My Latest Grievance (12 page)

He blinked hard, one of his astonished, lesson-dispensing tics.
"Are you saying that Professor Lanoue's sexual orientation changes your feelings about her?"

"First of all, I don't know her. Secondly, I'm saying that you should clean up your office and not leave confidential information lying around for spies." I stood up, opened the top drawer of his unlocked file cabinet, and asked, "How do you want them? Alphabetical by complainant's last name?"

"I would," he said, "if I hadn't run out of room five years ago."

I didn't bother suggesting he excavate and prune his archives, because I knew the argument: Twenty years from now an alumna might need a recommendation for grad school, or an unsuccessful grievant might want to refile.

"Nice to see you, by the way," he said. "To what do I owe this honor?"

"Practice canceled."

"Due to...?"

"Drainage problems. The field is practically underwater."

"And of all the possible alternatives, you chose a visit to your old dad." His bright smile faded. "Your mother has office hours now, too. It might be nice to pay her a visit as well."

"Why?" I asked.

"You know," he said. "One child, two parents. We like everything fifty-fifty."

"Which can be very annoying to the child."

"Should I give her a ring and tell her to run down to say hello?"

I said, "I wasn't playing favorites. Your office is on two, and hers is on five."

"How about if she runs down here?"

I asked, "Am I not allowed to have a private audience with my father?"

"Frederica! How could you even ask—"

"Do you have some kind of deal, like, 'I want to be there when you and Frederica discuss Laura Lee'?"

"No, we do not. Nor is the topic of Laura Lee the least bit sensitive between your mother and me. Nor, I might add, has that name come up today."

It was a challenge I answered with, "Mrs. Woodbury met Laura Lee this morning and became totally fascinated."

"On what basis?"

Before I could answer, he asked, worried, "Not because you mentioned our ... family connection?"

"The cousin part? Or the first-wife part?"

He leaned forward to say, "Please don't think I'm encouraging you to lie. It's just that having an ex-wife living virtually next door to Aviva and me leaves the impression that I'm something of a ... Romeo."

I said, "Honestly, Dad, I wouldn't worry about Mrs. Woodbury taking you for a Romeo."

He thought this over before asking, "Then what's the reason for this alleged total fascination?"

"Simple," I said. "She passed Laura Lee on campus and thought she was weird because she had her nose in a book. I explained who she was, and that she'd been a dancer. Mrs. Woodbury has no ankles, so she views women with nice legs as a threat."

"How do you know that?"

"Marietta told me."

"How odd," he murmured.

"Odd because you disagree about Laura Lee's legs?"

Years of standing before roomfuls of girls had trained him not to blush at anything vaguely sexual, but I knew the signs of discomfort. He bought a few seconds' delay by coughing into his fist before saying too merrily, "I should probably mention that Laura Lee stopped by to tell me about her roadside encounter with Mrs. Woodbury, whom she felt was patronizing and rude because she drove off without a good-bye or a 'Nice to meet you.'"

"What did Laura Lee want you to do about it?"

"I think she was looking for a little perspective, along the lines of 'Don't take it personally. She's rude to everyone.'"

"But she's
not
rude to everyone."

"Of course not. I said the Woodburys were meeting and processing new names daily, so it was too early to characterize any behavior as typical."

"Wait'll Laura Lee hears that Mrs. Woodbury worries about other women's legs," I said.

"And how would she hear such a thing? Not from her best bosom buddy at Dewing, I hope."

I said, "Certainly not. But I wouldn't be surprised if Marietta squealed over dinner some night."

"So you're saying she'd betray a private conversation in order to undermine her mother?"

"Maybe she thinks the leg thing is stupid. Maybe she wants her mother to grow up."

He liked that. It prompted him to state in his most earnest and pedantic style, "It's hard to believe that a mature woman who seems otherwise so self-possessed, married to a college president, could be jealous of a total stranger's legs, even exemplary ones. If Marietta isn't exaggerating, I'd find her mother's reaction perplexing and deeply disappointing."

I leaned forward in my chair and said, "You don't find it a
little
fascinating?"

