The Body in the Ivy (20 page)

“And how many times have we had to deal with this sort of thing?” Mrs. M. smiled indulgently. “Little cats!”

“I don't know what part Prin played in it, whether she was poaching or not, but she didn't say no to him when he asked her out. Emily says Prin told her that she thought Gwen had broken up with the young man.”

“Hmmm. Go on.”

“Under the circumstances, I thought we could bend the rules a little and let someone take Gwen's place. I didn't want to find Prin with a knife in her back,” she said, chuckling.

“No, noo.” Mrs. MacIntyre laughed back. “That wouldn't do at all. In your place I would have acted the same, and have.”

“The problem was that I couldn't find anyone who wanted to switch.”

“Now, that's odd. Most girls would jump at the chance to live in the penthouse, especially junior year.”

“Exactly. Now picture the scene, everyone has been bustling about moving in all day, Gwen's things are still where they've been, and at dinner, I announce a meeting in here for all juniors at seven-thirty.”

“They must have been puzzled.”

“No, they weren't. At least not from the looks on their faces. They all seemed to know exactly what was up.”

“Then what happened?” This was better than the soaps, Mrs. MacIntyre thought.

“They trooped in, settled themselves, and I said I was looking for someone to trade places with Gwen. She stood just there, by the door, as far from Prin as she could get.”

“And how was Prin taking it?”

“She came in with her friends, talking and laughing, as usual. I started by asking the girls I knew were friends of the three: Bobbi Dolan, Lucy Stratton, and Chris Barker. Rachel Gold would have been in the group, too, but—”

“Yes, terrible. And in any case, she would be in a single. More comfortable for everyone all around.”

Mrs. Archer nodded vigorously. “I didn't get any takers. In fact, Lucy said she'd move into the utility closet on her floor before she'd move into the penthouse.”

“They get so up in arms over the silliest things. Probably upset with one of Maggie's votes or something she wrote in the paper.”

“I had to let everyone go. I couldn't force the issue when Gwen was clearly in the wrong. She had signed
the housing contract. I told her so. She stayed behind, telling me she'd be sleeping on one of the couches in the living room until I could find a place for her. Well, that got my dander up.”

“I don't blame you one bit! Who did she think she was?”

“Gwen Mansfield, that's who. I got an earful from her mother about ten minutes later. A Pelham alum, and daughter of an alum, who between them had given enough money to the college to build several dorms, and she'd be building a new one for her daughter to sleep in if I didn't do something soon, a fact she would be telling the president unless she heard back in an hour.”

“Nice of her to give you that long,” Mrs. M said sarcastically, yet the name was familiar, and one of the first things a housemother learned was to keep the alums happy, their pocketbooks open.

“I don't mind telling you I was in a quandary. There isn't an inch of space in the dorm and I was going to have to call around to see if anyone else could take her in.”

The two women exchanged knowing looks. Best handle situations among themselves and not involve the housing office. Least said…

“Then comes a knock at the door and it's Elaine Prince, Prin's twin sister, although they look no more alike than, well, I do to Audrey Hepburn.” The two women had seen
My Fair Lady
twice together at a movie theater in Framingham. “‘I'll switch,' she says, and I ask her if she's sure and she says she is and I call Mrs. Mansfield to tell her the problem has been
successfully resolved, she says she hopes so, and I was so tired I went to bed before Carson.”

“But this isn't what's upsetting you,” Mrs. MacIntyre said. “I know you, Dolly, plus this is the kind of thing that comes up from time to time.”

“You're right, as usual. No, it wasn't the room change; it's a feeling I get when I'm with the juniors. They're unhappy, on edge. Not the way our girls are normally—papers, exams, boyfriends, pimples on a date night. Something's going on and I intend to find out what before something worse than this happens.”

Mrs. MacIntyre raised her glass. “To your undoubted success!”

“Thank you, Mildred. Have another.”

 

One of the great annoyances of dorm life was a fire drill. Roused from sleep and loath to leave their warm beds, especially during the colder months, which in New England meant most of both semesters, the students hated these intrusions. Crandall's fire marshal was senior Liz Applegate, extremely diligent or extremely sadistic, depending on whether you were her friend or not. Most of the juniors fell into the “nonfriend” camp.

