “Turning Japanese,” and I samba us toward what I hope is an inconspicuous corner. We end up next to the makeshift stage, an immense wooden platform that's flanked by a pair of gargantuan sleep masks, at least six feet long, that hang from the ceiling by oversized velvet cords.

Thus concealed, I'm doing a subdued little equine two-step and am kept busy trying to indicate to Gerard that we're finished with the samba routine and he can take his hands off my hips. He's flailing zestily about, his bathrobe flying open in an exuberant display of boxer shorts and thin hairy legs. Finally I peel his fingers off me and start swinging my hands defensively in time to the beat.

“Come on,” he shouts. “Get down.”

I ignore him and keep a wary eye on the mob. My sedate finger-snapping shuffle is getting hard to maintain. Richard Amidei. Where's Richard?

“Oh baby.” Gerard does a spin and almost bangs his head into one of the giant sleep masks. Grinning, he advances toward me, wriggling his hips like a crazed incarnation of Elvis Presley
en déshabillé
.

“Calm down,” I shriek, threatening him with a clenched fist which I shake at his nose.

He drops to the floor and clutches at my ankles, helpless with laughter. “Kick me, beat me,” he chokes.

I roll my eyes at the mosquito netting. My gaze descends onto what I think is Jessica in the middle of the dance floor doing one of her favorite routines from “Solid Gold.” Isn't that her rainbow sock I see swinging high in a vivacious squat-kick?

“Come on, kick me hard.”

“Oh, shut up.” I scowl at him, noticing with dismay that his boxer shorts have little red hearts all over them.

“Please. Don't spare me.”

“Miriam.” In a rush of black leather and cigarette smoke, Richard kisses me without pausing in his pointy-shoed strut toward the stage, a guitar slung over his shoulder.

“Richard.” I grab for him, trying to disentangle my feet from Gerard's hysterical embrace. “Wait a minute.”

Richard squeezes my hand, crushingly hard, and keeps moving. “Later, babydoll.” His eyes shine like onyx, dominating his face with their lush fringe of black lashes. “After the show.” Then he's disappeared behind the stage, his musicians in impenetrable tow behind him.

Gerard's fingers are creeping up my leg. “Get off,” I scream at him, frantically scanning the crowd in search of Jessica. Batting Gerard away, I'm almost sure I've located her underneath the strobe light, dancing with somebody in fireman-red long johns, and I'm about to dive toward her when a giant teddy bear steps in front of me, blocking both my view and passage. “Jessie,” I wail, and the teddy bear twists around to look at me. Cornered, I shrink back against the wall, nearly squashing Gerard who's now crouching on top of a stack of bedspreads.

“Do it again,” he urges me, slyly.

“Hi, Miranda,” the bear says, his round glassy eyes boring into me. Monstrously, his muzzle doesn't move as he speaks. “How's it going?”

Aghast, I sidestep Gerard and plant myself more staunchly against the wall.

“It's me,” says the teddy bear. “Don't you remember?”

“Me who?” Gerard inquires helpfully, as I remain mute.

“Loomis. Rolf Loomis. Winthrop '82.” He extends a scabrous-looking paw.

“Get away from me,” I snarl. “I don't shake hands with stuffed animals.”

“But Miranda.” His furry shoulders sag. “Don't you remember me?”

“Aw, now you've gone and hurt his feelings.” Gerard pinches my calf in reproof.

“Ouch. Cut it out, Gerard.” Glowering, I twitch my leg at him.

The bear takes a timid step forward. “We lived in the same dorm freshman year. Remember?”

“To the best of my knowledge,” I say coldly, “there were no bears admitted to the class of '82. Now get away from me.”

“But I was three doors down from you.”

Clapping a hand to my forehead, I roll my eyes up to the mosquito netting again. “Why am I standing here talking to a stuffed bear?”

“Why are you talking to the ceiling?” says Gerard.

“Don't you remember? We went to dinner together once,” the bear, Loomis, persists, taking another step toward me.

“Don't come any closer.” By now I've drawn myself up to my full height. “I've got an elephant gun on me, and I won't hesitate to use it.”

“Adams House bitch,” the bear growls, then turns on his moth-eaten heel and lumbers off in a huff.

“You old grouch,” I call after him. “Go hibernate for a few years, why doncha.”

The music stops, and I crouch down next to Gerard on the bedspreads, shaking my head. “A talking bear, for god's sake,” I whisper. “What next?”

“Hello out there,” a voice booms over the sound system. “Is this on?” A hideously amplified thumping and crackling ensues as the Spee Vice President taps the mike. “We-e-e-ell, I guess so.” He chuckles, and I notice some people holding their hands over their ears. “Good evening, everybody, and welcome to our annual pajama party. I'm Allan Richards, and you're not.” He grins and smooths his pillowcase over his hips.

“There's your answer,” Gerard whispers back. “Can I borrow your elephant gun?”

“A funny thing happened on the way to the Spee,” Allan Richards is saying. “A guy walks up to me on Mass Ave and wants to know if I'm the Ty-D-bol Man. So you know what I said to him?” Even at this distance I can see that Allan spits when he talks. “I said, ‘The Ty-D-bol Man? Are you crazy? Do I
look
like Mr. Whipple?'”

Throwing his arms wide, Allan mugs at the audience, but the response is lukewarm. There are even a few catcalls. “We-e-e-ell, okay then. We'll try something a little more sophisticated this time, okay guys?” Allan flips his lank blond hair off his forehead. “Okay. How many surrealists does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

An awkward pause follows. Eventually somebody calls out: “Ninety-three?”

Coyly Allan shakes his head. “Come on, guys, we all go to Harvard. Strain your brains a little.”

There's another dispirited silence, finally broken when somebody else speaks up. “Ninety-three.”

And then rapidly, with gathering force:

“Thirty-nine.”

“Proust.”

“Rock lobster.”

“Any way he wants to.”

“Because he was dead.”

“Silly rabbi, trids are for kicks.”

“Oh, about ten inches.”

“Where's the bathroom?”

“Does anybody have the notes from yesterday's Ec 10?”

“I lost my keys somewhere.”

“Anybody want to buy some pot?”

“I thought this was the Advocate.”

“Mommy.”

“Ninety-three.”

“Hey, Allan, your slip is showing.”

“All right already,” Allan barks into the microphone, causing several people to sway backward against the noise. Arms akimbo, he surveys us for a few moments, and sulkily brings his mouth up to the mike again. “Okay, here's the band.” He starts to move away, and someone waves a pink camisole in the air.

“Wait,” a male voice calls out. “What's the answer?”