Spring Fire (17 page)

She thought she had been asleep for hours, but it was only twenty minutes to twelve. Leda must be in trouble. The dream put a ragged edge on her anxiety. The bed was a sight, rumpled and torn apart as though it had been ravaged. Mitch straightened the sheets and fluffed the pillow. In the corner of the room by the bureau her clothes lay where Leda had taken them off, kicked to the side. Mitch picked them up and brushed them off.
Les-bi-an, Les-bi-an, tick-bi-an…
Mitch thought, I can get a job. Leda and I can run away and I can work someplace. If they put us out of the sorority I won't go home. Leda won't either, because of Jan. Colorado is nice, or California. She had a vivid picture of the open convertible speeding through purple and rust landscapes and along white desert with the cactus along the roadside. She added glorious black nights and ten thousand brilliant stars, and a warm wind whipping at their faces. It was no good. She hated the picture. Why? A slow self-disgust chewed at her and called her coward, but she was still afraid. She promised herself to be strong when Leda came back, no matter. Whatever Leda said, Mitch would not reveal her fear. Leda loved her and this was the price. Be strong for two. The words on the storybook she'd had as a child came dancing on the screen of her mind: "Now We Are Two."

Part of it was the way Leda had gasped and twisted. It seemed far away and morbid, as though there was an insane spark to their love that made them fierce and careless. Sitting on the side of her bed, under the harsh light of the electric bulb overhead, Mitch could not know herself in that scene. She reasoned that she was not violent Never violent. Yet there was still the faint taste of blood on her tongue, and the way she knew she had been strong there with Leda.

Don't blame Leda. You're trying to blame Leda.

There was a sound of steps in the hall. Mitch caught her breath when they came to the door. It was Leda returning.

"What are you doing with the light on?"

"I had to find out the time."

"I told you not to leave it on. I told you to go to bed"

"I just turned it on. I was afraid."

"Well, it's over, so go to bed"

"Over?"

"Yes. It's all right"

"Wh-what did you say? How did you explain it?"

Leda's face was composed and placid. She took her soap from the tray on the rack behind the door. Her washcloth hung over the bar above the shoe bag and she put that with the soap. "I'm going to wash my face. I'll tell you when I get back. Look, it's over. There's nothing to worry about"

Mitch just sat there staring.

"Get in bed. I’ll be back."

"I'll come too," Mitch said. "I didn't wash yet. Wait for me and I'll come too." She started toward the bureau.

"No!" Leda's tone came out sharper than she had meant it She could not look at Mitch's face, which was alive with a new hope. Her words went to the rug. "No, it's better if you stay in bed. I told them you didn't feel well. You see, that's how I explained it I said you were sick."

"Oh," Mitch said. "I
—" She sat back on the bed and rubbed her forehead.

Leda walked toward the door. “Look, just get in bed. I'll be back in a minute. I'll tell you then."

"O.K., Leda."

Before Leda turned the doorknob, Mitch's eyes met hers.

"Leda?"

"What?"

"Thanks."

When she was gone, Mitch felt sick and dull all over. She was ashamed of the way she had thought about Leda. The thoughts seemed to tease her still, pricking her knowledge that Leda had made everything all right, that now there would be no reason to run and hide. Steadily she rebuilt the structure of their love, amplifying it with Leda's courage and with her own indebtedness to Leda She could feel the physical ache for her down to the tips of her fingers, replacing the enfeebled numbness, charging it with renewed vigor. Healing time had conquered the doubt and fear, and her servility was sworn in that moment. Mitch felt humble and brave.

A tongue of light cut through the black as Leda opened the door and slipped back in. Mitch could hear her putting things away and getting out of her clothes. The thud of her shoes on the floor sounded unusually heavy in the silence. Mitch threw the sheets and blankets back and went over to her.

"For God's sake, no! We just got out of one mess."

"I'm sorry, Leda. I just feel so
—"

"Get back in bed. My God!"

The covers felt itchy on her chin and she pulled the sheet up higher. She could hear Leda getting in bed.

"I know you're upset," she said. "I should have known better than to come over to you, Leda. I'm sorry."