“This is the third one this month! We have got to make Mrs. A. keep her in line,” grumbled Maggie as she slipped her Weejuns on her bare feet and reached for her duffel coat.

“Don't forget a valuable,” Elaine called from the stairwell.

“Damn! Here, my psych notebook, that's priceless.”

“You know she'll just make you go back and we'll have to stand there shivering while you get a real one.”

Producing a valuable—jewelry, a treasured photo, your purse—was supposed to indicate clearheadedness and was required along with the coat, shoes, and a towel. Maggie grabbed the Italian leather jewelry box Prin had given her for Christmas, which contained her circle pin and a few other modest items. Phoebe threw her a towel and they left together.

“We'd be dead by now, you know, a fat lot of good our valuables and a dry towel to protect us from the smoke would do. If there really ever is a fire I intend to get the hell out as fast as I can from way up here.” Maggie was still slightly astonished to find herself in the penthouse when she had a lifelong dislike of heights. “I'll take the demerits.”

“But how will you know if it is a real fire or not?” Phoebe asked sensibly. “This could be one now. We won't be sure until we're outside.”

“I'll know, trust me.” Maggie yawned. She had pulled another all-nighter last night with the help of Dr. Prin, as she referred to herself, and hadn't had time to get some sleep until an hour ago. There had been a class officers' luncheon meeting, a faculty meeting to cover, then house council after dinner, plus reading for tomorrow's classes.

“Oh dear,” Phoebe said. “We didn't talk to Elaine about who was going to answer when Prin's name was called. Come on, we'd better hurry up. It was a near miss last time when you and I both started to speak at once. I think Elaine should always do it. Their voices
do
sound alike.”

Maggie hastened after Phoebe, who was flying down the stairs. The elevators were verboten during fire drills
and in any case the penthouse inhabitants generally used the stairs for their comings and goings, for privacy as much as exercise. The outside door was almost always left unlocked. All that was necessary was some tape on the spring latch to make it appear closed when campus patrol made its rounds.

It was a starry night, but the moon was hiding behind the clouds as if it knew too much light might give Prin away. It was hard to tell one girl from another in the dark as they stood under the old copper beech designated as the gathering place for Crandall. Despite Liz's demands for silence, the students were chattering away. One voice, louder than the others, was reciting a litany of complaints starting with the drill and continuing to her parents' refusal to allow her boyfriend to share her room when he came to visit her at home over break. “They are so square! Can you believe it? I mean they must know about sex—they do have three children!” This produced a laugh. “Anyway, they should count themselves lucky that I'm coming at all.”

Maggie stuck close to Phoebe, and they managed to find Elaine. When Prin's name was called just after hers, Elaine moved a few feet to the left and answered, “Present,” in her sister's usual fashion, instead of “Here,” and Liz put a check next to Prin's name. Elaine had no idea where Prin was. She had made it clear years ago that twin or no twin, her sister wasn't to question her about her whereabouts—or anything else for that matter. Ever.

Gwen Mansfield heard Elaine answer for Prin. Liz, and Mrs. A., might be fooled, but she wasn't. There was a very subtle difference in the two voices. It had to
do with tone more than pitch. There would be some momentary satisfaction in exposing the sisters right now, but Gwen was saving her ammunition for something bigger, something that would penetrate Prin's armor and go straight into her heart—if one existed. Despite the cold, Gwen's face was burning. Prin was probably with Andrew. Andrew.
Her
Andrew. They had been perfect together, both ambitious, competitive, smart, good-looking. There had been strong mutual admiration—and equally strong mutual attraction. The sex had been terrific, marathons with neither willing to stop, their hunger for each other never totally satisfied. Always an appetite for the next time.

