Tell Me If the Lovers Are Losers

for my mother, my good friend

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough

Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

T
ENNYSON
,
Ulysses

Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns . . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . tell me if any get more than the lovers . . . in the dust . . . in the cool tombs.

S
ANDBURG
,
Cool Tombs

In 1961, the first hopeful year of John F. Kennedy's presidency, Stanton College opened its doors to the forty-first freshman class. It opened doors not only symbolic, but actual: traditionally, the oaken doors of O'Rourke Hall opened to admit the new freshmen in a welcoming assembly and not again until four years later for the recessional parade of graduated seniors.
Ave atque vale,
hail and farewell. On this September morning, the doors swung wide and the freshmen entered, nearly four hundred girls. They scattered themselves noisily, nervously, on hard wooden seats.

Ann Gardner looked with distaste upon the stranger sitting next to her, here roommate, Niki. The girl had a long face, a jabbing nose and chin, a narrow mouth. Her eyes, like small black marbles, glittered, glared. Her dark hair hung straight and long to thighs that showed round muscles beneath faded blue jeans. Niki hunched forward in her seat, forefinger in her mouth so she could chew on the nail, exuding restless energy. Her eyes roved the audience, her right foot twitched rhythmically.

Ann, sitting straight, sitting back, pulled her skirt down over her knees then refolded her hands in her lap. She tried to dissociate herself from Niki and looked for familiar faces in the audience, faces she had known from her years at the Otis Hall School. She felt awkward, more than usual, seated next to this new roommate with the gypsy face, who looked capable of cruelty. Ann crossed her legs at the knees, neatly, without altering her posture.

“Relax.” The dark girl, Niki, turned to her.

“I am relaxed.”

Niki shrugged and turned away.

“What's your last name?” Ann asked.

“Jones.”

Ann looked to her left, at another stranger Everybody had clean hair; the assembly hall gleamed as with many candles. Niki threw her body back in the seat. “You play tennis?”

“Some.” Ann was cautious. “I'm not very good.” Was she being asked to do something?

“You don't look like much of an athlete,” Niki said.

Ann stared at her, unable to frame a reply.

“I mean—oh hell, you know what I mean. Do you ride?”

“A little.”

“Ski?”

“A couple of times.”

“Swim?”

“Of course.”

“Hike?”

“No, I never did. Do you do all those?”

Unconcerned, seeming to have lost interest, Niki nodded.

“What sport are you taking?” Ann asked.

Niki shrugged. Ann felt reproached.

The babble in the room mounted briefly then abruptly fell as a diminutive woman, dressed in a baggy gabardine suit, loped across the stage to the lectern. This woman was not young—her face was covered with wrinkles both fine and deep, her hair was entirely gray. It looked as if she had cut it herself and did not care for or about the results. She seemed an odd little figure to be an emblem for knowledge, academic stature, the wisdom and joy of scholarship, for insight, inspiration, excellence. An odd little figure for any purpose. She peered over the top of the lectern, then glanced at a sheet of paper Her hands were visible and the top of her face; no more.

“It's a dwarf,” Niki whispered to Ann. Ann ignored this. Courtesy, to Ann, required silence during a lecture or address. “One of Santa's little helpers,” Niki went on. Her whisper was dramatically low and, like any good actress's, audible. “This—assembly—is—being—led—by—a—
MUNCHKIN
.”

A ripple of giggles spread around them. Ann flushed. Yet, unwillingly, the corners of her mouth twitched.

“Good morning.” The Munchkin spoke. Her voice was high-pitched and nasal, matter-of-fact. She looked steadily at her audience. The noon sunlight glinted off her heavy-framed
glasses. “I am Natalie Dennis. I will be dean of your class. Do
not
confuse dean with den mother.

“First, let me explain something. It is not a pleasure to be dean, though it is perhaps an honor. It
is
a duty. As dean of a freshman class, I can teach only one course. For the remaining three years, I can teach only two. Your class will take up the rest of my time. I am responsible for you. Not to you. You are responsible to me.

“Some of you will learn precisely what this difference means in my Philosophy One course. For now, I will put it as concisely as possible: I do not, nor does the college, stand
in loco parentis.
You are on your own.”

“All
right,
Munchkin,” cheered Niki in a murmuring undercurrent.

“Stanton College expects no geniuses,” the little woman continued. “Statistically, this is only sensible of us. Instead, the College looks for students of high intellectual caliber and distinct individuality. The kind of girl who will be able to set more than one goal for herself, more than two or three goals—and meet them all. A woman who, like Elizabeth Cady Stanton herself, can be a good wife, good mother, good thinker, good leader—and a good friend.

“If you have not heard of Mrs. Stanton, inform yourselves. You will be the better for it.

“We encourage honesty and ambition here. You will work hard, most of you. Some of you will be quite happy in this. A few will leave. On the whole, you will find the next four no more easy or difficult than any other arbitrarily selected quartet of years.”

Her eyes searched the audience. “What can you expect from me? Disinterested counsel. Maturity. These are my resources. I have my own work, my proper work: I am a scholar, a philosopher I do not wish to be distracted from this work for problems or questions that do not lie within my province. Upon those problems and questions that are my proper concern, I will act. So much for me.

“You may remember—and this is the end of my talk—that at the time of your application you were asked to submit some sort of original work. Those pieces have been gathered together and printed up in a small magazine. You will find
copies of that magazine in your dormitories. Stanton College does not have a freshman directory; only the magazine.