"For what reason?"

I had nothing to cite except my fondness for potential campus scandal. "Woodburygate?" I answered.

David was trying to project paternal gravitas, but I knew he was muffling union-related glee, composing a mental note for the folder labeled
AMMUNITION.

I added, "Marietta doesn't think her father fools around. He just appreciates attractive women."

My father tried to look pained by his fellow man's foibles, but I was not convinced. I knew he'd be watching Dr. Woodbury for any extra attention devoted to dues-paying female faculty. And that the minute I left, he'd be calling upstairs.

H
AVING PENCILED "ROCKETTE
" onto Laura Lee's résumé and single-handedly aroused Mrs. Woodbury's curiosity, I felt obliged to mention my career claim to Laura Lee.

"Haven't you learned yet that I think on my feet?" she asked. "I'm surprised you'd worry about me ever missing an easy lob like that one." She was sitting in a wicker lounge chair on the veranda of Tibbets Hall, a yellow highlighter poised over her secondhand copy of
Crime and Punishment.

"The word just flew out of my mouth," I said.

"Do you know why?" she asked.

"The Rockette shoes. You once told me they were your proudest possession."

"No. I meant the impulse. You were trying to counteract Mrs. Woodbury's failure to recognize my existence, and you—loyal and very democratic person that you are—wanted to present me as an intriguing person."

I said, "I think she already found you intriguing."

"Based on...?"

"The fact that you can read and walk at the same time without looking up from your book."

Laura Lee said mildly, "I've known Grace Woodburys all my life, and that is not a set of skills she and her type find intriguing. My guess is that you introduced the notion of me as a dancer because she was saying something dismissive."

She leaned back against the faded striped canvas cushion—brown and pink, Dewing colors—and marked her place with a Juicy Fruit wrapper. "The Rockette thing is not so far-fetched, you know. I auditioned, and I got a callback. And the only reason I didn't make it was a technicality. I added a half inch to my height on the application because I knew the requirements, and I'd prepared myself by stretching—I mean seriously, with equipment, hanging from a chin bar with weights around my ankles. But as soon as I was measured, I was out."

"Where'd you get the shoes?" I asked.

She smiled. "You know where those shoes came from? The actual green room at Radio City Music Hall! They were lying next to a wastebasket, as if someone was throwing them out but missed the toss. They were only a half size too big, and because I was a little peeved, I helped myself" She raised one leg; I sensed she was pointing her toes inside her frayed espadrilles, recalling the feel of her secondhand Capezios.

"Do you still have them?" I asked.

"Of course! And, ironically, my feet have expanded, so they're a perfect fit."

"Can I see them?"

"They're unremarkable," said Laura Lee. "They were clearly shoes used in practice rather than performance. Black leather, medium heel, strap across the instep. You've seen a hundred pairs just like them."

I asked, "Where would I have seen a hundred pairs of tap shoes?"

She looked past me and stared unhappily at the late-October scene ahead: grass going brown, dwarf trees and shrubs denuding, men raking leaves as fast as they fell. "You've never taken tap or ballet?" she asked. "Never been around women who dance for a living?"

I said, "I took piano lessons instead. My parents didn't believe in ballet lessons."

"Because...?"

"Because every other girl in kindergarten took ballet, and where did it ever lead? Nowhere. They get to high school and start playing lacrosse and field hockey."

"And your parents see no relationship between the stage and the playing field?"

I said, "They considered dance lessons to be a waste of money. They never bought the poise-and-posture argument."

Unfortunately, those two words inspired Laura Lee to rise from her chair in an exaggeratedly fluid and upright motion. She pulled me to my feet and began ministering to my shoulders and spine, bending my elbows into what she labeled the first position port de bras. "Not bad," she said, taking an appraising step back. "Although it's ridiculously late to start."

Girls were coming and going through the front door of Tibbets. To each I sent a look that said, Not my idea, not trying to be a ballerina.

"Now feet," she directed, kicking off her espadrilles, joining her heels impossibly to form a straight line, five coral-tipped toes facing east and five facing west.

"No can do," I said.