If she'd known Prin was going to be one of the group on the Vineyard, Gwen would have gone with Andrew. Sailing had never been her thing—and then there was the thought of their reunion, one made spicier by the nature of their parting with the smallest hint of a quarrel, a tease. Her intent had been to shake up his obvious complacency a little. And it had all gone wrong. Very wrong. It wasn't Andrew's fault, though. He was a man, after all. It was Prin's. Gwen had seen her in the city only days earlier, told her about how much she loved Andrew, talked about their plans to attend the same business school before their inevitable walk down the aisle, joked about their GRE study sessions that always ended in bed. No, it wasn't Andrew; it was Prin. All Prin. Looking up into the tree, its limbs devoid of leaves, snaking out over the heads of the girls below, Gwen realized she was enjoying the wait, actually getting off at times when she thought about what she might do to Miss Hélène Prince. Would do.

So Prin was illegally off campus—again—Bobbi Dolan said to herself. She was standing next to Elaine and watched her move over to answer for her sister. She itched to turn both sisters in; Prin would be campused for the rest of the semester, and depending on where she was and when she turned up, she could even be expelled. For a moment, Bobbi allowed herself to think about how wonderful that would be. No more newspaper clippings about women arrested for shop-lifting under her door or in her mailbox. Or, what was worse, Xeroxed copies of her statement enclosed in greeting cards and sent through the mail. It had gotten to the point where she put off going to her mailbox, afraid of what she would find. It had been freshman year! They were juniors now. Why couldn't Prin let it go? But she'll never let it go. Bobbi came down to earth with a resounding thud as if she had fallen from someplace very high. She had realized early on that Prin despised her, not for what she had done, but for who she was, someone who didn't belong. Bobbi at Pelham was an affront. Maybe Prin thought Bobbi would crack and leave. Maybe she just got her kicks from having something on someone. Whatever it was, it was sick. Over the years, Bobbi had thought about going to their class dean and telling her everything. She'd be forced to leave, but so would Prin. Except Bobbi couldn't. Her parents would be more than disappointed; they would hate her. She existed as a “Pelham girl” for them. All last summer, they had introduced her at club gatherings—the new club, the one they hadn't been able to get into before—as “our Pelham daughter.” Not “Bobbi” or even “Roberta.” She
didn't exist anymore. They couldn't utter a single sentence without including Pelham. “Did you know that Bobbi's at Pelham? Oh, you too? Which class? Gracious, you certainly don't look it! Must be something about Pelham!” Ha, ha.

It was freezing. How long was Liz going to make them stay out here? Bobbi couldn't wait to get back into Crandall—and couldn't wait to get out, for good.

Some dorms did a head count. Happily, that had not occurred to Liz, more intent apparently on just dragging them all from their beds as often as she dared. She blew her whistle, the signal for everyone to file back inside holding up their towels and valuables as they passed by her, clipboard in hand, their names now neatly checked off. The clouds drifted away from the moon, and moonstruck, the girls rushed the door, laughing in the bright light and waving at Liz, ignoring her frantic cries to slow down, a sea of rebellion.

Lucy Stratton watched. The world outside Pelham's ornamental iron gates was exploding in real dissent. Vietnam, free speech, civil rights. And racing past the fire marshal without showing her your towel and valuable was the extent of it here. She had lied to her mother and gone to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago after working for Gene McCarthy in the spring. Another Pelham student, Sarah Sterling, had been working for him, too, and lived just outside the city in Highland Park. Lucy told her mother she was going to visit Sarah. A Pelham girl. Mother didn't object. “I wonder if she's related to the Boston Sterlings?” They had been teargassed and narrowly escaped arrest. It had been wonderful. She had never felt
so alive, even as she thought of the recent dead—MLK, RFK. Next semester she would be in Spain. Her mother had held out for Paris or London, but in the end, Lucy had simply filed her application and, when accepted, announced she was going. She had money from her grandparents in a trust to which she had access, and she'd use that. “At least it's Europe,” her mother had said, and told her to leave the money where it was earning nice dividends. Lucy didn't argue. She was owed.

She smiled as she thought of all the things she was doing that would upset her mother, not the least of which was her new boyfriend, Isaac, from Brandeis. A Jew! A red diaper baby! Reader of
The Daily Worker
! And Lucy had picked
him
up on the T one evening coming back from Boston's South End, where she tutored at a settlement house twice a week. Yes, she had asked him for his telephone number. So much for Emily Post—and so much for Mrs. William Stratton.