 
Snusville

Copyright © 2010 by Jeanne Irelan

Smashwords Edition

http://jeanneirelan.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

SNUSVILLE

by

Jeanne Irelan

Part One

"For you are all children of light and children of the day;

we are not of the night or of darkness." --1 Thessalonians 5:5

Chapter 1

Sheep and Goats

She stared at the large stained glass window, one of three that loomed over the choir loft, puzzled by it. Why was it important that Jesus be knocking on a door without a door knob or handle? Jesus looked nice with his wavy, cinnamon-colored hair and beard, wearing a sparkling white gown and, wrapped over one shoulder, a blue shawl the color of his eyes.

Sundays were always special, half boring, half fun, but always different from the other days of the week. Joan Ellen, or Joanie as her family called her, sometimes liked church. Singing was good, sitting with her mother and father while their strong Methodist voices drowned out her own. She saw certain friends at church that she didn't see at school, too. But the rest--the long pastoral prayer, as it was termed in the bulletin, as well as the sermon and the boring announcements--she escaped by thinking of her favorite stories and imagining herself in the middle of them. She was Tib, the blonde, six years old, like she, in the Lovelace stories of Betsy, Tacy, and Tib, or she was marooned with the other children in The Valley of Adventure, a book that she would never forget. Those people and places were more real and beautiful than her current surroundings with their faint smells of old books and dust that had settled into the cracks of the black walnut-stained pews and half-paneling. Something about the interior of the church offended her; she got no pleasure from it. Except for the stained glass windows. But her opinion didn't matter, that she knew. Going to church was inevitable, and only an illness that required bed care could keep her home on Sundays.

But it was later, after the noon meal, the dishes washed, her clothes changed, that Joanie looked forward to. Daddy would back the car out of the garage and patiently wait while Mother got herself together, the house left as neatly as possible in case, she said, they had a wreck and she was knocked out and other women would come and pry among her things. Then and only then could they begin their weekly trek to the farm or any other excursion.

During the war years, Joanie would beg Daddy to drive up through the residential area before getting onto the highway even though it was only a block from their house. She liked to count the blue flags hanging in windows to see how many families had servicemen. The occasional gold one gave her a strange feeling, knowing someone had died for their country. That seemed a momentous, if not dreadful thing to do, and she doubted that she would be up to it personally.

Those years, the trip was made more exciting by the bald tires. Daddy would always say, "I wonder how far we'll make it today," and Joanie would sit on pins and needles as the 1935 Chevy lurched northward out of Des Moines, the ominous bump of a swollen inner tube creating almost unbearable tension. Like the angry blister Joanie once got on her heel, the bump, she imagined, was growing alarmingly huge.

"Carl, why don't you stop here," Mother would plead as they passed another farm yard with a convenient water trough.

"Uhm" Daddy said. He was optimistic and good tempered. And patient, too, so he was therefore untroubled by the threat of disaster. Joanie and her mother hardly dared speak as they waited for the tire to blow; the car would swerve, and Daddy would have to change it on the side of the narrow highway. He would walk, more often than not, a half-mile or more to the nearest farm and ask the farmer if he could use his water trough to test the inner tube. Joanie stayed by him and watched him heat the patch, which he removed from a little can along with the adhesive. The tube was so heavily patched there seemed no space left to go bad.

"After the war," Daddy said when Joanie asked him about getting new tires. He said the same to Mother when she plaintively wished for a new car so they could sell Leaping Lena. In the meantime he patched the tires, waxed and polished the paint, and kept his car as well groomed as a favorite horse.

Now two years after the war, they were driving uneventfully these Sundays in a new blue Nash. They couldn't quit marveling at the firm, smooth ride on dependable tires, the overdrive, the soft upholstery, so different from the rough mohair of the Chevy.

Up until sometime this year, Joanie's tenth on earth, the farm was one of her great pleasures. Everything about the place was different and exciting compared to their city life. She had always looked impatiently for all the road markers along the flat, almost featureless route that signaled they were closer to their destination twenty miles from Des Moines: the railroad tracks, followed by a little German settlement with a tall grain elevator, followed by the County Home.

That place gave her pause. The main building was dark red brick, but off to one side situated attractively on its own fenced-in grassy lawn was a two-story white-painted structure where her daddy's brother Paul lived. He had been there since the early thirties, Mother said, because he was sick in the head. Joanie had met him twice at important family affairs at her Lilley grandparents' house in Bethany. Looking furtively at his face, which resembled her father's, she thought she saw a sign of his illness in his deep-set eyes.

The last five miles after the County Home would speed by until they reached the turnoff from the highway where a distinctive sign with an arrow pointed the way to the town of Bethany, five miles from the highway. She would peer out of the back seat window for the first glimpse of Grandpa's red pig barn to the east of the homestead and the sturdy chain link fence that bounded the front of the barnyard. Across the road on another section of field that her grandfather planted, Norway firs stood tall and thick on the flat land. They provided a northern windbreak against the seasonal wind opposite the two-story, square brick farm house with the red tile roof. It looked immense and solid to Joanie, its broad eaves tenting the house while linking it to the flat land.

This particular Sunday, a humid August day, as Joanie stepped out of the car, the first thing she heard was the painful, musical creak of the windmill. She heard a cow bellow and the caw of a crow. Her home in Des Moines was one block from the highway that ran through the state from end to end and was never quiet. All her life she had been lulled to sleep by the soft but perpetual sounds of traffic. Each visit to the farm, she was struck anew by the quietness of the farm, how individual sounds stood out and called attention to themselves. These sounds caused confused feelings in her. A kind of loneliness, perhaps, and expectancy. Something wonderful and adventurous was to happen to her, she was sure. Here? It never seemed to happen. But if not here, where, and when?

"Joan," her mother cried as she took a good look at her daughter. "You're wearing shorts! I told you not on Sunday, not when you come to the farm."

"But it's so hot. I don't see what difference it makes." Joanie knew that disobeying her mother, being sneaky about it as she had been was a spanking offense. She also knew her mother wouldn't spank her in full view of her aunts who were nearby.

In the summer, the aunts might be sitting on the long front porch. But mostly they would be in the kitchen, their faces greasy with sweat, grouped around the big rectangular table sipping their coffee and, like all Scandinavians of the area, eating something sweet with it. Grandma kept a five-gallon glass jar filled with the figure-eight-shaped kringla for that purpose, hard as stones and barely sweet, but sweet enough.

Today, after Joanie and her parents had rolled into the farm yard, they parked beside three other cars. Her farmer uncle Roy and his wife Lillith, "a Florida girl," who with her English heritage seemed like a charming foreigner to the family, were there with their two children. Their car was a 1941 light blue Buick, badly dented from careless encounters with fences and coated with dust from perpetually traveling on gravel roads.

In the shadow of the larger car, her aunt Louise's small, ten-year old black Ford huddled as if taking shelter from the blistering sun. Louise, too, lived in Des Moines. Sometimes she begged a ride with the Lilleys to save gas money, but usually she liked to drive so she could visit old high school friends in the area. A well-groomed, late model Oldsmobile belonging to her aunt Rose, her mother's oldest sister, and her Danish husband Helmar sat somewhat aloof in the shade by the car garage. They, too, lived in Des Moines. They had a degree of sophistication which made Alma Lilley uncomfortable. Joanie's mother still had a farm girl quality that gave her an air of earnestness that irritated some and attracted others.

"I would have made a good farmer's wife," she liked to say. Her town-bred husband would smile and look a bit smug. No one knew better than he that "Al" took her role as wife, town or farm, seriously. She was known to be resourceful, tidy, and hardworking, perfect by any standard, but especially her own.

Carl Lilley was not a perfect husband, which Joanie had begun to realize by now. When Louise asked Alma why she hadn't seen her yesterday at a reception in Des Moines, Joanie could hear the impatience in her mother's voice.

"Carl must have his handball game, no matter what," she said to Louise with a laugh that didn't fool her daughter. "By the time he got back it was too late for us to go. I'll have to call Olga and apologize. Was it nice?"

Joanie stood with her hands behind her back listening to the women's voices. Daddy had gone into the living room where the men usually assembled. She glanced around the room and saw her grandmother examining Joanie's attire with a half-smile on her round face.

"You let her wear those short pants on Sunday?" she asked Alma in a soft voice still lilting with the inflection of her earliest speech. Grandma's parents had come from Norway and the family had spoken that language in favor of English until the children went to high school.

Joanie looked down at the navy blue shorts she had worn. She wondered why her mother didn't question such a silly idea. If she was bad to wear shorts on Sunday, why not on other days? Alma Lilley's eyes widened in embarrassment. She gave her mother an apologetic smile and said to the room at large, "Oh, it's so hot today I didn't think about it. Why don't you find something to do, Joanie." Joanie knew she had put her mother in a bad spot. She wondered if she would get the belt when she got home. Her father, though he never touched her in anger, didn't often come to her defense. Sometimes, he'd say in his mild way, "She's all right, Al." But it took more than that to stop her mother from giving her a well deserved spanking. Spankings, Alma had told Joanie once, were to help her "be a good girl."

"Look at those legs," laughed Rose. "Uff-da meg, she's going to be tall."

"She'll have the boys after her, looking like that," said Louise. She was Joanie's favorite, teasing and friendly, calling her Joanie-Mahoney. She had a quick temper though and sometimes spoke sharply, hurting her mother's easily wounded feelings.

Joanie left the kitchen self-consciously, feeling the shortness of her shorts, her long legs, her sandals flapping on the linoleum. She had always believed herself to be pleasing to the adults. She saw approval in their eyes for her golden blondness, her easily tanned skin, her lack of shyness. Only recently had she begun to detect a certain hard, cold look of criticism in their eyes as if they could see into her soul with its rebelliousness still in hiding.

She wandered into the dining room first and noted, as always, the things that pleased her--the leaded glass panes in the built-in buffet that housed Grandma's pretty Haviland dishes; the huge wicker rocker in front of the wide window overlooking the orchard with the large mulberry trees; the round oak dining table that could extend with leaves to seat fifteen. She soon became aware that she was the only young person in the house. Her cousins, Jimmy and Caroline, were nowhere to be seen. Farm kids, they generally hung around the barns, an unappealing activity to Joanie. They and their father, Roy, called her a city slicker, which she took with good grace. Who'd want to be from the farm with its bugs and mice and smells that never went away?

From the living room her uncles' voices competed relentlessly. Both Roy and Helmar spoke in loud, authoritative tones. Her father, in his mild tenor, kept saying, "Guy O'Friday!" and laughing as if at some fantastic story. But Joan knew they were dull. She couldn't hear her uncle Ralph, but then no one ever did. He was a shy bachelor who seemed to live only to farm the homestead and sneak trips to town for a beer. He smiled a lot, sociable in his quiet way.

Joanie peeped in the living room and saw her grandfather nodding off in a cushioned rocking chair, ignoring the conversation. When she was a toddler, he would set her on his foot and bounce her up and down, tootling in a high, musical voice, "Doodle-y-doodle-y-do. . . ."

The dining room table had not been cleared of the men's coffee cups. An ashtray contained four cigarette butts. She picked out the two longest and slipped them into the cotton draw-string purse she carried. Skirting the living room, she eased herself out the front door and ran around the side of the house, past the orchard and kitchen garden to the back of the garage.

A fence enclosed the fields directly behind the gardens and outbuildings. The corn was immensely high, twice the size of a man. The growing crops didn't interest her the way they did her mother. "Look at how tall the corn is," Alma would cry as they reached the countryside. "It's going to be a bumper crop. Aren't the fields beautiful?" Joan's interest in the farm centered on her grandparents' house, magnificent in her eyes, a rural architectural wonder built by her grandfather in 1915. Its wraparound porch had smooth blocks of cement as its floor, which made a wonderful surface for roller skating.

Joanie slid down to the ground and gingerly positioned herself on the scratchy grass. She removed a tiny pipe from her purse. She had found it among the toys collected by her grandmother, which she kept in the bench under the coat rack. Joanie had no idea whose it had been or why it had turned up there, but she had secretly confiscated it. She stripped the paper off the cigarettes and tamped down the darkened tobacco into the bowl. Lighting it from matches she had picked up (free) at the neighborhood drug store, she puffed on the strong-tasting tobacco without inhaling. Her tongue grew hot, but she liked the smell and the sweetly acrid taste.

She didn't know a single woman who smoked except her cousin Geraldine. Joanie couldn't imagine her mother or her mother's friends or sisters smoking. For herself, she thought she'd rather die than be like them. When she and her friends dressed up and played "let's pretend" in the basement, Joanie chose to be a lady lawyer or a police woman.

She heard a car drive into the farm yard and park nearby. Dumping the pipe, she stepped on the ashes and placed the pipe in her bag. She stepped around the end of the garage to see who had come. Geraldine, Rose's daughter, was walking toward the house accompanied by a short, dark man. Geraldine was nineteen years old and ever cold and impatient to her younger cousins. Joanie watched her and her companion walk toward the house and then turned as she heard voices from the other direction. She saw her two younger cousins running from the barns. She waited for them.

Caroline was ahead of her fat brother though he was nine and she only seven. She wore a blue dress that was too long for her and flapped around her skinny knees. Her mother had curled her hair on rags and the uneven strawberry blond curls hung over her eyes. She had an alert, freckled face and resembled her father. Her brother was thick, in body, facial features, and head, Joanie thought. His parents took pride in his ability to eat ten ears of sweet corn in one sitting.

She joined the children. "I want something to drink," said Jimmy, puffing.

"Who's that with Geraldine?" asked Caroline.

"I don't know," Joanie answered. "Maybe a boy friend."

"He looks like an old man."

They reached the boot room just after Geraldine and her friend entered the kitchen. The women around the table had grown silent.

"This is Tony, folks," Geraldine said in her no-nonsense voice.

The silence grew, though the women smiled and nodded. Tony was different. His very darkness seemed threatening in this house of light skins and hair and blue eyes. He took out a large cigar and nodded to the ladies. "Hello," he said. "Mind if I smoke?"

Grandma chuckled and said, "I like to smell a cigar."

Joanie's mother laughed nervously. Lillith got a jug of lemonade from the refrigerator for Jimmy.

Rose said with a hoot of laughter, "You better get him out of here, Geraldine." She winked at Tony. "He doesn't want to hang around all these women."

As they left the room, everyone began talking at once about nothing. Joanie shook off Caroline's arm which had entwined her own and followed Geraldine and Tony into the living room. Joanie had observed many times that Geraldine had muscular calves and tiny ankles, hardly looking strong enough to hold her up on the spike heels she wore.

Her grandfather was the first to stand when Geraldine presented Tony. Grandpa was a tall, lean, gentlemanly type, his brown face etched like a pen and ink drawing by years of sun and heat. The other men followed his lead and shook hands with Tony, shorter in stature than the others, including Geraldine. Everyone ignored Joanie, but she went over to her father and sat on the arm of the sofa next to him. He smiled at her and patted her leg absently. "Whatcha doing?" he said. She shook her head wordlessly. Today was not to be her adventure.

On the trip back to Des Moines, her mother and father spoke about Tony in quiet voices. Joanie lolled in the back seat and listened. As usual, sleep eluded her, and in the dark the car seemed like a ship sailing through a soft sea.

"Guy O'Friday," said her father, "she's going to marry him? A dago?"

"What's a dago?" Joanie called out.

"An Eyetalian," her father answered. "And he was 4-F."

"Rose said he runs a tavern in south Des Moines." Her mother's whispery voice suggested excitement and outrage. "And I bet he's Catholic. They'll force her to sign over to them any kids they might have. Leave it to Geraldine to do such a thing. You know what I said. Rose and Helmar raised her loose."

"Uh-huh."

"All that drinking with the Lundahls and that bunch."

"What's wrong?" Joanie asked. "Is it Rose and Helmar?"

"That Tony."

"Don't you like him?"

"He's not one of us," said her mother.

Joanie leaned back against the soft luxury of the seat and stared out the window. The landscape was always the same, corn fields, barns and silos, the few tall trees by creeks. It was dark outside anyhow, but she recognized certain lights that flashed as the car went by at its sedate speed. She listened to the hum of the big motor and her parents' voices. She was tired, but she knew she couldn't sleep in the car. Especially was she now awake and alert, thinking of Tony and her parents' disapproval. Why, she wondered? Was it because he didn't look like them? Was it because he was a Catholic? Joanie squirmed a little at the thought of that strange religion which so upset her parents. She'd never met any Catholics that she knew of, so she could only wonder at their objectionable qualities. Someday she'd find out about them, she thought sleepily.

2

Snusville

Alma and Carl Lilley had moved to Des Moines while they were engaged, finding separate rooms in the newer section of Snusville, an area of Des Moines inhabited mainly by Scandinavians. They both attended Capital City Commercial College, Alma in a secretarial course, Carl in accounting. After they married, Carl got a job in a bank, Alma worked for the Health Department until Joanie was born, and they rented a small house nearby where they lived until Joanie was three.

Joanie and her parents' present home was situated in the older section of Snusville, a handsome two-story frame house built in the golden oak period just before World War I. The house faced a street lined with massive elm trees. Though the Lilleys were part of Snusville, Joanie hadn't heard the name until her aunt Louise told them she was moving across town. "I'm getting out of Snusville. Just a bunch of dead-head Scandinavians." She gave a laugh to show she was kidding.

Joanie's mother looked a little hurt. Louise's sharp tongue had nettled her more than once, Joanie had noticed.

"I think they're pretty nice people," Alma exclaimed with a vigorous nodding of her head.

Louise shrugged. "Nobody feels they have to stick around here anymore. It's fine for you old married folks. You've got your church friends and old neighbors, but the younger people are going to different areas." Louise was thirty-two.

"What's Snusville?" Joanie asked.

Her mother laughed. "It's where we live, silly. All good Scandinavians live in Snusville." She gave her sister a pointed look. Louise sniffed.

"What does Snusville mean?" Joanie persisted.

"Tobacco, snuff in Norwegian," answered Louise. "The old Norwegians and Swedes liked their tobacco, and their name for it stuck." Louise put down the cookie she was about to eat, warming to the subject. Nothing she liked better, Joanie knew, than explaining to the ignorant, which Joanie felt herself to be most of the time.

"Snusville goes way back to, I don't know, maybe the 1870's when Svenskes and Norskes came here from the old country. They stayed pretty much together near the park, but the area spread out. I suppose it goes now from the river near downtown to up where I live."

"Did any of our relatives live here, before you and Daddy, I mean?" Joanie asked her mother.

Alma nodded and sipped her coffee. "Daddy's grandfather was a cabinet maker from Sweden and lived on Jersey Avenue. The house where Grandma Lilley was raised is still there."

"Why haven't you shown it to me?" Joanie demanded. She had been denied something she had a right to know. Her own grandmother had lived in Des Moines!

Alma shrugged. "After he and Great-grandma Olson died, it was sold. I never thought much about it."

Joanie made her mother promise to show her the house when they next went that way.

"I wouldn't get too excited about your Swede ancestors," Louise said in a teasing voice. "Everyone knows they're just Norwegians with their brains knocked out." She gave her high- pitched, musical laugh.

Joanie smiled even though she didn't like what Louise said. She left the kitchen table to go see her friend LeeAnn, who lived across the street.

On the way over she thought about the conversation with her aunt and mother. Here she was, ten years old and had never heard these things about the area where she had grown up. She hardly went out of her immediate neighborhood except to go for evening car rides with her parents or her girlfriends' parents on nice summer evenings. Her mother liked best to go downtown and watch people coming and going to restaurants and theaters. The Lilleys never went to either. But they seemed happy to live in the narrow circle of their lives, even proud of it.

Many of Joanie's friends and her parents' friends had names like Dahlstrom, Berglund, Maigaard, and Hartung, but she hadn't thought about them being different from the rest of the population of the city. As a rule, these people were both serious and fun-loving. Certain things were not funny--swearing, law-breaking, and drunkenness in particular. Excessive pleasure-seeking was equally suspect. They were serious about religion and rules. The people Joanie knew lived like her parents, carefully, quietly, as if in dread of being noticed and being called to account for questionable behavior.

The Maigaards, her friend LeeAnn's folks, had qualities that made them stand out. To Joanie's parents and their friends at the (Swedish) Methodist Church, the Reverend Maigaard of the (Norwegian) Lutheran Church was somewhat affected--suspiciously adopting Catholic ways not practiced by other Lutherans in the area. He wore a "collar" and required his children to call him "Father." His parishioners balked at that, however, and called him Mr. or Reverend Maigaard.

Mrs. Maigaard was an attractive woman who played the piano beautifully and gave lessons. Both she and her husband spoke in positive, mystical tones about all their affairs and usually in superlatives: "Kohlrabi is the best vegetable you can eat and has the most wonderful healing qualities," or "We named her LeeAnn because we lost a baby girl. When LeeAnn was born, Mr. Maigaard said, `SureLEE God has sent this child to us in place of our lost child.'" Joanie wondered to herself why they hadn't named her Shirley.

Whenever LeeAnn and Joanie played together, they played Church. LeeAnn was always the minister, wearing an old black skirt of her mother's over her head and shoulders, and Joanie the choir director. Her skirt was also LeeAnn's mother's, but was checked. But it was at Mr. Maigaard's church at Vacation Bible School that Joanie realized why the Maigaard's spoke as they did. This was unlike any Bible school she had ever attended.

Her own church sent children on field trips to watch cottage cheese being made or to see how the feed company packaged its products; Methodist Bible schoolers made lanyards and sang rousing camp songs. These Lutheran children learned the Catechism through drills; they studied the Bible with flannelgraphs. Mr. Maigaard gave a serious sermon each day especially for them, not a story as her own minister did from time to time for the children.

The real message at the Lutheran Bible School was clear: religion meant making and receiving promises, keeping an allegiance to something greater even than one's parents, something that could be learned and then, of course, believed. No wonder the Reverend and Mrs. Maigaard acted so assured and superior. It was eye-opening.

Joanie asked her mother then why they too were not Lutherans like the rest of her mother's relatives. She had seen the Lutheran church in Bethany many times when they drove into town to visit Grandpa and Grandma Lilley.

"The Methodist church was closer," said her mother, an understandable but not altogether satisfactory answer.

One day Joanie, with LeeAnn, walked to the edge of Snusville, the older section. They were going to the home of a woman in Mr. Maigaard's church. This was the farthest from home that Joanie had ever traveled walking. They were to pick up a bag of old high heels the lady was donating to LeeAnn to play with. The girls were excited because the woman was short and had feet near the same size of LeeAnn's and Joanie's.

They turned on to the thoroughfare that went past the park and headed in the direction of downtown Des Moines. The houses here were large ones on small lots and seemed very old. Some had turrets and gingerbread porches. Most needed paint and their lawns tended, conditions rarely seen in Joanie's neighborhood. On side streets the houses were smaller and seemed even shabbier. The area was a little scary to Joanie.

The girls stepped along briskly, avoiding cracks in the sidewalk. LeeAnn had already broken her mother's back several times. She had inherited her father's long-legged, loose-hipped build which was the despair of her mother.

"Why can't you walk more gracefully--like Joanie?" Mrs. Maigaard would cry when LeeAnn stumbled over something. "Quit galumping along!" Joanie felt, then, for her friend and would give an awkward jump or two in sympathy.

They had to walk past the Bissel house, a decrepit affair that always raised chill bumps on Joanie's spine. She wanted to look, but she was afraid some evil face would be peering from a broken, dirty window. The Bissels had several children, but the youngest was a girl named Annie, who was in the same grade as LeeAnn and Joanie. She was a wizened child who was unable to play games. Rumor among the neighborhood children claimed that she was retarded, but Joan knew from poor Annie's responses in class that she was capable enough. Her older brothers and a sister went to either the nearby junior high or had quit school and left home

Their house was terrible. It was a small clapboard needing paint and repair. There was no front lawn, only dirt where usually a chow dog groveled and growled at passers-by. Joanie saw with relief that today the chow was elsewhere. She kept her eyes cast down, though LeeAnn gawked.

"I hate that place," Joanie's friend said in a low voice.

"Shh. Someone might be watching. I heard Annie's father doesn't work at a real job. He's home all the time. Mean, I heard."

They made it safely past the Bissel house without seeing anyone and Joan let out a sigh of relief.

"There's the Catholic school," said LeeAnn, pointing ahead.

They approached the school with curiosity. It was adjacent the Church of the Transfiguration, which had been built, according to the cornerstone, in 1925. The school was a two-story, yellow stone building that didn't quite match the church in color and design. Since it was summertime, there was no activity, but Joanie had driven by with her father and seen children and sometimes nuns with their black habits and wing-like headdresses.

Joanie and LeeAnn were distracted from their notice of the buildings by three boys on bikes who rounded the corner and then stopped to wait for the girls to cross the street.

"What are you doing here?" one of the boys called. He had bright red hair and a face so full of freckles it was splotched.

LeeAnn hung back, but Joanie grabbed her arm and kept going. "Just out walking. Do you guys live around here?" The boys were older and she could feel the aggression in the manner of the redhead. One boy was riding in circles on his bike behind them making dog noises and another stood with his leg over the bar of his bike watching her, it seemed.

"So where do you babies go to school?" the redhead taunted.

"We're not babies; we'll be in the sixth grade at Emerson. Where do you go to school?" She suspected they went to the Junior High not far from here.

The quiet boy nodded his head to the school. "We go to Transfig. We'll be in the eighth grade."

LeeAnn began walking away slowly. She had not spoken and gave Joanie a pained look. Joanie addressed the quiet, watching boy. He had brown wavy hair that curved over his forehead. "Do you slide down those chutes in the back?" She had asked her dad about the long metal tunnels that snaked down from the top story of the school. He said they were fire escape chutes.

"Oh, sure," the boy answered, "for fire drills, but it's not much fun. The sisters push you down and kids hit you in the head with their feet." He smiled at her and she suddenly liked him.

"What's your name?" she asked boldly. "Mine's Joan Lilley."

"Rod Allison." The other boys had grown bored with the conversation and taken off. Rod turned to go, too, and then gave her a quick wave of his hand. "See ya'."

She had to run to catch up with LeeAnn.

"Why'd you go off like that?" Joanie demanded. Sometimes LeeAnn was a coward.

"They're Catholics!"

"That one guy was nice, anyway." It seemed important to keep secret that they had exchanged names.

They walked on in silence until they reached the woman's house a block or so along. Joanie hurt her feet when she tried to walk home in the high heels, which were a little too small for her. They didn't meet the boys this time.

In the fall of that year, some people named Fagan moved in like a family of cats to a house halfway down the block from the Lilleys'. Kids seemed to be all over the place, in the yard, peering from windows, riding bikes, even driving the car, a rusty gray Studebaker. Joanie had first spotted them hauling in their furniture from a flatbed truck. She saw a girl near her own age and went over to speak to her.

"Hi." She smiled, but the girl, short and thin but with ropy, muscular arms and legs, didn't smile back.

The girl returned Joanie's greeting and gave her a close look with slightly bloodshot eyes in a narrow face. Then she smiled.

Joanie introduced herself and pointed down the block. "I live only about six houses away."

The girl's name was Ruth and she had seven brothers. All the Fagans, except the oldest, would be going to Transfiguration. Joanie admired the quick, assured way Ruth spoke.

"Sure, let's do it," she would say if Joanie suggested a game.

"I hope they're nice," said Mother doubtfully. By that, Joanie knew Mother meant she hoped they'd keep their place up. "Those Catholics! So many kids!"

They didn't keep their place up. Soon the weeds were standing in unruly tufts along the foundation of the house, a front storm window got broken and never replaced, various items began to collect in the yard. But Joanie found Ruth and her two closest brothers, Jack and Pauly, to be tireless players of cowboys and Indians. The two boys were pitted against the girls, sometimes as cowboys, sometimes as Indians--the relentless pursuers and the breathless, quaking pursued.

A quiet onlooker seemed to haunt these games and dilute Joan's pleasure in them. Annie Bissell would come upon them but never speak, only watch as they crouched beneath embankments or skirted danger by tearing through neighbor's gardens. Annie stood, her crooked back propped against a tall elm beside the curb, always interested, waving at Joanie as she sped by. Joanie's guilt at not being able to include the girl weighed on her, but she never asked if Annie could play.

Joanie's current best friend that fall, Bettina Harwell, became jealous during the games that took place. Bettina lived not far away in the next block, but the two girls' activities, usually at Bettina's home, were directed by Bettina, who liked to put on makeup and try out new hairstyles and play jacks. The Harwells seemed out of place in Snusville. Joanie felt it the first time she had seen Bettina, standing in her front lawn talking to some older boys. She was wearing a T-shirt, and Joanie saw to her horror and envy that she needed a bra! Her swollen breasts and large nipples were clearly visible. She didn't know girls that young could be so developed.

Then when she went inside and met Bettina's mother, she was further amazed. Mrs. Harwell was in the living room lounging on the sofa--in mid-afternoon. Joanie's mother never seemed to sit down until evening when she would collapse in a chair and read the paper and take a "snooze." Joan immediately wished Alma could be more like Bettina's mother. Mrs. Harwell was elegantly slim, and like Bettina, auburn haired. That first time she was wearing kelly green culottes that showed off her long legs. Alma never wore anything around the house but old cotton house dresses. But what really stunned Joanie was that the woman was drinking a beer from the bottle and smoking a cigarette. A woman of the world!

"I'm giving myself a break from ironing," she explained cheerfully. "Come over here, honey, so I can see you." The living room curtains were still pulled.

Now, after only two years, the Harwells were planning to move to the newer west side of Des Moines that her mother considered to be "ritzy." Joanie wasn't surprised. They attended no church and Mrs. Harwell, wearing dramatic hats, frequently lunched at Younkers with friends, something her mother would never do because it was too extravagant. Joanie's admiration of the woman had lessened upon better acquaintance. She witnessed her slapping Bettina across the face one day. At least Alma Lilley, who wielded a belt with great purpose, had never done that. Joanie wondered how the Harwells happened to come to this neighborhood in the first place. She guessed they had never heard of Snusville and what that meant.

Bettina swore they'd always be friends even after they moved and that Joanie would come to visit her often. But Joanie didn't quite believe it. Bettina and her family were going where they would fit in. Their move was sad but at the same time something of a relief for Joanie. She felt like a preacher when she was around Bettina. The girl had said "God dammit" and "shit" when they first met. Joanie had broken her of that. She urged her to wear a bra. She brought her to Sunday school, all the time realizing it wouldn't take. Why should it? She didn't much like it herself. When Bettina talked of sneaking her mother's cigarettes, Joanie hypocritically told her she shouldn't, that it was a bad habit for such a young girl--they weren't even in junior high, for heaven's sake! Real smoking seemed reserved for a far off time, maybe college. Altogether, the strain of educating Bettina to the ways of Snusville was too tiring and she would be glad to be shed of it.

Soon after the Harwells left, another family moved in to a large, two-story house at the end of the block. Their name was Hoffman and they had a two girls and one boy and a set of grandparents. One of the girls, named Eileen, was exactly Joanie's age. They discovered their birthdays were a week apart. Eileen's father worked for the Post Office and her mother was a secretary, a novelty in the neighborhood.

To Joanie's knowledge, women with husbands almost never worked at an outside job, except maybe during the war when some worked at defense plants. Joanie's mother had done so, working the graveyard shift at the converted farm implement plant. Joanie would sit on the porch steps during warm weather waiting for her mother to arrive in the car pool car before her father left for work at the bank. After Joanie went to school, Alma would sleep.

Joanie found out the Hoffmans were German. Eileen's grandparents had actually come from Germany and spoke broken English. One Sunday, Eileen went with the Lilleys to Grandpa and Grandma Ekdahl's farm; she introduced her friend to her grandmother as simply "Eileen." Grandma smiled her vague smile and asked in a mild voice, "Are you Norwegian?"

Eileen shook her head and said, "I'm part German." Joanie knew her mother was a mixture of English, Irish, and Dutch.

Grandma Ekdahl considered that. "The Germans are clean, hardworking people," she declared with a friendly lilt to her voice.

Eileen looked confused, but Joanie laughed and took Eileen off. Germans must be O.K, not like Scandinavians, but O.K.

Eileen and Joanie became fast friends and for several months their activities excluded LeeAnn and Ruth. But when Eileen was busy, Joanie continued to play rough games with Ruth and her brothers like Red Rover Come Over and G-Man; other times, Joanie and LeeAnn got involved in Touring or Monopoly games, which went on for hours and then might continue for days.

Towards the end of the school year, near Joanie's twelfth birthday, Mother and Daddy allowed her, since all the other girls would be along, to walk to the Friday night movie twelve blocks away. This was a milestone in growing up, Joanie thought with satisfaction. The movies at the little neighborhood theater, whether on Saturday afternoon or Friday evenings, had been the source of Joan's most regular pleasure. She loved indiscriminately everything on the big screen that crossed her line of vision. Unlike some of the kids who frequented the Camelot Theater, Joan sat in a seat no closer than half way from the screen. Those who sat too close, she was sure, were not there to really see the movie.

Then after the lights dimmed and the shorts and feature were about to begin, Joan would feel an almost electric presence of anticipation. She loved the Republic eagle almost as much as the MGM lion, and 20th Century Fox's weaving searchlights might have been seeking her out, so attuned was she to every nuance of the film. Life as she viewed it on the screen was to be preferred to her everyday, ordinary existence. She vainly wished her mother was like Myrna Loy, her father like Walter Pigeon. She lived as fully in those pictures as she thought the movie stars did.

On the way home, boys walked with the girls or rode their bikes alongside, and she was interested in two of them, Emery Ames and Billy Stone. At first all the boys were hesitant to get too close to the girls, but after a few blocks they slowed down and let the girls, eight in all, catch up with them. As some girls turned off to go to their homes, some boys would accompany them near enough to see they reached their homes. Sometimes a particular boy would go along with a girl to her doorstep. By the time Joanie reached her house, only Eileen remained along with six boys, including Emery and Billy. Billy, on his bike, peeled off from the others and accompanied her to the front porch.

"Uh, see ya," he muttered.

"Bye and thanks." Her mother opened the door and Billy pushed off with one foot to get up speed.

After a few weeks of this, she decided that Billy was too backward and stupid acting, nice as he was. Sometimes she wondered about the attractive Catholic boy, Rod Allison. She continued to look for him at the movie theater and several times spotted him but he was always with a different crowd. She had not wanted to question Ruth Fagan about him, though she must know who he was.

Joanie concentrated on Emery Ames, who responded one day during the summer by inviting her into his garage to play Post Office. After kissing him a few times, she decided he was a goof, too cute with his round face and curly hair and bright blue eyes. He was just plain silly about girls and kissing. Generally, boys were proving to be a disappointment.

That summer, the polio epidemic struck Des Moines. One of Joan's church friends, Sharon Swedberg, got the dread disease.

"It's not too bad," Alma assured Joan, who felt as if her heart was torn when she heard the news. "It's not bulbar--the really crippling sort."

Bulbar! How Joan hated that name. She thought of iron lungs wheezing and clutching at thin chests. Her own chest felt squeezed and painful.

Joan had heard that the first sign of polio or infantile paralysis was stiffness in the neck. Every so often, she would dip her head to her chest, testing. Public places, especially swimming pools were suspected of harboring the illness. Joan refused to go to the pool even though Alma scoffed.

"They don't know how it spreads. Why, Lucille Swedberg told me that Sharon's sister kissed her on the mouth when she was taken off to the hospital. She didn't get it."

Joan didn't believe a word of it. That must have been a fluke. For the first time she felt her life threatened, aware of her own physical vulnerability. When Carl took her and Alma out for a drive during the hot summer evenings to get ice cream cones, Joan sat in the back seat in front of the open window with one of her father's handkerchiefs around her nose and mouth. Alma looked at her and clucked disapprovingly. Alma was nothing if not fatalistic.

Joan wondered how many of her classmates would be dead or hopelessly crippled by the time school started. Would she?

Then the panic subsided, the cases lessened. The summer was over and so was the epidemic. But Joan never felt safe again.

Chapter 3

Celebration and Sorrow

For some reason, the Lilleys always ate dinner on Thanksgiving and Christmas at Alma's parents' with her brothers and sisters. Never with Carl Lilley's family. Joanie wouldn't have called the Ekdahl clan a particularly merry group, except for the rare times when Louise played the piano and a few hesitant voices joined in.

Before they left to go home to Des Moines, however, the Lilleys sometimes went into Bethany so they could visit Joanie's other grandparents and see her father's sister Marie and his brother George. Uncle George was, like Grandpa Lilley, a lawyer, though considerably more successful than his father. He had three children, all older than Joanie, but fascinating and attractive. It seemed unfortunate to Joanie that those cousins lived too far away for regular visits and that most of the time she was stuck with her younger, silly farm cousins at the Ekdahls'.

The winter holidays when Joanie was twelve were memorable. The Lilleys arrived for Thanksgiving dinner with Alma's four pies, two coconut creams and two pumpkins. All the women brought their specialties to the dinner. Roy's wife, Lillith, always made the dressing, a mild concoction to suit Scandinavian tastes with a hint of the exotic in her addition of chopped black olives. Louise, being single and somehow exempt from more rigorous cooking, brought relish trays and rolls. Rose's husband, Helmar, furnished the giant bird which Rose baked with loving attention to a crisp, golden brown. Grandma opened a few cans of green beans and peas and prepared huge mounds of mashed potatoes.

Just as Joanie began to take her place at the kitchen table to eat, Louise grabbed her arms and marched her into the dining room. "You're too old to eat out there. It's time you sat with the grown-ups."

Well! Joanie's face burned with pleasure though no one seemed to notice this big change. The meal didn't begin until her grandfather gave the blessing, ending it in some Norwegian phrase, and after her plate of food was handed to her Joanie ate her dinner quietly listening to the adults talk.

"Can't make a nickle with hog prices so low." This from her uncle Roy, who always complained loudly about his farming.

"That's the way farmers talk," Joanie's mother had before explained. "It's always something--the weather, the prices, the economy in general. Biggest complainers you ever saw," she said proudly.

Uncle Ralph nodded his agreement to his brother's concerns but as usual didn't say anything. Grandpa ate with quiet appreciation. He had insisted his own children eat every morsel when they were young. Geraldine and Tony sat together, while the others segregated--the men sitting near Grandpa and the women around Grandma. Geraldine's strident voice rang out, competing with Roy's.

"I've gotten a new job. Tony's uncle set me up as a secretary at Alphonse's. I'll be working for Alphonse himself."

"What business is that?" asked Alma.

Geraldine hooted. "Don't tell me you haven't heard of Alphonse's." She turned to the others. "Poor Al, she needs to get out more." She gave her a pitying look. "It's the best pizza parlor in town!"

Alma looked down at her plate with tightened lips.

"We like Mom's pizza," said Joanie to Geraldine. "She makes it really good."

"Maybe she could go into the business," laughed Louise. "Alma's Pizza."

"No, no," Alma protested. "I just use a mix. I knew about Alphonse's pizza place, but I thought maybe there was another business connected with it." She looked hurt.

As their interest in that subject dwindled, Joanie felt free to look around the table and observe how nice everything looked. The good china had been taken out from the built-in china cabinet with the leaded glass panes. Haviland, her mother said, ordered by her grandfather when he built this place in 1916. A white tablecloth stretched the length of the round table, now extended to a twelve-foot oval. No decorations, however. Such things were considered frivolous by her grandmother.

A seat at the big table should have prepared her for the next change, but Joanie felt a wave of surprise and pleasure when her mother told her she would be considered part of the grown ups' Christmas gift exchange. She would participate in the drawing. She drew, disappointingly, Ralph's name. Still, it was better than being considered a kid.

After dinner the women cleared the table and washed dishes. Joanie was ordered by her mother to take turns wiping. Soggy dish towels were draped over the backs of kitchen chairs. The women talked about other relatives that Joanie didn't know. Grandma had left immediately following the meal to take her nap, while Grandpa sat in his rocker and dozed.

At four o'clock, the Lilleys said their goodbyes, packed Alma's pans into the car, and left for Bethany. Joanie was excited to see these three cousins, George's children. Her father's sister had a five-year-old daughter whom she also liked to play with. And then Grandma Lilley would smile and greet her in her warm way.

Best of all, she liked to explore the musty, cavernous home that her father had grown up in. Much older than the Ekdahl farmstead, it was a large town house next door to her grandfather's law office.

"That's not mustiness you smell," Alma said on their way over, "it's mouse."

"Mouse! You mean mice live there, too?"

Daddy laughed. "Guy O'Friday, do they ever! I don't go upstairs if I can help it." Daddy hated mice and bugs and would pursue any that got into their house like a madman.

That bit of information dampened Joanie's enthusiasm for exploring, but that didn't take away from other more interesting oddities of the Lilley household.

"Poor Grandma Lilley never has had a chance to live nicely," Alma said. "Grandpa can't collect his bills, so they never have enough money. And Grandma is too easygoing to insist on anything."

Daddy was silent. He seemed to agree with Mother, but he never criticized his parents. Joanie had known for years that Alma disapproved of the Lilleys' lackadaisical existence.