"Fifth position," she said, maintaining it, her arms rising to form an arc around her head. "Completing fifth position," she narrated.

I said, "Let's go back to the
seated
position. I'll pull up a chair."

Laura Lee dropped her arms abruptly. "You know what I've noticed about you? You're confident in a verbal sense, even a smart aleck. But when it comes to anything physical, you hold back. For example, you like to shrink down to nothing in the library, shushing me and worrying what the librarians will say. And that thing you do in the dining hall, making room for the most boring little mouse that wanders toward you looking lost. I used to think it was timidity, but now I think it's just the opposite: You bear the burden of constantly being on display. You think you have to be perfect, like someone who's running for office."

As ever, no response to this soliloquy was called for. I didn't bring up my physical exploits: soccer, basketball, and two weeks at sailing camp in Maine. I yawned, then patted my mouth to project
theatrical boredom before guiding the conversation back to her. "Were you ever a professional ballerina?" I asked.

She had returned to her seat and was sulking. "If you mean, did I ever bring home a paycheck as a ballerina, I'd have to say no. But I've been onstage since I was four, and I've danced nearly every romantic ballet ever choreographed. Mostly in the corps, but I was Clara for my entire adolescence."

"Clara?"

She closed her eyes. "Please tell me your parents took you to see
The Nutcracker
once in your culturally deprived life."

I said, "I've seen it a million times on PBS. I didn't know you meant
that
Clara."

"I'm taking you this Christmas. I don't care how old you are, or who's in it. I'm getting us tickets as soon as they go on sale."

"Thank you," I said.

She opened
Crime and Punishment.
I could tell by the twitching around her mouth that she wasn't done with me.

"How's your book?" I asked.

"It's not required. I'm sure no one else in the class is tackling anything under 'Recommended Reading.'"

"I'll tell Aviva. Everyone wonders why she wants them to read a novel for a sociology course."

She didn't answer, except to scowl at what I took to be disappointment with the mean IQ of her Dewing classmates.

"I guess I'll go start my homework, too," I said.

Laura Lee inserted the gum wrapper and closed her book again. "Just so you know: I'm not going out of my way to retract your Rockette claim. Besides, it's the way memory works: As you look back, jobs expand and contract. You try out for one show and get hired for another. You dance your heart out, ruin your feet, and pretty soon twenty years pass and auditions blend with rehearsals..."

"Fine," I said. "As long as you don't lie on your résumé. An instructor was fired for that last year."

She repeated my sentence in a prissy voice. "Where do these worries come from? A footnote in the ethics handbook of the Dewing Society of Professors?"

I said, "People get fired for making up jobs they never held. They think no one will double-check."

"The word 'Rockette' does not appear on my curriculum vitae. Never has, never will. Okay? Does that make you feel better?"

I said yes, it did.

"Don't think I'm not touched by your concern, Frederica. But you can relax. Mrs. Woodbury has already forgotten the Rockettes. Next time we meet, she'll look right through me."

"Betcha not," I said.

Laura Lee's feet slid off the padded footstool, an invitation to sit.

How could I resist relaying tidbits that would give a fellow dorm dweller a boost? I asked if she'd ever formed an impression of our president, or ever noticed his wife's legs.

"Rosalynn Carter's?" she asked. "Or Grace Woodbury's?"

"Woodbury's."

"Go on," she said.

I hesitated. It was hearsay about the roving eyes of Marietta's father, and I hadn't even gotten a good look at the much-maligned legs.

"We don't leave this porch until I get the dirt," she said.

As of that afternoon, Mrs. Eric Woodbury may just as well have had a bull's-eye silk-screened on the back of her beaver brown cashmere coat. Laura Lee realized—perhaps I'd unwittingly set the example—that Dewing College, like all small schools, was a stage, and that she needed a larger role than the one for which she had originally been cast. The irritant that spawned her grudge was nothing more than Grace Woodbury's rubbing her the wrong way. And the minor coincidence that took the grudge public was the debut appearance of President Woodbury at Curran Hall the very day his wife had left Laura Lee in a wisp of Cadillac exhaust.