“You may leave now. Good morning. Welcome.” She crossed the stage with her loping stride and exited at the rear, without a backward glance.

Silence lasted for a few seconds before the babble recommenced.

“I guess I'd better get back to the dorm,” Ann said.

Niki slouched in the seat, her knees raised against the seat in front, her head level with the back of her own. She removed the finger from her mouth. “I can't tell about her. What do you think?”

“Odd,” Ann said.

Niki paid full attention. “Yes, of course, but is that bad or good, to be odd?”

“Neither, not necessarily,” Ann answered. “Look, my parents are still here. Can I get out? OK?”

“Sure, sorry. I'll come with you.”

Ann shrugged, to say
That's up to you and I couldn't care less.
She wasn't sure how her parents would feel about this roommate.

Niki walked with compact energy. Ann, scuffling beside her along the sun-dappled path, felt the contrast between them.

“How's the room?” she asked.

“OK, I guess,” Niki said.

They walked on.

“Where are you from?” Ann asked.

“California.”

“Really?” Ann's voice sounded brittle, even to her “I've never been to California. What's it like?”

Niki stopped abruptly. They were at the gravel path that led up to the front porch of the dormitory. “Why don't we just admit we're in a pigface position and cut the crap. I can't
do
all that small-talk stuff,” she explained to Ann's surprised face.

Feeling assaulted, Ann stepped back. In fact, she was surprised by Niki's vehemence, not her observation. She felt the same way, inept at conversation with strangers. But you were supposed to try to make a good first impression when you met people. Ann had known a California girl at the Hall who claimed that all of the state was endangered by earthquake,
something to do with something called the San Andreas fault. “I knew a girl from California at school—”

Niki slapped the heel of a hand against her forehead. “Lord defend and spare me. Look,” she said, conversationally, “are you comfortable with all this social garbage?”

“No,” Ann hung her head down, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with everything, feeling fat and fifteen, disliking herself, awkward, self-pitying. “Why?”

Niki pointed to a third floor window. “That's our room. Is that your mother?”

Mrs. Gardner waved down.

“Is she waiting for you?” Niki asked.

Ann nodded and waved back. She felt Niki's glance.

“What's she doing up there?” asked Niki as they went up the steps.

“I don't know. Why?”

“Because we weren't there to let her in.”

“She's my
mother,”
Ann protested.

“Oh, I see,” Niki did not conceal the sarcasm. She led the way up a carpeted staircase from the first to the second floor, then up a wooden staircase, its steps protected by linoleum pads, to the third.

“I like her,” Ann continued, to Niki's shoulders.

“Glad to hear it,” Niki said.

She won't even try, Ann thought. She doesn't like me and won't try.

Because they were freshmen, they were assigned three to a room; because they were three to a room, they were assigned a big corner room with windows on two walls, with a view over a small valley and back up wooded hillsides. Mrs. Gardner had her back to the window when she greeted them: “You have a western exposure. Isn't that nice?”

Ann introduced Niki and then sat back to observe the encounter. This was the pose she preferred, resting her back against something firm, legs flexed, observing.

“There isn't any closet space to speak of,” Mrs. Gardner continued. “I was thinking of taking Ann's winter things back home. You could pick them up over Thanksgiving or we could bring them to you.” She looked at Niki as if the girl had asked a question. “We live only a couple of hours from here. Philadelphia. So Ann is quite near home.” She was sending
out a cautious warmth toward Niki, preparing to become affectionate.

“Lucky Ann,” Niki said.

“Yes.” Mrs. Gardner switched to a brisker voice and lifted her chin.

“Where is your family from?”

“California.”

“You must have flown over.” Niki did not answer “Did your family come with you?”

“Of course not.”

“I see.” Mrs. Gardner contemplated this creature. She decided, apparently, to side-step. “I don't know how you'll all fit in when the third girl gets here.”

“I don't have any dresses,” Niki said, “so I don't take any closet space.”

Mrs. Gardner, in pink and green tweeds at the center of the room, continued: “Each of you gets bed, bureau, desk and bookcase. The bookcases are small, Ann, you might want to get another Ann,” she explained to Niki, “collects books like other girls collect beaux. She's the bookworm in our family. But there are no full-length mirrors.”

“In the can,” Niki said.

Mrs. Gardner's smooth face wrinkled in puzzlement.

“The head? The john? The powder room?”

“Oh.” She turned to Ann. “Your father's gone to fill the car with gas and make reservations for lunch. I thought the Inn, is that all right with you? Lizzie says they have delicious lunches, although the dinners aren't much. Lizzie is my sister,” she told Niki, “who graduated from here—years ago. I don't like to think how long ago. How was your meeting?”

“All right. The Dean spoke,” Ann said.

“Who is she? Maybe Lizzie knows her.”

“Dennis, wasn't it?” Ann pulled Niki back into the conversation.

“Who, the Munchkin? Yeah. Natalie Dennis. Teaches philosophy.”

“I don't think Lizzie would have taken
that.
But why do you—” Mrs. Gardner decided to ignore it, after all.

“I am,” Ann reminded her mother.

“Are you?” Niki asked, with interest.

“Philosophy One, that's her course.”

“Why?”

“It sounded interesting.”

“I wouldn't mind taking a class with the Munchkin.”

Again Mrs. Gardner made an effort to establish rapport with Niki. “The third girl—Hildegarde the housemother said her name was—won't be here until after supper Something to do with a bus.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs. “You come from California,” she remarked.