The whole family was congregated in the kitchen when Joanie and her parents arrived. Her grandfather rose slowly, unfolding his six-foot-two bulk from an easy chair set apart from the others and shook hands with her father. He patted Joanie on the shoulder and urged her to a seat around the table.

"Give the girl some ice cream, Elsie," he bellowed to his wife.

Grandma Lilley scurried in from the pantry, her hair streaming from an untidy bun on her neck, carrying a stack of bowls. She set them on the table and went right for Joanie, giving her a soft kiss. She smelled like Vicks and talcum powder. Uncle Paul sat at one end of the table shyly smiling into his bowl. Joan had forgotten he would be there. Her aunt Marie also rose in greeting while her husband, a jittery man who seldom sat down, rolled himself off the wall and held out his hand. A younger sister, Thelma, was not present. She was in the process of a divorce, living in Kansas City with an infant son, who had been born "with sore feet," Alma had once remarked.

"Really?" asked Joanie, disturbed by the thought.

"No, not really," her mother said with a laugh. "It means the baby came too fast. That's what we always said about babies that were born less than nine months after the marriage."

Joanie nodded. She knew what that meant!

Now she wished Thelma and the baby were here so she could see the evidence of such misdoings.

Her older cousins greeted her. Steve was her favorite. He was handsome with dark eyes inherited from his mother. The girls were sometimes aloof, but today they all looked at her with friendly interest and began questioning her about her school and her grades and her piano lessons. Would she play something on the old piano in the parlor?

"She's not a performer, I'm afraid," Alma said. "She quit taking lessons this year."

"I'd rather appreciate music than make it," Joanie said, repeating the clever words she had used to convince her mother to let her stop.

Everyone laughed. Marie spooned ice cream into a bowl. No one in this family ever fixed desserts. They bought ice cream, which was her grandfather's favorite sweet.

"You look cute today, Joanie," her aunt said. She was herself a pretty woman, extra conscious of her appearance. "Is that a new skirt and bolero?" She fingered the material with an eye for its quality.

Uncle George's wife Bernice chimed in her approval. "Doesn't she look good in that color!" Bernice was an overdressed, overweight woman whose red hair was dyed, according to Alma. Joanie liked her, too.

The hours spent at the Lilleys were always that way, good natured commotion, disorganized activities, friendly remarks passed all around as if they were chocolates.

Driving home, Joanie thought about the differences between the two families. Her mother thought the Lilleys and their harum-scarum existence had directly contributed to poor uncle Paul's breakdown.

"They've never had any order or security. Meals any old time, clothes needing to be washed or mended or ironed. People running in and out however they pleased. It's enough to drive any one crazy."

Joanie wanted to ask why they all, including Daddy, weren't then at the County Home, but she guessed her mother didn't want an argument about the Lilleys' ways.

Christmas ordinarily would have been a repeat of the Thanksgiving celebration with the extra excitement of gift-giving, but this year was different. Grandpa Ekdahl died ten days before Christmas of a massive coronary thrombosis that killed him instantly. It happened on a Saturday night just as the Lilleys were beginning dinner. Joanie answered the phone and heard her uncle Ralph asking for her mother in such a strange, hollow voice she felt frightened.

To think of her grandfather dying like that shocked Joanie. Death and illness seemed strangers to that clan, with good health and long life the seeming order of the day. Joanie herself had had only minor childhood illnesses with the exception of strep throat when she was three. That necessitated a call from old Doc Swenson to paint her throat. She remembered being held by her mother and read to, a rare occurrence and one that she treasured. But as far as the Ekdahls and even the Lilleys were concerned, they seemed wondrously impervious to serious ailments.

She went to her grandfather's funeral, her first, with her parents the following Saturday at Our Savior Lutheran Church in Bethany. They sat directly behind her grandmother, her uncles Ralph and Roy, Lillith, and her little cousins. Joanie felt peculiar, as if she shouldn't look at the coffin on the catafalque in front of the altar rail.

She didn't hear a word the minister said, but at one point Ralph, silent Ralph, bent his head into his hands and shook with sobs. Nothing could have impressed her more. She and the others, as far as she could tell, were as dry in the eye as the stiff old body with the dry browned skin that had been Nels Ekdahl.

After the funeral and the trip in the painful cold to the burial site on a windy hill, everyone hurried back to the farmhouse for coffee and cake brought by her mother and the aunts along with subdued conversation. Grandma went upstairs for her nap and neighbors drifted in talking about matters that Joanie decided were not quite fitting. Shouldn't they have talked about her grandfather?

She continued to think about him the following week and how he had passed out of their lives so easily, so completely, his passing hardly noticed except for the slight, tearful convulsion of Uncle Ralph the day of the funeral. Christmas plans proceeded; Louise had come to the farm on Christmas Eve, and she and Ralph had cut a small fir to decorate. By the time the Lilleys arrived, packages were clumped around the base of the tree and the table was set for dinner. A large ham was being carefully whittled into slices by Helmar and placed on the huge platter around the kumla, grated potatoes cooked in ham broth.

After dinner, the men congregated in the living room while the women cleaned up the dishes. Joanie's cousins Jimmy and Caroline bundled up and went outside for a romp which Joanie declined. She wandered into the dining room and saw Geraldine, who had left Tony with the men today, sitting in grandpa's big wicker rocker by the low window overlooking the side garden. Joanie remembered Grandpa dozing there Thanksgiving, caught by a pale November sun as in a distant floodlight that exposed his weathered face. No sunlight streamed in today. Geraldine didn't see her approach, so Joanie announced herself.

"Hi, Geraldine. I wonder when we can open the presents."

Her cousin turned. No smile, but her voice was pleasant. "You know this bunch. They can't let themselves have any fun until all the work is done. Heaven forbid they leave a dirty dish or one thing out of order."

"I know. I don't think I'll be that way."

"Good. They'll make you as nutty as they are if you let them."

Joanie knew in some deep, hidden place what Geraldine meant. She wanted to know more. "Why are they like that?"

"Mainly because of the old man. At least, he was the worst in his heyday. He's not so bad now with no kids to boss around, but way back he was rigid as a post, no give in him." She took out a cigarette from the purse in her lap. "Believe me, I know. My mom dumped me here after her divorce--I was only five. Don't you remember I lived her for six years?"

"I was too little." Joanie pulled a dining room chair over and sat down. "Nobody told me your mom was divorced. You mean Helmar isn't your dad?"

Geraldine blew a mouthful of smoke above her head. "Nope. My dad is somewhere in California. We lost track of him. Anyhow, Mom didn't need a kid hanging around when she was working in Des Moines, so I got stuck here until she got married again."

"Didn't you like Grandpa?" Joanie pulled up a dining room chair beside the big rocker.

"Sure, I did, kid; you don't get it. He was the only one who really worried about me, so he made himself tough. He was a softie inside, but these Norwegians can't let anything get out. It has to explode from them. They worry they might slip up and show they actually have feelings. That's why I like Tony and his family so much. They at least let you know they love you." She cocked her head at Joanie. "Ever hear the word love mentioned around here?"

"No." It was true! Geraldine had said something marvelous and true. It was not her, then, that made her seem an unequal stranger with this family. She knew about emotions exploding, too. Sometimes her feelings ran so strongly in her she would have to cry or give her mother a hug. Alma would chide her. "Get control of yourself. Do you want to end up like poor Paul, raving?"

"Oh, yeah, I know about these Norwegians," Geraldine nodded sagely. "They used to have prayer meetings here when old Preacher Estrem was around. My God, did they ever howl then! They'd fall all over themselves confessing their sins."

"Grandpa did?" She couldn't imagine him in the throes of such fervor.

"He was the most emotional of them all. Haven't you ever seen him cry sometimes?"

"I've heard Mom say that Grandpa was tender-hearted and cried, but I never saw him." Her own eyes filled with tears that overflowed as she thought of her grandfather, bound into uncomfortable silence by something. What?

"Grandma hated it, though, the emotions pouring out at those meetings." Geraldine gave a small laugh. "She's a cold one, you know. I bet she never told one of her children she loved them. I know she never told my mom. But she wasn't the only Norwegian who couldn't express feelings. That was the way of it around here. Anyhow, Grandma started going to what was a new church down the road in Walden. Some neighbor began to pick her up on Sundays and, boy, did that cause a stir."

"Grandpa didn't like it?"

"They've never really got along since, it was that important to them. See what I mean? They got all wound up over religion, but they don't know what the hell to do with the people closest to them."

"I always wondered about Grandpa and Grandma having separate bedrooms. I guess that was the cause."

"I suppose so. They might have had another reason at first, but you're a little young to know about that stuff. At least with their religion they had an outlet. Without that you see these Norwegians will take it out in work or drink or worse things."

"Worse things? Like what?"

"I mean getting ossified, frozen up completely inside until only outsiders feel close to them. You watch out, kid, that it doesn't happen to you. Try to talk about it to your folks." She gave a snort of laughter. "I said, 'try' didn't I. Don't think you'll be successful what with all the wonderful training this bunch have had."

Geraldine stubbed out her cigarette and got up from the chair. "It looks like they're ready. Let's go see all the three dollar gifts." She elbowed Joanie. "That's another thing. They're all so damned careful. If anyone ever did anything foolish and extravagant, they'd clap them in the looney bin."

Joanie believed they would. Yet, Christmas proved to be exciting, even this year. Aunt Rose had drawn her name and gave her a bottle of Tigris perfume, a grown-up scent that thrilled her. Grandpa, though not mentioned by anyone, seemed to be present in spirit, quietly approving the sedate celebration that marked all their big occasions.

Chapter 4

Encounters

By the end of eighth grade, Joanie had begun to feel quite grown up. She bought her own clothes and made several bad mistakes. She called herself Joan and her parents Mother and Father instead of Mom and Daddy. The junior high she attended was huge by grade school standards--over eight hundred--and considered "rough," so her education consisted of more than English, social studies, and math.

She went to school for the first time with different sorts of people. Blacks, for instance, whom she viewed as an almost frightening oddity. They spoke in excited tones with throaty voices, altogether strange to her. Black or white, many of the boys and girls in the school seemed crude and unpleasant. From the looks they gave her, she must have seemed prissy and stuck up to them. She was aware of this surface perception. She was too neat and prim, she worked at her studies, and she was treated by her teachers like a favored grandchild--a deadly combination for general popularity.

She learned that these boys did disgusting things. At her locker she had to stand upright and face the hallway when a group of them was approaching her. If she stood with her back to them one or another would reach between her legs to check for a Kotex. In the little used back hallways at the ends of the buildings, the walls were decorated in lipsticked or inked designs of enormous penises inscribed, "Eat me." Vulgar, she thought, without knowing exactly what was meant by the phrase. "Fuck you," turned up everywhere, on desks, doorways, walls, and the lips of some of the worst of these students. She knew what that meant, though. Her friends and she had talked about it, and once, she read the word in a poem by Robert Burns in a book that she'd found in the downtown library. She knew nice people didn't use the word, but she assumed it was acceptable in the old days.

The summer before ninth grade, she and her little clique of friends, Eileen, Marilyn, and Nancy, talked constantly about who among them might be asked for a date first. No boys had even hinted so far, and they were becoming discouraged. The girls had gotten together as friends in the seventh grade as Nancy and Marilyn had come from a different grade school.

The four had gravitated toward one another, feeling the safety and comfort of belonging. As a group they had many things in common, and they believed themselves almost perfect in behavior and appearance, which meant they felt superior by not standing out. Joan had given up stealing cigarette butts and smoking them in her little pipe. She took to drinking lemon phosphates and talked knowingly about perfumes.

Friends who had come up through the ranks with them were suddenly screened out. Joan had tried to include some old friends, but failed. She herself got in trouble when in some emotional heat she had described the Quartet as "boring snots." They punished her in silence until she could stand it no longer and wrote notes of apology pinned to stuffed animals. They forgave her readily and welcomed her back.

Joan's friend and neighbor, LeeAnn, had taken up with a different crowd, one that didn't mind her being a gawky coat rack of a girl draped in her mother's hand-me-downs and her parents' near fanatical religious ideas. Joan knew it was hopeless to try and bring LeeAnn into the Quartet, but she still saw her neighbor for occasional games of monopoly and even went with her to church sometimes. The Norwegian Lutheran Church (which now went by a less ethnic name) continued to intrigue Joan, so much so that she was bothered by it and so decided not to go back.

The boy problem was bothering them all. The only bright spot was the Rainbow Girls dance coming up in October. Anyone invited by a Rainbow Girl could go, which gave the girls an opportunity to ask the boys out. This was scary, too, but maybe that would open the floodgates of dating.

Towards the end of September, Joan was walking into the cafeteria when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She wheeled around to see Lawrence Brown, a tall, chocolate-colored boy.

"Hey, Joan, Harry Wilson likes you."

"Go away." She had been plagued by the two boys since the spring before.

"No. He wants to go out with you. See him?" At the end of the hall, Harry waited, staring at Joan hopefully.

Joan turned away without answering. Harry Wilson was a mulatto she had been aware of since entering junior high. He was slender and near her own height of 5 feet 4 inches. His skin was an odd shade of light tan with matching kinky tan hair. His eyes were blue and he had regular features.

Joan was repulsed by him and his two sisters who were in the grades before and after hers. She had seen Harry's parents at Open House and they repulsed her even more while at the same time they fascinated her. His father was smaller than Harry and slightly darker in skin tone, but his features, much resembling Harry's, were more obviously Negroid. Harry's mother was a fat white woman who looked as if she could beat up on her husband.

The Wilson's were from the Bottoms, a swampy, derelict area under the viaduct leading out of Des Moines to the south. Beyond the railroad yard, tiny cardboard-like houses crowded together in a soup of dust or mud, depending on the weather. There was not a blade of grass and even the trees had a bizarre, crippled look from Draconian pruning by the utility companies or no pruning at all.

Joan had driven past the Bottoms many times, but last Thanksgiving she had gone with the Methodist Youth Fellowship to take groceries to some families who lived there. She went with another girl to the door of a sad, dirty little house and was invited inside by the young mother. Two little boys with spikey hair and runny noses played on the linoleum. The room smelled horribly of coal oil from the blazing stove in the corner. Joan had smelled the same thing on some of her classmates. She smiled at the woman and quaked with pity and could hardly wait to leave.

"How can people live like that?" she had asked her mother later.

"There've been a few big shots in Des Moines who've come from the Bottoms." She named some people Joan had never heard of but who had important jobs.

"Still," Alma went on, "I don't have much time for them if they're dirty. Soap doesn't cost that much!"

"Maybe some don't have washing machines."

"Boy, that wouldn't bother me! I'd scrub on a washboard until my hands were raw to keep my family clean."

Harry Wilson wasn't exactly one of the dirty ones, but he didn't seem quite clean either. An even worse result of his interest in her came later that week. Joan, walking alone in the hall, saw the girl approaching her, staring so intently that Joan's attention was arrested. She didn't know the girl, one of the faceless, wordless types that populated her classes. She abruptly cut in front of Joan, halting her progress. Joan saw a tall, whey-faced girl with nondescript features and half-peroxide, half-dishwater hair. Her name, she remembered, was Sheila.

"You leave my boyfriend alone, hear!"

Joan stared, uncomprehending. What had she to do with this girl's friends? "What are you talking about?"

"Harry Wilson, you know. Leave him alone! He's mine," she snarled, exposing whitish gums.

"He's not my boyfriend!" Joan tried to move around her, but Sheila grabbed her arm.

"I'm waiting for you after school. I'll teach you not to mess with my boyfriend." She brandished her fist at Joan's face and then swung on down the hall, leaving Joan speechless.

She mentioned the incident to no one, wondering how she was to handle what might be a dangerous, certainly embarrassing encounter. The girl actually was planning on beating her up! Joan decided to wait fifteen minutes or so until the school cleared out. If she stood at the back entrance to the school, she could see across the wide playground to a bus stop. As the bus waited there to load and unload, she could run madly to the stop nearer the school, a mere half-block away. Maybe she could outrun Sheila.

But the girl was hidden behind a house that Joan had to pass as she sped down the sidewalk toward the bus stop. Sheila ran out, yelling and cursing. Joan reached the corner first, even before the bus and turned to face her pursuer.

"I don't know why you're acting like this. I don't want anything to do with either Harry or you. You tell him to leave me alone." Her voice was strong though she shook inside as if her bones were tissue paper.

Sheila glared at her but was silent. She allowed Joan to clamber aboard the bus. At the window, Joan saw her walk off docilely. Joan's excitement slowly ebbed as she realized she had won some sort of victory over the girl.

As she reflected on Harry's attentions and their effects, she became roused to deep anger and a perplexing sense of shame. What right did he have--someone so obviously different from her in every way--to insult her with his cowardly pleading? He was not smart in class, his family obviously were low types, so how could he possibly think she was the sort to ever like him? Was it something in herself, her appearance, her friendliness that gave a mistaken impression? She wished Harry Wilson and Lawrence Brown with his long, pointing finger off the face of the earth.

Chapter 5

The Dance

"No," Joan stammered, "I haven't asked anybody yet. Why?" She looked at Jerry and Mike, who had caught her outside the room after English.

They looked at each other and laughed. Except that they were like Mutt and Jeff, they might have been twins, highly competitive ones at that. They were co-captains of the football team and co-presidents of the student council; they even were dressed somewhat alike: both wore dark blue jeans, Jerry with a white dress shirt, Mike with a blue one, and penny loafers. Now they seemed to think they could both get asked to go to the dance with Joan.

"Either of us would like to go with you," Jerry said. He was the shorter and stockier of the two, blondish and gray-eyed with an ageless, sophisticated look about him. He pursed his mouth flirtatiously and gave her a deep look.

"Oh, good." She could hardly make up her mind in the hallway. "But that puts me in a pickle. I didn't have anybody else in mind, but how can I choose between you? The other one might get mad."

They both protested. "Go ahead," said Mike, "Choose."

On one hand she was flattered. These two were the most popular boys in school, and though she didn't have a crush on them, either one as her date would be considered a prize. On the other hand she was a teensy bit annoyed. What nerve to think they could manipulate her to take one or the other to the dance. Did they ever themselves ask girls out for dates? Suddenly, she knew they didn't. She suspected they had been asked by some girls they didn't care much about and, putting them off, had chosen her to get at least one of them out of it.

"O.K, you guys," she demanded. "What's going on? I think you're both swell to want to go with me, but I'm suspicious. Who else asked you to go to the dance?"

She was right. They admitted they had delayed responding to the first invitations, hoping to get dates instead with her and Eileen.

"Would you believe that awful Annie Bissell actually asked me," Gerry said with disbelief in his voice.

Joan shook her head sympathetically, but she felt a little sick. Poor Annie! She was like everyone else in her desires, but the possibility of fulfillment was almost nil. She was merely an object of pity or scorn.

She sighed and thought about going to the dance with either of the two boys. She didn't have anyone better in mind. She wished she did. Life was more exciting with a real boyfriend, but she was convinced she'd have to wait until she got to high school next fall where she'd have more to choose from.

"Eeny, meeny, miney, mo," she said, "catch a nigger by the toe. . . . O-u-t spells out!" And with that her finger stayed pointed at Jerry. "I guess you're it."

"Yeah," he said, tucking her arm under his and masterfully guiding her down the hall. "Shove off, pal." He turned his back on Mike. Joan gave Mike an apologetic smile.

"My father can drive us there, Jerry, and if we double with Eileen and Mike, her dad could probably bring us back."

She had made plans for her father without asking, something Eileen had not dared to do. Mr. Hoffman was always grumpy when he had to take his turn driving the girls around. He drove a truck for the postal service and Joan guessed he was tired of driving by the time he got home. Her own father looked at any opportunity to drive his car as a lark, an excuse to preen himself behind the wheel of his gleaming, well oiled machine.

Every work day morning and evening he took the bus to his work at the bank, leaving the car for Alma to drive. After he got home and washed his hands and face and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and removed his tie, he would step into the garage and examine the car for specks of dirt which he would polish off with a soft cloth.

Joan and her mother laughed at his particular attentions to his car, but since Joan's social life had increased, his willingness to drive her and her friends had been a blessing. Still, she decided she'd better ask him to reserve the early part of the evening to drive them all to the dance, now only two weeks away.

Saturday morning after repeated calls from her mother to get up so she could do her part in the hated housecleaning, Joan went downstairs and ate a light breakfast, changed into jeans, and went looking for her father before she dusted the furniture.

Both her parents were outside, busy with storm windows. October 15 was some sort of deadline for them when they would cart the storms from the garage, wash them again (they had been washed before being put away in the spring), and after removing the screen windows, hang them.

The house was a two-story, white frame, built two years after her grandfather's 1915 four-square, brick farm house that sat like an emperor on the prairie. Although of the same era, the Lilleys' was a city house, narrow and deep because of the lot. If Joan had wanted to, she could have spit from the dining room window into old Mrs. Larsen's kitchen window eight feet away.

Joan found her father on a ladder working on a second story bedroom window. Her mother was wiping a window dry, the last, she said, that needed washing. The pungent odor of vinegar stung Joan's nostrils and blended with that of burning leaves from neighbors' fires.

"Hold the ladder for Dad when he comes down, will you, Joanie?" her mother asked. "I'm going in the house for a minute."

Joan gripped the ladder tightly as her father backed down carrying the screen window. This worried her. What would she do if the ladder began slipping? She'd never be strong enough to hold it and her father from tumbling down. She shuddered and gripped the rails even tighter.

"Whew," her father puffed as he reached the ground. "What a job!"

"Father," Joan began, following him to the stack of storms. He selected one, and noticing the mitered corners had slipped apart took out a hammer from his belt, "could I ask you something?"

"What's that?" he said absently. He tapped carefully, but the corners wouldn't come together. He tapped harder; his hammer slipped off the wood and struck the glass, shattering the large pane.

"Goddammit!"

"Daddy!" Joan was shocked. She had never heard him utter a curse word in her life. In an instant realization, she saw him with his friends at all those bowling alleys, handball and basketball courts, swearing and cursing, his language fearful whenever he was away from her mother.

He paid no attention to her exclamation, but threw the offending hammer aside. "Cats! Now I'll have to go get some glass." He looked at her. "What do you want," he said brusquely.

"Father," she began again, "Eileen and I are taking dates to the Rainbow Girls Dance two weeks from today. If Eileen's dad brings us home, will you take us? I think Jerry and Mike can get to our houses on their own."

"I suppose so," he said in a kinder voice. "In two weeks, you say?" He gave her a teasing smile. "Is this the first time you've gone out on a date?"

He paid little attention to her comings and goings, believing kids would do better if they were left alone. He hardly ever raised his voice to his daughter, nor did he touch her in anger. "At my home," he would tell Alma, "no one bothered much about us and we did all right." But Joan noticed her mother tightened her lips. Mostly, Joan was relieved she had only her mother's eagle eye on her, but sometimes she resented father's lack of attention.

"Uh-huh, this is my first date, but it's not a real date. I mean, the girls asked the boys." He nodded, absorbed in carefully removing pieces of glass and placing them on a newspaper.

As she went back to the house, her concern about his swear words lingered. She cast a glance over her shoulder at him, his well-shaped arms holding the window, his graying, wavy hair hanging over his wet forehead from an off-center part. He seemed different to her now, more interesting really. Funny. She hardly noticed the bad language at school, but her own father saying it had given her a terrible turn. She wondered what else he did and thought away from her mother.

She was ready in plenty of time. Louise had come over to admire her dress and see her off. She and Alma sat in the living room while Joan turned in circles, the wide tulle skirt billowing around her. Her mother had disappointed her somewhat by picking out her formal while Joan was at school.

"I stopped by the French Room at David's to see what was on their sale rack and found this one. Don't you think it's pretty?"

She had had to admit it was--a strapless pale orchid over white taffeta. It had a matching cape edged in orchid lace that just covered her shoulders.

"I think I'll wear it without the cape."

Alma frowned. "I don't think you should. You're too young to wear a strapless gown."

"Oh, Mother, no!"

But here she was, wearing the cape, looking as nice as anyone could look with covered shoulders.

"Boy oh boy," cried Louise in her false, joking voice. "Will you look at the beauty queen!"

"Very nice," said Alma, nodding. "I think it's such a pretty color."

"Uhm, well, well. Will you look at that," said Carl Lilley, with a smiley, proud look on his face. He had just come into the room from backing the car out of the garage.

It all fell rather flatly on her ears. Maybe it would have helped if someone had touched her or told her she looked beautiful. She wasn't sure she had worn the right color lipstick. She had dabbed on mascara with a tiny wet brush but her sparse Norwegian eyelashes still weren't full. Her hair was shiny and neatly flipped up, but it was the same hair-do she wore every day. Even the pearl earrings her mother loaned her hadn't quite made the difference.

It was the cape.

Gerry came a few minutes after 8:00 wearing a light beige suit; dark would have been better, Joan thought. When she let him in, she was happy to see his eyes widen in appreciation for her more glamorous look. He handed her the corsage box and she opened it eagerly. Horrors! He had chosen red and white carnations to go with her orchid dress. She had done as Emily Post had suggested and told him the color of her dress rather than the color flowers she preferred. Never again! She turned away quickly and held the flowers out to her mother and aunt, making a face and saying, "Aren't they pretty flowers?"

"Aren't they, though," said Alma.

"Why don't you put them on your purse," said Louise with a wink. "That way they won't get crushed when you dance." She got up to help fasten the flowers to the black faille purse.

Gerry was only two inches taller than Joan, so she wore black suede ballerina flats. Her mother had loaned her a black velvet cloak, worn only twice in twenty years. It made her feel very elegant as she swept out to the car.

They picked up Eileen and Mike who sat in the back seat. Joan was squeezed between her father and Gerry in the front. But it only took a few minutes to get to the Miramar Ballroom and her full skirt with the starched crinoline sprang back into shape as if it were a living thing. She had passed the Miramar many times when she went with her father to the bowling alley on Saturdays or on the bus to go shopping downtown. It had a large marquee that announced in neon parrot colors of orange and green and purple special dances or the current band that was playing.

Inside, the girls removed their coats and the boys took them to be checked. Joan looked around. A low wall divided the dance floor from the foyer; a hallway to the right led to tables. The place smelled like stale smoke and flowers. Colored lights edged the ballroom ceiling, which gave a room a dreamlike quality. The couples headed toward the tables to find an empty place to sit.

The band was playing "Mood Indigo," and many couples were already on the floor. Joan tapped her hand on the table and hummed. Other friends saw them and came over, but she didn't see Nancy or Marilyn and their dates yet.

"Wanna dance?" Gerry said, standing and bowing slightly in mock politeness.

On the dance floor, Gerry pressed his cheek to hers. She was assailed by strong whiff of Old Spice. She herself was wearing Tigress. They danced in a semi-crouching position so their stomachs wouldn't touch. She could follow him pretty well. For weeks, the Quartet had been practicing--taking turns leading--the two-step, the rumba, and even the bop, a sedate version of jitterbugging. Gerry did an uninspired two-step, but Joan was pleased to find his rhythm was good.

They finished the dance and after Gerry seated her, he and Mike went off in search of soft drinks, available for ten cents in small glasses. Joan compared notes with Eileen, who wore a pale plaid taffeta that tied over her shoulders with tiny straps. It suited her tawny blondness and angular features. Joan looked down at the lace edges of her cape and debated. Should she remove it? She wanted to, but maybe Mother was right. Was it tasteless and improper for an almost fifteen-year-old girl to wear a strapless gown? She left it on.

The evening seemed to melt away with "Blue Moon," and "I Wish I Didn't Love You So." Joan was entranced by the sensation of moving to such romantic music among the other dancing couples. They might have been in a movie. During "Embraceable You," Joan saw her neighbor Ruth Fagan near the bandstand. She and her partner were watching the singer who clutched the mike with her beringed fingers and looked around at the dancers in a personal way. She was quite old, Joan saw, maybe thirty-five.

"Let's get nearer the bandstand," she suggested. "I see someone I know."

When they approached the other couple, Joan caught the eye of Ruth's date, who turned his head just as she and Gerry came up beside them. He gave her a smile. Joan's heart lurched as she recognized the friendly grey eyes, the nice features--the nose a little longer now, but the same brown hair that curled around his ears, unfashionably long. She had not forgotten Rod Allison, but she had never expected to see him again. He looked handsome and very grown up in his navy suit with a maroon satin tie.

"Joan," cried Ruth, catching sight of her. "Hi! I didn't know you were going to this dance." Ruth's small face with the close set eyes looked almost pretty. In a rush of comprehension, Joan understood that Rod and Ruth were Catholics together, had graduated from "Transfig" and were in the Catholic high schools, one for the girls and one for the boys. It also occurred to her that it had been Ruth who arranged their date for the dance, not Rod. She wondered if this had been their only date. They all stood weaving in time to the music while introductions were awkwardly performed. Joan and Rod acted as if they had never before seen one another, but his lifted eyebrow told her he remembered.

"So how do you and Ruth know each other?" he asked her.

"We're neighbors. I live only a few houses down the block."

Then he said, as if the others were not there, "How've you been?"

"Fine. How about you?" She saw that he didn't shy away from her direct look the way most boys did, but crinkled his eyes in a kind of friendly pursuit of her own like Peter Lawford did to his co-stars in movies. Joan loved Peter Lawford.

"Hey," Ruth said. "Do you guys know each other?"

They both laughed and looked away. "Not really," said Joan. "We met in the middle of the street once a long time ago."

"You were ready to fight us, I think." Rod was grinning. Ruth tugged at his arm. "Let's dance. That's why we're here. We'll be seeing you." He piloted her off, dancing without regard for the beat. But then he turned Ruth around quickly so he could give Joan another smile.

Oh, she wished she'd taken off that darned cape!

Chapter 6

The Adventure

"Why won't Geraldine be there?"

"She's on her honeymoon, that's why." Joan's mother didn't look at her daughter in the back seat of the car but stared straight ahead. They were on their way to the farm for Thanksgiving dinner.

"Guy O'Friday!" Carl Lilley exclaimed. "That's the berries, her marrying that dago. Eloped, did Rose say?"

"No, they got married by a Catholic priest, but no one was invited except the parents." Alma looked at Carl meaningfully. "I can guess why."

"Why?" asked Joan.

"Oh, nothing."

"Tell, me, Mother. I'm not a kid."

"I expect there's going to be a baby soon."

"Really?" Joan thought a moment. Geraldine with a baby and Tony as the father. They did that together! He was unappealing to her, but Geraldine was no prize herself, sharp and mean.

"Have you ever been in a Catholic church?" Joan asked her parents.

"Oh, sure," her mother nodded. "When Herb Shroeder's daughter got married, Dad and I went to the wedding."

"Who's that?"

"He works at the bank with Dad."

"And what about the church," Joan persisted. "What was it like, the service, I mean?"

"A lot of mumbo-jumbo from the priest." Alma then gave a short laugh. "I'll never forget. It was a hot summer day. You were a baby and our old neighbor, Mrs. Runyon, took care of you. I had been bleaching out some clothes by hand, and then I got ready to go to the wedding. Well, I wore my white cotton gloves, but the church was so hot I took them off. All of a sudden I started to smell bleach. It got stronger and stronger. My hands were sweating, you see." She laughed again, sounding embarrassed at the memory.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing I could do. The bleach was even on my gloves. I guess it had come out of my pores. I wonder what the people next to me thought."

"But the service, was it nice?"

"The church was the cathedral across town. Big, big place. Very elaborate carvings. And the priest wore lace and I don't know what; it was different." She turned to Carl. "I bet Geraldine had to promise to bring the child up Catholic."

"Oh, sure. They make you do it."

"Promise?" asked Joan. "Why do they do that?"

"So they'll have plenty of new little Catholics for their church, that's why." Alma sounded almost angry.

Joan was silent about Geraldine and the Catholics for the rest of the way to the farm.

After the usual heavy meal, the house creaked a bit with Joan's grandmother's nap-seeking footsteps and upholstery springs as people settled into comfortable semi-reclining positions. Joan read The Wallace Farmer and then wandered out to the kitchen where her mother and aunts sat gossiping with the punch line in Norwegian, which would make them hoot with laughter. Joan went back into the living room and found her father in a deep armchair with his eyes closed.

"Could I practice shifting and backing up, Father? There's a lot of room out by the barns." Joan had been itching to drive and practiced in small ways--like up and down the driveway at home--every chance she got.

Her father slowly opened his eyes and asked her to repeat herself. He nodded and handed her the keys. "Don't hit the windmill," he joked.

She put on her red wool coat and beret and without announcing her intentions to the women slipped out the back door. The car had a stick shift, which required coordination of hand and foot, a skill she hadn't quite mastered. Yet, after several jerky tries, she could pull out from a dead stop, going straight ahead, and shift smoothly into second. She couldn't really shift higher than that because the barnyard wasn't big enough to get up any more speed.

She eyed the gate and the empty farm road. Why not? She hadn't seen a car since she had been practicing. The road was long and straight and perfect for shifting. She could go as far as the crossroad and then turn around and come back. She thought the crossroad might be about a mile or so down the road. It shouldn't take more than five minutes to get there and back. No one would even miss her.

The first snowfall of the year had come the week before, and although most of the snow had melted, today was colder, and the snow still lay in dirty frozen clumps along the narrow shoulder and in the embankments. Joan had forgotten to ask her father how to turn on the heater--he always took care of things like that, and she could see her breath as she pulled onto the road with a lurch. She couldn't yet turn and shift at the same time. She killed the engine in the middle of the road, but she quickly got it restarted and set off.

The oiled road stretched out before her as long and straight as the furrows that surrounded it. It seemed much longer and straighter and emptier than she had noticed before. She drove on, shifting into third gear, her speed now up to forty miles per hour. She should be coming to the crossroad soon. She went farther. Where was it? The car seemed to be carrying her against her will into new and dangerous territory. Panic moved inside her like small wild creature and she struggled to subdue it.

She knew she had to turn around soon. The family would miss her and start checking on her. She slowed the car. There were no houses with convenient driveways to turn into. She would just have to turn in the middle of the road. The first part was easy; the car curved across the road in a smooth arc. But she wasn't able to turn it completely to face the other direction. She would have to back up. She killed the engine and after she heard the reassuring roar, tried to "cramp" the wheel as her father called it, but she was on the shoulder now, heading into the deep embankment. She stomped on the brakes and killed the engine, then quickly restarted it, but she found her foot was shaking so badly she couldn't depress the clutch. The car jerked forward, nose down, sliding away from her control. Now her other foot was shaking and she couldn't keep an even pressure on the gas pedal. She needed to back up but she couldn't. Wheels spun in the slippery snow, but the car didn't move. The engine died again and she sobbed.

Outside the car in the cold, she began to walk toward her grandparents' farm. How far away it seemed. But before she had gone one hundred yards, she heard a car approaching from behind. She turned with relief and watched it come closer. The black pickup truck slowed and then stopped beside her. A lone man rolled down the window and offered her a ride.

"Looks like you got car trouble. Sorry I can't help with the car," he said cheerfully as she climbed in. "I'm not from around here and I've got to get on back home. You live around here?" He gave Joan a look that traveled from the top of her beret down to her bare legs sticking from beneath the coat. He was heavy set and round-faced with dark, slicked-back hair. Joan noticed his hands on the wheels were so hairy they looked like fur gloves.

"I'm from Des Moines. We're at my grandparents' just down the road for Thanksgiving dinner. I was out practicing how to drive and got stuck. My dad and uncles can get the car out, though."

He nodded and looked at her again. "You're sure a pretty little thing to be out alone. I bet you have a boyfriend."

Joan didn't like the remark though his tone was friendly. She shook her head and then looked out the window at the empty road ahead. "There," she cried, pointing ahead, "that's my grandfather's place. See the red roof?"

The man grunted. "I meet lots of girls like you in my work. I bet you can't guess what I do?"

Joan didn't look at him, but she politely said, "What's that?"

"Telephone installer. I have to go inside houses and connect the phones when people move in or out or want the phone in a different place. You'd be surprised how many lonely women there are out there." His voice sounded furry, too, like his hands.

The truck was not slowing as the farm house grew nearer. Joan called out, "The drive is just there! You missed it!"

"Well, I'll just have to turn around. Let's see, where can I turn?"

Joan looked ahead desperately. They passed a farm on the other side of the road, but the man didn't stop to turn into the drive. On they went down the road. Joan wondered if she would be killed if she opened the door and threw herself out.

"Here's a place to turn around," he said, slowing and turning into a lane between two fields. Joan was too tense to feel relief. Somehow, she wasn't surprised that instead of stopping, he proceeded down the lane, getting farther away from the road.

"Please turn around now," Joan pleaded. "They'll be out looking for me."

The man stomped on the brakes. The impact threw Joan forward but he caught her by the arm and roughly drew her toward him, his big face looming closer to her own. He was fumbling with the zipper on his pants. "I'll show you what the women want. I bet you'd like to see a man's dick."

She couldn't help but look at the white worm-like thing. A fury rose inside her and she pushed at his face as hard as she could, forcing his head backwards. She hit him again in the face, aiming for his eyes, and he loosened his grip on her. She yanked at the door handle and managed to get the door open. The step was deeper than any car's and she lost her footing, tumbling onto the hard earth. Behind her the man was saying, "I'm not going to hurt you." As she scrambled to her feet, she heard the truck door slam.

Ahead of her were rough fields of cornstalks broken and smashed by the cornpicker. The road was to her right far down the lane. In a split second she had made her choice and ran into the fields. The road would be worse for her. The truck could easily follow her there. She believed she could outrun this heavy man.

She reached a wire fence sooner than she could think. Not barbed wire, thank heavens. She threw herself over the top and landed on her side, but there was no pain. Only one more long field and she'd be at her grandfather's barns and into the farmyard. Stalks had torn her legs; she slipped in some patches of crusty snow. If there were footsteps behind her she didn't hear them. She ran on, given strength by her panic and horror. Only one more fence behind the pig barn and she would be inside the farmyard.

She hung onto the metal post, panting. Now in the safety of the familiar territory, she relaxed, even allowing herself a look behind her. The fields were empty, no man or truck to be seen. She pushed herself over the last fence and began walking, but her legs gave out and she fell to her knees. Ahead, she saw people standing on the back stoop and in the yard. Her uncle Roy's battered car came streaking through the driveway, Joan's father sitting beside her uncle in the front seat.

Her cousin Jimmy was the first to reach her. "You're in trouble, Joan," he said with satisfaction. He was large for his twelve years and could easily have lifted her to her feet, but he only looked at her. Alma reached her next and grasped her from behind.

"Where on earth have you been? Where's the car?"

Joan burst into tears and shook her head wordlessly.

"Come on, let's go. Hush, hush."

In the house, Joan was calmer and told about the car getting stuck in the road, the lift from the stranger who tried to scare her. She did not tell them about taking his thing out of his pants. The others listened with amused interest.

"Boy, does that all sound familiar," yelled Louise, over the others' voices. "I remember taking Pa's car when I was about thirteen. Do you remember that, Al?" she asked Joan's mother, who laughed.

"Yes, but you got it back in good enough time. No one had to go out looking for you."

"That's a kid for you," said Rose, laughing in Joan's face. "They all have to try out the car sooner or later."

Joan's father was less amused. "For pete's sake! I couldn't imagine where you'd gone. Don't ever do that again!" His expression was very sober. Joan very nearly started crying again, but she controlled herself.

"I won't, Daddy, I promise." She went into the washroom to clean her hands and face. The Lilleys left soon after and nothing more was said about the incident. Joan wished she could have explained about the man, but she knew her mother wouldn't want to hear it.

Chapter 7

Romance and Life

Joan switched on the radio on her bedside table and twirled the dial to find the station she was seeking. The radio emitted screeches and whines and Joan made a face. She had gotten it for her birthday last year and it continued to be a disappointment. Aqua plastic, it looked cheap and was cheap. Her mother had typically found the "best deal," this time at Monkey Ward's, no, Montgomery Ward's. Joan despised that corny name that her parents always used and tried not to even think it.

She lay back on her pillow and sank into a state somewhere between intense listening and a trance. She heard the familiar theme, "Neopolitan Nights" as Mr. First Nighter entered the "little theatre off Times Square" and was ushered to his seat. Joan didn't care what play was to be presented, she loved everything about the production, including the wonderful voices of the weekly stars, Barbara Luddy and Olen Soule.

Joan had seen a few live plays with professional companies. For free passes, Carl LIlley ushered at the KRNT Theater with its blue-domed, star-spangled ceiling where twice a year the Chicago road company did one-night engagements of Broadway musicals. Alma was not interested in going to the shows, so Joan got in on her mother's free pass. Joan had been entranced by South Pacific

and Kiss Me Kate but less enthused about Brigadoon and Oklahoma. But those plays, as fun to see, as musically rich as they were, didn't compare to First Nighter, which lived larger than life in her head. After all, when she went with her father, she was still at the KRNT Theater in Des Moines. But absorbed in the radio production, she was transported to New York, on the arm of Mr. First Nighter.

After the program, she picked up a novel from the stack of library books by her bed and settled back to read herself to sleep. By doing this, she found she had fewer of the waking nightmares that had occasionally assaulted her for the last four months. Otherwise, her mind active, as she began to drift off, she would find herself running through the cornfield, only this time the man with the furry hands was right behind her. When he was about to reach her, she would jerk awake to full consciousness and an overwhelming feeling of relief.