Forget it"

Mitch waited. Leda would tell her now
—everything that had happened. The minutes crept and the clock began the game, ticking out the word

"Leda?"

"What?"

"You said you'd tell me." Mitch's voice was thin and meek. She didn't mean to keep at Leda like that, but she had to know.

"O.K. I said you were sick. I said you went to bed sick and you were feverish when you came after me."

"D-did you say that I came after
you?"

"Well, hell, I had to say something. When they came in the door, that's what they saw."

"Oh."

The wind blew papers off the desk and they ruffled along the floor, the noise quick and airy.

"Leave them," Leda said. She settled back and the noise stopped.

"Well, did they believe you? What about
—My God, I was naked!"

"You were sick! I told them you were sick, Mitch!"

Mitch wanted to stop the angry tone. She lay quiet and another paper chased across the room and landed on top of her on the bed.

"Mitch, I'm sorry I'm so snappish. I just feel like hell. It wasn't easy."

"I know what it must have been like, Leda."

"It was hell."

"Does
—does anyone know? Anyone else, I mean?"

"Just Marsha and those two."

"It'll be hard tomorrow. What'll I tell them when they ask what was wrong?"

Leda turned her pillow over on the side. Then she got up and put a bottle of ink on top of the papers so they wouldn't blow any more. "It won't be hard," she said. "They won't even talk about it Just go along as though nothing happened."

"Leda, I don't know how to thank you."

"Quit saying that! What in the name of God do you think I am, your holy savior?"

The night air was crisp and Mitch snuggled down in the covers. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but she kept listening for Leda to say more. When she didn’t Mitch said, "I just want to say one more thing, Leda. I’ll always stick by you
—always. You mean more to me than anyone I know."

Leda didn't answer.

Ruth Paterson was a stocky, middle-aged woman with brownish-red hair, which she wore in a short, smoothly waved coiffure. Her thin lips were faintly tinted with a medium rose shade, and her long full face had a healthy pink color that set off the deep brown eyes. Between the book ends on her smooth red-leather-topped desk there was a dictionary, a worn copy of "Wine from These Grapes," "The Collected Poems of Robert Frost," "Roget's Thesaurus," two volumes on methods for counseling teen-age girls, a Bible, and a frayed copy of Proust.

Her office was a small white room furnished with comfortable red furniture and red-framed prints of Daumier. On a wobbly end table at the side of a long couch in front of her desk there were a miniature wooden pagoda and a vase with a single red rose pointing toward the white ceiling. On the lower rung of the table there were three copies of current magazine issues, and one copy of the Cranston University humor magazine.

Dean Paterson took a great deal of pride in her office. She had done most of it herself, lacking encouragement from the university officials, who saw little valid reason for decorating the room so that it bore small resemblance to a typical office of the Dean of Women. The wall-to-wall black rug she had purchased herself at a private auction of one of the distinguished townspeople's household effects. It was impractical, inevitably catching lint and dust from the heels of the steady infiltration of students, file clerks, secretaries, and university officials. She liked the rug anyway.

It was just before eleven in the morning, a beautiful morning with a quick snap in the air, and a clear fall sky. At eleven-fifteen, Susan Mitchell would arrive for her appointment. Dean Paterson held the three square yellow cards in her hand, thumbing through them, the bland printed information registering slowly in her mind. There was scant knowledge of the girl on the office records.

Mrs. Nesselbush had called her "a savage."

The case was not unique. In her twenty-three years of counseling girls, Dean Patterson had become fairly well acquainted with the problem of homosexuality, suspected or overt. She had dealt with it before.

She laid the first set of yellow cards down and picked up the second set, removing the paper clip. Leda Taylor's name was familiar. There were several rows of reported late minutes. The explanations appeared in the spaces after the account of the offense.

24 March
—30 minutes late—Flat tire. 12 April
—
2 hours late
—Delayed because of storm 19 April—Absent all night—Forgot to sign out for week end.