She believed she had had a close call, and she resolved to be warier in the future. Not again would she be caught off guard. She readjusted the heavy book and began reading about Scarlet O'Hara's first meeting with Rhett Butler, soothing herself by entering another world, dangerous too, but infinitely more graceful and wondrous. How she loved books, any books. She read hungrily, without discrimination, yet understanding that some books, like people, were better than others. She didn't quite know why, or if she thought she did, she didn't quite trust her reasons.

It would have been good to talk over this and other things with someone. Her friends were impatient if she tried to talk about anything other than clothes or boys or parties. Not that she didn't like to talk about those things too, but she sometimes wanted to express those secret, twisting questions that caused her discomfort. Her mother only wanted to speculate about practical matters like if the meat loaf would stretch for five people.

Joan wanted a Wise Woman who allowed unthinkable questions and gave calm answers or asked for more thoughts on the subject. Some people seemed to have wise and understanding grandmothers, but Grandma Ekdahl was hardly awake to others, so absorbed was she in her Bible and the devotional pamphlets scattered around the house. Grandma Lilley was warm and loving, but her mind seemed a bit rumpled and couldn't settle down for serious conversation. Her aunt Louise might have been a possibility, but Louise had a sliver of cruelty that gave her some small pleasure. Joan knew she was not to be completely trusted.

Louise was bringing her "boyfriend" to dinner the next evening. He was in his forties, Alma said, and worked for a film distributor. Joan was curious about him. Louise was old, too, not as much as forty but close. She was tall and brown-haired, with a livelier expression on her face than Alma's, which wore a perpetual look of anxiety, creasing the space between her brows into odd crosshatchings. This angered Joan; she wished her mother wouldn't worry so much.

But Louise's face was still smooth except for the laugh crinkles around her eyes. At the table during dinner, she laughed a good deal except when Joan asked Martin (that was Louise's friend's name) if he was a bachelor. It seemed a reasonable question. She knew that Helmar had been a widower before Rose married him. But Louise's expression stiffened and her neck grew longer with the look she shot her niece.

"Well, what else, Miss?" she answered for him. "Do you think I'd go out with a married man?"

Martin just chuckled. He was a small man who barely reached Louise's ear. He had a rim of dark hair around his head with a wisp on top, and he wore gold-rimmed glasses. He repeatedly said, "True, how true," and called Joan "Kid." Joan wondered what forces brought these two together.

Once when Joan had asked her mother why she had married her father, Alma had said shortly, "Purely physical!" That wasn't what Joan had wanted to hear, but it gave her a new understanding about her parents. Looking at Martin, she couldn't believe that was the case here. Joan's father, now, was handsome even with his prominent nose and discolored teeth ("Too much well water," he'd said). He sat at the end of the table, cracking jokes about the food, asking Martin about his business, his wavy hair combed to perfection, its premature silver matching his light grey suit.

Carl's problem, said Alma to her sisters, was that he cared more about games and such than he did about getting ahead and that he'd always be a bookkeeper in that old bank. Joan knew that she, unlike Alma, would be able to inspire a man to grasp the stars for her. She despaired for her family as she looked around the table. These people had no idea what could be gotten from life. Joan didn't either, but she suspected she'd find out if she kept the faith and believed more than this was possible.

Before Martin left, he went out to his car and brought in an envelope of eight by ten glossies of MGM stars, including Peter Lawford, and gave them to Joan. She was thrilled.

The following Saturday, Joan set off to walk the three blocks to the drugstore to pick up a bottle of Touch and Glo. The March day was fine, a cold wind as usual but sunny. She had asked Eileen to walk with her, but her friend was going shopping for Easter clothes with her mother, who still supervised her purchases. Joan had already bought her dress, a cocoa brown coat dress with a wide, white pique shawl collar. She hoped it would not be too cold to wear alone without a heavier coat. She would also wear a straw sailor with brown and white ribbons and, most exciting of all, her first pair of high heels.

As she mused about her clothes, she was surprised by Ruth Fagan's greeting from across the street. "Hey, Joan! Where y'going?"

"Oh, hi." She crossed the street. Ruth seemed to be on her way somewhere with her brother Danny, who was climbing into his rattle-trap car. "I'm just going up to Springer's for some makeup."

"We'll give you a ride. We're going that way."

Joan squeezed into the small back seat. The car smelled of basketball shoes and cigarette smoke, which became stronger as Danny and Ruth lit up. Ruth offered her a cigarette.

"No, thanks." The smoke smelled good, but Ruth looked cheap blowing smoke from her small mouth and flicking ashes out the window vent.

"We never seem to see each other," Ruth said. "I guess the dance was the last time."

"Right." Joan swallowed. "That guy you were with, Rod, do you date all the time?"

Ruth gave a bark of laughter. "I wish! He's a monk or something. He doesn't date anyone."

"Rod Allison?" said Danny. "Naw, he's in sports--track, football, basketball. He's pretty good, too. I like his car. It's an Austin Healy, really keen. Sometimes I help him fix it. Drive 'em once and those English cars fall apart."

"They're rich," said Ruth. "His dad's an osteopath--you know, one of those funny doctors who don't give out medicine. But they must be rich 'cause they moved across town a couple of years ago and live in a rich section."

Joan's curiosity about Rod Allison was more than satisfied. He was instantly consigned to her catalogue of unknowable, unreal men--Peter Lawford, Rhett Butler, and Olen Soule.

Chapter 8

Outward and Visible Signs

The church was so crowded Easter Sunday people had to be seated in the aisles on folding chairs. Joan and her parents had gone early, her father wanting a good parking spot. After chatting with others in the vestibule, they found a pew on the right side down front near the choir. Joan looked around through a field of flowered hats and saw a friend, who waved. Alma was self-conscious, wearing a new outfit for the occasion, a black and white checked suit with a long straight skirt. Joan had insisted her mother not hem it up as she had most of her clothes since the war. "But I don't look good in the 'new look'," she'd protested. Over her right eye perched a black straw stovepipe, flattened slightly.

The choir strained itself in a spirited but disorderly rendition of the "Hallelujah Chorus"; the preacher, Reverend Goodric, gave the Risen Lord his due this day by repeating a gospel version of the event and likening it to wearing new Easter clothes. The congregation sang hymns heartily, Joan conscious of her father's strong tenor that seemed to ring out for miles. Gratitude for her kind, good parents welled up inside her during the Pastoral Prayer. Nothing else about the service mattered.

Why, she wondered to herself, did people do this? This coming together to make music and listen to a voice intoning words, and then always the same ones. She wanted to look around and examine the faces of these churchgoers and see if there were clues to their thoughts, but she dared not. Instead, she looked up into the choir loft and the rapt faces of the singers. But no, they were not spiritually moved; they were trying to follow the pantomimed instructions of the director, who sat below them on the first pew. Eventually, they got out some music and sang a complicated "Amen" after the preacher finished his prayer.

She had to be honest with herself. Her church-going was based on reasons that were nothing but social. MYF was a totally non-spiritual activity. Oh, they sat around for a little program and a prayer from their leader, Gladys Johnson, the church secretary. She was a well-meaning, horse-faced woman of thirty or so, unmarried, who actually whinnied and showed her gums when she laughed, which was often. The minister, who prided himself on being a regular fellow, always put in an appearance. He liked to call Gladys "Happy-bottom," a joke that made the boys snicker and Gladys whinny. The main activity at MYF, however, was talking, talking, talking--discussions about hair and clothes with the girls, and flirtatious talk with the boys. All in all, MYF was just another social occasion and most of the time a boring one at that.

Little about church seemed spiritual to her. Ideas and questions that arose in her went unanswered: How could a man-god die for others? Why did people have to die anyhow? What were human beings? She wondered what her parents thought about these things or if they thought about them at all. They wouldn't have missed a church service for anything, and all their friends were church friends. At home, however, they made little of religion, putting off Joan's too persistant questions, paying outward homage to their God only with a memorized table prayer given by Joan: "Father, we thank thee for this food. Give us strength, courage, and wisdom to do thy will. Amen." Even at her grandparents', there was never discussion about matters other than the mundane. Had their religion, then, become a small, private thing, unlike the central role it had seemed to play in earlier years? She was glad they had no more prayer meetings with confessions and weeping, though.

Despite her disappointment with religion, or at least her experience of religion, she had a feeling that her time would come, that she had a deeply spiritual nature. What would bring it out? Would a different church? Would the passing years? She had friends who were much more devoted and "churchy" than she ever had felt, but she hadn't given up on herself. Life seemed very complicated if she thought about it much, and most of the time she was content to let herself drift with the tide that made up her life.

Immediately after church, Joan and her parents left for the farm to have their Easter meal with Alma'a family and to visit the Lilleys'. They didn't stop to change clothes; Alma's pies were in the trunk of the car, safely shielded by tin film cases that Louise had gotten from Martin. Near the outskirts of Des Moines where the main east-west and north-south highways intersected, Carl stopped for a traffic light. The area was nothing but ill-developed countryside with derelict businesses, filling stations, a trailer park, and acreages with tiny houses.

Joan looked out the window and saw an old man waiting to cross the street opposite the car. He was an ordinary old man. As Joan watched, his eyes turned to her and they looked at one another. He seemed to glow in the pale noon light of the March sun. Joan felt a kinship with him, a feeling that swept through her so suddenly and completely that she gave a muted gasp. The feeling of kinship extended beyond the old man, whom the car had now left far behind, to include everyone, even in history and the future.

Then, just as suddenly, the feeling was a memory, still potent and believable but no longer filling her. Instead, it seemed to hang suspended in her brain like a golden fruit to be plucked whenever she wanted. This experience, whatever it was, left her with a feeling of peace, a certainty that nothing could unravel her new-found understanding of her place in the universe. Her questions and worries hadn't been answered, but her need for answers had evaporated, at least for now. She even felt warmly tolerant of her cousins Jimmy and Caroline. She wasn't exactly looking forward to seeing them, but she would spend some time with them like a big sister and not sneak off to asylum in Grandpa's old library room.

She was thinking about her cousins when a car in the opposite lane, passing on the yellow line, topped the small rise and headed into the path of their car. All Joan could remember later was her mother's cry as her father swerved frantically to avoid what was to be the inevitable, tragic collision.

End of Part One

Part Two

"Remember not the sins of my youth and my transgressions: remember me according to your love and for the sake of your goodness, O Lord." --Psalm 25:6

Chapter 9

Changes

Joan stood on the busy corner waiting for the curbliner to pick her up and take her to the high school. It was only a mile away and she usually walked home, unless she had to stay for a meeting, but in the morning, it took too long to walk. She sniffed the air with delight before she boarded the bus.

Spring again, the season Midwesterners loved, so long and sweet it was. Her enjoyment of the newly leafed or blossoming trees, the yellow and white daffodils, the clear blue sky was somewhat marred by her memory of spring last year. As she took her seat near the front, she thought again of the time following the accident. She had been in the hospital two weeks while her abrasions healed and her broken bones mended. Both she and her mother had missed her father's funeral.

"Maybe that's why I still can't believe he's gone!" Alma had said in a broken voice. They had cried together several times during those first few months, the closest they had been since Joan had been a small, fevered child and her mother had rocked her with her body until the child fell asleep.

But later, they seemed to get on each other's nerves. Her father must have been like a buffer between them, Joan thought. He had also given his wife something to stew about other than her daughter. Joan missed her father, aware that thoughts of him had flashed into her mind almost every day since she had been told of his death.

Their money situation had proved to be not as rosy as Alma had first thought. "Dad had insurance and of course it was double indemnity," she had tried to assure Joan.

"What's that?"

"Accidental death, so the policy paid double." Alma sighed. "The people at the bank have been so nice, so helpful in investing it. But it's not as much as Dad's paycheck, so we'll have to be very careful."

Joan thought of her father and how generous and kind he had been. Even though he never made much money, he would have been sad for them both to be anxious about how they were to live. "Should I get a part-time job on Saturdays?"

"No, no. We can manage. I may have to do something, though." Alma looked worried. "I don't know what. I haven't typed for sixteen years. Who'd want me?"

Eventually, Alma hit on the idea of selling cosmetics out of her home. This for a woman who barely wore any makeup other than a brushing of powder and rouge and a dab of lipstick. Joan didn't say anything, but it seemed an unlikely job. Alma hated selling and so made a point of only mentioning her business in an off-hand sort of way to neighbors and relatives and church friends. Sometimes she got a good sale, but mostly business trickled in. "Well, it's something," she would say with an apologetic laugh.

But it grew harder to pay the bills and take care of house maintenance. Joan wasn't able to buy any new spring clothes but one dress. Alma was upset.

"I can wear my old clothes quite a while longer, but you've nearly worn yours out." By the end of April, Alma was committed to a drastic step, which she confided to Joan one evening after supper.

"I'm going to remodel the upstairs and make it into an apartment." She turned her gaze toward the kitchen window that overlooked the back lawn. "I'll have to add a bedroom and bath, downstairs, too, and fix up a new front entry. It will cost quite a bit even with Helmar giving us a deal on the construction. But Grandma will lend me the money. After that expense is paid, we'll be free and clear. The rent will be a godsend."

"Mother, no!" Joan was horrified. No one she knew had renters in their house. "Can't we do something else?" Oh, Daddy, Joan cried to herself, why were you taken from us? She had no confidence in her mother's plans, which seemed likely to take them even farther away from the world she had always known.

"I've thought of everything, but I believe this is the best way." Alma raised her eyebrows and gave a wan smile in a parody of cheerfulness. "We'll make the upstairs very nice and rent it to the best sort of person."

"Where will I sleep?" Visions of sleeping on the sofa bumped against thoughts of her lovely room with the maple twin beds and her wallpaper with the roses.

"I thought you could have the solarium. We'll fix it up real cute and get a wardrobe for your clothes."

Joan was selfish. She knew she was, for her thoughts were bitter and reflected her own disappointment with her mother for not being able to handle their changed circumstances better. She didn't say anything to her though.

In spite of herself, Joan got interested in the remodeling, undertaken by a crew sent over by Helmar. She helped her mother pick out bath and kitchen fixtures. Alma did the wallpapering herself.

Joan quite naturally got further involved in making arrangements for what was to be her new room. The solarium was small and had eight windows and so offered little flexibility in its use. But there were still things to be done. The curtains had to be changed so they would cover the windows. Up to then, Alma's curtains hung as panels to each side of a window, but she realized drawn window shades on the front of the house would make a bad appearance. The studio couch would get a new cover, the walls papered in a pattern of Joan's choosing. The french doors also would get curtains screening the solarium from the living room. Alma urged Joan to pick colors that would harmonize with the green and dusty rose of the living room. Joan chose pink and maroon.

All spring and summer the house was alive with different workmen coming and going. The air was redolent with the smell of new-sawn wood. Then by the end of summer, everything was complete and Alma was thinking about a tenant for the upstairs. The rooms there looked attractive and livable, Joan admitted. Her old room would be the bedroom so the wallpaper remained. The master bedroom, spacious and airy with its six windows, would be the living room. Another small bedroom converted to a kitchen, and the large hall closet converted to a bathroom made up the rest of the apartment.

"You should be able to get seventy-five a month," estimated Louise, touring the upstairs. "And I know just who'd like it and could afford it."

Alma and Joan looked at her and Louise smirked. "I've been waiting to spring this on you as a surprise."

"Really?" Alma said with disbelief in her voice, a maddening sound to her sister, Joan knew from past observations.

"It all came about out of the blue."

"Who is it?" asked Alma, plaintively. Louise could torment her sister without half trying.

"A librarian by the name of Willa Stromberg. I've met her. She's a friend of the Hartungs. Now listen to this. She's a Norske\--married a Swede, but she's one of the Sigurdsons from around Huxley. She went to the University of Minnesota. That's where she met her husband. They had no children. Now he's dead--died of cancer last year--and she wanted to come back home."

"She's a librarian?" asked Joan, thinking of little Miss Birdie Nelson, the school librarian, with her thining gray hair pulled like strings over her scalp, wearing her out-of-date rayon dresses. Oh, no!

"She's the head librarian for the Des Moines Public Library," Louise said triumphantly. "And she is a very elegant lady."

"Elegant!" Alma recoiled. "Uff-da! She won't want to live here. We'd be too ordinary for her."

"Oh, don't be silly, Al. She's seen your place from the outside and wants to look at the apartment. I guess she now lives across town in one of those big apartment buildings, but she wants to live in Snusville--or what's left of it--for some reason. I can't imagine why."

The woman was to come over the following Saturday afternoon. Alma had driven Joan from her Saturday morning slumber with a ferocity unusual even for her.

"I want your help today. You need to vacuum and use a whisk broom around the edge of the carpet at the baseboard."

"I thought she's interested in the upstairs, not down here." Joan was lazy about housekeeping, a sore point between her and her mother.

Later, eating a lunch of tuna fish sandwiches, Alma stopped in mid-bite. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, looking stricken.

"What?"

"We should serve her some coffee and desert."

Joan didn't have to ask who. Their prospective tenant was on both their minds. "I'll bake a sponge cake," she offered. Joan liked to cook. There was something about the work that called up her creative impulses and left her with a feeling of satisfaction. Her mother seemed to appreciate this and often bragged about her daughter's culinary accomplishments. This bragging was so novel, Joan had to wonder if it was sincere.

Chapter 10

Willa

Willa Lindberg was striking in her appearance. In her mid-forties, as tall as Joan's aunt Louise, she was dressed simply in a navy silk shantung dress with pearls. She wore her lustrous, dark blonde hair in a page boy that might have been done in a beauty parlor. When she smiled at Joan, her teeth were excellent, ivory-colored and strong. Her eyes, dark blue with gold flecks, glinted in the afternoon light from the dining room window. Compared to her, Joan and her mother seemed small and brown and insignificant.

Yet, Joan thought, observing the woman closely, Willa Lindberg's face had a cast of melancholy to it, much like the look in her mother's eyes. Perhaps because of their similar loss, perhaps because of their shared heritage, the two widows seemed to have an immediate sympathy toward one another. They couldn't have been more different.

"I'm very happy with the apartment, Alma," Willa said, and then gave a deprecating shrug. "I hope I can call you that. I want both of you to call me Willa."

Joan blushed with pleasure to be included in this woman's circle.

"My real name is Willemina, so Willa is that much better" she measured a fraction between her thumb and index finger "than Willie." She turned to Alma. "You have such a beautiful name. Al-ma." She rolled it over her tongue as if she were tasting it. "Did you know it means `nourishing' in Latin and in Arabic `knowing' or `learned'?"

Alma was overwhelmed. She put her hand to her breast and leaned back in her chair.

"And Joan," continued their visitor, "is the feminine of John, Beloved of God, a nice association, not to mention the one with Joan of Arc, too."

After that, Willa Lindberg seemed to belong to them, as if she filled a gap that Joan and her mother had been unaware of until it was occupied by Willa's presence and ideas.

Before long, Willa was having supper with them on Friday nights. "After a long week of work, I appreciate so much being able to enjoy someone else's cooking," she'd said. Alma glowed with the satisfaction of pleasing someone who was so obviously grateful for her efforts. Occasionally, Willa would invite them both (and sometimes other friends) for Sunday afternoon coffee. Joan became a frequent visitor to her quarters, as distinctive as Willa herself.

"Where did you get everything?" Joan asked one day, sitting in the living room and looking around her. "It's wonderful!"

Willa laughed. "My husband and I couldn't afford much when we were first married, so I decided to shop around and see what people in Minneapolis might have discarded. First of all, I found, as I suspected, that the Scandinavians were intent on erasing all reminders of the old country. The first to go--much sooner than their accents--was their furniture. Most is handmade like that table there, which they copied from familiar designs in Norway." She pointed to a table that held a wrought iron lamp. It had three legs and a carved apron.

"And the beautiful chests you have, are they handmade too?"

"Yes, and they're from Norway." Willa fingered the painted surface of one of the chests that served as a coffee table. "These chests were used on the sea voyage and long after for storage. This decoration is called `Rosemaling,' a design unique to Norway and lost in America until just recently when it was revived."

"But not everything you have is from the Scandinavians, is it?" Joan patted the wooden arm of the high backed sofa she sat on. It had soft cushions in muted tapestry.

"No, I got interested in other old things that had good design and typically Midwestern. These things wear so well. By that I mean they don't lose their appeal so fast as modern stuff." She pointed to the sofa and a library table that served for both writing and dining. "Those pieces are Mission style, specifically Gustave Stickley, who was the best of the designers of that sort of furniture."

"My grandfather had his library furnished in something like this, but it's heavier, darker, not brown like this. Pretty ugly stuff." Joan paused and then went on, "Mother doesn't care a bit about old things. I don't think anyone in my family does. Except for the library, I can't think of anything around either of my grandparents' houses that isn't fairly modern."

Willa laughed. "I know. They considered the old, including anything about the old country, to be useless. Most of us have never heard about Norwegian traditions--no old songs or stories or arts. It's strange, isn't it? No one group talks more about the superiority of their own people as the Norwegian-Americans, yet have been so determined to wipe out all remnants of the Norwegian culture, including our names."

Joan had never thought of this before. She had asked questions about the Norwegian language, but her parents could only give out the odd phrase or two. She knew her family name had been changed from Lillemo to Lilley, and one of Grandpa Ekdahl's brothers had changed the spelling of their name to Eckdel, but she hadn't thought of this as an attempt to "be like everyone else," only to make things easier for themselves.

"But at least they did pretty well in America, didn't they?"

"They did very well, materially, and they believed they had bought their way into becoming Americans. They left something behind, though, in their zeal to be successful." Willa smiled at Joan.

Joan raised her eyebrows but only said, "The Scandinavians fit in pretty quickly here, didn't they?"

"It took a while. They looked English, but they weren't. They were hardworking and ambitious to get ahead, so at first they worked at jobs that would have been considered demeaning. I bet all of our great-grandmothers worked as hired girls--maids."

"Mother said she worked as a maid in Des Moines when she was attending the Commercial College. I've wondered about that."

Willa shook her head. "That's not quite the same. Young people working their way through college are given a certain latitude. That was past the `maid' era for Scandinavian farmgirls, but your mother wouldn't give a darn what people thought."

Joan smiled at this. "Mother seems to take pride in not putting herself above anyone."

"She's a good person."

"I know." Joan knew she could never be as good as her mother.

"And she's so strong, even among the Norwegians."

"Yes, she is." Joan believed she was more like her father, showing weakness in self-gratifying activities. Her mother could not, would never understand this.

Willa leaned over the chest and poured another cup of coffee for Joan, who had this year been given permission to drink it. Willa offered her some Danish spritz cookies she regularly bought at a nearby bakery.

"I think she works too much," Joan said. "She likes to visit with people, but around the house she can't stop to look at television or listen to the radio or get interested in a book because she always must be working. The only time she sits down is when she's too tired to stand, and then she falls asleep."

Willa gave Joan a smile. "I bet I know why. Like me, she was a farm girl, but she was older than her brothers and eager to please her father, she told me, who paid attention to her. He praised her strength when she helped in the fields. Knowing how people of my generation were raised, that was probably the only praise she got."

Joan thought for a moment, astonished that this woman, who had known them for such a short time, would have spoken so knowingly and accurately about her mother. "But you aren't like that, are you?"

"In a way I am. My father happened to have plenty of sons, but he was crazy about books and learning and so we were praised for what we learned and our attention to books. I responded typically." She gave a rueful laugh. "For heaven's sake, I ended up going to college and majoring in books."

"Do you like being a librarian?" It was an unappealing prospect for Joan even though she greatly admired Willa.

The older woman shrugged. "It's pleasant enough work and a nice atmosphere. Most large city libraries have interesting buildings, late Victorian or Edwardian in the Monumental style, which appeals to my aesthetic sense. The downtown library in Des Moines is fabulous!"

"I've always loved it, too!" Joan was delighted to find Willa shared her pleasure. "I like to imagine it's my house and try to picture what the rooms would be if I lived there. I sometimes go there just to walk up the beautiful stairway or take a ride in the elevator."

"Ah, the gilded cage, a real beauty." Willa nodded.

"But what would you do, if you could choose over again?"

"The arts, something in the arts, I don't care what, really. If I had any real talent I would have loved to be a musician. I played the violin some, but that was never encouraged as a career." She gave a laugh. "Much too uncertain. And I'd have enjoyed being on the stage. But that would have been really shocking."

"Ah," breathed Joan. "I tried out for a part in the school play, but the teacher told me to get off the stage. That I moved like a broom."

"You most certainly do not!" Willa was indignant. "Some teachers can be so cruel. And she probably just wanted to give the part to a favorite!" She wagged a teasing finger at Joan. "But you don't have a strong enough voice to be on the stage, not really. You'll have to go into the movies." They both laughed, and the hurt of Joan's tryout failure was defused permanently.

This conversation with Willa seemed a magical combination of everything Joan found interesting. Joan thought about her words so much she felt guilty, and later, helping her mother with the dishes, Joan put down a dish she had dried and embraced Alma awkwardly.

"What's that for?" said Alma, embarrassed.

"Just for fun," answered Joan, "and because you're a pretty nice mom." They never spoke of their love aloud.

Chapter 11

Familial Surroundings

Joan stepped out of the bathtub and reached for the thick bath towel. She looked at the old, thin one of her mother's hanging neatly on the towel rack.

"I like smaller, thin towels," she'd said when Joan asked why she didn't get rid of the old towels. "Those thick ones take too long to dry." Joan had picked out the accessories for the new downstairs bath. She never stepped into the room without feeling the pleasure of seeing the new, matching towels, bath mat, curtains, and even the waste paper basket.

"Mrs. Plush!" Alma had taunted as she always did if Joan expressed an interest in or appreciation for anything fine or what Alma thought of as luxurious. "I'm just a plain person. You must have gotten those ideas from the Lilleys. Dad's sisters always have always wanted expensive clothes. And Marie has such ritzy things in her house when they can't hardly afford it. Even Dad had something of that in him."

This seemed unfair, but then there was his car. And Joan remembered seeing her parents' pictures in their high school yearbook. Beside her father's picture it said, "The apparel oft proclaims the man." It was true; he had paid attention to his appearance, selecting his suits and ties carefully, combing his wavy hair at the oddest times--a vanity and self-centeredness that was somehow endearing. She wasn't able to make sense of the inscription beside her mother's picture, it sounded so unlike her. "All the boys smile at me, comin' through the rye." Her mother had just laughed and said she had been a "happy-go-lucky farm girl."

Today, Mothers Day, Joan was going to church with her mother, something she found herself doing less and less. Usually, she pacified Alma by saying she would be going to MYF that evening. After church they were going to the farm and then to Bethany to see her Lilley grandparents. All the things she used to like about the farm had gone flat and these trips were an ordeal. She had no one to talk to. Geraldine had divorced Tony (Louise and Alma giving each other a knowing nod at the news), and taken her two-year-old boy to Texas in hopes of meeting a "millionaire oilman." Jimmy and Caroline were typical farm kids, wrapped up in 4-H, still calling Joan "city slicker" as if she thought that was funny. The aunts didn't exactly exclude her from their conversations, but they were mainly on one topic anyway--people, people, people. Why didn't her family ever discuss ideas?

The trip up was uneventful. Joan and Alma reminisced about the trips in the old Chevy during the war when a blown tire was the least they could expect. Carl Lilley's wrecked car had been replaced after the accident with a Chevrolet Bel Aire. Alma made Joan wash it now and then and she regularly took it to Sven Svenson's gas station down the block for servicing, but she cared little for cars and only wanted something reliable for transportation.

In the big farm kitchen, Joan felt the critical eyes of her aunts as they scrutinized her appearance. No one commented on anything amiss, however. Rose and Louise were drinking coffee, Roy's wife, Lillith, was fanning herself although the day was not warm. She had high blood pressure and seemed to be constantly heated up. Joan's cousins were seated at the table with the women as was Martin, Louise's boyfriend. Alma had expressed disfavor at those who entered this women's domain.

"I think it's strange when Jimmy always wants to hang out with the women. And Martin, why doesn't he go visit with the men?" Joan knew the women liked to talk about relationships and make slightly off-color references to sex. They still did, but much more had to be couched in Norwegian if whoever they considered outsiders or youngsters were present.

Joan wondered aloud once to her mother why Louise and Martin didn't get married. Louise talked about Martin and his business, his house, his car, every other breath, it seemed to Joan.

"Why should he," said Alma shortly. "He's got a housekeeper without the bother and expense of a wife."

"You mean she cleans for him?" Joan was startled by this. Louise had always seemed so independent, so sure of herself. Doing chores for her boyfriend was disgraceful.

"And washes his clothes." Alma pursed her mouth. "I hope that's all she does."

Joan knew instantly what she meant. Louise might have been sleeping with him, too. She eyed the couple to see if they betrayed any such intimacy. But Martin was his usual affable, dull self, nothing like a lover, and Louise ignored him completely except when she needed his advice.

"Where on Clear Lake do the Rawlingses live?"

Martin sat back importantly. "They built a nice cabin on the newer, north side of the lake. It's not as close to town, but it's got a nice beach."

Louise went on, "We thought we'd take a little trip for a long weekend up there in June. Martin has some friends with a lake cabin." Was that true, Joan wondered. Or were they off on a trip alone? No one could be more starch and vinegar than Louise; any thought of her behaving in a way that could be criticized seemed unbelievable to Joan.

After two hours, Joan stifled a yawn and suggested to her mother they get over to the Lilleys'. The sooner they got there, the sooner they could go home.

In Bethany, they approached the square and pulled up in front of the Lilley house, which looked shabbier every year.

"Uff-da meg," said Alma, "why doesn't Grandpa fix the place up?"

"Maybe he can't afford to."

"Humph, he could if he'd collect his fees. I've heard he sometimes doesn't charge anything. Poor Grandma! What a family."

Even so, Joan knew her mother wrote to her aunt Marie and her grandmother Lilley, and she seemed to visit the Bethany house more now than when Carl Lilley was alive.

Since the day was sunny, several people were on the front porch. They waved excitedly and Joan felt the warmth of their interest. Marie sat in a wicker rocker wearing a slim black skirt and white blouse with a dramatic collar that framed her pretty face. Her light brown hair was beautifully arranged. Aunt Thelma was there, too, having returned from Kansas City a free woman to live for a while with her parents, "mooch" off them as Alma said. Her divorce had been a messy one, with her former husband contesting it. Thelma was not as pretty as Marie, but she had the same preoccupation with her appearance. Her child, a little girl, was playing with oatmeal boxes and a rubber ball in the small front yard. George and his family had gone to Marshalltown to visit his wife's mother.

Grandpa Lilley was the first to greet them. He traveled the few steps to their car from the front porch in several long strides. Except that he was much taller and had snow white hair, Joan was struck by how much he and her father resembled one another. A lump came to her throat and as she emerged from the car, she clasped his hand tightly and he patted hers.

"Good to see you," her grandfather kept saying. He ushered both of them to the front porch where everyone clustered around, admiring the pin that was Joan's gift to her mother and exclaiming over Joan's appearance, her hair, her dress. Joan handed a flat, beribboned box to her grandmother which contained two embroidered handkerchiefs, identical to the gift she had given Grandma Ekdahl.

Grandma Lilley kissed her and said, "I wish I could give you such beautiful things as these."

"Oh, Grandma, you always remember my birthday. I appreciate that so much." Grandma Ekdahl never acknowledged it.

The women surrounded Alma as if attending a queen.

"Sit here, Al, you look tired."

"I hope you're not trying to do too much around that big house."

"Isn't she lucky to be so slender? Look, Ma, do you think Al's getting too thin?"

"Joan, are you helping your mother? Do you iron your own clothes?"

Joan responded in the negative sheepishly, but her mother broke in. "I don't make her do that. I like to iron."

A chorus of protests and admiring comments arose and Alma basked in the attention.

Joan sat down in an old wooden chair next to her grandfather. He tilted his chair back against the wall and put one foot up on the porch railing.

"What grade are you in now?" He had a tenor voice, surprising for such a big man. It, too, was like her father's own voice.

"I'll be in twelfth next fall."

"Know what you're going to do? Gonna be like my girls and get married as soon as you graduate?"

"Oh, I don't think so," Joan laughed. What a ridiculous thought! "I'd like to go to college."

"Well, well. I only got one of mine graduated from college. Your dad tried it, but gave up too soon and settled for a business college." He shook his head and tears came into his voice. "He was a fine boy, and right, I suppose, to find his niche in that bank. He knew more about taking care of money than I ever did." He flopped his chair down on the board floor with a thud and poked his finger in the air as if convincing a jury. "You stick to that college idea." He rose and stretched and left the porch, probably to fix a bowl of ice cream, Joan speculated.

Chapter 12

Soundings

Joan was glad her senior year was nearly over. High school had been O.K. Except for chemistry, her subjects seemed easy, and she had been asked to serve on two prestigious committees--assembly and senior activities. She had even been elected prom queen, a low keyed affair in the school cafeteria with the girls in Sunday dresses and the boys in suits. It was small compensation for not being chosen to be a class officer, the only member of the Quartet not on the board. But now she was focussed on college. Her mother had quashed her plans to go away to school, though.

"Never could we afford for you to live away from home. You'll have to go to Drake if you must go."

"Drake? I hadn't planned to go to Drake." Staying in Des Moines--not her idea of college at all.

"Grandpa Lilley went there, you know. But I don't know why you won't try to get a good job instead. What's the sense of college for a girl? You'll just get married anyway."

"Mother!" Joan was hurt her mother didn't understand her better. Even though she, too, planned to get married someday, she was outraged her mother thought she shouldn't plan for a separate career. But then she had no plan to present her mother; she had no idea what she wanted to be. She thought about a career frequently, but nothing seemed quite right.

Her English teacher, Miss Hammond, told her she ought to teach English. She had had Joan on more than one occasion read her essays to the class. But Joan had looked at Miss Hammond's narrow long nose and hair gone white in the service of her calling and thought, "Never!" The thought of coming back to this place or one like it and spending her life there made her sick.

She had long ago abandoned her childhood fantasy of law or police work. But she knew she wasn't tough enough. In fact, she was a pushover, soft to the core. Misfits seemed to be attracted to her because of her sympathetic nature. Annie Bissel, for instance, who still considered Joan her friend. Joan had heard several years ago that parents were rumored to be first cousins, which might explain her bodily disfigurement. She wasn't stupid, though, able to put virtually all the names with the faces in their three-hundred-plus class.

And then there was Stoney King, ostracized tough guy who wore his hair in a duck tail (or D. A.) and was supposed to smoke marijuana. He and Joan seemed to get into serious conversations at the drop of a hat. He one time told her confidentially that "your butt is your best feature--wear tighter skirts."

Although she knew she liked to be around people and wondered about a career helping them, she couldn't work with the sick or hopeless. Last summer she'd clerked at the State Board of Control. Just reading the mental or penal records of the inmates (including her uncle Paul's where he was listed as paranoid/schizophrenic) depressed her. One day the home for the retarded sent out a group of singers who entertained in the office lobby. When Joan looked at the poor people with their dead eyes and pointed heads and heard their raucous, out-of-control singing, she fled the room. She seemed suited for nothing. She wanted her life to have meaning and fulfillment, but she could see no way to achieve such an ambition from what was inside her.

The neighbor girl, LeeAnn, told Joan one evening as they sat on LeeAnn's front porch that she had made up her mind to be a medical missionary.

"And go off to Africa or someplace like that?" Joan was dumbfounded. She had never known anyone sensible who had purposely stepped beyond the bounds of the conventional.

LeeAnn shrugged. She was still a gawky girl, but now her deep set eyes seemed to be illuminated with a mysterious light. "I'll go wherever the Board of Missions sends me. First, though, I'll have to get trained as a nurse, probably specializing in tropical diseases."

Joan looked at her old friend as if seeing her for the first time. She might have been an ordinary, rather unpopular girl up to now, but in a twinkling she had grown in stature and strangeness. Joan knew how proud Pastor Maigaard and his wife would be that their daughter had fulfilled their covenant with God when she was born: She was to be a living testament to her dead baby sister. How fitting they would think it to sacrifice their daughter to some higher purpose.

Still, the Dark Continent! Joan inwardly shrank when she thought of LeeAnn taking up residence there, maybe for the rest of her life. Joan would have liked adventure, too, but in a more moderate form. But then, no one had expected any heroics from her.

Each morning after arriving at school, Joan fell in with her group of friends walking counterclockwise in the broad, marble hallway that circled the auditorium. The group included members of the original Quartet and two other girls, Beverly and Ginny, who came from another junior high. Clusters of boys walked clockwise. Some propped themselves against the wall, observing the passing flock of females. A few couples strolled together, hands chastely linked, but mainly the before-class parade was for singles, eyeing available options. Joan had no current interest. In the tenth grade she had been swept off her feet by a short, dark boy named Ronnie.

They had met at a sock hop--a mixer--in the fall. He was a football player and gazed at her with an intense expression as if he had never seen the likes of such beauty. She was flattered. He came over to her house on Saturday afternoons and they played records. He gave her a gold I.D. bracelet for Christmas with his name engraved on the underside. Sometimes they double-dated with Eileen and one of his friends. After a date, they kissed each other with tightly closed, pursed lips.

Joan went with Ronnie for seven months until she could stand his dark moods and especially his aggressive eating habits no longer. He wolfed his food with the same intensity he did everything else. Chomp, chew, gulp, chomp, chew, gulp. He also salted everything before he tasted it. In the spring she told him she'd like to stay friends but maybe they should date others. He looked intensely hurt, and he never asked her out again. She heard he took up with his old girl friend who was going to another high school.

The fall of her junior year, she had come to know some different boys from all over Des Moines through a new MYF program instituted by Gladys Johnson, the MYF leader. Each Sunday evening their group would either traipse off to another church and meet with its MYF or else they would host a visiting group of MYFers. Joan and two of the boys she met, Eddie and Norm, became especially good friends, but just friends. The next fall the boys went off to Iowa State in Ames and soon asked Joan if she'd like a date with this or that fraternity brother or classmate. Joan had no interest in that university per se. It had a reputation for being a "cow college," full of ag and engineering and home ec majors. But she thrilled at the idea of going to college activities with a college man and so she agreed to a blind date, which turned into a series.

Miraculously, her mother had let her go without objection on those weekends trips for either football games or dances, probably because Joan's acquaintance with the boys had sprung from MYF. Since Eddie and Norman were from Des Moines and made frequent laundry runs, one or the other usually picked her up for the weekend. Her date returned her the following day. She spent the night at sorority houses and the girls dorms. Eddie and Norman had high hopes of making the perfect match for Joan.

Her first date had been for a football game where her date had tried to sneak her in using someone else's I.D. card. When she looked at the name, she laughed and then shook her head, not believing what she saw. The card read, "Felipe Navas."

"You don't really think I'll pass for a male of Spanish descent, do you?"

"Aw, they don't look at these cards. Just flash it at him and go on."

She had gotten stopped, asked what her major was, and after she said "I am a Home Ec major" in a slightly accented voice, turned away at the gate. They watched the game in the end zone far from their friends. Joan and her date had little to say to one another. Her next date was with a "real smart guy" who also was six feet seven and resembled Jack Palance. She considered herself fairly tall at five feet five, and she wore heels, but her head seemed to be at his elbow. Far from being an exciting killer, he was painfully shy and couldn't carry on a conversation.

Then she was fixed up for a dance with a cute fellow called Red (she'd insisted on a photo this time). No one told her he played the sax in the band for that evening's dance. She sat at a table near the bandstand and swigged Cokes while everyone else danced. At intermissions Red joined her and tossed off several bourbon and Cokes, which he also drank between the band's numbers. By the end of the evening, he was soused and sick and Joan was scared to death, her first brush with drunkenness. His fraternity brothers carried him home and deposited her at the dorm.

Her last experience was near the end of the school year, the fraternity spring formal. She had told Eddie never again if he didn't do better. He said this guy's name was Bob, he was a good dancer, and from the photo, Joan noted he had an interesting, rakish set to his features. After they met and talked for awhile, they further discovered they were both Norwegians, which gave an extra fillip to their acquaintance. His short black hair was as thick and glossy as a beaver's pelt, and his dark eyes danced as readily as his feet. When they talked about getting together the following weekend, Joan suggested that he meet her at the farm, which was a halfway point for them both.

"Bob's Norwegian, Grandma," Joan had said by way of an introduction.

Her grandmother's eyes lighted up as she viewed the young man, and motioning for Joan to come closer she whispered, "I always liked the dark ones, too."

They had spent their time together at the farm looking at old photograph albums, pumping out tunes on the player piano, and strolling outside through the orchard. She expected some teasing from her family, but Uncle Roy and his family were not there on that occasion, and with Geraldine long gone no one else was interested enough in her affairs to comment other than Louise, but she was complimentary, too, of Joan's new boyfriend.

With all the good things, Bob and she should have become something by now, a couple, but there was no magic. She refused one date and that was the last she saw of him. Evidently, the feeling was mutual. Her misguided career of dating the boys at Ames was over.

But now it was time to think about a summer job. She could return as file clerk to the Board of Control, but she didn't much want to. Then a girl in her Spanish class told her she was not going back to the town's daily newspaper, a job she'd had in the classified advertising department for two summers, because she was going to Sweden with her mother and sister to visit relatives.

"Do you think you could recommend me?" Joan asked.

The girl agreed and Joan set off after school one day for an interview with Miss Shirley Shaw, the Classified supervisor. That Joan had been editor of the yearbook seemed not to impress Miss Shaw. But after questions about her English grades, Joan was hired. She would have preferred to work where the reporters were, but this was a gigantic improvement on the Board of Control. She could finally enjoy the end of the term with a new job to look forward to. She wouldn't have to concern herself with thoughts about her own failings or her troubles in dealing with a most imperfect gender.

Chapter 13

The Newspaper Game

Joan's first day on the job called up a variety of emotions, some pleasant, others less so. She had dressed carefully but casually, hoping to look like Lois Lane, her hair shiny clean and combed in a neat flip. Everyone she met seemed to have a romantic air about them, as if they had witnessed untold stories. She felt her youth and inexperience keenly. She might have been someone's little sister just visiting for the day.

"You'll sit at this desk beside me," said Shirley, a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, "so I can keep an eye on you. It won't be no time before you get the hang of it, kiddo."

Miss Shirley Shaw's desk was the middle one of three that sat directly beneath a low wooden panel shutting off the advertising operations from the public area. Outside the panelled railing, walk-in customers would go to a central station in the middle of the room, where behind a high counter another three women took ads in person. Across the room from the mail staff, two rows of women sat with headphones and took ads over the telephone.

Behind Joan's desk was the office of the Advertising Manager, George Rankin, red-faced, loud-voiced, chain-smoking, but kind when he welcomed Joan to the department.

His main concern, Joan was soon to discover, was the harried-looking squadron of retail advertising salesmen whose desks, cluttered with newspapers and clip sheets, were segregated near the windows. They were the prima donnas, as Shirley teasingly termed them, or workhorses, as they called themselves, who brought in the real revenue for the newspapers, both the morning Register and the evening Tribune. The papers shared certain staffs, most importantly the Advertising Department.

Shirley Shaw was in charge of all of the Classified staff, but took particular interest in her "mail girls," as she called Joan and her co-worker Madelaine Chaffee. Shirley was full of catch phrases which Joan came to know well. If someone stopped by their desks instead of going to the counter, Shirley would always say, "What can I do you for?" Anyone tripping over their feet within her range would be told to "watch that first step; it's a tricky devil." When she let out the occasional swear word, she'd apologize with, "Pardon my oo-la-la." Joan came to be quite fond of Shirley's stock of one-liners, particularly her invariable "Stop the presses!" shouted when just before deadline she sent the ads through the pneumatic tube to Linotype.

Madelaine was a tiny, pale girl with carroty hair who had been out of high school three years and talked incessantly about her fiance Steve and their activities. She was what Joan thought of as typically Catholic--not very pious but devoted to the rituals of her church which she referred to irreverently--when she spoke of Confession, she said she had to go "spill my guts."

Both Madelaine and Shirley and two of the counter girls smoked on their breaks at the cafeteria next door to the newspaper, and before long, so did Joan. She bought a pack of Pall Malls her second week on the job after Madelaine said in her usual dry tone when Joan borrowed her fourth cigarette, "All you seem to have is the habit." Joan carefully stashed her purse containing her cigarettes into the bottom drawer of her wardrobe after she got home. Soon the drawer emitted a distinctive odor. Alma did not know Joan smoked. She seldom inquired about the work Joan did and never about the people she worked with.

Joan had seen women that looked like Shirley when she went downtown shopping or to the movies, but she had never known one personally. Shirley's face was an orangy color from the thick pancake makeup and flame-colored rouge. Her mouth had overlarge lips painted on in bright carmine. Rhinestone or pearl studded combs held her permed hair away from her face, which in spite of the strange makeup was attractive. She was unfailingly good-natured and unimpressed by Joan's occasional slip-ups. "It'll all come out in the wash," she'd say.

One of the counter girls was a plumpish, demure young woman with eyes that crinkled when she smiled, which was often. Like Joan, Dorothy McMahan had just graduated from high school. Unlike Joan, she knew what was in store for her future. One day toward the end of June as they were walking back from their break, Joan asked her if she was planning on going to college.

"Actually, no." She looked at Joan and gave her a crinkly smile. "I'm going to the convent in September. I plan to take the veil."

"What? Become a nun, you mean?"

Dorothy nodded.

Joan could think of nothing to say except, "How interesting." Then she thought a moment and said, "Why are you working here this summer? Shouldn't you be home getting ready, praying or something?" She smiled, half joking, half serious.

Dorothy laughed. "I do pray, but I haven't taken any vows yet. It will be a while before I do, you know. I have to first be a novice, then a postulant, and if everything goes all right, in about three years I'll take final vows to become a nun."

"I'm really surprised," said Joan, and she meant it. Dorothy was a cheerful girl who seemed to like everyone. Why would she want to separate herself from life in such a way?

"You know," said Dorothy in a musing tone, "I've had a few dates with one of the guys who works in Editorial--we kept meeting in the lobby and finally he asked me out."

"No kidding? Didn't it seem funny to be dating?"

"I don't know why. I didn't see any harm in going out and having fun. He's a nice guy, but when I told him last week I was going to the convent this fall he got mad at me." She looked at Joan, perplexed. "Really mad. Why would he feel that way?"

Joan understood, but she couldn't explain it to Dorothy if she didn't know. Dorothy was the same as engaged, and her date had felt betrayed, as if on the sly she had been stepping out on her real fellow--Jesus.

After that, Joan caught herself sneaking glances at Dorothy, trying to imagine her in a black habit. Yes, there was something simple and unworldly about her. She would probably make a pretty good nun, but it still seemed a waste.

The advertising department might have been on the moon for all Joan saw of the rest of the newspaper's operation. Sometimes, Tommy in Linotype called to verify some copy, but other than that, she spent her days at her desk, opening envelopes, counting words, typing out some ads and pasting others on a special form. "Time for Kindergarten 101," Shirley would say each morning as she got out her scissors and paste.

But one day, Mr. Rankin called Joan into his office and handed her an envelope. "Take this up to Editorial. Hand it to the girl at the front desk. She'll give it to the editor."

Oh, thrill! Joan told the elevator man "Four," pretending she was a reporter going to her job. Maybe that would be the career for her. She stepped out of the elevator into a huge room filled with side-by-side desks, smoke, and the sound of typewriters clacking away. People were talking on the telephone or leaning back in their swivel chairs staring at the ceiling. She saw two women typing furiously, wearing their hats as if they had just come in from a fast-breaking story. No one paid any attention to her.

"Can you tell me where the editor is?" she asked a smartly dressed girl at the front desk. She waved the envelope. "I have something for him from Mr. Rankin in Advertising."

"Over there, behind that glass partition."

The editor barely glanced at her as he took the envelope and said, "Thanks." Joan walked slowly back through the room, memorizing details. She saw large machines that seemed to be typing on their own. People would go over, read the messages, and then tear off a section.

But she couldn't hang around there forever. Reluctantly, she boarded the elevator, which had to be held up until a tall, thin young man with pale eyes and eyebrows ran in. Joan was still thinking about working on a newspaper when she heard him address her.

"Haven't I seen you in Classified?"

She looked at him, startled. "Yes, I work there." She smiled, uncertain how friendly she should be. She had not forgotten her vow to be cautious of strange men since her experience on the farm.

He held out his hand. "I'm Howard Last. I'm a photographer in Features and Promotion."

She shook his hand, conscious of her cold fingers and his narrow palm. "I'm glad to meet you." He was chalky white and chinless and must have been at least twenty-eight.

"I've noticed you around here. It struck me that you might be interested in modeling for some of the pictures we take for the syndicated health and beauty aids column. My last model didn't work out, and I'm needing someone with your looks."

"Modeling what?" she asked suspiciously. He seemed so unlikely a person to be hiring models, she couldn't help but wonder if he actually worked for the paper. Maybe he operated some sleazy photographic studio housed in this building.

"Oh, just housewife stuff--you know, getting ready for an egg shampoo or exercising, that sort of thing."

"Really?" She stepped out of the elevator and looked toward the glass doors of Advertising. She'd been gone quite a while; she'd need to get back.

"It pays three dollars an hour, and we could set up the sessions after work or on Saturdays." He jerked his thumb upwards. "The studio's on the fifth floor."

Three dollars! That was almost three times what she made. "Gosh, thanks. I--I'll--why, yes. I'd like to very much."

"Good, I'll call you and we'll set up a time."

She stood for a moment, confused by his staring, albino-like face so near hers, and then turned to go through the glass doors. She felt his eyes on her back, and she walked self-consciously. But her heart leaped and sang. Maybe this was to be her life--famous health and beauty aids model! She could hardly wait to tell Willa, who would rejoice in her good fortune; she was less eager to get her mother's reaction. Alma would think the job frivolous, the sort of thing Mrs. Plush might do. But why should she worry about her mother's approval or disapproval. She was not a kid anymore, and she would have to decide things for

herself, right or wrong.

Chapter 14

A Meeting

Willa clasped Joan's hands at hearing her good fortune in getting the modeling job. "You may be in movies yet!" She and Alma had been chatting on the front porch when Joan came home with her news.

Joan really had no aspirations to be a movie star; she knew Willa knew that, but the movies was their code word that meant Joan's future. Step by step, she seemed to be assuring Joan, your future will sort itself out.

Her mother looked horrified at Willa's mention of the movies and said, "Uff-da!"

"I know it doesn't take much brainpower to do this sort of work," Joan said, "but it'll be fun, I bet. It's so different from anything I've ever done. I can use the extra money, too."

"Will you be able to do this part-time when you're in college?" Willa asked.

Joan nodded. "I think so, provided Howard wants to use me." She gave a short laugh. "I have a feeling, though, that he changes models every so often."

Willa chuckled. "Then you shouldn't count on this to be a long term project."

"I think I should enjoy it now for what it's worth. I need to keep my job in Classified safe."

Alma raised her eyebrows and gave a little shrug. "Boy, I don't see how you can do modeling and work your regular job."

Joan felt the familiar heat of impatience and near anger at her mother's wrong response. She knew it had something to do with Alma's suspicion of modeling as a nonsensical occupation and her concern that praise would turn Joan's head. She wished Joan to be humble and self-effacing like herself. Instead, Joan tried harder to win her approval, knowing exactly how unappealing her words were to her mother but unable to stop herself.

"I should be flattered, I guess. The column runs nationwide. It'll be a real experience. Besides, where else could I make three dollars an hour at a part-time job having my picture taken?" Her mother gave an uncertain smile in response but didn't comment further as she turned to go into the house.

Joan also had to tell Shirley about her extra work. There was nothing improper about taking the job, but she dreaded telling her just the same. For once, Shirley seemed without a catch phrase for the occasion. She congratulated Joan, but she seemed reserved about it, almost hurt, as if Joan had relegated her job in Classified to the sidelines.

"I won't be doing this but once a week," Joan told her apologetically, "if that often. I don't even know how long he'll want to use me. And, then, the sessions will be after hours."

"Well, keep your eye on the birdie," she managed to say.

So after work the following Friday, after the girls had gone, Joan got out her things from the coat locker, the shoes, the jewelry, the eggshell chintz--a casual dress, Howard had said. It had been her Easter dress which she had also worn for graduation, but she hoped it would do. Some of the salesmen were still at their desks, but they ignored her.

She had to wait in the lobby while the elevators were on different floors collecting workers who were leaving the building. Her dress was in a cleaners bag, the other things in her mother's old train case. She felt conspicuous. Finally, she reached the fifth floor, which had a different arrangement than she had expected. Here were closed doors--some with names, some with nothing on them. Where was she to go?

As she stood indecisively, a door marked "Editorial" opened and Howard Last beckoned to her. "You're late. We've got to get going."

She followed him into a series of rooms with screens and lights and equipment.

"Get dressed over there." He pointed to something that looked like a closet.

It was. She found a light switch and draped her dress over a box in the corner while she undressed. A mirror! She needed a mirror, but the walls were bare. Mirrors had always been important to Joan--not because she enjoyed looking at her reflection, but because she was never sure she looked quite right. Maybe if she adjusted a lock of hair or applied her makeup differently, she could improve the image. But now, at a time when her image was most important, she had no way to check it out. The room was cool from air conditioning, but she was sweating. Her face was greasy and hot. She felt idiotic and vulnerable--to what? She didn't know.

Outside the closet, she clipped on white earrings and fastened her bracelet. Howard examined her. "That looks O.K. except for the jewelry. Take it off. Ready? Let's go."

"Go? Go where?"

"We're going to shoot this in the model home at Younkers. That way we have a ready-built set."

"I'll take along my clothes then, so I can go home from there." She looked at him standing empty-handed. "Don't you have a camera?"

"I've got my assistant setting things up. Come on, let's go." He sounded impatient.

They walked the half block to Younkers and took the elevator to the furniture department. In the elevator, Howard kept looking at her but said nothing. Joan wondered if she suited his needs after all.

The model home had a front door and cardboard walls and ceiling. It was used to display the store's wares, from furniture and rugs to kitchen equipment and linens. Joan murmured with pleasure at the beautifully coordinated surroundings. She would like to have a home like this. The living room was cluttered, however, by lights on tripods, a camera, and wires everywhere.

"The first shot will be in the living room." Howard motioned to his assistant and a young man stepped out from behind the camera. "Get her the apron and feather duster."

The assistant reached behind him to a credenza for the items. The lights were bright, but Joan saw his profile. It looked familiar. When he handed her the apron, he smiled at her, and she looked closely at him, his face still in the shadows. He was someone she had once met, she was sure.

The apron was an enormous thing. It went over her head to cover her shoulders and ended at her knees. "Wait!" she said, suddenly aware of the camera. "Let me look in a mirror. I must look terrible."

Howard motioned her into the make-believe bathroom where she applied fresh lipstick and combed her hair. She doubled the sash of the apron around her waist and fastened it in front. When she returned to the living room, the two men watched her walk to her appointed place. Her face burned red, and she decided she hated this job.

But then she was occupied with getting the right pose for Howard. Look disgusted, he said. She stood with her arms akimbo, trying to regard the room with a rueful expression. Howard was behind the camera snapping away, ordering her to turn slightly, then cross her arms over her chest.

Joan had to do another pose in the kitchen with one towel around her shoulders and another rolled into a turban covering her hair. She was supposed to break an egg into a bowl. This shot was more of a close up, and she had some trouble with it.

"Look interested but not necessarily pleased," Howard said. "Remember, you're not sure about it." He took shot after shot.

They finished at seven. Two hours she had worked, and worked hard. At some point she had become conscious only of Howard's voice and the glassy eye of the camera. But as she prepared to leave the model home, she again caught sight of the assistant, rolling up the thick lighting cables.

"That was good," he said, smiling at her.

"Thanks." She smiled back, and then she knew who he was. Rod, what was it, Rod Allison--yes, from how many years ago? First the meeting at Transfiguration, then with Ruth Fagan at the Rainbow Girls dance in the ninth grade. She hadn't seen him since, but it was clear she hadn't made such an indelible impression on him. With an excess of pride, she determined not to let him know she remembered him.

On the bus ride home, her mind whirled with her experience in front of the camera. It was O.K. She was lucky to have it. She thought of Rod Allison. Was he too working at a summer job, or was this his full time employment? He was older than she by maybe only a year. She couldn't remember for sure. Funny he should turn up at the newspaper. She made a face to herself. Too bad he had to see her in those strange and sometimes silly poses. But then, what difference did it make?

The next session was set for the following Friday after work. Howard hadn't called her about it, but instead, on Tuesday, seemed to be waiting for her as she left on her lunch hour. She planned to eat a quick sandwich at the orange bar across the street and then browse for fall clothes. She hoped to get in on some rock bottom sales.

"Where are you going? Lunch?" he asked, holding the heavy door for her.

She felt a shrinking of the flesh as his arm touched hers. "I'm going shopping first." She'd eat afterward rather than be saddled with him. He continued to walk with her as she crossed the street.

"Your assistant," she began, thinking she should say something friendly, "has he worked for you long? He seems to know what he's doing."

"Yeah, Rod, he's okay. A college kid, but he knows how to work."

She nodded. She was right then, Rod Allison, and in college, too. "Where does he go to college? I hope to go to Drake this fall," she rattled on.

"I dunno. You'll have to ask him." He turned away then and went the other direction, giving her a "See ya," as he left her.

Howard worked her even harder that Friday and they didn't finish until 7:30. They were upstairs in the studio. Joan had to wear some exercise togs which she supplied herself. The only things she could think to wear that would look right were black shorts, a black sleeveless top, and ballet slippers. Howard wordlessly approved.

She spent the next couple of hours scrambling around to assume positions that Howard read from a sheet of paper, presumably the copy that the pictures were to illustrate.

Later, dressed and waiting for the elevator, Rod came out through the door and stood beside her. He smiled pleasantly and then said, "Don't we know each other?"

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him as if for the first time. She smiled but shook her head, saying nothing to help him along.

Inside the elevator, he continued, "Where did you go to school?"

When she told him, he stared at her and then snapped his fingers. "You live near Ruthie Fagan, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Didn't we meet a long time ago in front of Transfiguration School?" He was grinning now. She noticed his grey eyes had golden glints.

"Yes, of course," she said with a delight in her voice that she couldn't mask.

He rubbed his head. "I knew I knew you from somewhere. Have you just started working here or what?"

She filled him in on her history, and when she explained about Drake in the fall and her need to live at home and work part-time, he shrugged.

"I go to Marquette. I'm just home for my usual summer job."

"What year are you in college?" Was Marquette a seminary? She knew it was Catholic, but she wasn't sure what kind of a school it was. Maybe he was studying to be a priest. She didn't want to be misled in the same way as Dorothy's date.

"l'll be a sophomore next year, but I hope to enter law school somewhere."

Relief made her smile and become garrulous. "Oh, terrific. My grandfather was in the first law class at Drake. He met my grandmother in Des Moines at some church function, so in an odd sort of way, my dad came back to his origins in America."

"No kidding? That's very interesting. My folks came to the States in the 1890's from Ireland. Not a very exciting or interesting bunch, I'm afraid."

They walked slowly, talking, toward the bus stop. She began to cross the street, but he stopped her. "Want a ride home?"

End of Part Two

Part Three

"For in the day of trouble he shall keep me safe in his shelter, he shall hide me in the secrecy of his dwelling and set me high upon a rock." --Psalm 27:7

Chapter 15

Attraction and Reaction

The idea of Romance had been part of Joan's thinking for most of her life, mainly garnered from movies and, as a voracious reader, from books. She had not even questioned its ideals as a way to view life, especially in relationships between the sexes. Until she met Rod, she had assumed grown men and women behaved toward one another as they did in the movies, the males strong, the females coy, giving in after persuasive wooing. She herself had behaved this way, which she thought proper, if not required. It was a game, she believed. Then Rod came into her life.

Now she began to understand that the game had either changed its rules or maybe ended altogether. With Rod, she felt herself to be another person, as she had, in another way, after her father died. Before his death, her father had been the gentle captain of their little ship, up front setting the course. Her mother had done her share of steering, but her life, too, had been guided by Carl Lilley's actions. Joan had seemed sometimes a passenger, sometimes an oarsman.

After the accident, everything was different. She and her mother had had to plot a new course. Joan felt both freer and at the same time more constrained to make choices that would assist the enfeebled ship that their life had become. Looking back, she realized how her new responsibilities had made her stronger; in fact, they had put her on a more even keel with her mother.

After getting to know Rod, she had gone from being a child in her thoughts about men to that of a woman. Before Rod, any thoughts of sex had been almost unimaginable, repulsive. But with the strong attraction between them, Joan got some insight that summer as to why girls got in trouble, why babies were born with "sore feet." She knew that he was practicing restraint with her, leaving her before they got too worked up. When they were kissing, petting, she felt a deep longing, almost a wildness inside her and wondered if he had gone on, would she be able to stop.

They seemed to have decided by unspoken agreement not to mention to Howard they were dating. Joan wasn't sure why she wanted this kept secret, but mostly it had to do with being professional in their work. It also had something to do with the way Howard looked at her. He had offered to take her home one evening, but she quickly refused, saying she had a ride, though not mentioning with whom.

She and Rod barely spoke to one another while they were photographing. They left separately; she would walk around the corner of the newspaper building and up half a block to the lot where he parked his car. Sometimes, he would take her right home with plans to see her on the weekend. Other times, they stopped at the drive-in for a hamburger or went out for pizza.

Alma had met Rod when he came to get Joan for their first date. It was the Saturday night following the photo session when he took her home. He came into Alma's living room with a comfortable, friendly manner as if he belonged there. He commented on the color of the walls.

"I'm helping my mother paint her living room about this same color."

"Really? I painted this myself," Alma confided proudly. "As a matter of fact, I painted every inch of the inside of the house."

Rod congratulated her and then turned to Joan. "I guess you didn't inherit your mother's painting skills?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm too impatient to be a good painter."

"Do you live with your folks?" Alma asked Rod, offering him a seat on the couch. Joan could tell her mother was prepared to like him. ("All the boys smile at me, comin' through the rye.")

"Just for the summer. I sure do enjoy my mom's cooking. It beats the cafeteria food at college all hollow." He smiled at her as if to say he knew he'd miss hers too if he were her son.

"Where do you go to college?" Alma continued in her easy way.

The question Joan had been dreading. She had been perched on a footstool near the door. Now, she nervously stood up and started to urge that they leave, but Rod answered "Marquette" too quickly.

Alma's face changed when she heard him name the Catholic university. Joan read the dismay in her mother's eyes; even her mouth quivered as she tried to maintain a cold smile.

"We'd better go or we'll miss the beginning of the movie," Joan said, grabbing her purse. She opened the door, calling out to her mother, "I'll be home before 11:30."

They didn't mention religion that first date. Instead they talked about their future plans.

"I honestly don't know what I want to do," Joan confessed. "So far, nothing seems right or even practical as a career."

"Maybe college will help you decide. I've wanted to be a lawyer since our tenth-grade class visited a courtroom and I saw two lawyers in a legal duel. I thought the work looked challenging, and it would give me an opportunity to make my own life the way I want it to be."

Joan was puzzled at his words. They had stopped to have pizza at Alphonse's two blocks from the downtown theater. Rod offered her a cigarette, which she accepted. "How make your own life? I don't understand."

"Because law has so many possibilities. You can practice general law, helping ordinary folks with almost anything legal, from probate on an estate, to traffic violations, divorce, whatever. Or you can specialize in any of those areas or go into criminal law or corporate or contract law. Some attorneys even specialize in particular fields like the entertainment industry, medical malpractice, or patent law--you have to be an engineer first for that, though. An besides that," he went on, wound up in his subject, "a lawyer can work for a legal firm, be self-employed, or work for a corporation." He smiled. "Lots of possibilities."

"I had no idea." She remembered her own desire to be a "lady lawyer" as a child but again dismissed the idea. "I'd like to do something in the arts, I suppose," she said, feeling a bit of a fraud as she echoed Willa's own words. Yet as she spoke, she knew she really did like to write--scribbling little stories from time to time--and it had been gratifying having her work in English classes singled out for praise.

Now with her modeling, she had been reminded of an earlier fascination with photography. A couple of years ago she had gotten out her father's old Kodak and snapped away at what she hoped would be interesting, artistic shots. Her mother objected to this hobby, however, because of the expense of the film and developing.

The important thing, she believed, to convey to Rod was that she was not like her mother or aunts or even her friends. Her life would be mapped out very differently. Still, she knew her ideas were unfolding as she spoke and were less for Rod's benefit than her own. She would have to fashion her own unique life.

"Writing, I think, plays or novels," she went on. "Maybe even screen writing." Then she thought of her own writing compared to her favorite authors. In their own ways, ways she could not yet define, they all seemed wonderful, something she could not claim for herself. "I might have to work at a magazine or newspaper, though, to make a living," she admitted.

"That sounds reasonable." He gazed at her with a new expression. "You have many talents, it seems."

"Me?" She was caught off guard. "Do I detect sarcasm?"

"No, not at all. You're a great model for the camera. You have such an expressive face. You seem to know instinctively how a photo composition should be arranged, too, and that helps Howard. Now you say you write. It's more talent than I have. I'm just the boob that plugs stuff in and moves cords and lights."

"But you must have a logical mind and a talent for details to want the law for a profession. Besides that, you believe in yourself." She smiled at him and said softly, "That's very important."

Rod looked pleased by her assessment. She felt they complemented one another. Best of all, they could speak easily on any subject that was raised. Any subject but one. They didn't speak of their religions.

That first date, after Rod walked with her to the front porch, he leaned forward and gave her light kiss. He drew away from her and examined her face. "Hey, relax. Let's try again." He kissed her on her smile and she felt his lips move on hers. She kissed him back. When he released her she was flustered and excited and not a little ashamed that she had to be taught how to kiss a man. She didn't turn to go into the house, however, but watched him walk to his car and get in. She waved at him and he waved back. "I'll call you," he said through the open window. She knew he meant it, and her heart gave a pleasant lurch.

Unlike the other boys she had dated, she found nothing about him that seriously bothered her. She even liked his name: James Roderick Allison. He was mannerly, kind, and good natured; she enjoyed his wit and admired his intelligence; he had a quick temper, but he got over it just as quickly. For all that, he was also serious in a way that gave her confidence in his ability to make decisions. She was almost awed by this last quality where she felt herself to be so uncertain. When he took her to his house one evening to meet his parents, she came back to earth. They had been dating for a month.

The first thing she saw when she entered the large brick home was the crucifix on the wall. His parents, his father a tall, dark-haired man and his plumpish mother with wavy brown hair like Rod's, regarded her, she imagined, with the same suspicions her mother held of Rod. They were pleasant enough, but they, too, most likely were disappointed if not sick at heart that their son was dating a non-Catholic.

Joan felt the weight of their ancient faith and how it excluded her. They might have been wearing all the exotic, effete trappings of that faith, the silver crucifixes, the incense and bells, strange vestments and ceremonies. She, on the other hand, was barely clothed in her latter-day Methodism, gauche and muscular in its simplicity.

Rod's father cleared his throat. "Rod says you work at the Register and Tribune."

"Yes, for the summer anyhow." She laughed nervously. "I'd like to continue part-time after I start college, but I'm not sure about that." She started to mention Madelaine and Dorothy, the two Catholic girls she worked with as a point of connection between them, but decided that would sound stupid.

"And you're going to Drake, Rod says." His mother smoothed a stray hair and settled herself on the edge of a chair.

"She'll be majoring in English," Rod interjected. He gave her an encouraging smile.

"Ah," said his mother. "That's nice."

His father took off his glasses and wiped them on a handkerchief he pulled from his pants pocket but said nothing.

Rod and Joan left soon after. Joan was trembling as she seated herself in the car.

"They hate me."

Rod laughed. "No more than your mother dislikes me." He slammed the car in reverse and screeched out of the driveway. "What the hell difference does it make! They all act as if we've announced our engagement." He was angry.

"Sure, I know. How silly they are. Why shouldn't we be able to just have fun together without religion coming into it?" She and Rod would live for the moment, this summer, and not think about the future.

But Alma, too, had posed that very question not a week earlier. She was seated at the dining room table hemming lengths of crash for kitchen towels. "What if you end up really liking Rod? What if you want to get married?"

"Mother, we've just met. We'll deal with the religion thing if we get serious. We're both too young to think about settling down. All right?" She could hear her voice rise to the excitable pitch that her mother had always condemned.

("You sound like the Lilleys, flying off like that," she would say. "Get control of yourself.")

Alma didn't caution her this time. She was too upset herself, working her needle furiously, to look at Joan. Joan turned on her heel and went to her little room. Alone, she could admit that religion was a barrier between Rod and her that might someday have to be breached.

Chapter 16

More Complications

"I'd like you to do a special shooting next Saturday afternoon." Howard had caught her on her way out of Classified as she left for home one Wednesday evening.

"Oh, what is it?"

Her boss, Shirley, was just ahead of her, and at Howard's words she turned her head and gave Joan a smirk. When Joan had begun her work with Howard, she had asked Shirley if she knew him. Shirley had replied, "Not really. I've seen him around and he seems a bit creepy. But I shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

Joan had laughed at Shirley's appraisal, but she couldn't help thinking of it when she was around him, especially when alone with him.

He was saying to her now in his toneless voice, "It's a big spread on swimsuits for the Women's Section. It'll come out a week from Sunday." He inquired about the size swimsuit she wore and then left as she went on to the bus stop.

Good. She would probably get at least three hours of work in. Up until now, they had worked on Friday nights after work. A Saturday session perhaps meant a long one. Howard would have the suits and other props ready for her; the session would be in the studio.

Friday night in her bath she shaved her legs carefully. It was a tricky business, shaving closely without nicking herself. Usually, she had to resort to applying the septic stick that she had found in the medicine cabinet. An old one of her father's. She remembered the smell of his mentholated cream that he used after he shaved. She felt a wave of sadness come over her. She wished her father were here. Not that he would have overridden her mother's point of view, but his love for her had never carried with it the critical strain that seemed to run through her mother's love.

Saturday, she was allowed to drive the car in to work. The newspaper was not totally deserted, but few departments were open. Classified had the telephone staff taking calls, but the outside glass doors were closed to the public.

Joan had discovered through Rod that Howard was considered a top notch photographer in Promotion. He photographed not only for syndicated columns when needed, but for in-house feature stories and activities that promoted the interests of the newspaper--contests or any public relations enterprises.

Joan had no other association with Howard, but occasionally he mentioned his other work. She knew nothing about him, his background, his age--nothing, and she wanted it that way. She kept a distance between them and discouraged personal conversations without examining her reasons too closely. He was physically repulsive to her, but so were a lot of people, aesthetically speaking, and she didn't dislike them. He couldn't help his pale hair and nearly translucent skin, his eyes the color of cave ice.

When Joan arrived in the fifth floor studio, she saw only Howard setting up the props. He had laid out four swimsuits, sunglasses, a straw hat, beach ball and towel. Joan looked around for Rod before she went into the dressing room but didn't see him.

The suits were beautiful. She held out one that looked as if it belonged on Esther Williams. It was a pale blue, satin latex with a jeweled bodice. A matching blue satin bandeau for her hair came with the suit. All the suits were more expensive than ones she could ever have owned.

As she was tugging at the first suit, pulling it inch by inch over her body, the door to the dressing room slid open a crack. Joan gave a startled cry and covered her breasts with her arms.

"Howard! I'm not ready."

"O.K." The door closed.

Joan was furious and flustered by Howard's prying but decided to ignore it. He, too, said nothing more as he set up her poses. They were designed to imitate the stylized layouts in fashion magazines, but Joan thought they were too static. She wished he could have caught her in some action shots, but obviously his camera, a big, immovable thing on a tripod, couldn't handle motion.

"No assistant today?" she inquired casually. She had not mentioned the session to Rod, assuming he would also be present.

"Huh-uh." Howard was concentrating on getting a shot.

She furrowed her brow unconsciously and he snarled, "Watch your expression. Look sexy." She tilted her head and looked up through her lashes with a slight smile curving her brightly painted lips, important, Howard said, even in black and white photos. She wore her hair pulled back severely from a center part. Her skin was glowing from the start of a tan, and she thought of Rod and wished he had been there.

Because of so many costume changes, they didn't get through until nearly four o'clock. She changed back into her street clothes after propping a chair against the closet door. She called out "Good-bye" and started to leave the studio. Her mother's car was parked in the same lot that Rod used.

"Wait."

She turned at the door to the hallway and watched him walk toward her.

"How about something to eat?" He gave her his unblinking look. "We can go to the cafeteria next door maybe and get a cup of coffee or a Coke and something to eat. What do you say?"

Joan swallowed. How could she refuse? He employed her and could just as easily dismiss her if he thought she was snooty. "All right. I am kind of hungry."

"I'll get the lights."

On the elevator they were alone. Howard usually said little to her whenever they met except to issue commands. Joan, feeling the need to keep speech, if nothing else, between them, said in a cheerful voice, "This was a harder session today with all the changes. Do you think it went all right?"

"Yeah. You looked good." His eyes roved over her body. "I wouldn't mind seeing more of that."

She stared at the doors, her scalp prickling, waiting to arrive at the lobby. If they could get around people, he would behave. This damned elevator and its suggestion of intimacy.

She strode out without waiting for him; she saw him from the corner of her eye giving a hop-step to keep up. At the front doors, he grabbed her arm to stop her. She looked at him coldly. "Are we going to get some coffee or not?"

"Would you like to go somewhere else? Maybe get an early dinner? I'll drive you and then bring you back for your car."

"I think the cafeteria is the best idea." She looked at her watch blindly. "I haven't got much time." She walked on toward the restaurant.

"Got a date?" He held open the door of the cafeteria. She took her place in line, which had only a few people.

She and Rod were going out this evening, but she didn't want to get into the subject, so she only said, "Plans with my mother. She's a widow, you know, and I do things with her now and then."

"So you're not used to having a man around. I thought so." He took a piece of lemon meringue pie and set it on his tray. Joan had lost her appetite and limited herself to a large Coke.

"I don't know what you mean by that."

They sat at a table that Joan selected in the middle of the room.

"You don't seem comfortable with men. Icy cold. Why don't you--ah--sort of let your hair down?"

Joan stared into her drink and said nothing. This was horrible!

He leaned back in his chair and said, "A lot of the models like to have men looking at them. You wouldn't believe what they do."

Joan looked up at him and said brightly, "You must have gone to a school on photography. Did you? Did you have special training?"

But he dismissed her inquiry with a wave of his hand as if brushing away an insect. He leaned forward and said in a whisper, "I've always wanted someone like you. Will you go out with me tomorrow night?" His breath had the strange, medicinal smell of Sen-Sen.

Joan stood up. "I can't, really, Howard. Maybe we should just keep things between us strictly business for the time being. I've got so much to think about with this modeling job and the one in Classified, too. Let's just be friends, O.K.?"

Howard frowned and said, "We'll see."

As she passed by him, he caught her arm. "Remember, I'm after you, kid." He gave her a ghoulish grin.

She left the restaurant with as much dignity as she could muster, hoping no one she knew had seen her with him.

Although she didn't think she should mention the episode to Rod, or her mother, for that matter, she was able to talk about Howard to Eileen. Eileen was spending the summer as a stock girl in the children's department at Penney's. She planned to go to the state university and take a two-year degree in Dental Hygiene. Alma thought this was an eminently practical plan. Joan thought it sounded boring.

"You'll have to be cagey," Eileen advised Joan in her usual placid manner. Eileen could always be counted on to say the rational, the expected. "You don't want to let him know you loathe him." They were sitting on Eileen's back porch just before dinner, drinking lemonade.

"I know that, but what if he gets really persistent? I put him off for now, but he'll try again."

"Sic Rod on him."

"Oh, sure, and then we'll both lose our jobs. No, I can't do that. I'm afraid it would cause a real problem."

Eileen shook her head. "You've already got a real problem."

As she spoke, Joan had been staring at the hollyhocks lining the alley behind Eileen's house. She remembered as a child she had liked the papery blossoms to make into wreaths for her hair. Then she noticed an awkward, jerking movement near the garage behind the tall plants. "Who's that?" she asked, pointing.

Eileen stood up and stepped off the porch. "I think it's Annie, Annie Bissell. I've noticed her lately going through the alley for some peculiar reason--but then, she's peculiar."

Joan left the porch and walked toward the back of the lawn. "Annie!" she called. "What are you doing?"

The girl stopped and peeked through the stalks of flowers, smiling. "Hi, Joan. I'm going home. I went to the store."

Annie had always seemed like part of the backdrop, Joan thought guiltily. How many times had she seen the girl standing behind something, a tree, the corner of a house, another person, watching, wanting to be part of the action but with her crooked body and other oddities unable to join in. Joan had never encouraged her, thoughtless, she knew, in her pursuit of fun.

"Why are you walking in the alley?"

Annie shook her head. "I've got to go now. My dad wants his supper." But she set a large sack beside her on the gravel.

Joan walked through a passageway beside the garage and came up to the girl. "Is the sack too heavy--oh!" She stared at Annie and the heavy bulge beneath her blouse.

"As you can see, Joan, I'm going to have a baby."

"Yes, I can see." She looked at the girl, feeling she should say something.

"Are you married then?" she said finally, picking up Annie's sack of groceries. The two began to walk slowly. Eileen watched from her back yard but didn't join them. Joan waved goodbye to her as she set off with Annie.

Annie shook her head. "Isn't it embarrassing? I walk in the alley so no one will see me."

Her hair was a lank, dirty blonde. With her protuberant blue eyes and long neck, her fragile bones, Annie had always seemed like a baby bird to Joan. Now, she felt Annie's helplessness even more keenly. "But how--who--? I mean, can't you--" Joan broke off, trying to fathom the difficulties of the girl.

"I don't have a boyfriend, if that's what you mean. This is just one of those things I couldn't help."

"I don't understand, Annie. Have you been to a doctor?"

"I've been to the public health nurse. She gave me some vitamins and minerals. She said we'd have to wait and see what happens when it's born."

"What happens? What do you mean?"

"She said it could be deformed or maybe worse," she tapped her head, "mentally off, because--well, we'll see." Annie spoke dispassionately, as if discussing events in a novel.

No boyfriend. Couldn't help. Deformed. Joan's breath came short and fast. Who else then but her--oh, no! Horror made her gasp, but she managed to say in a normal voice, "What about your mother? Is she helping you?"

"My mother died four years ago, Joan. Right after your father was killed. She died of cancer of the liver."

"Oh, Annie, I'm so sorry. I never knew. You're so quiet about your life. I'm sorry." Joan was humiliated. Annie had known about Joan's loss, but had had to suffer alone with her own. And now this.

They were on Annie's street now, her house looming dirty and ugly before them. Nothing could have been more sinister to Joan as she thought of the monster inside. She stopped before they reached the steps. "Can't you leave? You shouldn't be here with him."

Annie nodded. "It's all right. He leaves me alone now. Besides, the nurse gave me a lock for my door. She said I was to plan to go to the Home for Unwed Mothers next month. They won't take you until you're six months along."

"Gosh, Annie, you seem so brave. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, thanks, Joan. You've always been a good friend to me. Just come and visit me after I go to the Home. It's not very far away, you know. They're using the old orphanage north of the park."

"Yes. I will. I'll come and see you." She handed the girl her groceries, then turned, her eyes blinded by tears. And the poor thing, she thought bitterly, had called her a "good friend." She felt terribly sorry for Annie, but like the fallen baby birds she had seen each spring under the big oak tree, Annie would have to make it somehow on her own. Joan wouldn't, couldn't let herself care too much about either the baby birds or Annie, for it hurt too much.

It was her own failing, and she knew it.

Chapter 17

Ghosts and Goblins

Sunday afternoon Joan knocked on Willa's door. Whenever Joan entered Willa's sanctum by herself, she might have been entering Alice's looking glass where everything was transformed. It was a kind of haven, unrecognizable from its former days as family bedrooms. Even Willa seemed different there from her brisk self when she and Alma spoke together downstairs or outside in the garden. At the downtown library too when Joan stopped by Willa's office to say hello. Willa was someone else, another librarian with the disinterested, remote air that all librarians seemed to have as if their personalities had been muffled by the cliffs of books and dead quiet of the building.

After Joan sat down on the couch, Willa brought out bottles of Coke for refreshment. "This is a treat for me," Willa said. "I know your mother thinks these soft drinks are terrible, but I like them occasionally--forbidden fruit! I hadn't even tasted one until I went away to college."

"Did you have a lot of trouble adjusting when you went away to college?" She knew Willa's upbringing had been much like Alma's.

"Gosh, yes. I was terribly naive, naturally, coming from a small town. Minneapolis was huge and the people so sophisticated, I thought. I wanted so much to fit in." She laughed. "It took a while to figure out that I wasn't the only one who didn't start off with the hang of things."

"What kind of things?" Joan settled back on the couch. This was the best part of visiting Willa. When she would open up about her life.

"Social matters, for one thing; religious ones, for another, which had been maybe the strongest influence in my life."

Joan nodded.

"I suppose the most crucial thing was understanding the religion of my parents, which is quite different from blindly accepting it. In some ways, I've been haunted by my upbringing." She gave a wry shake to her head. "Maybe haunted is too strong, but I felt its effects for years, still do, to some extent, but in a different way."

As Willa explained, she moved her hands characteristically as if rubbing a ball between them. Joan's eyes flickered from Willa's animated face to her hands. "I remember vividly one Christmas. My sister and I had heard about Christmas trees for the first time from some schoolmates with more liberal parents. I guess I was about ten or eleven." Willa laughed at Joan's expression of disbelief. "Yes, truly, we never had a Christmas tree when I was little--they were pagan and therefore sacrilegious. Anyhow, my sister and I got a little saw from the machine shed and went into the woods one dark December evening. I had already picked out the tree I wanted--just a small one for our room. I cut it and brought it in and decorated it with homemade paper decorations."