2 May
—
15 minutes late
—Watch stopped.

Her scholastic report was not always good. There were alarming high and low points, and a strange proclivity toward extremes. A's and D's. B's and E's. Psychology was a good subject. English was second, with science and math at a nadir. Dean Paterson remembered her as a very attractive girl, with a slight rough edge to her nature and a suggestion of specious warmth.

Mrs. Nesselbush had explained that she was a darling.

The buzzer burred out in the stillness. Susan Mitchell.

Dean Paterson stood up and watched the door until the girl came in. She had not expected her to look like that at all. She said, "Won't you sit down, Susan?"

From the top of her desk drawer, near the newly sharpened pencils and the memo pads, the Dean removed the envelope that Mrs. Nesselbush had sent her. Inside was the letter.

"You don't know why you're here, do you, Susan?"

The girl smiled. "No, ma'am," she answered. "Mother Nessy said something about your wanting to talk about my subjects."

It was irritating. There was no need to lie to the girl. There was no necessity to explain falsely why the appointment was made. The Dean shook her head and picked up her yellow pencil. She made dots on the back of the white envelope.

"No," she said. "It's not about your subjects. It's about something you may be able to tell me more about than I know."

"Yes?"

"How close have you been to Leda Taylor?"

Mitch felt a shrinking inside of her. "I
—I room with her," she said "We're good friends."

"Is that all?"

So they hadn't believed Leda after all. Mitch looked at the Dean's face, and then down at her hands and the pencil. She could not say anything.

"You see," Dean Paterson said, "it's been left up to me. I guess you had no indication that anything was wrong at the Tri Epsilon house today."

"No." Mitch's voice was barely audible. She looked at her hands. If only Leda had been summoned at the same time, Mitch thought, she could do the talking. Mitch wondered then if Leda had already been to see the Dean, earlier in the morning. She had not seen her since breakfast, and they had not sat at the same table. Leda thought it would be too obvious if they sat together after last night.

"You see, Susan, that kind of thing can't be tolerated. In the long run, if it was tolerated, you'd be hurt terribly. There would be cruel jokes, and an even cruder alienation from the other girls. Do you want to talk about it? I have only Mrs. Nesselbush's report."

"I
—I don't know how to talk about it"

Dean Paterson went over to the couch where Mitch was sitting. She sat beside her. "Start with Leda," she said. "Try to tell me about Leda."

Mitch spoke suddenly. "It's not her fault," she said "It's really not her fault at all."

Tears clouded Mitch's eyes and she tried to prevent them from rushing forward. Dean Paterson put her arm around the girl's shoulder. "Susan," she said, "listen to me. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. It's going to make my job a little harder, though. You see, I'll have to submit a report on this, and I don't have very much to go on. Just the letter and what I've heard"

Mitch looked at her. "What letter?"

"The one you wrote Leda. I'm sorry, dear. You can have it back. I don't think it's very nice to read other people's mail either, but there are so many things the Dean of Women has to do that aren't very nice."

Mitch said, "Then Mother Nessy stole the letter. She must have. Leda forgot to tear it up and
—"

Dean Paterson told Mitch then that Leda had given the letter to Nessy. Mitch pulled away and jumped up. "That's not true," she said. "That's not true!" The tears streamed down her cheeks, and she sank back on the couch. "You don't know Leda. She wouldn't do that. She's tried to protect me all the way
—even lied for me last night to Marsha. She told Marsha I was sick and—" The shrill ring of the phone cut into Mitch's words. While Dean Paterson crossed the room and stood talking, Mitch cried violently, stopping the sound with her handkerchief, pushing the sobs back in her throat. Again she thought of running away, with Leda, somewhere—anywhere. They would be expelled and there was no other thing to do but run. And run. She wished that the Dean would just tell her that she would have to leave Cranston, instead of asking questions and trying to find out more information. Then Mitch could hurry and get to Leda first, before the Dean did. It would be awful for Leda, She was so sure last night.

"I'm sorry for the interruption," Dean Paterson said, walking back toward Mitch. "I have an idea, if you'd like. It's almost lunchtime. I usually make a sandwich at my apartment, a few blocks from here. Would you like to go there with me now?"