"What happened?" asked Joan, mesmerized by the tale. Like the stories her mother told of her early years, Joan found them fascinating but so unbelievable to be almost frightening.

"Well, of course my mother found out about it within a day or so. She not only threw it out, but she told my father and he had the pastor come over and talk to us about our descent into evil ways. The Christmas tree might have been the beginning of a life of depravity according to them." Willa shook her head. "But, you know, Joan, I didn't believe him or my parents. I knew

there was nothing wrong with having that tree."

"So that was the start of your rebellion."

"I suppose that's right. There may have been earlier episodes, but the Christmas tree stands out as the most important one that put me in opposition to my family."

"Did your attitude anger your parents?"

"Did it ever! I was persona non grata many times. But when I went away to college I lucked out--the War came along and everyone was too occupied with that to be overly concerned about me."

"I suppose the Lutheran Church has changed since that time," said Joan, "but it still seemed very strong to me the few times I went." Joan remembered her days at the Lutheran Bible School and how it seemed so sure of itself, something she had never felt about her own church.

"Oh, sure. I don't see its doctrine changing very soon." Willa tilted her head back reflectively. "But much of the moral trivia that disturbed me has gone by the wayside." She smiled. "That unblinking, judgmental posture wasn't always the way of Norwegians, though. I have a memoir of my great-grandfather's brother. He came to this country about ten years after his older brothers, in 1860. He wrote of his experiences in Norway as a boy, mostly regarding religious matters, which seems to be our particular obsession."

"Do you mean the Norwegians were less religious?" Joan smiled at such a thought.

"It was more a matter of how the spiritual life was measured. Before what he called the 'Westland Awakening,' there seemed to be more joy. People celebrated life. He writes of parties where they drank ale instead of coffee, and he particularly mentions the fiddle playing." Willa laughed. "He wanted more than anything as a child to play the violin. It was associated with merrymaking. But after the new 'culture stream' arrived, the fiddles, he said, were 'cast up into the dark loft so Christian folks' eyes might not see them.' Instead, he said he got an accordion since they were not considered as dangerous."

Joan laughed at the idea but her humor was dampened by the sad familiarity of such prohibitions.

"Mother told me when she was confirmed, she had to swear not to drink, dance, or play cards."

"So did I. I'm afraid I broke that vow."

"I think Mother has kept it. I know she has. Until I got to high school, she didn't allow me to go to the movies on Sunday."

"There aren't many people like your mother."

"That's what makes it hard for me. She's so willing to sacrifice anything for her ideas."

"Or someone else's ideas, Joan." Willa lifted her hand as if protesting her own words. "I don't mean to criticize your mother, in fact, she's allowed you some liberties she never took for herself, but what's right for her isn't necessarily what's right or best for you or others, for that matter." She sighed. "It took me years to arrive at a way of life--a philosophy--that was meaningful. I don't mean to say I threw out everything that I was taught, either."

"I'm working at it, but I'm terribly confused, Willa." Joan hesitated a moment. Willa was very still.

"I've been hearing these Christian rules all my life--how we're to love everyone as ourselves, to hate the sin but not the sinner, not to worry about tomorrow, just to name a few, but none of those things seem to hold true in my own family. If that's Christianity in action, I don't want any part of it." She spoke with some heat, her voice trembling.

"Do you have something specific in mind?"

She took a deep breath. "My uncle Roy, for example, drinks too much. I know he hangs out at the tavern in Bethany--Mom and Louise and Rose talk about it--and he leaves poor Lillith by herself a lot. Yet he has always criticized my makeup--too much, my clothes--too many, and acts as if his kids are much better because they're farm kids, while I'm some bad "city slicker."

Willa laughed. "I'm sorry, Joan, for laughing, but that's so typical! You have to consider the source and try to avoid him as much as possible. You can never defend yourself unless you take him on personally, and you can't to do that. You'd only be criticized for being rude to your elders. Now that you're grown, you don't have to spend any more time with him and, I suppose, others in your mother's family unless you choose to."

"Yes, that's right, I don't." Willa's words has given Joan a feeling of relief. Why hadn't she thought of that? She no longer had to visit obnoxious relatives, even if her mother tried to arrange such meetings.

"And then," Joan went on, "there's all this intolerance toward other groups of people--Catholics in particular. I've always heard how bad that religion is. It might be from the devil for all they say about it. I've been hearing a bit more about it lately, from Rod. He's a Catholic, you know, so I can believe what he tells me."

"Poor Joan. How confusing those messages." Willa gave Joan a thoughtful look. "This Rod, you like him a lot?"

Joan nodded. "He's a neat guy. Really nice, not a monster at all."

"Of course not. What does your mother say about your dating him?"

Joan wrinkled her nose. "She hates it! Rather than appreciate Rod for the fine person he is, she can only think of the bad things about our dating." Joan gave a bitter laugh. "I'd be willing to bet she'd prefer me to date the photographer at the newspaper because he's a Protestant, never mind that he's ten years older, repulsive, and nasty-minded!"

"Oh, Joan, I'm sorry, really."

"Mother just knows Rod and I will get serious and have terrible problems. I think that's borrowing trouble."

"It may be and it may not. That's a confusing message too, I know. I suppose if you and Rod go your separate ways, no harm is done. But Alma's right about people falling in love and wanting to marry--sometimes without considering what has to happen in a marriage where religion might be a problem. It's sort of like going into a ball game with two strikes against you before you even step up to the plate. You might hit a home run, or you might strike out instantly."

"But why should religion matter so much? I'm not saying we're even considering such a thing as marriage, because we're not and maybe never will, but if we did, why should it concern anyone but ourselves? And why couldn't we handle it?" Joan's voice had taken on a desperate, pleading quality.

"Because, Joan dear, overcoming the prejudice and intolerance of others--those who love you--is not something you can do just because you want to. You might have to give up--I mean really give up--being accepted by your families, both of whom probably feel strongly about this issue. Or you might have to become a Catholic, or Rod a Protestant in order to live peacefully together. It's a complicated issue if both your families' wishes and your own religions are important to either or both of you. In that case, they have to be considered."

Joan burst into tears and covered her face with her hands. Willa didn't touch her, but she did make soothing sounds. Presently, Joan grew calmer and said, "I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to live my own life, be around people I like who like me. Is that so terrible?"

Willa gave a soft laugh. "Not terrible at all. Maybe everything will work itself out. But if you have to make a decision, it most likely will have far-reaching effects." Willa sighed again. "It's so hard to know what is right, isn't it? So many things have to be considered."

As Joan parted from Willa, the older woman smiled, but her eyes were sober and conveyed a sympathy that Joan noticed particularly.

Chapter 18

Alarums and Excursions

"I want you to come."

"But I don't know your sister very well." Joan hesitated, not wishing to sound whiny. "And besides, I haven't gotten an invitation."

"What!" Rod looked at her, astonished. The wedding of his older sister was next Saturday. He and Joan had been discussing on and off her coming to the wedding as his guest. He hit the steering wheel with his fist. "I told Mary to send you one! Oh, hell, she probably forgot. She's acting like she's got a screw loose." He laughed and put his arm around her shoulder. "Don't let me down now. I'll be lonesome without you."

Joan melted. She had no desire to breach the Allison family fortress, but she wanted to please Rod and to be with him, too. "All right, but just for you. Tell Mary you've asked me, please? I don't want anyone to think I'm horning in."

"You'll be welcome if anyone notices. These weddings are big parties, you know."

"They are?" Joan couldn't imagine. The weddings of her friends and family were staid affairs, conducted soberly and modestly with a simple reception in the Fellowship Hall. Never could they be termed parties.

"I'd better get in the house," Joan said, giving Rod another parting kiss. They were in the driveway of her house, and she knew better than to linger too long in the car.

"I'll call you tomorrow." He kissed her at the door and she watched him spring down the steps and slip into his car, a two-year-old red MGA. Joan had been conscious from the first of the differences between their families' respective finances. Rod's father as a successful osteopath was able to comfortably support his four children, three of whom were in college. Rod's older sister was soon to graduate while Mary was planning on getting her degree next year after her marriage. Rod's younger brother was still in high school and, like Rod, had his own car.

In contrast, Joan felt her mother's saving ways and Joan's need to watch every penny to be somewhat shameful, as if her father had not only left them, but left them impoverished. Rod had never made a point of the differences, but with each encounter with his world, like this wedding, Joan became more and more aware of them. She tried, sometimes successfully, to forget about their families, their inability to share certain things in their lives. She sometimes wished they would be transported to a desert island where no one could interfere with them. But she never lingered long in the world of fantasy. The real world was this wedding and Rod's insistence that she attend.

At least she had a decent dress to wear. Her senior activities had required three dresses, which she had picked up at various sales throughout the whole of last year. She decided to wear a short-sleeved, grey cotton sheath with a sweetheart neckline. It had tiny grosgrain bows covering the fabric, very smart and unusual. It had been a French Room dress she had gotten at 75 percent off last winter. She had worn it only once for the Senior Prom.

Money for clothes was a nagging concern but even more so was money for tuition. She would be all right for the first semester with two scholarships paying the full bill. But second semester still had to be provided for. Her mother was paying half of the six-hundred-dollar cost, which didn't include books. She planned to save thirty dollars a week over the summer, allowing herself five dollars each week for lunches and other expenses.

Over a ten-week period, she'd have three hundred dollars. With the modeling money she could buy some new clothes. Her high school clothes looked outdated and some were worn out. College activities would demand a little better grade of clothes than she had felt absolutely necessary in high school where most students were from working class families with simple tastes.

Joan knew the importance of fixing herself up to look right for the occasion, to wear the nicest clothes she could afford. She thought of herself as a blank canvas, ready to be transformed into something pleasing to the eye. Her worth was somehow bound up in her appearance, for she had seen the change come over people when they saw her at her best rather than when she had been careless. She was her father's girl all right: "The apparel oft proclaims the man" or woman, as the case may be. She had looked up the origin of that quote with Willa's help and found she agreed with Shakespeare's Polonius: "Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,/ But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;/ For the apparel oft proclaims the man."

Surprisingly, even though Alma had pursed her mouth when Joan told her where she was going, her mother had been helpful in decking her out for the wedding.

"You can carry my good summer handbag, if you want, with the pink and grey shells. Maybe you'd like to wear my pink straw hat, too. They both would look nice with your dress."

"Thanks, Mom." Joan wanted to say more, to assure her mother that this wedding was no harbinger of her own or that she was not deserting the ship, but conversation was strained between them on anything to do with Rod.

The wedding was at noon and Rod was to collect her at eleven. His eyes lit up when he saw her. "Wow! You'll put the bride in the shade."

She laughed, and shook her head, but her heart was light. This could possibly be a good day after all.

Rod was an usher, and he led her to her seat on his arm. He looked handsome in his morning suit, handsomer than any of the other men in the wedding party. Joan settled herself in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. As she contemplated her mother's pink cotton gloves, she thought of Alma's experience at a Catholic wedding with her embarrassingly bleach-scented hands. Joan felt herself to be just as noticeable as her mother. She might not smell bad, but she believed she carried a Protestant taint about her person.

She thought of Willa's words about becoming a Catholic. Could she, if she had to, become a part of this group? Could she abandon her family's traditions for the love of a man? Joan dismissed these thoughts. She wouldn't allow her imagination to ruin this occasion.

Then Joan became aware of the guests beside her, kneeling after they entered the pew. When the priest emerged from an small, arched side door, followed by the groom and his attendants, the congregation stood up. Joan followed their lead but felt uncomfortable. Seated again, she waited for Lohengrin but an unfamiliar but quite beautiful melody heralded the bridesmaids' approach to the altar. Joan counted six of them before the flower girl, strewing rose petals, bobbed down the aisle.

At Mary's approach on her father's arm, the congregation again moved as one to face her. Then they turned toward the front and stood while the priest went through the ceremony. At one point, when he signaled a prayer, the congregation sank to their knees on the cushioned kneelers. Joan sat down in the pew abruptly, certain all eyes were upon her as an interloper. She wanted to kneel with the rest, but she wasn't sure it was proper for a non-Catholic to do so.

She heard the language of the Church, incomprehensible yet somehow reassuring. The priest went to the altar, followed by the bride and groom, who knelt before it. Soon, they took bread on their tongues and were blessed in Latin, at which time those around Joan also crossed themselves. In minutes, it seemed, the marriage ceremony was completed and the bride and groom sped down the aisle. Joan's dread grew. Now she would have to confront Rod's parents and friends.

He came to get her in the vestibule of the church where she stood alone. People had passed her with polite nods. The wedding party, Rod said, were to have pictures taken before going to the country club for the reception.

"Come on into the church and wait for me." He smiled into her eyes as if to wipe away the anxiety traced on her features.

"Is it all right?" She hesitated. Groups of people were milling around the altar area. Someone called Rod's name, and he deposited her in a pew toward the back.

"Sure it's all right. This won't take too long. I'll get away as soon as I can."

It had been a beautiful wedding, lavish and elegant. The ceremony was dignified, if a little cold compared to the Protestant weddings she had attended where the minister attempted to put everyone at ease.

Joan had never been to the country club. A few months ago she couldn't have imagined going to any country club, but especially this one, which was Des Moines' newest and most prestigious. She looked at the imposing gates rising before them that seemed to forbid someone from Snusville from entering. She wished she had not agreed to come. Even after avidly reading Amy Vanderbilt and Emily Post, she felt insecure. Her experience at social affairs was too limited. Would she embarrass Rod by doing or saying the wrong thing?

It soon became apparent she needn't have worried. No one paid the slightest attention to her. Rod had to speak to various people, aunts and uncles who came to their table where they sat with Rod's younger brother and his friends. Joan was introduced to all of them. Their eyes met hers briefly and glided off, uninterested.

Joan watched with interest as toasts were given to the young couple by Rod's father, then the groom's father, the best man, and others. She had never been in a gathering where anyone drank, let alone made an occasion of it. Rod stepped closer to the table and gave a toast of his own, which had bawdy suggestions about the honeymoon. She turned to the people beside her to share her amusement, but no one looked in her direction.

She began to feel anonymous, like a non-person. Rod came back with two glasses of champagne, balancing a plate of food on one of the glasses. But instead of sitting down, he was interrupted by a friend who engaged him in conversation. Joan turned to Rod's brother, wolfing down a plateful of hors d'oeuvres.

"I've never tasted champagne before," she said. "I think I like it, but I'm not sure." She had felt daring and grown up as she sipped the forbidden drink, forbidden by law and by her mother's decree.

"Oh, yeah? It's O.K., I guess." He gave her a smile but left the table to get more food. Rod had now stepped over to an adjoining table and was chatting with some older people. They all seemed to be looking at her, but Rod didn't call her over.

(Let's go!) she wanted to signal, but she didn't dare. Rod's parents and his sister and her husband were dancing. Others were beginning to join in. Joan would have liked to dance with Rod--they had not gone dancing since they met, but they had plans to go to the Val Aire next weekend. They would dance under the stars, if there were any stars, to the music of the Crewcuts. She was looking forward to it.

When Rod came back to the table, she thought he looked worried. He gave her a tight smile and squeezed her hand. "Are you all right?" They sat without conversing for what seemed an age before he asked her to dance. She gratefully sank into his arms and let herself be led by him and the beat of the music.

On the dance floor, they bumped gently into another couple, the girl in a bridesmaid's dress, the young man in a naval uniform.

"Joan, this is my other sister, Sally. Joan Lilley. And Sally's fiance, Doug."

Joan didn't shake hands, but they all smiled at one another cordially and then swept off in opposite directions. Still feeling self-conscious and out-of-place, Joan didn't enjoy the dancing as much as she had hoped. After a few numbers, perhaps detecting her unease, Rod asked if she'd had enough, and she nodded. Let's go now! she silently cried.

"Why don't you line up with the other girls for the bouquet? Mary's getting ready to throw it."

"Really?" She looked out on the dance floor. The bridesmaids and other young women were assembling in front of the bride. "I don't know if I should. Do you think it would be all right?"

"Sure, do it." He looked a bit intense, on the edge of impatience, so she left the table and took her place to one side of the cluster of females.

She hadn't meant to even try to catch it, but Mary's backward toss had given the bouquet a curve in Joan's direction. She merely reached out one hand and the flowers landed in her palm. At first, she heard a gasp and applause, but it quickly died. She walked off the floor back to the table in an eerie silence. Then the orchestra resumed its playing, and Joan raised her eyes to Rod.

"I shouldn't have gone out there."

"Yes, you should have. I'm glad you did." He looked grim. "Shall we go?"

"Yes." She rose quickly from her seat, ready to run, but then she stopped, remembering her manners. "I need to see your folks and thank them." She found them near the door. Rod's mother gave her a detached smile as she shook Joan's outstretched hand. Joan shielded the bouquet behind her dress.

"It was a lovely wedding, Mrs. Allison. Thank you for inviting me."

"You're very welcome, JoAnn." Rod's mother turned to others approaching her, and even though Rod corrected her, she seemed not to hear.

What more should she have expected? Joan thought as they left. Foolishly, she had envisioned taking her place among Rod's friends and family by acclamation, as if by some power of her looks and personality she could overcome their lack of interest, their downright hostility. But no. It was not to be.

"That was a terrible, terrible mistake," she said in the car.

"What was?" Rod looked straight ahead, as if concentrating on his driving.

"You know, Rod. My going to the wedding. And then I caught the bouquet--couldn't have been worse."

"Does it matter?" He turned his head toward her and said, "It doesn't matter to me what anyone says or thinks. What's important is us being together."

But she shook her head and looked away.

Chapter 19

Shadows on the Wall

August was a bad month, its evils growing from strength to strength with each passing day. A record hot spell engulfed the area, frying the foliage and wilting people. Willa installed an air conditioner and its perpetual, throaty hum seemed to reproach the sweating occupants of the downstairs rooms. Joan hated to leave the cool comfort of work to ride on the sweltering bus and spend the evening with her bare legs and haltered back sticking to upholstery.

The nights were the worst when Joan would trail from window to window trying in vain to find a breeze. Alma didn't believe in direct fans on a sleeping body, but instead positioned the fans in strategic locations which did nothing more than stir up hot air.

"Find a place and stay put," she advised her daughter. "You move around too much and get hotter."

In Classified, Shirley was grumpy, hardly able to utter a catch phrase. Joan had turned in her notice and would be leaving in two weeks. Dorothy had already left for the first stage of her religious journey. Then Madelaine announced she would be quitting to get married in September.

"Steve doesn't want me to work after we're married," she said with arch satisfaction. "So after September 25th, I'll be auditioning for Mrs. America."

Rod would be leaving for Marquette in ten days, on the 18th. Joan was trying not to think about that too much. Rod had said little about their parting, other than to get her promise to write regularly. He had raised the issue of dating others.

"I don't expect you to be a nun. I want you to have some fun your first year in college."

Joan knew he was being reasonable, but she was devastated by his remarks. She didn't consider them particularly generous. If he wanted her to date others, then he would do the same. He had never told her he loved her or wanted their relationship to go much beyond what they had this summer, but Joan had thought she knew his feelings. She grew cooler, didn't linger for long kisses, tried not to be too eager-sounding when he called her for a date. They were back to playing the game.

Was this really all there would be? she asked herself over and over. Was this one of those famous summer romances that meant nothing, merely an interlude? Intuition told her not to confront him, that he would resent being pinned down.

She had always controlled relationships in the past, breaking them off when it suited her, relentless if she had decided there was no real future for them. Now that her feelings were fully engaged, she was allowed nothing, no options. Date others!

Rod had left his newspaper job and didn't know if Howard would be getting a replacement assistant or not. Joan had never expressed her problems with Howard to Rod, and she was in a quandary about taking new assignments. The money was important. She had to have it, so she talked herself into a confidence she didn't really feel in handling Howard's advances. What could he do, really?

Howard approached Joan the Friday before Rod's last week as she was leaving for lunch. It was obvious he had her schedule down pat.

"I need you for a three-part layout tomorrow. Can you make it about one o'clock?"

"Have you gotten someone to replace Rod already?" she asked casually, avoiding a direct answer.

"Not yet. I may wait until just before Christmas when I have more to do with promotions."

She looked away from him, thinking. She would be alone with him in a virtually empty building. She turned back to him and measured with her eyes his flimsiness as a person, his apparent physical weakness. She thought about making eight or nine dollars.

"Sure, I can make it. What do I bring to wear?"

They made their arrangements, and then Joan had the satisfaction of leaving him so quickly he was unable to follow along beside her as she sped down the pavement.

She and Rod had planned to go to a movie on Saturday night, so after she got home from work on Friday she quelled her impulse to call him up and tell him about the modeling session for Saturday afternoon. What could he do? She would only sound as if she wanted him to come along, which she told herself was not the case. But Saturday morning, she still wanted to call him and talk to him about her fears of Howard. Maybe he would give her some insights, having worked so closely with him. He had told her he would probably never work for him again, preferring to get a job as go-fer in a law firm next summer.

No, said Mrs. Allison, Rod was out--he had many things to get done before he took off for school next week. Joan felt put off and not a little embarrassed to ask any favors of her, but she couldn't quite let it go at that.

"Would you please have him call me if he gets back by noon. I'll be working with Howard this afternoon."

She hung up wishing she hadn't called in the first place. Rod would think she was grasping at straws to keep him connected to her when he seemed to want to let go. No telling what Mrs. Allison thought.

The studio was brightly lit and Howard was impatient to get started as always. She had delayed as long as possible before setting out, hoping Rod would call, but no such luck. She saw Howard had the odd props set up--a venetian blind tacked to the wall, an old fashioned scrub board, and a desk with a telephone sitting beyond the set as if waiting in the wings.

The session passed without incident and as Howard clicked away at what was to be the final poses, Joan began to relax. He turned off the two tripod lights.

"Wait there a minute," he said as she started to gather up her things. He went to the end of the room and as Joan watched, puzzled, he flipped the main switch. The room was in total darkness.

"Howard! What's going on?"

"Hide and seek," he called out with a chuckle.

Joan could hear footsteps shuffling toward her. She backed up against the venetian blind and it rattled noisily. As if in a nightmare a hand fumbled at her shoulder and snaked around her waist. She struck out at the hand and twisted to one side, sliding out from his grasp.

"Howard, for pete's sake, stop it!"

"Come on, Joan," he panted, "let's make up. You're mad at me, I can tell."

If she could get into the dressing room, she thought, she could brace the door shut against him. But moving forward quickly, she ran into the light stand, toppling it over. Howard again reached her and clasped her to him closely. The sickening smell of Sen-Sen mixed with perspiration assailed her and she pushed his face away from her. They didn't speak now, but only silently struggled.

Joan dismissed the dressing room as a haven. She had to leave the studio, move toward the door. She had become disoriented, so with hands before her, running blindly, she aimed toward what she hoped was the space between the other light tripod and the wall that would lead her out of the room. But Howard was right behind her. He lurched toward her again, kicking over something heavy on his way, grunting a little with the exertion. He yanked her towards him. She fell back against his body, damp and surprisingly muscular. But worst of all, she could feel the unmistakable hardness of his erection against her hip. She screamed and thrust her head backward, hitting his face. Startled, he relaxed his hold, moaning with pain, and Joan lunged forward toward the door and freedom.

Howard didn't follow her outside, but Joan was too frightened to wait for the one elevator that was in service on weekends. She ran to the stairway and took the steps two at a time until she reached the lobby four floors down. Would he be waiting for her? He was not. It was over. It wasn't until she could sit, shaking, in her car with the door locked that she felt really safe. Before she could drive off, she had to calm herself. Everyday things. The ordinary. She thought about the movie that she and Rod would see that evening. She planned what she would be wearing. Then she thought of the two changes of clothing she had left in the studio dressing room and groaned.

Driving home, she shuddered over and over as she relived the experience. Her repulsion reminded her of the time she had picked up a towel in her grandmother's basement and found a mouse in her hand. She couldn't quit washing her hands.

Rod called her a little after five.

"I just got in; what's up?"

"Oh, nothing, really," she lied. "I had hoped we could have lunch, that's all."

Not until after she and Rod had left the theater and were driving to a restaurant for hamburgers did Joan mention the incident with Howard. Her voice sounded shakey, unlike her own. She felt the same panic rise that had engulfed her in the studio.

At first Rod only nodded as she spoke of Howard dousing the lights. Then he turned to look at her and, slowing the car, found a place to park.

"My God, you mean he attacked you!"

Joan nodded wordlessly. Would Rod think that somehow she had led Howard on?

Rod hit the steering wheel and stared through the windshield. "I'll kill that son-of-a-bitch!"

The tears starting, she covered her face with her hands."I didn't mean you were supposed to do anything about it," she cried in muffled tones, "I just had to tell someone. It upset me a lot, and I didn't want to tell my mother."

Rod reached for her and placed her head on his shoulder. "Honey, if I'd known what you were having to put up with, I'd have straightened out that--that--" He was speechless.

"But I took care of myself, Rod." She sat up. "The point is, he didn't get me, not really. I got away and he didn't touch me."

His voice broke. "God, it makes me sick to think about him even trying to get you." He slumped back in the seat. "You know, I don't think it's going to work out for us to be separated for so long."

Joan laughed. She suddenly felt happy. "I don't think we have much choice, do we?"

"I suppose not, but we don't have to pretend to be brave and unselfish."

"Is that what you've been doing?"

"Yep. Fooled you, didn't I?"

"I didn't know what to think. I'm glad to know you care about me a little bit."

"A little bit?" Rod looked into her eyes, his face as sober as she'd ever seen it. "I've been trying to con myself into thinking you're just another girl, but you're not and you'll never be. So what are we going to do about it?"

Now Joan was able to think; she was strangely clearheaded, objective. "We probably should go on as we had planned. I don't care about anyone else either, but how can we, how can we--"

"Get really serious?" Rod took her hand and smoothed it with his fingers. "You know I love you. I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. All this religion business is old fashioned and stupid! I don't want that to interfere with our happiness."

"Oh, Rod, I wish we could live as we are tonight, alone with no one else to consider. But I know that's not possible. I think we both need to be away from each other and give our situation a lot of thought. We'll know more about what we can live with and what we can't."

"But I want everyone to know right now. I don't need more time. I've tried not to be selfish, to let you go, but, honest, honey, I want us to be together."

"I do too, but I think we need to prove that absence really does make the heart grow fonder. I think I love you too, but we have to know if our feelings will last during a separation, don't we?"

"I don't need any proof. I don't need to be apart from you to know that. I don't see why you suddenly think we do." He was hurt, angry.

Joan put her arms around him, but he didn't respond. "Please don't be angry. This is what you wanted us to do. Let's at least try it."

He shrugged her off and started the car. Mechanically, he sought out the restaurant and turned into the parking lot. He walked around the car as usual and opened the door for her.

Joan thought this would be perhaps their last real date. They mustn't part with hard feelings, which had done an about-face--now she was in control while Rod was suffering. Oh, misery!

"I still want to punch that idiot Howard out," Rod said with anger behind his grey eyes. They had finished their meal and were having coffee and cigarettes.

His eyes. Joan had always been mesmerized by the lights that danced in their depths. They stared at one another until Rod gave a groan and said, "Let's go."

But when they parted in front of Joan's house, when Rod held her more tightly than usual, it was Joan who gently pushed away. She walked to the house with Rod's arm around her shoulder not saying anything, and giving him a brief kiss, she quickly turned to go into the house. Tonight was the end of something fine, and she would not cling like a baby to either him or to what she hoped might have been.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Rod said before she closed the door.

"I'll be there." But when she went into the house, she was sad. She had to put her trust in their ability to withstand the temptation of a separation. She was sorry there was such a great distance between them and that he was going to a place so different from Des Moines this summer. Was it the strength of his love she didn't quite trust, or her own?

End of Part Three

Part Four

"--we wait for new heavens and a new earth, where righteousness is at home. Therefore, beloved, while you are waiting for these things, strive to be found by him at peace, without spot or blemish;" -- 2 Peter 3:13-14

Chapter 20

New Haunts

Joan studied the map of the campus, trying to orient herself. The Science Building, where was it? Never good at directions, she had resisted asking for help, feeling self-conscious enough wearing her freshman beanie.

The campus seemed spacious and beautiful to her. She knew it was a fraction the size of the University of Iowa, which was attractive too, but more like a small city. Certainly the aptly nicknamed Cow College, where she had spent so many ill-fated weekends, hadn't appealed to her as this campus did. Great oak and elm trees over-arched the paved walks and Victorian brown brick structures. Flower beds of chrysanthemums and late flowering cannas gave a lift to her spirits as she ambled by. The hand of man, always important to Joan's environment, was well displayed here.

But even in the brightness of a sunny fall day, the campus seemed hidden and mysterious to Joan, like a scene in an old sepia print. She looked at the limestone gargoyles atop the Administration Building and listened to the tolling of the bell in the small tower wondering if she would someday discover the secrets of this place. Each morning when she set out from home on the city bus, she expected to gain an insight to the school and the life of the mind that it was supposed to extol. But another life was all too evident--the social, which wanted to dominate her existence.

Almost bewildered by the speed with which it was accomplished, she had unexpectedly joined a sorority. She planned to go to the sorority house for lunch today. It cost only fifty cents and the food was great. Rush had been exciting but she had agonized over her choice of sororities. The smartly dressed, sophisticated bunch or the all-arounds? Finally, lying awake until 2:00 in the morning, she laughed at her indecision. She would accept the bid of the all-arounds. Less pressure. As it was, she was not exactly lighthearted anyway, considering the events of the summer. The slightly rowdy, good natured girls in her pledge class provided the opportunity for oblivion from her thoughts.

When Joan had explained to her mother that she and Rod were giving their relationship a rest, she had watched her mother's face with sickening fascination. Relief seemed to soften Alma's features, smoothing the anxiety lines at her brow and around her mouth. Yet, she said nothing other than "Oh, really?" It might have been as if she feared the spoken word would shatter the fragile agreement between Rod and Joan. Bitterness tightened Joan's mouth as she looked away from her mother. How hypocritical were her judgments of Rod and his religion. How cruel was her obvious delight at his banishment from Joan's life.

Joan had been disgusted with herself, too. Her desire to tell her mother the news was another effort to win Alma's approval following the season of her terrible disapproval. Joan wondered if she would ever escape from the need to be Alma's obedient girl.

Her mother had been so unashamedly pleased at the news of Joan and Rod's break-up that she had overwhelmed Joan with generosity. When Joan mentioned she had an invitation for a pre-rush tea, Alma said, "Why don't you go?"

"What's the point if I can't join?"

"How much does it cost, for heaven's sake. It can't be that expensive."

Alma paid the initiation fee of twenty-five dollars without a quibble and agreed to finance the monthly dues of twelve dollars. Joan's finances seemed suddenly much improved. When she had told Shirley she was giving up the modeling, that she couldn't work anymore for Howard, Shirley had said, "Easy come, easy go," and offered her the Saturday work taking telephone ads.

The sorority was costly, but worth it in many ways to a non-residential student like Joan. It was a terrific way to get into college life and meet people, for one thing. For another, it was a convenient place to stay between gaps in her classes. She had to ride the city bus across town to the campus each day and remain there until her classes and activities were over. After meetings or dinners at the House or on campus, she would catch a late bus home, drowsing to the hum of the electric cable that pulled the curbliner quietly and effortlessly along. Alma would be waiting up, sometimes joined by Willa, who would always want to know about Joan's day, her classes, her new friends. Alma had asked little at first except for practical matters, but Joan knew it was because she felt out of her league.

Joan was ready to like her sorority sisters. But sitting in the basement smoker learning to play bridge, the air a fug of stale and fresh cigarette smoke, she had trouble adjusting to their ribaldry on sexual matters. She wondered how many, like her, were virgins. They referred to the act as "doing it." Such conversations had occurred among Joan and her high school friends only in connection to girls with a bad "rep." But at the House, if someone were late making curfew or spent the weekend visiting at their boyfriend's college, they suffered from derisive comments about "doing it."

In fact, by the end of the first month of school, one of the members of her pledge class, Jeanette Donatello, had to drop out of school to get married. She had "done it" without taking precautions and now was pregnant. That she was an Italian Catholic from Des Moines and an acquaintance of Rod's gave Joan a queer sensation. She thought Jeanette's situation might have been her own had Rod not used restraint or if they had gotten more serious instead of less. She also contradicted herself by thinking she would never have given in like the fiery tempered Jeanette to the urges she had experienced with Rod.

The first Saturday night in October the sorority hosted the second mixer with a fraternity. Last week, they had gone over to party at a fraternity that was supposed to be full of jocks. This Saturday, the sorority was entertaining the Sig Alphs, the party boys. Joan drove over to the House in her mother's car, dutifully following the pledge rules, which were to participate in all sorority activities, never mind other personal entanglements. Joan was free, of course, but reluctant to meet new men, unsure of how to respond to their overtures. Flirting was expected, but Joan had little heart for it, so she found herself next to the hi-fi, sorting through records, glancing from time to time at her watch. The rugs in the two front rooms had been rolled up to make room for dancing, the smaller pieces of furniture removed to the basement.

"Would you like to dance?" He was a not-so-young man in his mid-twenties, one of the many Korean veterans who were enrolled in the University.

Joan shook her head with a smile. "I'd rather not right now." Other boys had taken her refusal as rejection and left her alone from then on, but this man remained by her side.

Joan looked at him curiously as he picked up a record she had discarded.

"I'm not crazy about Johnny Ray either." He grinned. "Whines too much, wouldn't you say?"

Joan nodded and smiled.

He held out his hand. "I'm Pete Le Grand."

She introduced herself and politely asked where he was from.

"Keokuk. I just got out of the Army."

He had dark hair in a short crew cut. He was a little taller than Joan, who was wearing flats, and his face had a chiseled quality, at first unappealing to Joan. His good looks seemed strangely flawed, like James Dean's.

"Come on." He took her arm, moving in time to the music that was playing, an instrumental rendition of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."

She swung toward him and they moved together slowly without getting much closer to the other dancers.

"What's your major?" she asked without much interest. It was easy for her to slip into the position of questioning female.

"Business. My dad owns a Buick dealership and I'll be taking over that someday." He hummed a little of the music in a light tenor voice. Joan smiled at his unself-consciousness.

He wanted her for the next number, but she declined, explaining she was leaving the dance. "I have my mother's car and I have to get home. I don't live here."

"Next time I'll drive you home. I'll pick you up, too. How about tomorrow night? I'd like to take you to a movie."

She shook her head. She didn't feel ready for this. Feelings of disloyalty merged with superstitious fear that Rod might be debating at that very moment about asking out another girl. "I can't go tomorrow. Thanks, anyway."

She slipped away from him quickly and found her pledge mom, telling her she was leaving, offering the same excuse of the car. Driving away, her hands trembled as she pulled out onto the street and she wondered why she was so nervous. She felt weak, like she was recovering from a long illness.

Chapter 21

Tweaking the Thread

Most Sundays Joan begged off from church. Sometimes she went to Sunday School, but her class had fallen away to almost nothing. Alma tried to resign herself to Joan's lapses, but she still made noises of disapproval when Joan wouldn't get out of bed on Sunday mornings. To appease her, Joan began offering to cook the noon meal. She liked to cook, and she particularly liked to have more people than just her mother to cook for.

Louise was coming over this Sunday to eat. She would be alone. Martin had been gone from her life for nearly a year.

"What happened?" Joan had asked her mother.

Alma shrugged. "He had a wife in Marshalltown. Isn't that the dirtiest thing," she said hotly. "Louise didn't find out until he got ready to go back to her."

Because of her experience with Martin, Louise counted herself among the experts on male duplicity--a common trait, she observed to Joan.

That Sunday, she warned Joan about college freshmen in case she hadn't heard. "They aren't called fresh-men for nothing!" Alma laughed, but Louise shot her a disapproving glance. She pointed her finger at her niece. "You just watch out. Don't believe a word they say and you'll be way ahead."

Joan shook her head. Louise had turned into a silly old maid. "I can take care of myself."

"That's what you think now!" Louise stabbed at her mashed potatoes.

"Are you going to Bethany with us?" Alma asked Joan.

"I don't know." Joan wanted to see her grandparents, but she didn't want to stay long. Her mother would make it an all-day occasion. "I wish you wouldn't stay so long. I need to study."

"I guess we could go for only two or three hours. Would that suit you, Louise?"

"Yep. Rose and Helmar won't be there, anyway. I suppose you'll go over to the Lilleys' for a while."

So Joan went along, now driving the family car herself on the familiar road, recently widened to accommodate the larger cars, but still just a two-lane highway. Joan remembered how difficult had been the first trip along that highway after the fatal accident. Alma told Joan, "We have to use this road. But we don't have to talk about the accident ever again."

So now Joan felt free to remember aloud the car trips during the war when the tires blew out regularly and her father had to find a water trough to repair them. The women laughed at the memory. It seemed so long ago, a different life, a different world.

Joan stayed at her Grandmother Ekdahl's long enough to talk to her grandmother for a while and walk around the yard. Her uncle Ralph was not keeping the place up like her grandfather had. The long grass grew along the once neat fences. The windmill was rusty and alternately wheezed and screeched as it turned. Barns needed painting. The fields were still productive, though, and Uncle Ralph was making good money, her mother said. Too bad he had no one to spend it on.

Joan and her mother left for the Lilleys' after an hour. They arrived to a full house, her grandfather sitting like a king at his big overstuffed chair in the parlor with the others scattered around the room. He held out his arms to Joan when he saw her coming through the door.

"How's the girl?" he cried. "How about some ice cream?"

"No thanks, Grandpa." She gave him, then her grandma a hug.

Her two aunts were there, now on their feet, clustering around Alma, showing her to a chair. Her uncle George had gotten to his feet when they came in and shaken hands with both of them. None of his children were present, disappointing Joan.

"Steve's away at Iowa U, ya' know," George's wife explained. "And the girls are off on a weekend church trip at Lake Aquabi."

"So how's my old Alma Mater?" her grandfather asked her.

Joan explained she was getting along well at Drake, but it still felt somewhat strange.

"Go to the Law Building and look in the glass case in the foyer. You'll see a familiar face."

"Yours?"

Her grandfather nodded. This had become a ritual. But she would happily listen to him talk of his days as a student in the first class at Drake as if for the first time.

Joan checked her watch after a while and nodded at her mother. "I guess we have to get going," Alma said apologetically. "Joan has to get back and study."

"The college girl!" her aunt Marie cried out jokingly. But it was tempered with admiration. Neither of the Lilley girls had gone to college. On their way to pick up Louise, Joan was assailed by a sense of loss. Soon she would be grown, her grandparents gone. Life was changing and she was already missing what would be no longer.

With her aunt beside her, sitting sideways so she could chat with her mother, Joan switched on the radio. The sun was low on the horizon, streaking red and purple across the western sky. She fiddled with the dial until she found music and then heard what had also belonged to her past. The song was "Dream Lover." It had been one of a set of out-dated Victrola records Louise had given Joan when she was about ten years old. The wind-up phonograph had been in the basement for years, never used by anyone except Joan and her friends. They would play old records and roller skate to the music. Sometimes, they would dress up and put on a show for anyone they could drag in to watch from a stairway seat.

"Dream Lover" suited her mood. It drew her back to a happy past with insignificant problems. Her father was alive. She had met Rod about that time, too. She felt her throat thicken with a stifled sob. She had had dreams then that even in the recalling seemed bright, colorful. Now when she thought of her future, only a dull image was painted on her brain.

The following week, on her way to the library, Joan saw the compact, muscular shape of Pete Le Grand ahead of her. She nearly called to him, but at the last minute turned and took another path. What did she care?

Inside the library, she found her way to the upper stacks, looking for information on a psychology project. After a few minutes, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She wheeled around and saw Pete looking at her in that odd, speculative way through slightly narrowed eyes. She felt like a specimen that he was considering. Her face turned hot under his gaze. Still, she was glad she had worn the cherry red, dyed-to-match skirt and sweater that she had bought at full price. Outfits like that were not to be found on sale racks.

"Oh, hi," she smiled, "studying?"

He wagged his head derisively. "I don't study except before a test or when a paper's due. I saw you and followed you in." He spoke in his natural voice which carried easily in the room.

People looked at them and smiled. Joan was embarrassed, turning again to the stacks.

Pete took her arm and said, "Meet me at the Student Union at 3:00." He didn't wait for an answer, but just winked and made a clicking noise with his tongue and cheek before leaving.

How conceited he was! Joan dismissed him from her thoughts. She found the books she needed and brought them to a work table where she diligently took notes for an hour and a half. Her report would not be so hard to write even though it was on the different areas of the brain and biology was not her strong suit.

At a quarter of three, she packed up her papers and prepared to leave. She looked in the direction of the Student Union. She didn't like Pete LeGrand, she decided. He was the complete opposite of Rod. Joan thought about Rod's letter, the only letter she had received so far. It was nothing more than a recital of his activities, his classes, his joining the intramural swim team. He only said at the very end that he missed her. But they had agreed to cool off. He was doing his part. She had written him back in much the same vein, but mentioned she hoped they could get together when he was home for Christmas.

Joan started to leave the campus, but then as if not of her own volition, she turned toward the Student Union. It was a little past three. She would simply stop in and have a look around out of curiosity. She occasionally ate lunch there or picked up a snack before setting off for the afternoon ride home on the bus. Pete would probably be nowhere in sight anyway. She didn't care if she saw him or not.

She saw him immediately. He was sitting on top of a table with his feet on a chair eating an ice cream cone. Three girls were ringed around him. They were all quite noisy. Joan walked toward them, feeling both like an intruder and one who was singled out for special favors. He had asked her to meet him, hadn't he?

When he saw her, he stuck the cone into his mouth, picked up his books and hopped off the table, leaving the girls without a backward glance. Joan squelched her irritation at Pete's unceremonious greeting and gave him a smile.

Instead of leading her to another table, he walked toward the exit, Joan following. At a vacant bench under a tree, he threw himself down and watched her as she hesitated.

"Take a load off." He motioned beside him.

Joan sat down, confused, watching him finish his cone. She would have liked some ice cream herself.

"Going to the game Saturday?" He tilted his head and grinned at her. His eyes were so dark and unblinking they looked like the eyes of an animal. His ears curved upward, close to his head. He reminded her of a picture she had seen of the mythological Pan.

"I suppose so."

"Look, I'm not sure if a friend from my home town is coming or not, but if not, let's sit together, maybe go to the dance in the gym later."

Joan tried to sort that out. "You want to meet me if a friend of yours doesn't come?" She looked at his handsome face. She hadn't noticed before a small scar that creased his black brow, making the line off-kilter. He stared at her but didn't offer any more explanation. She surprised herself by nodding, "O.K."

"You say you don't live on campus?"

Joan shook her head. "I'm from Des Moines and live at home."

"Are you going home now? Wanna lift?" He stood up and Joan followed his lead.

"I guess so, if it's not too much trouble. I live across town."

He waved his hand airily. "Makes no difference to me. I've got some time to kill."

His car was a sleek Pontiac convertible, dark blue with lots of chrome. "My dad has the dealership. I always get the latest model."

He drove fast, and between giving directions and hanging on to her seat, Joan couldn't throw out the usual conversational gambits. He pulled into her driveway but made no move to get out and open the door for her.

"I'll see you Saturday, kid, maybe."

"How will I know? Will you call me?"

Pete nodded, starting to back out of the drive. "I'll call you Friday night if we can go together. Bye."

She watched him speed away wondering what had possessed her. Had he? Why else had she accepted such a strange date. There was something about him that drew her even as she was repelled and disgusted with herself. She didn't think she would tell anyone about the arrangements for the game.

Chapter 22

Anxieties

But she did. She told Chrissy Lang, her best friend at the sorority. Chrissy was from Omaha and was attending Drake because it was her father's alma mater. She came from a life of privilege that Joan could hardly imagine. Even though Chrissy had never worked, had been able to buy whatever she wanted, Joan found her to be surprisingly practical with no hint of the snob.

Chrissy had lovely, soft brown hair that curled in wisps around her face. Her skin was very white and she had almond- shaped blue eyes heavily fringed in dark lashes. She stared now at Joan with those eyes in an unblinking stare.

"You're going out with Pete LeGrand?"

Joan nodded with an embarrassed smile. "I suppose so. He seems interesting, different."

Chrissy laughed. "I guess so. He's got a reputation already for being fast--and pretty inconsiderate."

"Maybe I'm tired of considerate, honorable types. I might like a change." As she spoke, she inwardly cringed with guilt in so referring to Rod. What had he done but her bidding? She had insisted they stick with their original agreement to let things cool off. But he had adapted almost too well. That was what hurt. She would have thrilled to an impassioned letter.

Chrissy shrugged and changed the subject. "I want to go shopping Saturday. Would you like to go and have lunch, too?"

"I have to work at the newspaper in the morning. The only way I can go to the game is work straight through until 1:00. Pete will pick me up there and take me to lunch before the game."

Chrissy patted her slightly broad hips. "I should skip lunch anyhow. I envy you, Joan. You eat like a horse and never gain a thing."

Joan agreed she didn't have a weight problem, but she thought she would have traded Chrissy's carefree life for an extra pound or two. It was almost a joke that her friend needed to go shopping. She had so many clothes that her parents had had to bring in a cardboard wardrobe to hold the overflow.

Saturday at the newspaper Joan thought little about her lunch date. She had to concentrate on taking down the telephone ads correctly. She had made some mistakes in transcribing when she first started the work. Not again would she be called down for writing something so foolish as, "Chest of drawers with attached mirror and six chairs." She had been gently chided by Hilda, the supervisor of the telephone crew. Joan had never met her when she worked as a mail clerk, but she had noticed her, as had the other girls.

Supposedly, Hilda had been a reporter but had done something very bad and gotten demoted to Classified. She was in her late forties, a small woman who always wore her hat on the job. It gave the impression that she had just come in from an assignment, Joan decided, an impression Hilda must have been deliberately seeking.

Continuing to work at the newspaper gave Joan some anxious moments. She was always afraid she would run into Howard, but she hadn't so far. If she did, she had resolved to snub him. Joan also didn't like having her Saturdays always tied up, but she knew she had no alternative except working in the kitchen at the sorority house, an unappealing prospect for her. Alma had not quibbled over extra expenses yet, allowing Joan whatever she needed--her pledge pin, dinner at a fancy restaurant with her pledge class, a present for her sorority mom. With Joan occupied with her classes, her activities, her work, she and her mother had little time to snap at one another. A kind of calm invaded the house.

That morning at breakfast, Alma had stopped reading the paper and asked Joan, "Do you remember Annie Bissell?"

Before she even knew why her mother was asking, Joan felt the dread of hearing the news. "Sure, what is it?"

"She died, poor thing. Doesn't say much, just a death notice. But her address is the Home for Unwed Mothers." Alma looked up. "I wonder if she died in childbirth?"

Joan felt weak with horror and shame. Annie had asked her to visit and she had been too involved in her own affairs to even stop by and see her. "I knew she was there. I had planned to go see her."

Alma clicked her tongue. "Isn't that too bad. I remember her from elementary school a little bit. She always looked so pathetic. They lived in that terrible looking house near the school."

"I wish I had seen her before she died," Joan said again in a dull voice. She left the breakfast table no longer hungry. She wished she was closer to her mother, could tell her something of her feelings. But Alma was matter-of-fact about such things; she wouldn't appreciate Joan's emotional state, already upset and now even further complicated by Annie's death. Rod would have been a comfort to her.

At work her mind kept returning to Annie. But she couldn't dwell on that. She had to keep working, thinking about what people were saying to her.

She waited at the corner for Pete, watching the traffic coming from all directions. Where was he? She looked again at her watch. It was now 1:30. She wouldn't be surprised if he had forgotten her after all. But he had called her at home last night to confirm the date. Then she heard tires squeal and saw his gleaming car swerve around the corner. He pulled up in front of her.

As she got in, he looked at her. "What's the matter? You look grumpy."

"I do?" She smiled at him. "I didn't mean to."

"You're not mad 'cause I'm late, are you?"

She shook her head. "We should get there in time for kick-off."

"I was held up. My dad called and I couldn't very well hang up on him, could I?"

"Forget it, Pete, okay? I've worked all morning and I haven't had lunch, so I guess I'm not in the best mood." She looked out the side window, but saw nothing. Her eyes kept blurring.

"Hey, no problem. I'll get you a hot dog and Coke when we get there. Candy bar, whatever." He reached over and pulled her closer to him. "Let's pretend everything's great. I'd like to know you better."

She forced a laugh and settled herself next to him. "Me too."

After the game, they joined a group of Pete's fraternity brothers for hamburgers at a restaurant near the downtown area. Joan noticed Pete was not particularly comfortable with the other guys. He seemed bored, ill at ease; he would not pursue conversations, preferring to make outrageous comments to the girls sitting near him. Joan could not help but see that the girls were attentive to him. He kept his back to Joan most of the time, and she had the same perplexing sense of insult coupled with pride that it would be she he would leave with. She wondered again why she wanted to go out with him.

They left earlier than the others, Pete signaling Joan that he was ready to go. He hardly spoke to his fraternity brothers, and no one paid much attention to their leaving.

"How did you happen to join that fraternity?" Joan asked when they were outside.

"My dad." Pete grinned. "I'm a legacy; they had to take me."

"Don't you like them?"

"They're all right. I only joined for some social contacts."

A few blocks from her house, Pete swerved off toward the entrance to the park.

"This looks interesting," he said.

"I don't think we're supposed to drive through here at night. See the sign?" Joan pointed out the restriction clearly posted at the entrance.

Pete drove on, but then after rounding a corner of the lane, pulled the car to the side and switched off the engine.

"Why are you stopping?" Joan asked. She knew but thought she should play dumb and innocent. She'd let him kiss her, she decided.

Pete reached for her and tucked his hand under her hair at the base of her head. "Get a little closer, Baby." He pulled her toward him and clamped his lips on hers, hard, thrusting his tongue through her partly opened lips.

Joan didn't like it. His actions were too hurried, too slick to foster desire. She tried to pull away, but he held her so that she couldn't move. Finally, she twisted her face sideways and shifted herself against the door.

"Hold on, Pete," she said as vehemently as she dared.

But Pete again reached toward her and pulled her close. He bent to her lips, murmuring, "Baby, Baby," while cupping her breast with his left hand. He continued to kiss her while kneading her breast. Joan grabbed his arm. She was surprised by the strength of his muscles and cord-like sinews.

He sat back, panting. "What's the matter? I thought we were getting along fine."

"I thought we were getting along a little fast."

"Come on, loosen up. Let's see that sexy smile."

"It's too dark to see anything, and that sounds like a line anyway!"

"Hey, hey, hey--you're acting like a square."

"I want to go home, Pete. I'm tired and I don't feel like a wrestling match."

He let out a deep breath through his nostrils. "Okie doke." He smoothed his hair and sat for a few seconds with his hands on the wheel. Then he switched on the ignition and shoved the stick into gear, peeling rubber and turning the car sharply in the middle of the lane. He didn't speak the three blocks until he reached her driveway. "So long, kid."

"Thanks for taking me to the game and out to eat. I thought we had a pretty good time today, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I guess so." He looked at her. "Why did you have to ruin it?"

"Me?" She sighed. "Look, Pete, I'm not quite ready for all that."

"Ready? When will you be ready? Wanna send me a wire?"

"You didn't know this, but I've just broken up with someone. Maybe I need a little time."

"Oh, I get it." He squeezed her hand. "That explains it. As a matter of fact, I've got an old girlfriend back in Keokuk. She's the one that was supposed to come here today."

"Serious?"

He nodded. "It was, before I went into the army. Since I've been gone--I think it's over." He leaned toward her. "All right if I give you a good night kiss?" He laughed and she laughed and he kissed her with a sweetness that left her confused again.

Monday, Joan cut her one o'clock so she could get home in time to change for the funeral at two. Alma seemed surprised that Joan would bother to go to Annie's funeral.

"I didn't think you knew her that well."

"I knew her for years. She didn't have any real friends. This is something I feel I should do."

"My opinion of funerals is that we go for the living. You don't know her family, do you?"

"No, and I don't want to. I'm doing it for Annie, Mom. Honestly, I dread going, but who else will go to her funeral?" She placed the black felt sailor-style hat on her head. The day was warm for October, so she decided she could wear her charcoal wool dress without a coat.

"Is the funeral at Lundahl's?" her mother asked as she prepared to leave.

"Yes. I'll be back probably in about an hour."

"You're not going to the cemetery?"

"No, I don't think so." She was reluctant enough to attend the funeral. This was to be her first since her grandfather's.

She was greeted at the door of the funeral home by Mrs. Lundahl, who had taken over the business after her husband died. She had Joan sign a register, then ushered her into a small room where the service would take place. Since the Home for Unwed Mothers was a charitable organization sponsored by the Evangelical churches, a minister from one of the churches would be conducting the service.

Joan sat at the back of the ten rows of chairs. Most of the other seats seemed to be filled with Annie's mates at the Home, judging by the swollen stomachs on a number of them. Joan recognized no one. She was afraid she might see Annie's father, but no males were present. She assumed the older woman sitting officiously on the front row was the Director. Other older women were interspersed among the girls.

Mercifully, the casket was closed, and after the brief service, Joan waited until she could get near the presumed Director.

"Pardon me, are you the Director of the Home?" she asked.

The woman smiled at her and nodded. "I'm Mrs. Wilhite. You knew Annie?"

"I'm a former neighbor of hers. I knew she was going to stay at the Home. I planned to come and visit her. I was so sorry to hear she had died."

"Yes, a pitiful end to a pitiful life."

"How did it happen?"

"The baby had already died. A blessing, I'd say." Mrs. Wilhite grimaced. "It was deformed, badly. Then after the delivery, everything seemed to be going fine. We didn't realize that she had ruptured a vein. She never called for help, and to everyone's shock, she passed away in the night."

"Oh, dear." Tears sprang into Joan's eyes. "I've always felt sorry for Annie. This was such a sad ending."

"God's will, dear. All things considered, God knows best."

Joan was embarrassed by the woman's words. Neither her mother or anyone in her family ever referred directly to God in casual conversation. But as she walked slowly to her car, she wondered about God's will. True, Annie's whole life seemed miserable, the most unfortunate of circumstances. She had suffered a miserable life of abuse only to have it taken from her before she had a chance to repair it, maybe even wrest some happiness from it. But God's will? Joan didn't believe in this sort of God's will. Annie was born the way she was because the wrong people gave her life; she suffered because of her handicaps and the people she was forced to live with; she died because those in charge had neglected her. Driving home, Joan continued to think about Annie's life, the lives of those girls at the Home. Life seemed to be unfair, cruel even, to some. But we don't have to just take it, she told herself, without putting up some sort of fight.

Chapter 23

Fits and Starts

Before Joan had begun her studies at Drake, Alma had told her of a distant relative who taught there.

"Botany or biology or something like that," Alma explained. "You may have met her at an Ekdahl reunion ten or fifteen years ago, but you probably don't remember her. She's about ten years older."

"Who is she?" Joan was frankly curious. She was always surprised that she had so little to do with these various relatives. Shouldn't they have kept up such reunions? These remote family members might have been interesting additions to what had proven to be a dull group generally.

"Her name is Annette Spencer. Her grandfather was my uncle, my mother's brother. He had two daughters and this girl is the daughter of the youngest."

"I'll look her up sometime." But Joan had been shy about seeking out someone in such an elevated position. Would this relative think she was trying to get chummy just because they had a shirttail relationship? Eventually, though, Joan did find her way to the Science Building and her second cousin's office.

She found a cooly attractive woman who, although not obviously overwhelmed by their connection, was kind or polite enough to say that they must "have lunch sometime" and to take Joan's home phone number.

But well into October, Joan had not seen her cousin again. Tuesday morning after the funeral, Joan, between her nine o'clock and her eleven o'clock, had thirty minutes to kill, so she stopped by the cafeteria for a sweet roll and coffee.

She saw no one she knew, but it didn't bother her to sit at a table by herself for a few minutes. Then she saw Annette Spencer who also saw Joan. She came over with her coffee to Joan's table.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Not at all!"

"I'm so glad to see you, Joan. I've been meaning to call you so we can have lunch. How're your classes going?"

Joan was in the middle of describing her impressions when she became aware of a tall figure looming up beside their table. Her history professor, Dr. Rose, stood there smiling at them and then pulled out a chair to sit down.

Joan had first met him at the faculty tea reception line in September where he gave her a grin and said, "Miss Lilley? We seem to have something in common. I'm Dr. Rose."

She had laughed and started to move on, but he continued, "I have to confess, my name was shortened from Rosendahl about a hundred years ago."

"That sounds Scandinavian."

"Yes, Norwegian."

"Mine too. Our name was originally Lillemo."

"Ah! We must compare notes on our ancestry sometime."

"Thank you. Yes." She moved on through the line.

Dr. Rose was her instructor in the required Western Civ class. He was much discussed by the girls as the youngest, the handsomest bachelor professor at Drake. Joan thought he was so-so. He had sandy hair and rather uneven features, though he was over six feet tall and slim. She thought very little about their conversation in the reception line. But Dr. Rose kept surfacing as topic of conversation at the sorority house. He was only thirty years old and considered "romantic looking" by the girls.

Now seated at Joan and Annette's table in the cafeteria, Dr. Rose spoke first to his colleague, ignoring Joan, who watched them with interest. Annette was a small woman with short, light brown hair that she wore waved back from her temples. When she talked, she wagged her head in a teasing way that made Joan think she might be interested in Professor Rose.

"So you two are cousins?" He glanced at both of them in turn. "And we are all fellow Norwegians together."

Joan and Annette both nodded and laughed. For some reason it seemed hilarious that they had a heritage in common. Joan had never thought her family history was particularly advantageous before, but she was warmed by the association, by being included.

After the meeting, Joan ran into Chrissy and they walked on to class together.

"Guess who I had coffee with?"

Chrissy shook her head. "Tell me."

"Professor Rose and my cousin Annette Spencer, who teaches biology."

"Wow! How neat! What'd you talk about?"

"Not anything much. We just kind of joked around."

"That guy I just started dating, Chuck Carlson, told me that Dr. Rose is one of the alums in his fraternity, I guess he mixes with them sometimes, particularly the vets like Chuck. They're practically the same age."

Although Dr. Rose was young, Joan thought he still had that mysterious, professorial air of expertise or authority or something that made her feel ignorant and inexperienced in his presence. She guessed he couldn't help it. It was part of being a teacher. Even her cousin seemed different from the young women she worked with at the newspaper or knew from church. Maybe they made an effort to be set apart because they liked it, or maybe they simply couldn't help it, as if that much education marked a person from the ordinary run of human beings and didn't allow for associations with mere mortals.

She felt privileged to be singled out by Professor Rose. One day they passed each other walking through the quadrangle and he called to her with a grin, "Miss Lilley! How does your garden grow?"

"Not with silver bells and cockle shells," she shot back. They gave each other a friendly nod and went on. Because of his accessibility, Joan tried to take more interest in Western Civ, but the class was still an unremitting bore. She hated memorizing dates and places and did poorly on the long, difficult multiple choice tests.

She thought about the professor and her cousin as a pair and wondered if they had ever dated. They seemed to make a nice couple. Maybe she would be the catalyst to bring them together.

Meanwhile her dates with Pete grew fewer and farther in between. She turned him down once, and now he seemed to be punishing her by making her wait. One night, he even stood her up for a coffee date. When she saw him the next day, she gave him a stern look and said, "Well?"

Pete scratched his head. "I guess you're wondering what happened. See, that girl I told you about from Keokuk. Well, she came to Des Moines out of the blue and called me up. We had it out, but I was all shook up. I didn't think about anything else till she'd gone. Then it was too late to call you." He looked at her from under his long lashes. "Forgive me?"

"No," she said and turned from him abruptly. She couldn't remember when she had been so furious. Last night, she had envisioned a car accident or family emergency--anything except a date with another girl. He was following her, trying to coax her back into good humor, but Joan walked on ignoring him until he gave up and went off, his gay whistle suggesting jauntiness.

That evening, Joan got a call from Annette inviting her to lunch on Friday at a restaurant near the campus.

Chapter 24

Pathways

The lunch with her cousin turned out to be more agreeable than Joan could have imagined. Benny's Restaurant was no great shakes as a place to eat. It featured hamburgers and pork tenderloin sandwiches. It smelled greasy, but this meeting proved to be so novel Joan was oblivious to the usual irritants of food smells and noisy students.

Joan lit a cigarette and sipped her Coke while they waited for their orders to arrive. Annette, too, took out a pack of cigarettes but looked around to see that they were unobserved. She had chosen a booth at the very back.

"I'm not supposed to be seen smoking in public, you know," she laughed. "We're not quite human, or so the administration would like us to believe."

"I had no idea. I thought I was the only one who has to sneak around to smoke or drin--" She hesitated, unsure if she should mention drinking. It was illegal at her age, but at one or two of the frat parties, down in the smoker, beer or wine was available and Joan had tried it. She could only hope that her mother would not be waiting up and smell her breath when she arrived home from those parties.

"Yes," Annette nodded. "Drinking, too, which is really hypocritical and not a very healthy way to think about it. Makes it a forbidden pleasure instead of part of a meal as the Europeans consider it." She sighed. "Our country seems to be overburdened with a very difficult heritage of Puritans and Pietists."

"That's what Willa says," Joan said. She explained who Willa was and her estimation of the Norwegians and their outward adherence to "moral trivia" as she called it.

Annette agreed about their family. "Maybe they were too dependent on the church when they first came to America. It's understandable, of course. It just happened that the times were ripe for moral absolutism. The next few generations found it couldn't be done, not by everyone, anyhow, but they kept up the pretense."

Joan could only nod in agreement since she had taken a large bite of her tenderloin. In the interval, Annette, too, ate a few bites. Then she motioned with her hand as if remembering something.

"I don't want to forget to tell you about Walt's--Professor Rose's little gathering."

"Oh?" Joan looked at her, intrigued to hear the professor's name cropping up.

"Yes, he called and invited us to his next little 'At Home' on Sunday afternoon. He invites a select few students and different faculty for coffee and dessert and conversation." Annette looked pleased. "This is the first time I've been invited. And you are too!"

"Me?" Joan was flabbergasted.

"I suppose it occurred to him after we met the other day at the cafeteria and talked about us being Norwegians." She giggled, looking younger and livelier than usual. "That must have been the entre into the little society of intellectuals."

"Oh, no! Are we supposed to be intellectuals?" Joan was going from warmth at the surprise invitation to cold feet.

Annette laughed and wiggled her head. "Not very, I hope. I expect we can participate in their "wide ranging discussions" as Walt calls them, as much or as little as we want to. If they really are intellectuals, we should be allowed that freedom."

Joan shook her head. "I can't go. I'd feel like a fool."

"But you must! Walt particularly mentioned you. If you refuse, he'll probably ask you about it."

"No, no. I wouldn't fit in with a group like that. I bet the students are eggheads, seniors anyhow. He just included me because we both talked to him about our ancestry."

"Joan, don't be put off by groundless fears. If Professor Rose thought you'd be out of place, he never would have included you. He probably invites different students from time to time."

But Joan was still not convinced. They left the restaurant with her only promising to think about attending the get-together.

In the end, Joan was moved by a dull sense of duty to call Annette on Saturday afternoon and tell her she'd go. Annette seemed to be relieved at her decision and told Joan to meet her at the Professor's home, a bungalow near Drake, a little after three o'clock Sunday afternoon.

Joan dressed as she normally would for school, wearing a tweed skirt and a butter yellow cashmere sweater that she had found in a sale bin for twelve dollars. She wore anklets and a pair of mahogany Bass Weejuns. Annette was waiting in her car but stepped out to join her when Joan started up the walk. Her cousin looked charming, Joan thought enviously, in a cream wool dress with a wide belt and gold jewelry. She had on brown suede pumps that slimmed her rather heavy legs and a brown suede clutch.

"Well, here goes," she said gaily to Joan as she knocked on the screen door. Joan automatically noted that the Professor was not quite as driven as her mother by household schedules. Alma had already hired a man to put on the storms at the Lilley house. For some reason, Professor Rose's dereliction pleased Joan and gave her the courage to give him a serene smile and walk in with a falsely confident air.

No one noticed their arrival. Several conversations--some loud--were going on at the same time. About ten people in all sat in chairs or on the floor in the small living room. Dr. Rose found chairs for the two women. Other women were present, Joan was relieved to see. She saw no one that could possibly be considered a student among them, but she did notice a couple of guys from Chrissy's boyfriend's fraternity, the one that Dr. Rose was supposed to be affiliated with.

"Drinks and other things are on the dining room table," the Professor announced. "Help yourself!"

When he took his own seat in a straight chair beside a spinet piano, the room gradually became quiet as the attention of the group centered on him.

"You will see some new faces among our number today." He smiled at Joan and introduced her, then Annette, then one of the students, a tall boy with glasses named Cliff (an egghead, Joan assessed), and a colleague of Dr. Rose's whom he called Ron Swit.

"Ron has consented to come today to set us straight."

Everyone but Joan either tittered or roared. She looked at Annette with a puzzled expression. "He teaches philosophy," she whispered.

Joan tried to make herself very small in her chair. Since it was a firmly cushioned arm chair with tall legs, this was difficult. She would be quiet then and listen.

"What do we want to discuss this afternoon?" Walt Rose looked around the room with an agreeable expression. He was comfortably dressed in chinos and a pale blue sweater. "Anything at all on your minds?"

"Nietzsche!" called out one of the students.

"What about him?" someone else said. Again there was laughter.

"Well, I guess I'm interested in the Dionysian and the Apollinian."

"O. K." said Professor Rose. "We haven't discussed good and evil, light and dark, yin and yang, for a while."

"Nietzsche called it the contrast of dreams and drunkenness," said Ron Swit.

It went from there. At first, Joan felt self-conscious about being there at all. Then when she realized that people were more engaged in the discussion than in observing her, she grew more attentive. She was initially baffled by the terms she heard flung around. Who was Nietzsche? Joan tried to keep up with the flow of words, to understand them, and sometimes she did. She grew more interested. But it was as if she were tuned in to a radio whose signal came and went. Once, Annette went in to the dining room. She brought back a glass of punch and a cookie for Joan.

"So then," said Dr. Barnes, an elderly, handsome woman who taught English, "it appears that human nature, that is to say human actions, cannot be either good or bad in themselves. That everything is relative."

"Exactly," said Dr. Swit. "At least according to Nietzsche and some other contemporary philosophers too. Anything good has something bad in it and the bad contains elements of good. It all depends on the circumstances."

There seemed to be general assent around the room.

"What about torture?" Joan blurted it out before she had time to be abashed by her daring.

There was a deep silence. Some looked at Joan thoughtfully, some looked to others in the group.

Walt Rose smiled. "Any takers on that one? Joan seems to have exposed a weakness in the theory, or so it seems to me."

"I think--" The egghead started to speak, then subsided.

The philosophy professor shook his head admiringly. "We obviously have been approaching this from the wrong direction, trying to prove the theory, rather than trying to disprove it. Evil in and of itself can then exist. We can't deny it, can we?" No one responded. "All right. Let's go one step further. Can anyone give us an instance of perfect good in this world?"

"There, too, Nietzsche dismissed such things as idols, his word, he said, for ideals," said Dr. Barnes.

Dr. Rose nodded. "And he saw his role as striking down the idols to make room for reality."

"Mother love. Can't that be all good?" Annette spoke and then blushed like a school girl. She was old enough to be a mother several times over, Joan thought unkindly.

A few nodded in agreement. Dr. Rose shook his head. "I don't know about that. It seems to me that even a devoted mother is attracted to her child by the most innate of selfish purposes--the child is literally part of herself. How can she possibly be disinterested?"

"Perfect love, the Greeks thought, was indeed possible." Dr. Swit shifted his ample haunches in a small chair. "They called it agape. It asks nothing, neither recognition or response. You might say it lives to give."

"But can anyone really do that? Don't humans need to get love back too in order to live fully?" Joan was interested. She had not heard the term agape before.

Dr. Barnes spoke up. "Some people whom we know about appear to get all they need from giving. I'd nominate Socrates, Buddha, and Christ, for starters. They were all fully human." More talk followed her remarks with other candidates being submitted and then disputed by others: "Dr. Schweitzer!" "Naw, he treated his family like dirt and didn't mind a little publicity either." "What about Ghandi?" "Pascal?" "Confucius?" Talk flowed like wine around Joan and she drank it in with a thirst she hadn't known existed. This world was an exciting one! She resolved to study philosophy.

"So there's hope for us all!" Dr. Rose said with a grin. "And we seem to have reached a consensus that though Nietzsche may have had some stimulating ideas on the subject, they are disputable."

His summing up must have been a signal, for a professor whose name Joan hadn't caught stood up and said he must be going. Annette turned to Joan and said, "Ready?" Joan nodded. She was almost weak from the excitement and nervous strain of the gathering. She hoped she hadn't behaved improperly by speaking out so soon. But as they shook hands with their host, Walt Rose captured Joan's hand for a moment and held her at the door.

"You seemed to have enjoyed yourself. I must say, I thought you were a delight."

Annette glanced back over her shoulder at his words to give Joan a smile that looked a little forced.

Chapter 25

The Manly Ideal

"Haven't you met any nice boys?" Her mother continued to eat and didn't look at Joan as she spoke.

"Why?"

Alma shrugged. "I don't know. I thought you'd have a few more dates by now." She carefully forked a piece of meat loaf.

"You aren't still mooning over that Rod, are you?"

"Mooning! I didn't know I was mooning. We aren't even writing, not really." And she had referred to him as "that Rod," as if he were a stranger.

"Oh? Well, Miss, didn't you get your mail?" Alma motioned to the top of the colonnade where she kept the day's mail.

"No, I didn't look." Joan got up from the table and saw the letter addressed to her. The return was marked, "J. R. Allison." She took a deep breath and put the letter down. She could wait until after dinner until she was alone.

"This is only the second time he's written. I can't imagine why he's writing me now. We're not going together anymore."

"That's fine." Alma wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. "Speaking of Catholics, the people that bought Mrs. Beck's house are Catholics. I talked to her today. Her name's Lucille and they have two little boys. They seem nice."

"Good." Joan wished she didn't feel so hot-faced and angry when she talked to her mother. Implied criticism, if not overt, seemed to ooze from her mouth every time she opened it. Joan felt guilty even though she wasn't. She had congratulated herself for controlling her feelings for Rod. She believed she was not carrying a torch for him.

Joan cleaned up the kitchen, drying every last dish while Alma read the evening paper. Only after she had wiped the counter and stove did she fetch her letter and go to her room. She felt Alma's eyes on her as she closed the curtained french doors.

His letter stunned her. He was planning to leave Marquette at the end of the year. He would complete his studies at Drake where he hoped to enter law school. She was the primary reason.

"This separation isn't working for me," he wrote. "I don't see why we have to be apart when we love each other and want to be together. Do you feel the same? Do you want us to be together? I feel we can work things out eventually."

Joan sat down heavily on her bed, shocked by this news. She had steeled herself to a kind of indifference about his affairs, knowing this was the only way to get on with her life. Now, with his making plans to be near her again, she was confused, spinning. He was placing her in the same impossible situation that had faced her at the end of the summer. All the problems that beset them resurfaced in her mind. Her mother and all her relatives, his family, their friends, all would be horrified at their resuming the connection. Joan wanted to do right, but what was right? Even Willa, who seemed to be wise, had not known what to say. She could only hope that Joan would be able to decide without inflicting too much hurt. And who would be hurt by this association? Well, just about everyone. But giving him up, which until this letter arrived she thought she was capable of, would be horrible if he were nearby. Under those circumstances would she be able to really give him up? She couldn't imagine it.

Joan put her head in her hands and softly moaned. Her pleasure from Rod's words couldn't bear reflection without causing her pain. She had never met, nor did she think she would ever meet any man who pleased her as much as Rod had. He made all the others look common. But she couldn't write him back yet. She didn't know how to respond to his declaration, which amounted to a proposal. Maybe something would happen to give her guidance. Tears fell freely and she stifled her sobs in her pillow so her mother wouldn't hear.

It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Joan had agreed to go to the farm for dinner with the relatives, grimacing a little as she promised her mother. In fact, of all the occasions that she might pick to spend with her relatives, Thanksgiving was the one she liked best. Her uncle Helmar would, as usual, be bringing the twenty-plus pound bird, roasted to his exacting taste, not too juicy, not too dry. Her aunt Lilith would supply them with her special black olive and sage dressing. Joan's mother was planning on baking her pies tomorrow morning so they would be fresh from the oven when they set off at noon. Memories of the holiday glistened in Joan's mind like a faceted mirror that took her back to happier days.

She walked through the campus in a cold, drizzling rain, absorbed in her thoughts of those days. Students ran past her splashing through puddles like water spaniels heedless of the soaking. Joan had the hood of her rain coat pulled up, but the wind was pelting her face with needles of rain. Then a large black umbrella hovered overhead, protecting her from the wet.

"Hello."

She looked up, startled, and saw Dr. Rose beside her. She smiled and slowed her steps. "Hello, Dr. Rose."

"You seemed to be fighting a losing battle with the rain."

"Yes, thank you. I appreciate the cover."

"I hope you had a good time at our Sunday get-together--the vital center of our campus," he added in an ironic tone.

Joan laughed. "I thought it was wonderful. You can poke fun because it's all so familiar to you, but that kind of discussion was unique in my experience."

"You acquitted yourself well, too. I thought it might be your first exposure to that kind of talk. That group started with a few of us professors wanting to introduce promising students to the world of ideas. We sometimes like to whet our mental muscles without having to give a test over the material. Many students over the last few years have told me how the talks opened their minds to more inquiry of this sort."

"I believe it! I'm planning on taking philosophy, maybe next term."

"Really! That's excellent. You might want to review some of the stuff we talked about Sunday. I've got a couple of books in my office that would be helpful, I bet."

"Thanks, I'd like that."

"Why don't you stop by and pick them up--now if you'd like; I'm free for the rest of the afternoon."

"I have a class now, but I can come after that." Joan gave him a smile as she prepared to go in another direction. "Where's your office?"

He pointed to the building. "Second floor, room 211. I'll have the books ready for you."

Joan thanked him again, noticing his craggy features and wondering how she could have ever thought him unimpressive. His light blue eyes gleamed with lights that almost danced. His teeth were a little crooked, but his smile was wide and warm.

After class, Joan hurried to the Administration building where Dr. Rose's office was located. She found the ladies rest room and went in to repair the damage. The rain had released her permanent into kinky curls around her face. Nothing to do about that. Combing only frizzed them. She applied more lipstick and dotted her cheeks with it to give her color. She wished she didn't look so juvenile!

At least she had worn her red skirt and sweater. She smoothed her narrow hips and flat stomach, taut beneath the rubber Playtex girdle she wore with sheath skirts. Like every other woman she knew, she would have been horrified to expose a bouncing bottom to public view.

His door was open, and she saw him sitting in his chair half turned toward the long, narrow window. He had loosened his tie and removed his jacket. It hung on a hook behind him. She knocked quietly on the door jam. He swiveled in his chair toward her and unwound his tall frame from the chair.

"Come in and sit down."

"I guess I can for a while. Aren't you wanting to leave for your Thanksgiving holiday with your family?"

"Not until tomorrow." He shrugged. "To Mason City. Sometimes I'd like to escape the inevitable tiring day with my relatives, but I do it to please my mother."

"Me too. We're going only as far as Bethany, but I've spent Thanksgiving there all of my life. I put up with everyone else for my mother's sake and so I can see my grandmother and visit my father's family. The rest of them I could do without."

"Families, God love 'em." He shook his head in mock despair. He continued to study Joan's face as if memorizing it. She grew self-conscious. Did she commit some folly by agreeing to accept his books? She didn't know the protocol, but his offer had seemed genuine. She looked pointedly at his bookshelf.

"Ah, yes, the philosophers." He reached for two books lying on his desk. "This one you can look over to compare some important 19th century philosophers. A kind of overview of their major ideas. The other one is Nietzsche, his philosophy. You probably won't want to plow through all this, of course. But you can sort out some things that interest you and keep that in mind for further study."

"You're really very kind to me. I can't tell you how much it meant to meet with that group Sunday, Dr. Rose."

"Don't think a thing of it. You brought a certain freshness that we need. Sometimes, the group gets a little bogged down. By the way, call me Walt. I'm not that much older than you." His eyes were very blue. Joan thought she had never seen such bright blue eyes, except her grandmother Lilley's.

"What are you planning on majoring in--or do you know?"

"Not exactly. I'd hoped this year would help me decide. I've always wanted to have adventure in my life, but I'm not sure what that means or how to prepare for it."

"A latter-day pioneer?"

She shook her head, smiling. "I don't know. My only models were people in my family who made their move a hundred years earlier. I don't know what adventure means any more."

"I should say it means risk, no matter what day or time."

"If I knew what I had to risk, I'd feel more confident saying I wanted something different."

"Maybe that takes time to discover. I wouldn't be in too much of a hurry to decide. You're still young."

"My great-grandmother was eighteen when she left her family behind and set off on a dangerous voyage to America. I can't tell you how much I admire that kind of spirit. The last thing she saw as the ship pulled away from the harbor at Bergen was her mother fainting at the dock. She thought she'd never see her daughter again."

"Maybe we have to feel very desperate before our choices become that clear. We're too easily lulled into complacency if we're moderately comfortable." He sighed as if with the certain knowledge of his own conformity.

"Sometimes I feel desperate." Joan blushed as she spoke. This kind of revealing remark was in itself daring, almost unthinkable to utter to anyone, most especially to a comparative stranger.

"Joan, you're at the beginning of discovering your life. There's a big world out there. Don't shut any doors too quickly. You need to keep your options open."

"But that's what bothers me. Sometimes people pressure us, don't they, into decisions. Sometimes if we don't decide, an opportunity is lost forever."

He nodded sadly. "'The Road Not Taken.' Of course, we always have that pressure. Then you must decide if that road truly leads to the adventure you desire."

"I'm hoping to discover this year what I desire." She gave a wry grin. "Don't laugh, but I have thought philosophy might be a good major. I guess teaching in college is where that leads, though, doesn't it?"

He nodded, appraising her again with a speculative eye. "The academic life could be a good future for you if you were that excited by your first exposure to a discussion on ideas."

"That's what I thought, Walt." His first name came quite easily to her lips. "Did you know early on what you wanted to become?"

"No. I floundered for what seemed a long time. I had to decide that if I wanted to stick with my real love--history, I'd almost certainly have to teach. My father was a high school teacher, and I had vowed never to adopt such a thankless, ill-paid profession. Yet, here I am and very happy about it."

She asked him more about his family, when they came to America. He in turn asked about hers. Later, Joan couldn't clearly remember all they talked about. At some point, she remembered to look at the tiny bracelet watch that had been her graduation present. She had been in his office for more than an hour. Embarrassed at the thought that she had imposed, she scrambled around to gather up her books and raincoat. He helped her, then held out his hand.

"This has been a real pleasure for me, Joan. Please come back sometime."

"Thank you again, Walt. I will." What a nice man!

On the bus riding home, she reflected on his character. She thought of Willa's comments once made about the Norwegians' ideal man.

"He has snill, a hard word to translate."

Joan laughed. "It is a funny word. Tell me about it."

"Well, let's see. First, it means kindness. He should have the milk of human kindness, take pleasure in doing good. Then he mustn't put himself above others--he should have humility. Also, he's to keep control of his emotions, not to be overly demonstrative." Willa chuckled. "Doesn't that sound like something the reserved Norwegians would admire?"

Joan had liked the description of the ideal and had even written down Willa's explanation, thinking of Rod, except for the emotions part. Rod would always be free with self-expression. It was one of the things that endeared him to her. But Walt Rose might have been snill personified! She had never hoped to gain a friendship so soon in her college career with such a fine person. She felt very lucky. Just as she splashed up the front steps to her house did she recall Rod's letter and his exciting but disturbing words. Any decisions about their relationship would have to wait until Christmas vacation. She wouldn't let herself worry now.

Chapter 26

In the Bleak Midwinter

Joan had not answered Rod's last letter. She had wanted to indicate something of her confusion and anxiety for their future, but it didn't seem right to do it in a letter. On her way to and from school on the bus, she formulated letters in her mind and then discarded them. Before she knew it, the colleges and universities were releasing their charges for the holidays, and it was too late to write.

Joan completed her finals with relief, hoping to do better than a C in Western Civ. Despite their acquaintanceship, she believed Walt Rose would grade her fairly; she would have been disappointed if he hadn't. Still, she wondered why anyone so interesting personally couldn't find a better way to present the history of civilization. But maybe the sheer volume of material was against it.

Rod called her at her job on Monday the week before Christmas. She was working full-time the entire vacation, and so had begged off Saturday work. Hilda, the supervisor, had taken the call at her switchboard and then transferred it to Joan's station, looking sternly at Joan from under the brim of her hat. Personal calls were supposed to be severely limited.

When Joan heard the warm, familiar tones saying her name, even though she had expected his call, she felt lightheaded and, strangely, wanted to cry. She hadn't realized how much she had missed him. She didn't have to wonder if he felt the same. She swallowed hard, trying to relax the tightening in her throat.

"Joan, honey! I couldn't wait to talk to you. I just got in."

"Rod, I--it's wonderful to hear from you."

"Can I see you after work? What time do you get off? I'll pick you up and we'll go out to eat."

She named the time and they rang off. As she dialed her mother, she contemplated lying about the dinner date. It would be conceivable for her to go out with any one of her returning friends. But she couldn't do it, even to save herself from the disapproving moment of silence that greeted her words.

"I'll not be late."

"I should hope not. This is a week night, you know. You have to go to work in the morning."

She gritted her teeth and tried not to respond hotly. "I know. I'll see you later."

Her mother had just gotten home from a new job she had taken recently. Begun as volunteer work, she was working in the nearby Lutheran Hospital gift shop in the mornings. She had been nervous at first as a volunteer dealing with money but found she enjoyed the contact with people and had taken the plunge into a real job, her first since the ordinance plant during the war. Joan thought it was a good thing. It gave her mother something to think about besides her daughter. Besides, it had a respectability about it that was important to Joan. Alma would not have been above factory work, but she didn't want to be occupied full-time and give up her church groups and their activities.

When Joan saw Rod's car waiting at the curb, she felt has if the fall had never happened, that summer had transformed itself into a cold, blustery day without interruption. Has they been apart? His kiss of greeting was light as usual with no hint of the strong emotions expressed in the letter. She was grateful for his casualness, which allowed her the luxury of composing herself for the occasion and the inevitable serious discussion that would come.

He took her to the most expensive restaurant in Des Moines over her protest that she wasn't dressed for it.

"You look great to me," he said with a smile. He had wrapped her arm under his as he drove and she felt his body warmth through his jacket. Johnny and Kay's was on the outskirts of town, so they had time to talk during the ride. Joan asked about his studies, how he had fared this term.

He nodded his head. "Fine. Everything went pretty well. My grade point should go up a little if I did as well as I hoped on an Economics paper. How about you?"

"I think I'll be averaging a B. My French is terrible, but I didn't have it in high school like most of my classmates, so I can never catch up. And then there's Western Civ." She made a face. "I hate memorizing all those dates and events. It's funny; the professor doesn't seem the sort to make his students suffer like that, but his class is the most boring one of all."

"What's so different about him?"

Joan explained her association with Walt, telling him about the gatherings at his home.

"I think I've come back just in time."

"What do you mean?" She knew what he meant.

"I need to protect my interests."

"He seems old to me. I like him as a professor and because we have a similar background, but I'm not romantically interested in him. Heavens!" Had she given that impression? She wondered how she had been really viewing her association with Walt Rose. Rod's good natured jealousy pleased her, though, and she leaned closer to him. He turned to look at her upturned face and quickly gave her another kiss. Her insides turned over.

Across from Rod at the table in the dimly lit restaurant, she looked into his eyes repeatedly during dinner. They couldn't get enough of each other, sometimes talking inanely, sometimes just looking, waiting to be alone so they could indulge their feelings within the limits they had imposed.

But Rod brought up the subject before they left the restaurant as they sipped after dinner coffee and smoked. "You didn't write answer my last letter."

She shook her head and looked down. "I didn't know what to say. I've thought about what you're planning to do, though. You'll have to decide yourself about coming back here to school." She brought her eyes up to meet his own that looked so solemnly at her. "I've been afraid to say it. If you are here, near me, I can't resist you."

He burst out laughing and she joined in. She did sound absurd, as if she couldn't subject herself to happiness and love, as if "resisting" him was virtuous.

He reached across the small table for her hand. "Let's not tear our guts out over this. I'm willing to brave the opposition; are you?"

She smiled at him sadly, nodding her head with measured slowness. She still couldn't speak of what this portended. Was he going to talk of marriage? Or did he, like her, still shy away from thoughts of a definite future between them?

In the car in front of her house, after kissing each other with more abandon than Joan had known before, Rod reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small, wrapped package.

"I wish this could have been more," he said, but his eyes and smile were eager for her response.

She saw in the shadows of the street light a gold signet ring. Rod turned on the overhead switch so Joan could read the inscription on it. Her initials on the front, but on the inside it read, "Forever, Rod." She gave him a gentle kiss. But nothing more was said about further commitment. She was glad.

The next evening at supper, she told her mother about Rod's change of plans. Alma groaned.

"I knew it. When you went out with him last night, I knew you'd be getting back together."

"Leave it be, please! Don't talk about Rod like that anymore!" She stood up, shaky with emotion. She felt as if the stress of the last few weeks was ready to burst from her. "If I choose to see him, I will. I won't allow you to dictate my life." She calmed her voice, for her mother was regarding her as if she had gone crazy. She had long predicted Joan would tip over the edge if she let loose her emotions unrestrained. "Rod and I haven't decided anything. He won't be back to Des Moines until May. I just don't want you to treat him as if he's diseased and I'll catch something from him."

Alma let out a scornful puff of air. "I didn't say that. But I think you're asking for heartache and trouble. As your mother I feel it's my duty to warn you."

"You just don't want to have to tell your friends and your family that I'm dating a Catholic. That's your real problem."

"If you can't say anything but hurtful things to me, just go on now. I won't say any more about it."

"Good. I won't either. I plan to see Rod over the vacation, and I plan to write to him. I want you to know that, but I'm not planning on running off with him or anything like that."

Alma nodded and resumed eating her dish of canned peaches.

Joan knew she and her mother couldn't live totally at odds with one another, partly because that was a situation unbearable to Joan and partly because Christmas was coming. Christmas had never been a genuinely festive, joyous affair in the Lilley household, even when Joan's father was alive, but Joan kept up the pretense, thinking she should feel better about it than she did.

She blamed the niggardly attitude that seemed to strip the season of its meaning, sentimental and even religious, on her mother's upbringing. The entire Ekdahl clan seemed to regard the holiday exactly as her mother did--with scant attention and the least possible amount of expense. The Lilleys were not much better mainly because they were poor. But because they were generous and open, they at least had more fun. Joan guessed the whole Scandinavian community had been brainwashed so thoroughly by the Lutheran church of that earlier time that they were fearful of enjoying themselves or being excessive, both monetarily and religiously. Some of her friends, she had observed, like Eileen's family, were more given to merriment. Her parents took a beer or glass of wine occasionally, and Eileen's German grandmother baked yards of Christmas pastries and candies to hand to departing visitors.

Although most of her friends' parents were little better off financially than she and her mother, they seemed always to get and give wonderful gifts. Joan was ashamed to admit her own perpetual disappointment in her gifts. She knew it would make her sound frivolous and petty. Alma by comparison forever denied she cared at all about receiving gifts of any kind, thereby reproaching Joan's own acquisitive nature.

"You're like the Lilley girls," Alma would say if Joan wished aloud for anything even slightly more elaborate than was absolutely necessary. "Both Marie and Thelma love fine things but neither of them can afford it. Boy, you won't catch me putting myself in the hole with Christmas spending."

No, Joan believed that! Never could she remember getting exactly what she wanted for Christmas. When Daddy was alive, their Christmases had been better, but he, as openhanded as he was at giving Joan money, never purchased gifts, so Joan had always suffered from her mother's parsimonious selections.

For years, Louise had shared their Christmas Eve dinner and traditional exchange of gifts, a ceremony that got shorter each year. When Joan was quite young, she got several gifts of dubious quality, but now that she was grown up, she and her mother and Louise exchanged one simple gift each.

Joan had thought hard about what to get her mother. Louise was easy--a pair of earrings. She wore her hair short and liked to have variety for work each day. But Alma was impossible. Always before Christmas, she would announce, "Don't get me anything. I don't need a thing."

Joan didn't respond to this. She thought it was a ploy to try to tone down Joan's own excessive desires. But it effectively ruined Joan's plans to get her mother something nice that she would, for once, really enjoy. Inevitably, when Alma opened a gift of beauty or distinction she would laugh and say, "I guess you think I'm Mrs. Plush!"

This year, Joan bought her mother a pair of black leather gloves. Joan would have loved a pair herself, and she doubted her mother would appreciate them. In fact, after opening her present, she whistled and said, "How fancy! People are going to think I'm swell wearing these!" It was the closest thing yet to a positive comment.

Joan had asked for a new robe, describing a cotton, candy-striped quilted one of Chrissy's that she admired. But when she opened her package, she had to mask her disappointment in seeing the thinly quilted, dark-patterned robe, a little shorter than she wanted and obviously cheaper than Chrissy's.

Louise had found Joan a book of poems by Emily Dickinson "on sale," she said, at Younkers book department. It had a near leather cover and gilded page edges. Joan only vaguely knew the author, but she had no trouble imagining herself reading the book. She thought it was the most imaginative and interesting gift she had received since she was twelve or thirteen when her aunt Rose gave her a bottle of perfume.

"For the college girl," Louise said, obviously pleased by Joan's reception of her gift.

But soon, depressingly soon, the celebration was over and the evening flat. They didn't go to church or have friends over or even go to a movie. Joan had built a fire in the fireplace, promising her mother she'd clean out the ashes and sweep it up thoroughly. They sat in the living room and Joan played a new record on the hi-fi of violin pieces by the great Heifetz. Alma listened and commented on it at first. She, like Willa, had played the violin as a girl. But then, Louise started talking and their voices drowned out the music.

Rod had asked her out, but Joan had to refuse, knowing her leaving would hurt her mother and cause questions from Louise. Willa had left town to be with her family, so when the doorbell rang at 8:30, Joan ran to answer it, eager and puzzled. Who could be stopping by this evening? But it was Eileen with Joan's gift.

They had exchanged at Christmas for years, and Joan had planned to drop off Eileen's gift on their way to the farm tomorrow. Everyone begged her to stay, welcoming her to their rather bleak fold like an entertainer come to perform. She stayed for thirty minutes, grilled by Alma and Louise on her experiences at Drake, her family's health and well being, and her plans over the holidays. After she left, the conversation gradually dwindled until Louis yawned and said she must be off. They would meet again tomorrow for the ride to Bethany.

Alone in the living room, Joan looked at their sparse decorations, the puny tree with scuffed bulbs and tarnished tinsel, and wondered about traditions, which were so absent in her entire family. Nothing of Norway except their Christmas Eve gift opening remained in their Christmases, and yet Willa had shown her a magazine article that indicated the Norwegians still celebrated in wonderfully traditional ways. Joan wondered if Walt's family had kept anything of the old country in their celebrations, or had they too turned to this minced version?

Joan thought about the faithful who were engaged in less secular celebrations and felt envious. She had passed the Church of the Transfiguration on her way home from work that day and heard the bells. The church had suddenly blossomed with festive greenery on its doors and iron stairway.

Joan contemplated the burning embers and wished for some ecstatic religious experience to mark this occasion. It seemed unlikely given her circumstances. Then she remembered her neighbor LeeAnn's invitation earlier in the evening. She and Joan had gotten together this week when LeeAnn arrived home from her college in Minnesota. Tonight, she had called to ask Joan if she would like to go with her to the midnight service at the Lutheran church. Joan had declined, thinking of the cosy fire. Now her thoughts strayed to a long-ago Bible school, the mystical intensity of LeeAnn's parents. And the Lutheran church had a steeple whose bell would soon be pealing. She laughed at herself as she went to call LeeAnn, knowing her imagined experience would always improve on reality, but anything would be better than ending Christmas Eve like this.

It seemed a terrible thing not to know how to celebrate.

End of Part Four

PART FIVE

"You are they which justify yourselves before men; but God knows your hearts: for that which is highly esteemed among men is abomination in the sight of God." --Luke 16:15

28

Unfamiliar Vistas

Spring break coincided with Holy Week this year. The vacation meant little to Joan except a break from classes. She had nowhere to go even if she could afford to do anything. Alma had plans for Joan to help with some spring housecleaning, a pre-Easter ritual she never deviated from. Then the week before break, Chrissy surprised Joan with an invitation to visit her home in Omaha. Joan thought only a second before she accepted. Alma tightened her lips in disapproval when she heard.

"Won't this cost you money? You won't be able to work, either."

"I know, but at least it won't cost me anything. Chrissy's parents will pick us up and bring us back."

"When will that be?"

"Chrissy said we'd drive back Sunday afternoon."

"Easter Sunday?" Alma frowned. "Then you'll miss church and dinner at the farm."

"Maybe we'll go to church there. Chrissy's Episcopalian."

"Next thing to Catholic."

Joan made a slight noise to express her exasperation and tried to absorb herself in the television program. It was the Steve Allen Show. Alma read the Sunday paper, looking up once to say, "Uff-da! How silly they are." Joan was waiting for The Alcoa Hour, which would follow at nine o'clock with a play.

She also mused about the afternoon she had spent at one of Walt's gatherings, the second time since the beginning of Spring term. She had again met Annette and sat with her in the small living room crowded with what Joan was beginning to see was predominated by a certain type of people. Some of the professors and students alike were show-offs, almost insufferable, apparently believing that an opinion had to be expressed rudely to be believed.

She had signed up for Philosophy this term, and her new familiarity with different philosophers gave her agonizing pause during the discussions. She knew how ignorant she was, so she couched everything she said in hesitant terms: "I may have gotten this wrong, but--" or "Well, it could be that--" or other qualifiers.

Joan felt ignorant; she was ignorant, but she soon saw she had some talent for logic. She also saw that she could participate in the discussion without many embarrassing moments. Outside the group she did well in her Philosophy class and hadn't changed her mind yet about a possible major in that area though the thought of teaching it was still unappealing.

Walt had continued to be friendly, always ending their casual meetings on the quad or after class by inviting her to come by and see him if she had any questions or to "just talk". For some reason, she had never done this since that first visit to his office. She told herself she would be imposing on his time, that she had very little to say to him.

But driving to Omaha on Friday afternoon with Chrissy's folks in the front seat, Chrissy told her something that upset her so much it might have ruined her vacation if she had let herself dwell on it.

"Chuck was talking to Walt Rose the other day and evidently realizing we were friends, he told Chuck he'd like to go out with you. After you finish his class this spring."

"Me? Are you sure he said me? Maybe he meant my cousin Annette. She's more his speed." Joan squirmed at the thought of her dating the almost middle-aged, somewhat pontificating professor, nice as he was.

"No, Chuck seemed positive it was you."

"Tell him I have a boyfriend."

"I already did." Chrissy smiled and then began laughing. "Can you imagine yourself on a date with Professor Rose? 'Joan, dear, I might suggest we kiss each other now.'"

Joan laughed too, but the thought didn't seem that funny.

She looked out at the flat fields stretching to the horizon. The land was less rolling on the western, prairie side of the state than it was in the other directions out of Des Moines. Joan didn't care for it. She thought endless landscapes boring. Visually, she sought out patterns that broke the monotony of the fields and particularly the winter palette of brown and patchy white snow--a red tile roof on a farm house, a towering, green silo.

At this moment, thinking of her life at Drake, her prospects for a career, being the object of Professor Rose's attentions, she felt like a personification of the surrounding landscape. She was like that little brown tree on the edge of the small creek (or crick, as her relatives said). Alone, out-of-place, blown by changing winds that slapped its naked branches.

With Walt's expression of interest in her, contrived so as to be repeated to her, those stimulating afternoons with the intelligentsia, phoney or not, were over. She couldn't go back. She would like to drop Western Civ, but it was too late in the term. She suddenly didn't think much of philosophy. It didn't seem to prevent even the highest sounding individuals to be ruled by more basic urges.

At her first sight of Chrissy's home, though, Joan was caught in a wonderful oblivion, functioning on a level of esthetic wonderment. The home rambled on immense grounds, ostensibly "Tudor, by God," explained Chrissy's mother.

"A little showy, but it's home," she went on drily.

"Thanks a lot," muttered Mr. Lang. Chrissy's parents snipped at one another in a half-teasing, half-cutting way that Joan had never heard between her own parents or the parents of her friends. Their sophistication alternately attracted and startled her, reminding of her childhood friend Bettina's family.

"It's romantic looking," Joan said. "The princess with the long hair might be in that tower room." The Langs chuckled.

Inside the house, the charms increased. The living room was vast with a peaked ceiling and rafters. Around the great stone fireplace low sofas in tapestry and chairs in dark wine velvet invited conversation or relaxation.

"I think we could stand a fire, don't you, Dick?"

"What d'ya want me to do first, carry in the luggage or the logs?"

Mrs. Lang ignored him and went to open the flue, throwing her light coat over a chair. "Take Joan to her room, Chris, and when you get back we'll have some hot drinks around a cozy little fire, if your father can get it started. He failed woods lore in Boy Scouts, Joan."

Joan laughed, glad that Mr. Lang was not in the room.

The girls had adjacent rooms to the left of the upstairs hallway. Joan caught her breath when she saw what was to be her room for a week.

"Chrissy, this is like a movie set!" She walked to the double doors and pulled back the heavy fringed curtain. "A balcony?"

"Don't walk out on it. Daddy says someone could go right through the floor."

"Oh, well, I can look out from the doorway anyhow."

"We share a bathroom. The door is here, and you can put your clothes in the closet there."

After Chrissy left to unpack her things, Joan sank back on the bed, a high post affair with a blue and white coverlet. The lap of luxury! She loved it! Maybe she really was Mrs. Plush, as her mother had suggested. She knew how Alma would have reacted to this place, this room: "Uff-da, it's too fine for me--too rich for my blood."

Then she spied a dainty dressing table with a mirror and went over to it. Her face looked round and happy, but her hair was mussed and her lipstick worn off. She fixed herself up and stepped out into the hall to join Chrissy.

"Come in and see my room if you'd like."

Joan didn't want to ooh and ah repeatedly, so she said, "I think this is a gorgeous bedroom, Chrissy. Did you pick out the furnishings?" The windows had white organdie curtains, and a cutwork linen cover was on the double bed, which was painted white and trimmed in gold. A flower-sprigged, silk-covered slipper chair sat beside a little reading table. All the lamps were crystal.

"Not hardly. My mother did it. I think she did a good job, though, don't you?"

"Wonderful!" On the way downstairs, Joan looked at the back of Chrissy's head as she preceded her. What must it be like to live among fine and beautiful things? Chrissy had never been to Joan's house and seen her tiny, makeshift bedroom. But would it matter to her? Although Chrissy seemed to take this kind of life for granted, she also seemed to be unimpressed by it.

A cook prepared the dinner and served it, a situation so novel Joan kept looking at Mrs. Lang, wondering what she did if she didn't work and didn't cook or clean. Maybe decorating the house kept her busy--and buying clothes. Her face was pretty, but her eyebrows curved around into some lines between her eyes that gave her a dissatisfied look. But that's impossible, Joan reminded herself. No one living like this could be dissatisfied. Maybe she had the cramps.

Mr. Lang drank beer at dinner, offering some to Joan.

"Don't be stupid, Dick. She's underage, just like your daughter."

"A little beer never hurt anyone. The Germans serve it to young people."

Mrs. Lang turned to Joan. "Never mind him. Is milk all right, or do you want tea or coffee?" She was drinking wine from a decanter by her elbow.

"Milk is fine. I might have coffee later, though."

After dinner, they all went into the living room, the girls turning down an invitation to play a game of ping pong in the basement rumpus room. A television set appeared from the recesses of a magnificent piece of furniture with double doors. Mr. Lang went to the sideboard and mixed a drink for his wife and for himself.

"Sure you don't want something?" he asked Joan, holding up Mrs. Lang's glass. He was smiling rather lopsidedly at her.

"Dick! For God's sake!" Chrissy's mother snatched her drink away from him and it slopped onto the thick oriental carpet.

They watched television, comedy show after comedy show, except for Mrs. Lang, who took out some knitting and alternately studied the instructions and knitted something long and thick and blue. Eventually, Mr. Lang fell asleep and Mrs. Lang said she was going to bed, leaving her husband behind snoring. The girls, too, left the room.

The days following were all different from one another. They went shopping and out for lunch with Chrissy's mother one day. Then they went to a matinee at a big downtown movie theater and sat in the loge seats with Joan pretending to herself they were at an opera house. They saw Carman Jones with Dorothy Dandridge. The next day the girls stayed around the house, washing and trimming their hair and experimenting with makeup. Joan tried on some clothes of Chrissy's that she didn't like because they were too pallid for her strong, dark coloring.

"That looks good on you, Joan. Why don't you take it and anything else of these things that you like."

"Thanks. Are you sure your mother won't mind?" She could imagine Alma's anger if she gave away any of her clothes. Guiltily, she realized she had not thought of her mother until that moment. But did it matter? Her mother would never have expected her to call on the telephone, an act reserved for dire emergencies. And they would be back to Des Moines practically before a letter could arrive.

Chrissy fingered the soft rose-colored cotton dress with rick-rack on the sleeves and neck. "My mother doesn't remember what she buys, she buys so much. It looks much better on you than on me."

On Good Friday they went to church, Chrissy, Joan, and Mrs. Lang. The service was long and quiet. As the minister, the priest, as Chrissy and her mother called him, read the prayers, the worshippers walked from one framed picture to another on the walls of the perimeter of the church. The Stations of the Cross, they called the procedure. Joan found herself moved for the first time during a Holy Week service. She could imagine the pain and sorrow of Jesus as he was reviled and spat upon and finally nailed to the wooden stakes. She saw some people weeping as they moved reverently past the pictures. Joan knew by then they would go to church on Sunday, leaving for Des Moines following their Easter dinner.

On Saturday, they went to a party of Chrissy's Omaha friends, those who either went to school locally or were also home on spring break. The party was at a friend's home nearby, one less magnificent in size than the Langs' but no less impressive in decor and accouterments. Joan felt at ease in talking to these young people, but she wished Rod was with her. She wasn't interested in flirting with the cute guy who asked her to dance and after the record stopped asked her to dance the next one. She stood by the refreshment table and talked to a big bouncing girl wearing wool Bermuda shorts, the first Joan had seen worn, and knee socks. Her name was Lane Harper and she was going to Stephens College in Missouri. Joan would have liked to attend that school herself, but it was too expensive.

"I got a scholarship," said Lane, when Joan expressed that thought. "Just write and ask for information."

"Since it's a junior college, I guess it wouldn't be worth the effort for me. I'd only be there a year."

Lane shrugged cheerfully and bounded off to talk to someone else.

Then Joan began to notice couples disappearing, going outside (to cars?) and to bedrooms, and she realized that the parents of the hostess were nowhere to be seen or even found. Someone had raided a liquor cabinet and was pouring out vodka or scotch to several of the young people. Joan didn't like to be critical in a wet-blanket sort of way, but this seemed different from the fraternity smokers, which had some element of supervision though out of the way of the housemothers' eyes.

She suddenly felt uncomfortable and looked for Chrissy.

"Do you want to go home?" Chrissy was concerned at Joan's expression. "Aren't you having fun?"

"Not that, I just feel out of place, you know."

"Sure. I know. Let's find Lisa and then we'll leave."

They thanked the hostess and went to their car. Joan was aware of the steamed up windows of several cars lining the street. She and Rod had done the same. She missed him.

"This is a pretty hep crowd, but they're good guys, really," said Chrissy somewhat apologetically.

"Oh, sure. I know that. They have a bit more money than the average, but they're really no different from our group at Drake."

Church on Easter Sunday surprised her. She had been unprepared for the profusion of flowers, candles, and acolytes in robes, one carrying a silver cross on a tall wooden pole, others carrying torches and a silver pot of incense followed by the choir robed in black and white like members of some religious order, swaying down the aisle to "Hail Thee Festival Day!"

Joan was overwhelmed by the panoply and heard little of the words of the service; she was entranced but at the same time wondered if she approved. Perhaps it was remnants of her homely Methodist training that caused her to shrink a little at such excess. At the prayers, she sank onto the kneeling pad and closed her eyes, grateful for a chance to calm the many sensations that benumbed her. A religious sense was not among them. She almost wished it were, but she was suspicious of that path, knowing where it had led her relatives and Rod's family.

They ate dinner at a restaurant, another rare and pleasurable treat for Joan. The place was elegant with starchy white napkins, and a single red rose in a silver bud vase adorned the spotless tablecloth. Joan embarrassed herself by trying to take the silver basket of rolls proffered by the waiter, who was just as determined to keep it in his hands. When they got home, after the girls packed, Chrissy's father loaded the car. Again they were driving through acres of fallow land, wispy with the remnants of plucked crops. Joan became aware through the chatter of Chrissy and her mother about spring clothes, that she was feeling lower and lower, as if she might slide into the crack of the cushions beneath her without an effort to hold herself together. In another hour, she'd be back to everything, all the things that saddened and confused her. What to do about her and Rod, the Professor, her studies, a career, and her mother and her impossibly stringent attitude. No answers and no hope of answers.

They neared field of green rye grass, as unexpected as a oasis in a desert; Joan was riveted to the sight, even turning to look behind her at the grass rippling in the March breeze like a rug being shaken. Her spirits lifted; she thought about her experiences this past week and how she had felt. For hours, days, she had been taken out of herself, caught up in thoughts and sensations new to her. She had somehow transcended the problems in her life, however briefly. She was a little startled to realize that such a thing was possible.

Chapter 27

A Certain Waywardness

Chrissy's parents insisted on dropping Joan off at her home instead of the sorority house.

"This reminds me of the neighborhood where I grew up," Chrissy's mother exclaimed when they reached Joan's street.

"Really?" Joan said with surprise. Mrs. Lang had struck her as someone from a well-to-do family. Joan was acutely aware of the difference between her neighborhood and the Langs'. Here the houses were very old, some a little shabby, and close together.

"Here's my house, the second one on the left." Joan was not ashamed of the appearance of the house, however. It wore a fresh coat of white paint, trimmed in green, and the deep plantings of juniper obscured the ugly brick foundation.

"When was it built?" Mrs. Lang persisted. "Around the turn of the century?"

"I think about 1916 or '17." Joan noticed her aunt Louise's car in the driveway. They had returned, then, from Easter dinner at the farm.

Mr. Lang helped Joan with her luggage to the front porch. Joan waved goodbye, promising to see Chrissy tomorrow at the sorority house after class.

Louise greeted her with a funny expression on her face as Joan stepped through the door.

"What's wrong?" She felt breathless, scared.

"Your mother's had a bad fall. She'll be okay, though."

"Fall? What kind of a fall?" Joan ran toward her mother's room with Louise following, explaining.

"That crazy girl had to help the hired man take off the storms. She slipped on the ladder and fell."

"How bad was she hurt?"

"She broke her leg and two ribs. A compound fracture on her leg. She had to have surgery."

"Oh, no! When did this happen?" Joan now addressed her mother who was lying fully dressed on her bed. She looked wan, but she smiled sheepishly at Joan.

"On Wednesday," Alma answered. "But I was in the hospital only until Friday. I didn't see any reason to call you and spoil your trip."

"Oh, Mother!" Joan cried, confused by conflicting emotions. She was outraged that she was the last to know of the accident. Why couldn't someone have called her? She was furious that her mother had tried to do such dangerous, heavy work. Wasn't that just like her! She felt guilty about the wave of resentment that washed over her as she contemplated her extra duties around the house necessitated by her mother's condition.

"Isn't your mother a corker?" Louise said with a note of pride in her voice.

"Unbelievable! Can you walk?" Joan looked for crutches.

"Not quite yet. I sort of hop around to get my clothes on. My ribs hurt too much to use crutches yet, but I'm better, really!" she said with maddening jauntiness. She self-consciously pulled at the hem of her skirt to cover the heavy cast. Joan had never seen her mother look so helpless and pitiable. But within her arose a kind of fury that was akin to hate. How, Joan thought, was it possible to love and hate someone at the same time?

"I think you should stay home tomorrow and help her," said Louise sharply.

"Well . . ." Joan's hesitation was fatal. She was trying to remember if she needed to complete any assignments tonight to be turned in tomorrow, but she saw the small disapproving frown on her aunt's face.

Her mother shook her head emphatically. "No, she doesn't need to do that. I can get around fine. Louise got me Pa's old cane today at the farm. I can use it to go to the bathroom or to fix something to eat."

"Did you go to the farm then?" Joan asked.

"Sure," Louise nodded. "Ralph carried her in and she sat in the big rocker in the dining room and was waited on like a queen."

"I didn't need all that attention," said Alma with a pleased laugh.

"I'm glad you could go there for Easter dinner anyway." Joan looked around the room, wanting to be helpful. "Have you got everything you need? What about the TV? Louise and I could carry it in here."

"No, I don't watch it that much anyhow. I've got my book of devotions, and I read the newspapers. Maybe I should take up knitting!" She laughed again.

"I'd better unpack. I've got some studying to do too."

"Sure, you go ahead," her mother agreed. "Did you have a nice time in Omaha?"

"Very nice," said Joan as she left the room, relieved she wouldn't have to detail her experiences.

That first week back in her classes, Joan couldn't recapture the same interest in school that had previously motivated her. Her classes seemed lackluster, the professors barely able to feign interest themselves. She avoided Walt Rose's eyes in Western Civ by sitting at the back of the large room, and while walking to and from classes, she kept an eagle eye out for him.

After classes each afternoon, Joan skipped her visits to the sorority house and hurried home to tend to Alma's needs. Joan found meal planning and preparation to be absorbing. She poured over cookbooks and tried new dishes. For the first time, her activities around the house met with the approval of her mother, who mentioned her cooking to all her visitors.

"I've never had such meals!" she told Willa on Saturday. Joan was standing in the living room doorway, getting ready to go grocery shopping.

"Cooking is creative, isn't it, Joan?" Willa smiled as she took her seat next to Alma on the couch.

"I always liked to cook, and Mother let me do it sometimes, though never this much. This accident changed a lot of things. I never ironed a thing before."

"I like to do it, and I have the time." Alma looked rested. Her face had smoothed out, and her conversations with her daughter had taken on a different character, gentler, less intense, as if her enforced languid existence had relieved her from a responsibility that she had never liked.

Joan grocery shopped and picked up a heating pad at the drug store for her mother's still sore ribs. When she got home, she put a load of clothes in the washer and then went upstairs to Willa's apartment. Willa opened the door with her head wrapped in a towel.

"Oh, you've just washed your hair. I'll come back later."

"No, no. It can sit under this towel for a while."

Joan sat down gratefully on the comfortable couch. Usually, her Saturdays were devoted to work of some kind and grooming. How nice to just sit for a while. This room with the many windows and plants always charmed her senses. "I don't plan to stay long, just long enough to find out some things I don't know."

Willa seated herself and looked questioningly at Joan. "You have a determined look. Do you want to talk about something?"

"It's about college scholarships. When I was in Omaha, I met a girl who mentioned that, and I wondered about trying for one somewhere, but I don't how to go about it." She gave a short laugh. "I don't even know where I want to go or what I want to study, but I think I'd like to leave Drake, leave Des Moines, maybe even leave this state."

Willa nodded, looking closely at Joan. "You must have had quite a week."

"I did, but it's not just that I found out there's a whole world out there. I've had some things bothering me for a long time--you know about my situation--and I can't hope to resolve these things while I'm so close to home."

"I thought you said Rod was planning on coming to Drake?"

"He is, or he plans to. Maybe he won't when he hears what I'm planning to do. I quake at the thought of telling him." She didn't want to cry, but she could feel the heat behind her eyes. "I can only hope he'll understand. But that's not the whole thing either."

"I didn't think it was."

"Mother and I don't get along very well. I feel I'm always a disappointment to her. I don't think she can help it. But I need to be away from her too."

"I think I see why it's so important for you to leave home. You feel a bit overtaken by pressure put on you by others. And I know, Joan, that you put enough pressure on yourself. I had similar feelings when I was young. But my leaving was easy since I was encouraged to go to college in Minneapolis; my father was that set on my education." Willa sat up straighter and nodded. "So then, you need to know how to find out about the different colleges and universities and what they offer."

"Is there something at the library I can look at?"

"Sure there is. Can you stop by next week after class? I'll have some things ready for you. Some are reference books, so you can only copy the information, but at least you can get some good ideas of where you might like to go and the addresses where you can write for more information." She put her hand on Joan's. "Don't worry, we'll keep this just between us."

Joan felt a weight fall from her. So it was possible to make a change. Willa hadn't discouraged her from the attempt. Joan went downstairs with a strangely light heart. Surely everyone would see this was the best way. She took a deep breath. She must be brave. The people close to her wouldn't see it the way Willa had. Her mother would complain about the extra cost and want her to get a job instead; her relatives would criticize her for leaving her mother; her grandfather would be sorry that she wouldn't graduate from his alma mater; her sorority sisters would be offended, believing she was rejecting them. And Rod. Rod was important to her, but his leaving Marquette would be putting further pressure on their relationship, and she couldn't stand that right now. She hoped someday she would be able to. If Rod still wanted her.

Chapter 28

Dear John

Willa's books at the library gave Joan a myriad of places to write. She had not before seriously considered the possibility of going off to college, and her friends had all chosen local schools, so the number and variety available to her seemed endless and confusing. She still shrank somewhat at the thought of going too far away. For one thing, the cost of getting there and back would be prohibitive. The Midwestern part of the country then--maybe as far east as Ohio, no farther south than Kentucky or Missouri.

The catalogues started coming before Joan had mentioned her plans to her mother.

"Why are you getting all these things from different colleges?" Alma asked, pouncing on Joan as she walked through the door after class one afternoon. Two weeks after her accident, Alma was able to handle crutches and moved around the house with nearly her former energy.

"I'm just checking them out." She put down her books. "I'm thinking about applying for a scholarship--I should qualify as far as need goes, and I'm working hard to improve my grades." If she could get a better grade in Western Civ, it would counterbalance the hopeless C in French. Her English and philosophy were almost certain A's with a B in Natural Science.

"That sounds crazy! Why don't you get a job if you want out of Drake? Why try to go someplace else? You won't know anybody."

"That's the idea," Joan answered quietly. They were in the kitchen, Alma at the ironing board, balancing on her good foot and one crutch.

"Why don't you let me do that, Mother." Joan tried to grasp the iron, but her mother wrenched it away, throwing herself out of balance and nearly toppling over. Joan grabbed her shoulders and steadied her.

"I'm all right. I want to do something. I can't just sit around here all day. Now, at least I have something to look forward to when you come home. Someone to do for." Alma's voice trembled. "If you go away, I won't have anyone."

"Mother, that's unfair! You've got Louise and your church friends and, my goodness, the rest of your family and I don't know who--lots of people in your life. You can't keep me by your side forever."

"This hurts me so bad." Alma cried, turning off the iron and setting it down. She hoisted herself onto both crutches and swung off to her bedroom.

Joan sat down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands. She was very much aware of the drama that was being played out. Her mother was whipping her emotionally. She resented it, and she didn't know what to do about it. From her mother's room, soft, high-pitched crying emerged like the sound of a wounded animal. Joan rose from her chair and went toward the sound, but her lips were firmly together.

The letter she wrote to Rod was brief. Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to write inanely of other matters when the true subject was so shattering. She pleaded with him to understand her need to get away. She didn't know if any other school would want her, but she would keep trying. He wasn't to think this meant any lack of love on her part for him. They were both so young, weren't they? They would see each other from time to time, maybe all summer long, and after they graduated--by then, their friends and families would accept the inevitable, wouldn't they?

As she wrote, she knew how he would respond. He would wad the letter and throw it across the room, exploding into a quickly spent fury of masked hurt. This letter of hers she knew to be of the type the veterans talked about receiving. Rod would be right to hate her for sending it. She didn't want to lose him, she fervently told herself, but if she didn't make this move now, a much worse situation might--most surely would result.

She looked anxiously for his letter each day when she returned home, but none came. She tried to shrug off the growing conviction that she had lost him for good but was only partially successful. Sometimes, she imagined that he had laughed with relief at her letter, which freed him in a way he couldn't have predicted, but now that it had happened, he appreciated. Then she relived the days of the Christmas holiday they spent together and his words to her and she couldn't believe he didn't still care.

When Joan had confided in Chrissy about her plans to leave Drake, Chrissy had given Joan a look that was wise and appraising.

"I suppose you know what you're doing; it sounds ambitious to me." She laughed. "I'm too lazy to go to such lengths."

"I don't feel ambitious. I feel desperate."

Chrissy nodded. "You haven't had much freedom. Even Rod has tied you up and marked you as his own."

"It's not Rod's fault, though. We've gone back and forth about dating others. When he was home Christmas, I almost suggested this new arrangement, but I don't think it's a very good idea."

"I'll miss you, anyhow."

"Oh, Chrissy, you'll have to come and visit me wherever I end up. We'll stay in touch." She meant it. Now that leaving was a near certainty, the excitement of the move was being replaced by the regret of leaving those behind who were dear to her.

The semester was nearly over, finals ready to begin the following week, and still no word from Rod. Joan had become a slave to her books, asking for the weekend off from her job at the newspaper to write her papers and study for the final exams. She had gotten tentative acceptance from Northwestern University in Evanston. Everything about the school suited her--its size, its academic reputation, even its proximity to Chicago. Also, she could get there on her own steam via the Rocket, a rather exciting prospect in itself, considering she had never before taken a train trip. Best of all, she was slated to get full tuition and books. She would have to pay her living expenses, but she planned to get a part-time job.

Shirley, her old boss in Classified, surprised her with a call at home one evening. Joan had last seen her over the Christmas holidays when she had worked weekdays.

"Hi, Shirley. What can I do you for?" she asked, using Shirley's own catch phrase.

"I just heard from Hilda that you're pushing the panic button for more money to go off to school."

"Not exactly. I'm pretty sure to get the tuition scholarship at Northwestern, but I am a little short for room and board. I guess if I save like crazy this summer, I'll make it."

"I was talking to a guy on the elevator today, and he tells me he runs a little foundation up on the sixth floor. Did you know anybody was up on the sixth floor? I didn't. Anyways, I said, what kind of foundation, and he says it's to give money to deserving college kids, so I says I know of one, and he says send her up to see me. Will wonders never cease!" She paused to let it sink in. When Joan said nothing, Shirley snorted, "Don't you get it, kid, this is real bucks, and the guy is just bustin' to give money away. I bet it's a sure thing."

"Maybe, Shirley. I'll go see him, but they don't give money away very easily."

"Believe me, you're a shoo-in."

After she hung up, Joan laughed at Shirley's naive misunderstanding of foundations. Joan had scoured her reference sources for grants this spring and had found very few she even qualified for. Still, she would see the man on the sixth floor.

Joan left English class absorbed in thoughts of the upcoming final. It would be a doosie. The class was the History of British Literature and the test was to be a comprehensive over the period. From early British history through Beowulf and Chaucer and then up to the twentieth century. A smattering of Shakespeare, the Metaphysical poets, the neo-Classicists, the Romantics. Yet she felt excited, interested, confident that she would be able to handle it. Somehow, she could fit works of literature into the appropriate eras and make sense of it all. It seemed mysterious that she could manage the English history course but not Western Civ, which seemed nothing but one vast, meaningless, sorting process.

Two boys from her class fell in step with her.

"Hey, Joan," said one called Snake. They were also in her Western Civ class. They sometimes sat with her at the back of the room in Western Civ and told jokes during Walt Rose's lectures. "Wig-Wam and I have got a proposition for you."

"What do you mean?" Joan turned to the boys, smiling. They were both athletes, hulkingly handsome, but dull fellows, Joan thought.

"You're good in English."

"So?" She continued to smile.

"We're not, but we've got to get a B on this final or we're sunk. We won't get to play ball if you know what I mean."

"Do you want me to help you with something?"

They looked at each other and laughed. "Yeah, we sure do."

The one called Wig-Wam took Joan's arm and led her to an alcove under the stairs.

"What is it?" She still didn't get it.

"Look," said Snake urgently, "last night we broke into Rose's office and stole a copy of the exam. We were real careful and nobody knows. He had them all mimeographed. Here's the deal: If you let us copy off you in the English exam, we'll give you a copy of the one for Western Civ. You can make crib notes and get an A."

"Why didn't you get the English exam, too?"

"We tried, but Dr. Morgan locks his file cabinet. If we broke that open, he'd know."

Joan nodded. "Look, guys, I'd be scared to try anything like that." She was horrified, but didn't want to seem prissy about it.

"Come on, what'dya say? Nobody'll know. You just let us sit next to you in English so we can see your answers. That's all you have to do. Okay?"

Joan looked beyond them through the window overlooking the campus. She had always been a good girl mostly. She was bad about helping her mother clean--lazy, Alma said; she was a physical coward and stayed away from bruising sports; she smoked and sometimes took an illegal drink.

But she had never cheated nor had she helped anyone else to cheat. She had resented copiers and had never knowingly let anyone look at her answers. But to get an A in Western Civ! She was still considered provisional in being accepted by the powers that be at Northwestern and receiving the grant. They would have to see her grades first. What were her chances of getting an A on her own?

She nodded slowly, unconvincingly. "O.K."

The boys gave muted crows of delight. "Here's the exam. We've got our own copies, so you don't have to get it back to us. Remember, in English you sit next to us. Got it?"

"Sure." She watched them lope off. She had an urge to call them back, but in the anguish of indecision, she hesitated too long and they were soon beyond hearing. She slipped the exam copy in her notebook and left, walking stiffly, sure that Walt Rose's eyes were on her from his office window above.

She didn't look at the exam that evening, nor the next. On Saturday afternoon she went to the downtown library to study. It was closer to her home and with its charm-filled atmosphere and many cubicles, a pleasant place to concentrate. She carried her Western Civ book as well as her other materials for study. She thought about the exam, and with the air of a sneak theif, opened her notebook and withdrew it. It contained two pages of closely typed fill-in-the-blank or multiple choice questions--eighty in all.

She laughed wryly to herself. The joke was on her. If she tried to answer these questions, which were chronologically out of sequence, she would have to cover every inch of the material anyway and in a disorganized fashion to boot. If she managed that formidable task, she knew that once she wrote something down, she always remembered it. So what would be the point of crib notes. Crib notes! Her laugh was something of a groan this time. What fun it would be to try and stash all these notes. She had a vision of cramming them up her sleeves and in her bra and under her garters and then trying to extricate them.

But now she was obligated to help some losers escape the consequences of their laziness, help them beat the system that more deserving students were judged by. She felt disgusted with herself and the weakness that made her wobble from what she knew was right. Her shame was intense, but then gradually, as she contemplated the awesome task of covering the second half of the immense text in Western Civ, it was replaced by fright.

Chapter 29

The Sixth Floor

Joan's finals were spaced out during the week enough to give her some breathing room. The English exam was on Monday, the Western Civ and French on Tuesday, her Philosophy and Science on Thursday. When she went into the English classroom on Monday, she saw Wig-Wam and Snake sitting at the back of the room watching for her. They patted the chair between them, and she obediently took her seat. During the test, she did little more than concentrate on her answers, careful not to obscure her writing. This test was in the form of short answer. Snake, to her right, sat with his hand over his brow, shading his eyes from the professor's scrutiny. Wig-Wam, on the other side, could only hide his obvious copying by ducking a little behind the persons in front of him. She finished and started to rise, but Snake hissed, "Wait a minute," and she sat for a few minutes until he finished too. She handed in her paper and left, feeling like a traitor to integrity.

That afternoon, she studied Western Civ, occasionally checking herself out with the exam to see if she was able to answer the questions. She had a long way to go. At some point, she quit worrying about the cheating aspect, telling herself that all she was doing was looking at study questions. She was not about to carry in to the exam any crib notes.

On Tuesday morning, she woke up with a headache. After drinking two cups of black coffee, one at home, the other at the sorority house where she planned to study, she felt a little better. Then it was time to go to the test. In the large hall where their class met, the exam copies were passed down the rows of chairs. Walt Rose instructed the students to move their chairs away from their neighbors.

"A rather disquieting thing happened last week," he announced in his customary casual, somewhat ironic tone. "I found when I arrived at my office to retrieve the exams, that some were missing. I presume the thief or thieves, seeing I had a mile-high stack, thought I didn't know how many I had mimeographed, but I did know. So, in light of that, I have gone into the deep, dark recesses of my file cabinet and pulled out an alternate exam. To most of you, it will make no difference, but to some few others, this may prove disappointing."

The room was dead silent. Joan kept her eyes on Walt's face while panic rose in her. Then she looked at the test. The first few questions appeared to have come from another course. She calmed herself by closing her eyes, all the while thinking this turn of events was justified and in the nature of well deserved punishment. She began to work her way through the test, laboring over her responses.

In the bus on the way home, tears filled her eyes as she contemplated her obviously poor performance, especially disheartening because she really tried, despite the leg up from the purloined and useless exam copy. She could not escape the fact that she had done wrong and had to pay a penalty for that. The amazing thing was how fast that penalty came.

Wednesday was her free day, so she thought it a good time to see the scholarship man on the sixth floor of the newspaper building. Shirley had not gotten his name or the name of his organization, so Joan could only hope to catch him in the office. Before she left home after lunch, however, she screwed up her courage and called Dr. Rose's office. She had to know what kind of a grade she had gotten.

He answered on the first ring, his voice changing to a friendly pitch when she identified herself.

"Joan, I'm so glad you called. I had planned to talk to you about several things. What do you have on your mind?"

"I was wondering if you've graded our tests yet."

"Yes, I just finished. Let me see. . . ." Joan could hear papers being shuffled. "Yes, here's the scores. You got a 72, a C, Joan. Not bad."

She groaned audibly. "It's terrible. I needed so much to get a B in the course. I tried, I really tried. I don't suppose there's any way to get extra credit. Write a paper? Anything?"

"I've not done that sort of thing before. If it's critical, I'd be glad to talk to you about it, though. Look, I'm going out for my usual mid-week meal at the Hotel Riverside this evening. They have a veal dish that is out of this world. Why don't you join me so we'll have time to talk about your situation undisturbed."

"I guess I can do that. What time?"

"I eat early. We bachelors tend towards two meals a day. Let's say about 5:15. Will that suit you?"

"Yes, fine. I have an appointment at the newspaper building anyway. I'll come from there."

She would delay then in going to the sixth floor and try to time her visit so she could drive over to the Savery and meet Walt. How nice of him to agree to talk about this.

She debated about how to dress for both the interview and dinner at the hotel. She didn't want to appear too dressed up, yet it was important, in a way she didn't quite understand, to look more sophisticated than an ordinary college girl. But she was thinking of Walt when she decided that. In the end, she decided on a pale grey, wool gabardine suit with black frogs fastening the short jacket. No hat, but her black leather pumps and kid gloves polished off the outfit nicely. She studied herself in the mirror with a critical eye, wondering belatedly if she looked too smart to be asking for money because she was poor. She shrugged and called out a goodbye to her mother, who approved of her appearance.

"You look real nice. Good luck."

"Thanks, Mother." Alma was coming around to accept the idea of Joan going off, almost excited now at the thought of Joan getting even more money for her schooling.

Before going up in the elevator, Joan popped into Classified and spoke to Shirley sitting at her desk, surrounded by the two new clerks. She grinned at Joan, her thick orange makeup shattering into a thousand fine creases.

"So what's the scoop? Seen moneybags yet?"

"No, I'm on my way up. You don't know his name by any chance, or the name of his organization?"

"Nope. I expect it's written on the door. There's not much rented up there."

"I'm off, then. Maybe all for nothing, but here I go."

"If we don't hear from you in thirty minutes, I'll send up a Saint Bernard. Good luck."

"Thanks, Shirley."

Joan had not gone above the first floor since that terrible day last summer when Howard had pursued her. She had not asked about him to anyone at the newspaper, hoping to banish the memories of him from her thoughts forever. Alone in the elevator, her breathing quickened as she passed the fifth floor. Most likely he wouldn't be going up anyway. At the sixth floor, she stepped out with a slight shudder. One hurdle over.

The hallway seemed almost deserted. All the doors were closed; some had names on them, others were blank. She saw one marked City Foundation and decided that sounded right. Without knocking, she entered to face an older man seated at a desk. His face was very round with a large mouth and thick lips. He smiled

encouragingly at Joan.

"Hello," she said. "I hope I have the right place."

"I'm Vernon Pritchett," the man said with a lisp. "Are you here about getting a scholarship?"

Joan laughed with relief. "I wasn't sure where to go. Shirley from the newspaper had told me she'd met you in the elevator and you suggested I come to see you."

"This is the place. Sit down."

Mr. Pritchett explained the foundation to Joan. He must have been thrilled to have company, she thought, alone all day in his office, for he talked for fifteen minutes before asking her any questions about her situation.

Joan answered simply and honestly, telling him about her prospects for paid tuition and her need for additional money.

He smiled again. "All you need to do is fill out these papers and turn them in. If you meet the qualifications, I'd say you have every chance of getting some money for your schooling."

"Isn't there a lot of competition for these scholarships?

He shook his head. "We don't advertise. Our awardees usually hear about us from others who have gotten the scholarships. Sometimes I feel like one of those big carp that sit at the foot of a dam with an open mouth waiting to be fed." He said quickly, "Not that we swallow up applicants, but we do seem a little sluggish about seeking out worthy students." He said "thwallow" and "thluggish."

"I'm just glad to have the opportunity to apply." She stifled the temptation to stare at his mouth, actually rather carp-like, which emitted those strange sounding words.

"If you qualify, I can assure you you'll get some money for your living expenses."

"When exactly will you know?"

He consulted a calendar on his desk. "You're in luck. The board meets in a little over two weeks. I'll inform you then."

Joan thanked him and left. Her heart landed in her throat when the elevator stopped at the fifth floor. But two women got on. Joan could see the door to Howard's studio beyond the elevator. The stops were frequent as it was near closing time.

Joan walked to her car absorbed in thoughts of the City Foundation and their lackadaisical approach to scholarships. She had a good feeling about it though. Might this be the start of a real adventure? For some time, she had hoped that her longing would be satisfied by a future with Rod. It still might, but that was not yet clear. In the meantime, she had to keep moving forward, as if the momentum alone would define who she was or what she was to become.

The drive to the Hotel Riverside took ten minutes, but she had to search for curb parking. It was nearly five thirty. She stepped into the hotel dining room and looked around, feeling self-conscious. Walt was sitting at a corner table. He stood up, smiling broadly, and waved at her to join him. The maître d' rushed over to show her to the table.

"So you made it," he said unnecessarily, holding her chair.

"Yes. This is very nice." She had never before eaten here. It was the sort of place her mother believed was suitable for the Mrs. Plushes of the world. It had tablecloths with little lamps in the center of each table, which struck Joan as a nice touch that gave a sense of intimacy to the high ceilinged room. She smiled at Walt who was gazing at her with such intensity she wondered if he expected her to be served up on his plate. She took a deep breath. This was for a good cause.

"I appreciate your taking the time to help me with my problem."

"Let's not worry about that now." He tilted his head and gave her a mock once-over. "You're looking very fetching this evening. I believe this is the first time I've seen you so dressed up."

Joan looked away, embarrassed. "I had an appointment earlier, as I mentioned. I hope I'm not overdressed."

"Never! Very becoming." He picked up the menu and handed it to her. "What would you like to eat? I know what I'm having."

She shook her head. "Why don't you order for me? I don't know what's good."

He nodded and motioned to the waiter, who took his order without writing anything down.

They munched on crackers and herring in sour cream, drinking tea from a large china pot. Walt was talking about his plans for part of the summer; he planned to attend a seminar on historical research in Philadelphia in preparation for writing a book.

"And what about you? Working at the newspaper?"

"I suppose so." She thought about last summer with Rod and her face grew hot. She pressed a hand to her cheek. "I hope I'll be getting ready to go to Northwestern."

"Really?" He stared at her. "When did this come about?"

"I've applied and they've tentatively accepted me, providing my grade point is high enough." She looked at her plate. He had said he didn't want to discuss the matter before they ate.

"But why leave Drake? I'm shocked, Joan. Weren't you happy with us?" A furrow had appeared between his brows.

"It's not that. I liked Drake. I needed to get away, that's all. It's something to do with--I don't know--maybe being on my own, having some independence."

"I see. That rather explains why you haven't come to our little discussion group lately." He gave her a smile that looked rather pained. "You've lost interest in us."

"Oh, no! The group meant a great deal to me. I've been busy, that's all. I've been studying hard and getting everything in order with Northwestern. I had to investigate a lot of other schools, too. You can imagine I would hardly have had time for anything else."

"Sure. Well, here's our salad." He looked with satisfaction at the dish, making sure Joan had access to the croutons. "I'll have to do my best to persuade you to stay."

Joan smiled but said nothing.

The restaurant had begun to fill up, early as it was. Walt waved to a number of people who greeted him. Joan recognized other professors. She began to feel even more conspicuous. Would people think she was his date? She guessed they would. Suddenly she became aware of him as a man, rather than a teacher or even a mentor. Her glance toward him was careful but more critical than before. He looked nice himself, dressed in a navy sport coat and pale blue oxford cloth shirt. His teeth were still crooked, but she had always liked his smile, which transformed his rather ordinary features and gave his face life and charm. She began to feel proud of being seen with him. He was, after all, a gentleman and a scholar.

After a dessert of cherry pie, Walt offered Joan a cigarette, taking one himself. They drank the rest of their coffee and talked about the rain they had endured at the Drake Relays, an annual event that seemed perpetually plagued by inclement weather.

Joan sat up a little straighter. It was now or never. "I got the impression that you thought we could work out something for me to improve my grade. I know it's about time for you to turn in the grades, but I'd be willing to work day and night, if necessary."

He glanced around as if afraid of being overheard. "Let's not discuss that here. I've got a better idea." He came around to help her out of her chair. "Come on."

In the lobby, he motioned her toward an elevator, the door standing open, the indicator light pointing up.

"Where are we going?" she asked, an edge of suspicion in her voice.

"I've engaged a room so we can have a private talk. I think it's better that we not be disturbed." She watched him press the button for the sixth floor.

Chapter 30

The Pathology of Virtue

The ride on the elevator was swift and silent. No other passengers interrupted the flight up. Joan was frozen in place, but her mind was whirling. She was intimidated by Walt's serene assurance, as if this sort of thing was unremarkable. She also realized she was not completely taken by surprise. She had been expecting a move on his part, but she thought it might have taken the form of asking her out for another date, something she could have deflected after the grade business had been settled. But this maneuver stunned her. She was aware of the implications, but she also felt guilty, that she had in some way led him on. And then she was grateful to him, too. Didn't he say he'd allow her to improve her grade? She had to consider him an ally, not an enemy.

She trailed a little behind him as he sought out the right door. "Ah, here we are." He motioned her inside. She hesitated. "Come on in. I won't bite!"

Maybe she was being silly; maybe she was placing too much importance on his reported interest in her. She stepped in and looked around. The room was small and compactly designed with only one bed, a dresser, and a loveseat under a curtained window, with a softly lit lamp between it and a padded arm chair. She went over to the loveseat and sat down on its edge. Walt took his seat on the chair, scooting it closer to the love seat.

"Now, what's this about needing a better grade so desperately?"

She nodded. "It's true. I can't get anything better in French, and my grades from last term were mixed, averaging a little under a three-point. Northwestern won't accept me unless I have an overall B average. My only hope was to do better in your exam, but for some reason, that approach to history, memorizing dates and facts, defeats me. I study and study; I believe I know the different periods, but when it comes to sorting out individual facts and putting them in the right context, I seem to see too many options."

"So you'd like a chance to take on something extra?" Although he was not smiling, his gaze was still friendly, hopeful, Joan thought.

"Yes. I could maybe do a paper on a subject of your choice. I could get it turned in to you by, say, Saturday, if that isn't too late."

He nodded and moved over beside her. "I think we can work out something. He took her handbag and set it on the table beside him. "Why don't we have something to relax us a little?" He removed from the breast pocket of his jacket a small silver flask. "A little brandy? You do drink, don't you?"

Joan nodded. "Sometimes, a little."

"I wish this state would join the modern world and get liquor by the drink." He found two glasses and poured a small amount of brandy into them. "This sort of thing is so hole-in-the-wall. On my last trip to Europe, I was again struck by the Europeans' attitude about spirits, absolutely contrary to ours. When we drink here, we have to contend with the lingering odor of sin that surrounds the act." He handed her the glass. "Skol!"

Joan sipped at the strong liquor. Had he said she could do extra work? He seemed determined to avoid making specific arrangements. He placed his arm across the back of the small sofa and gave her a companionable grin.

"Isn't this nice? Better than a stuffy office or having people overhear everything we say." He drained his glass and set it down.

"Yes, I wonder if--"

"Joan," he said rather urgently. "I must tell you something. I don't mean to force myself on you, but you must know I admire you tremendously." He took the glass from her hand and set it beside his. "I've wanted for the longest time to be with you, but only now, after the student-professor thing is over do I feel free to tell you my feelings."

"Walt, please--" But her protest was futile. He was leaning toward her in an alarming kind of way.

"You don't know how long I've been wanting to kiss you."

It was not too difficult to submit. He kissed her gently, his lips soft and moving slightly against hers. She was completely unmoved by it, however, wondering how she could extricate herself without offending him.

"Joan, my dear girl," he murmured. "Why must you even think of leaving now?"

She sat back, as far from him as she could in the corner of the sofa, shaking her head. "This isn't right. It isn't right."

"What isn't?" He reached for the fasteners on her jacket. "Why don't you get out of that jacket. Aren't you warm?"

She let him undo her jacket while she sat rigidly alert. She felt a little satisfaction that her suit was really a suitdress that, once the jacket was off, zipped down the back. But what to do now? Nothing had prepared her for this. The boys she had dated who were overly persistant, like Pete LeGrand, had been so oafish in their style that a rebuff seemed almost the thing to do. But with Walt, bearing the mystique of older man, professor, confidant, her refusal would appear--well, ungracious.

"Would you relax," he said teasingly. "You know me by now. I'd never hurt you."

"Why do you have to do anything?" Her words sounded stupid and naive.

"Don't you care for me at all?" Again he leaned toward her for a kiss, this time lingering at it while he touched her breasts through the thin cotton of the attached top. Again, Joan shied away.

"I can't," she cried. "There's someone else."

"Who? That boyfriend at Marquette?" he sneered. "A Catholic?" He was panting a little, his face damp with sweat, even though he had removed his jacket too.

"Yes."

"Forget him, Joan. I know what your background is, and it doesn't permit bringing a Catholic into it." He smiled, but now his face had taken on a slightly sinister look. "Am I right?"

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. If he hadn't been so accurate, she would have shot back a defense of Rod and her. Instead, she sat still, silent, looking at the green carpet, scuffed and worn beneath her feet.

He sighed deeply, slumping back suddenly in the corner of the loveseat. "I've had my question answered anyway. You're not interested, even when it could mean pleasing me." He laughed. "I've not met anyone quite like you, Joan. You expect me to do you a big favor, something I wouldn't do for anyone else, so you can go off and never see me again. And for that I get the satisfaction of helping a nice girl make it in the world." He pulled her jacket from the bed where he had slung it and held it out for her.

"You're very angry, aren't you?" Joan said in a small voice.

"No, no. Not very. Just disappointed. A little embarrassed for reading the signals wrong. I've been smartly put in my place by a virtuous woman. Go on, get home where you belong."

She left hurriedly, not even stopping to thank him for the dinner, punching the close door button on the elevator so she wouldn't have to face him again if he came from the room behind her.

Her spirits descended with the elevator. She felt totally alone. She was aware of this with startling recognition; further, she was keenly aware that she had always been alone. Now, in this dark time, she had no one to talk to. Her mother would be horrified at her schemings and this trip to the hotel room. Willa would be disappointed, her friends, including blase Chrissy, would briefly sympathize and then forget it, concerned with their own lives. And why not? This degrading affair was her responsibility and her pain.

The following week, she got her grades. They were much what she had expected except for Western Civ where she got a B.

Chapter 31

The Break

It was nearing the end of May, and Joan knew Rod should have finished his classes and been home by now. She was back at the newspaper working weekdays in telephone classified. Shirley had given her the choice of mail or phone, and without much hesitation, Joan continued with telephone ad-taking. At least it demanded more from her than the almost mindless opening of envelopes and cutting and pasting the prepared ads. She needed to keep her mind engaged and her private life from the probing of fellow workers. With the headset on, she felt remote, isolated, devoting herself to the callers.

After getting her grades, she ordered her transcript to be sent to Northwestern. Now it would be a waiting game. Thoughts of Rod flashed into her head from time to time. Yet when she answered her line and heard his voice that Friday, she felt both shock and relief coated with the intense pleasure of one welcoming a long absent friend. But was he her friend?

"Rod!"

"Hi. I wasn't sure if you'd want to speak to me."

"Why not? It's wonderful to hear from you. You're back then for the summer?"

"Yes, I start work at a downtown law firm next week." He paused and then said, "I'd hoped we could meet, maybe for lunch today, and talk. Do you have anything going on?"

"No, not at all. My lunch hour is at 1:00."

"Good. I'll meet you out front then and we can go to the cafeteria next door so we won't have to waste time walking." He seemed curt, but maybe he was concerned about personal calls while she was working.

Joan hung up with a sickish feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was this to be his version of her Dear John, only in person? Dread engulfed her. She was so flustered she took an ad that made no sense and had to call the woman back to straighten it out. No, the house she was selling had seven rooms, not seven bedrooms. Hilda sent back an ad where she had left off the telephone number, which Joan retrieved from her notes.

The wait until 1:00 was agonizing. She checked her watch a dozen times, until Hilda left her post and came over to ask Joan if something was the matter. Joan reddened. "No, I'm sorry. I have an appointment for lunch, and I didn't want to let it slip by."

"I expect you'll get out on time," Hilda said drily, tilting her head back so Joan could see both eyes under the snap brim of her perky straw hat.

When the woman next to her returned at 1:00 to relieve Joan, she left hurriedly, going first to the rest room to comb her hair and apply more lipstick. Her hair had been permed the Saturday before and was too curly. She found a band in the bottom of her purse and pulled her hair into a severe knot.

Outside, she didn't have to look far to see Rod. He was leaning against the building in full sunlight, his brown hair, a little longer than Joan remembered, burnished with copper. He wore the new self-belted California chinos and a white shirt open at the throat. Joan smiled as she approached him, and he came forward to greet her.

She felt suddenly shy as if they were on a first date.

He took her by the elbow and guided her through the doors to the cafeteria. Standing in line with their trays, he said, "You look just the same."

She raised her eyebrows and gave a nervous laugh. "It's only been since Christmas."

"I guess I mean I feel the same when I look at you."

Again, keen pleasure flooded her. She went on through the line, picking out a green salad and a piece of breaded cod, one of her favorite dishes.

"Are you abstaining from meat today?" Rod joked.

"I hadn't thought about it. I just like their fish."

Rod paid for her lunch, and then leading the way, he found a small, quiet table in the far corner.

"It's a treat for me to have lunch with you, Rod."

"I didn't know if you'd want to see me again."

"Just because I plan to go away to school?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose I thought our plans were sort of linked together." He buttered a roll, frowning.

Joan sighed. This was what she had expected from the time she had decided to give herself a breather and leave Drake, leave town. She was aware of the hopelessness of this encounter. "I have to go away, Rod. Don't you realize that it's because I care about you so much that I can't stay? I need time, away from you and everything else."

"It's just that--" he broke off and moved a piece of fish around with his fork. "I know it's hard for you. It is for me, too, but I thought if we stood up to everybody, they'd come around. We'll forget this religion crap. Maybe we could become Buddhists."

Joan gave him a weak smile. "I wish we could live just for now, this day, this summer. Why do we always have to plan so far ahead and wear ourselves out with worrying? Can't we enjoy each other's company as long as we've got it?" Her voice had taken on a pleading quality.

"Sure, sure, sure. Act as if we're a couple of kids just out for a good time." Now the bitterness and hurt were obvious.

"It's either that or quit seeing each other, for good."

He looked her squarely in the eyes. "Do you really think we could manage that?"

She had to look away first. "What about your work this summer? Tell me what you'll be doing."

His face cleared as he explained his duties in the law firm. "I'm really excited about getting this exposure, even though I'll be just a go-fer. They use law students to clerk, of course."

"Still, that's marvelous luck that you can do something so close to your field."

"What about your field? Do you have plans yet for a major? Last I heard, you were undecided."

She shook her head. "I'm still trying to figure that out. I'm leaning toward journalism. Maybe in broadcasting. I like the excitement of news, and there are a few women who are making it as producers or broadcasters on television."

"Good, good," he nodded. Then he reached across the table with his palm open, inviting her to clasp it. "I can see that you want--need to go ahead with career plans. I don't blame you for that, believe me, but what are we going to do?" he persisted.

She squeezed his hand and swallowed back tears. She got up from the table still holding his hand as he rose with her. "I think we've said it all many times. I can hardly bear it, Rod, but we'll have to say goodbye, won't we?"

He looked at her, frozen in place, and dropped her hand. She could say no more either.

End of Part Five

PART SIX

"Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore, get wisdom: and with all your getting, get understanding." \--Proverbs 4:7

Chapter 32

Maiden's Journey

Joan gave one last look to the room that had been her home for two of her three years at Northwestern. She and the three other girls who had shared this duplex were splitting up to go into new jobs in different cities. Her decision early on not to activate with her sorority had been a wise one, she reflected. Even with scholarships, the costs of living and eating at the House and the monthly dues would have strained to the breaking point her precarious finances. This arrangement had worked out well, eventually. Joan had met the girls in a capella choir where they had discovered a mutual desire and need for cheap quarters. Now the place was empty. Joan was the last to leave and, Alma-like, had found herself wanting it pristine for the next occupants.

She was momentarily stopped in her scan of the room by the nearly full length reflection of herself in the mirror over the unusable fireplace. The mirror in a walnut frame was old and spotty from the need for re-silvering. It hung from long cords at a downward slant and had served as a cheval glass. In a departing gesture of self-assertion, Joan had had her hair cut short, very short, hoping for a sophisticated look. She was beginning to regret the decision, now believing the cut rounded her face too much, giving her even more the appearance of youth. Even with the truncated hair, the face and figure were much the same as those of the girl that had come to Evanston three years earlier. She thought she should have grown more jaded in her appearance, at least wiser looking, but her face continued to have an openness, even innocence, which she felt didn't suit her broadened outlook; her figure, dressed in a plaid cotton skirt and white blouse, was the same half-athletic, half-womanly, almost androgynous form of her high school years. It might have been expected that her person would reflect something of her experiences, an imprimatur of learning, but it was not so.

She heard Jim's car pull up at the curb outside. She gathered her hand luggage and without a backward glance, left the house. Jim hopped out of his car and began to cart her several suitcases to the trunk.

"This it?" he asked. He wasn't as cheerful as usual.

Joan nodded and climbed into the front seat. "I've got to hurry. The bus leaves in thirty minutes."

He drove off carefully, though. Jim seldom hurried, and his placid nature had been welcome to Joan, herself in a whirlwind of emotions most of her tenure at Northwestern. Jim and she had dated on and off for two years, but it was only casual dating for Joan. When she told him of her career plans, he had made it clear their relationship had meant more to him.

"Oh, well," he had remarked philosophically. "At least you won't be too far away. I can always ambush you in Chicago. When you least expect me, there I'll be."

Joan had laughed, and in their typical, let's-not-get- serious routine they had laughed off his hint of more to come. He was nice; he was kind; he was not the man of her dreams. He would stay in Evanston and work in his father's accounting firm and meet some nice Junior League type girl whom he would marry and have four kids with and they would join the country club and Jim, like his father, would eventually serve on the board of trustees of Northwestern. She didn't think his heart would break after she left, and she didn't think he would turn up many times in Chicago in pursuit of her, if at all.

Every so often, through the years, she would think of Rod, wonder what he was doing. At first, the memory was so painful she would banish it from her thoughts like a bad puppy sent to his basket. But now she could entertain the notion of him with a kind of morbid regret, as if there had been a sudden death long ago with too many things said or left unsaid.

The summer after her first year at Northwestern, she had gone to Des Moines to work again at the newspaper office. It had been a trying time, afraid she'd run into Rod in some downtown restaurant or store, afraid she wouldn't. She hadn't. Last summer, she got a job at an Evanston radio station writing continuity. Alma had been disappointed, but Joan convinced her the money she made would be worth her staying and renting for the summer. Rod should be in law school by now, she thought, staring out the window while Jim kept up a monologue on the advantages and disadvantages of working in one's hometown. Maybe Rod had married a nice Catholic girl who met with the approval of his family. But that would never concern her.

Even with all the activities of various organizations, some of which Joan had belonged to, graduation had gone by in a flash. No one from her family had been present to witness her receiving the prizes and honors she had won from her work in English and the university radio station. At first Alma declared she could not drive so far, but Louise offered to drive her. They would spend the night in a hotel. But then Louise was asked by her boss to go with him to a sales convention in Cedar Rapids the very weekend of graduation. Alma wrote Joan that she couldn't face the seven-hour drive alone. Joan knew that if the distance had been walkable, say, twenty miles, Alma would have gladly trudged there on foot, but the terrors of highway driving were beyond the limits of her mother's nerves.

Now Joan was facing the prospect of a ten-hour trip on Greyhound for a short visit with her mother before setting off for her job in Chicago. She was proud to have snared this position as assistant to the producer of a noon television show geared primarily for housewives.

At the bus depot, Joan got out her ticket and walked with Jim to the rumbling, smelly bus, whose sign over the windshield said, "Omaha." Joan turned to Jim with a smile. His ordinary but not unhandsome face was somber.

"Jim, don't be such a gloomy gus. We'll be able to meet after I get settled in Chicago."

"Yeah, sure. You'll get swept up by show biz and meet some sharpie who'll take you under his wing. No time for old Jim."

"You really think I'd fall for a 'sharpie?'"

He shrugged; then his usual good humor reclaimed him and he grinned. "Probably not. You're pretty sensible, mixed up, but basically sensible."

"See you, Jim. Thanks for everything." She gave him an "uncle" kiss and climbed aboard.

Alma seemed to treat Joan with a diffidence at odds with her bustling, no-nonsense attitude, as if she were uncertain how to regard her daughter, now educated and accomplished. This might have gratified Joan somewhat, considering her mother's lack of interest in her pursuits, except that Joan sensed that admiration was not one of the causes of Alma's uncertainty. When Alma made a comment about her own stupidity, Joan was saddened to realize that her mother felt inferior to her. But why must she feel that way? Why couldn't she delight in Joan's success without blaming her daughter or herself?

Joan spent some time alone with her mother, though, baking cookies, doing the dishes, while Alma talked in her favorite style--narrative. She was in her element relating to Joan what had happened to whomever. Louise had another "boyfriend," this one better than that rat Martin, who had deserted poor Louise. Such a shame that, but better in the long run. Rose and Helmar had become quite prosperous and were visiting Scandinavia this summer. The uncles, Roy and Ralph, were not speaking--some misunderstanding about a pair of horses. The Catholic neighbors were adding a porch onto their house--an improving feature.

Joan kept up her interspersed exclamations and proddings while Alma happily talked. They resolutely shied away from Joan's new job and her apartment in Chicago. When Joan had told her mother about her job, Alma expressed herself forcefully, with hurt in her voice, that she couldn't understand why Joan would want to leave Des Moines.

"But I simply took the best offer. This is a terrific opportunity for me, Mother."

"It sounds like it. You'll be a big shot."

Joan vowed never to mention her work again to her.

Joan had been in two weddings while she was at Northwestern and had sent wedding gifts to three other friends last summer. Eileen was still unmarried, long graduated from her two-year program in dental hygiene at the University of Iowa and now working in a west side dental office. Joan called her up the second day of her visit.

Eileen quickly agreed to go out to dinner with Joan the next evening. "Let me call up some of the old gang who are around. They're married, but they might be able to skip out for the evening." For old times' sake, they decided to meet at Alphonse's for pizza. Its casual, party atmosphere in the heart of the city seemed right for a reunion.

Joan found herself ticking off the days, listlessly planning events to fill her time. In desperation, she drove out to Drake, just to take a look at the old campus. She was feeling less nostalgic than bored, but at first sight of the neatly placed old buildings and harboring trees, Joan felt a weakness come over her. She parked the car on a side street and began to stroll along a path that led to the library.

The memories called up by her being here again generally gave her pleasure. Nothing really bad had happened with either Pete or Walt, and having escaped unharmed, she could be generous.

"Joan?"

She wheeled around to see Walt coming toward her from another walkway to the Library. He was carrying an armload of books tucked under his arm. His tan jacket was rumpled, matching his hair. He was smiling.

Joan, remembering the hotel encounter, thought they should have been embarrassed at this meeting. She silently marveled at the conventions that allowed them to go on as if they were merely old friends seeing one another after a long absence.

"Let me look at you," he said, raring back for an appraisal. "Do I detect a new confidence, a woman of the world?"

"Don't tease. I'm off soon for my first real job. I need all the confidence I can muster."

"Let's sit for minute and you can tell me all about it." He gestured toward a bench. The campus was deserted. "Can you?"

She nodded and joined him on the bench. The day was pleasant, the sun streaming through branches and casting jigsaw patterns on the walks and lawns and Walt's genial features.

"How long's it been now--two years, four years?" He furrowed his brow.

"Three. I've just graduated from Northwestern in English, but I concentrated on communications. I'll be working at a TV station in Chicago."

"Well! You're into the hard world of news then?"

"Not exactly. I'll be working on a noon show most of the time. There'll be some news, but mainly features. That will be my job, to help line up guests or plan where to go on location for special things."

"No ring, I see. Not married or engaged?"

She laughed. "I've hardly had time to do anything, let alone carry on a romance."

"Good."

She gave him a half-ironic smile. "You'd like to see me an old maid?"

"That's not my concern."

"Why are you concerned about me after all these years?" She was surprised at herself, flirting so openly with him. But he seemed so pleased to see her. And then, she had had a dull week and he was not an unattractive man.

"I didn't know I was until I saw you." His face became more serious, the bantering tone had changed. "When are you leaving?"

"The day after tomorrow."

"Someone driving you?"

She laughed. "Greyhound, first class."

"Let me. I'm out of school now, grades are in. I'm footloose and fancy-free."

"I couldn't let you! It's a long drive to Chicago."

"Not at all. I go there anyhow now and then--museums, a few special places to shop. I'd be happy to, Joan, really." He watched her face closely as she hesitated. "Think of all those hours in a cramped seat."

He was persuasive. Joan relented without much struggle. "Thanks. That would be wonderful for me."

"Me, too." He smiled broadly. "Now, let's get some lunch. It's been a long time for us." He gave her a sharp glance. "You're sure there's no one lurking around, waiting for you?"

"Not a soul. I'd love some lunch."

The trip to Chicago was so enjoyable Joan forgot to be anxious about her new venture. She told him about her experiences at Northwestern. He told her about his research; he hoped to take a sabbatical in a couple of years to go to England and do more at the Bodleian. On the Loop, she directed him to her apartment on the near north side.

Walt pointed the opposite direction. "I used to live over there, close to Midway." He chuckled. "I never grew used to the sensation of planes landing on my head."

"You lived in Chicago?"

"I took my graduate degrees at the University of Chicago." He glanced at the skyline to the east. "This is familiar territory to me."

"I asked some friends from Chicago where I should go to find a place to live, and they suggested the near north side." She'd been lucky, though, to find such a place.

"Convenient," Walt observed as he carried her luggage to the garage behind an imposing house. "The main house has a rather faded elegance. Shabby genteel."

"How apt. It's owned by two elderly sisters, one's a spinster, the other a widow. I don't think they have much other than this house. Their old family home." Joan glanced at the windows overlooking the drive. She expected to see a white face peering at her, nervous about a stranger in their midst, but the windows were shrouded by heavy curtains.

Joan's apartment had been the former quarters of the chauffeur, now long gone, so Miss Hampton told her. The place was furnished in what was probably castoffs from the big house--a lumpy, worn velvet sofa, a rather good Martha Washington chair with shredding tapestry, several Victorian rococo tables, a handmade bookcase of oak (made by the chauffeur?), and vintage lamps. The bedroom was plainer, more like a monk's, or should she say, a nun's cell with a plain wooden chest and chair and a white cotton coverlet over the bed. Joan didn't show that room to Walt, however, limiting him to the living room and the tiny kitchen and bath.

They had started early that morning, but had not stopped except for a Coke at a gas station on the way.

"Let's get something to eat now," Walt suggested, "and then I'll drive you to a grocery store for your supplies."

"It's only two blocks away. I can either walk or take the bus. It runs right by the house."

"You might as well take advantage of my being here." He ushered her out with an exaggerated flourish of his arm, which made Joan giggle.

They seemed more like contemporaries, Joan realized, now that she was out of school. No longer professor and student, they were--what? Friends? She sidled a glance at his profile in the car. They had much in common, a good start on friendship, she knew. They only had to mention a Norwegian food like lutefisk to burst out laughing, or compare notes on taciturn, religious grandfathers, shaking their heads knowingly. She couldn't have wished for a better guide to begin her new life in this somewhat intimidating city. She was comfortable with Walt, more than she would have been if her mother and aunt had driven her (they hadn't offered), and he seemed to consider this outing a treat.

"Will you drive back to Des Moines tonight?" she asked him at the restaurant. It was a Chinese place in downtown Chicago that she never would have picked herself.

"You didn't notice I packed a bag?" He took a slightly wolfish bite of vegetables and chicken.

She shook her head. "You'll be here for the weekend then?"

"At least that long."

"Maybe we could do some things together if you haven't anything else planned. You know the city better than I do."

"That's what I'd planned."

"Oh, good."

After lunch Walt registered at a small hotel while Joan waited in the car out front. A vision of that other hotel meeting contrasted sharply with this pleasant, non-threatening occasion. That girl who had gone meekly up to the sixth floor had been a totally different person, innocent and unaware of the possibilities in relationships between the sexes, even seemingly straightforward relationships.

They shopped at the grocery store, Walt throwing things in her cart that she laughingly objected to. "I don't need a bag of cookies."

"Yes, you do."

"Why?"

"For coffee when we get back to your place."

"Ah." She kept the cookies.

"But not that much rice. I don't even like rice."

He shrugged and placed it back on the shelf.

At home, Joan put coffee on to perk and arranged some cookies on a blue flowered plate she found in the cupboard. That done, she took her little radio from a large suitcase and put it on top of the bookcase, turning to a station that was playing music, show tunes. They both smiled when they heard the song, "On the Street Where You Live." Walt hummed along in a light baritone, snatching at a few familiar lines.

"Mind if I unpack some things?" she asked. "Fix yourself a cup of coffee when it's ready. I'll be out in a minute." She wondered if Miss Hampton and Mrs. Otis, her sister, had observed Walt coming back and going inside the apartment with her. Some landladies were strict about such things, "goings-on" as Alma called it. Maybe she could introduce him as her brother. No, that would be getting off to a bad start in every direction. She wouldn't worry about male visitors being ousted unless or until she was confronted. She frowned to herself. Walt might be expecting more from her now they had resumed their friendship. But he hadn't suggested any such thing, even in his tone, and besides, they would be miles apart.

Chapter 33

Riding High

Joan sat with her feet propped on a drawer of her battered desk and contemplated the acoustic tiled ceiling. Coming up with ideas was an important part of her job, and after six months as assistant to the producer of the Noon Show, she knew she was valued for her work. She couldn't let down for a moment, even if she wanted to. But she liked the work; she felt herself to be brimming with not just ideas but with the enthusiasm that her boss, Hank Zahn, demanded. Hank had made that clear when she had first interviewed for the job.

"Get this straight, Joan; I run a tight ship. Television is the most consumable product imaginable--like food. Every day our audience eats up what we serve and every day we have to keep cooking. I need someone who is always reaching for it."

"It?" Joan had asked rather timidly. Hank Zahn was a tall, cadaverous man in his thirties, whose placid manner, Joan found, disguised an intense commitment to everything he undertook. He seemed to be coiled with energy which was released in dramatic spurts. Yet, she began to discover, he could be patient and forgiving of ignorance.

"I think you've got it--creativity. Once you learn the ropes, you'll be fine." He smiled at her, twirling a gold pen between his palms. Joan knew then that she was hired.

She hadn't let him down either. Her suggestion to broadcast the shows at the fairgrounds for the two weeks of the state fair had been a masterful stroke. The shows almost wrote themselves with so much material and an enthusiastic audience on hand. Joan arranged for guest spots from all the entertainers who appeared at the fair; she came up with contests, interviews with various blue ribbon winners, a roving reporter, and music from the grandstand. The program was even written up by the entertainment critic of the Chicago Sun Times, practically a first for a local TV show.

The TV station was located slightly west and north of the Loop, a real advantage for Joan, who, having to rely on buses or the el, was happy not to be working downtown. Traveling between the fairgrounds and the station had been inconvenient for her and the other employees, but it was short term and had been worth it. She soon realized that calm routine was not to be a part of her work life.

Always at the station there was something of a carnival atmosphere with the lights and costumes, the fevered rush to pull everything together by airing time. Joan could see how people got addicted to the pace of this environment. It was the newspaper business electronically charged. The same deadlines, the same merciless demand for more, but withall, the satisfaction of a product at day's end.

Joan's station vied constantly for ratings with another station, the two exchanging first and second places yearly. The Noon Show was tops now, but Joan knew that could change as quickly as Chicago weather. The constant reminder of the competition was the only really disagreeable part to her work and to the TV business in general.

Jim, holding to his promise to visit her, had come into Chicago from Evanston only twice, as Joan had predicted, once in July and again in September. He was immersed in making his mark on the accounting firm and in joining civic organizations. Although Joan had expected his falling away and was not crushed by it, she would have liked to go out more than she did. All the men at the station were married, even the good looking host of the Noon Show, Ben Bertolli. Well, not all were married. There was a goofy young engineer and a crude cameraman, but they didn't interest Joan. Furthermore, the neighborhood where Joan lived seemed a haven for old folks. She saw few people her own age at the stores or the nearby museum or library. She knew Loyola University was not too far away, but she was not tempted to seek out amusements there, though they had plenty of community offerings. Once burned, she thought, twice shy.

Now in the chill and dank of November, Joan fought gloom when she left work to go home to her apartment, comfortable but lonely, too. Her landladies had invited her for Sunday afternoon tea a couple of times, but she shrank from too much association with them and their strange shuttered existence. She thought occasionally of Walt and his surprising generosity in moving her here. In August, he had stopped in Chicago to see her on his return from a conference in Dearborn. They had gone out on the town, Walt relaxed and companionable, Joan happy to squeeze out a moment of pleasure in her work-filled life. Before leaving her for his trip home, he bent towards her and kissed her lightly. But the kiss was definitive for Joan, which, she suspected, Walt understood. She was not in love with him. Later, he called her a couple of times to chat, but when the fall term got into full swing, he said he would be swamped by teaching responsibilities, but he hoped to see her Thanksgiving.

Her mother didn't believe in phone calls except for dire emergencies, so Joan tried to keep up her correspondence with her, describing her work for lack of any other activities. Joan was not looking forward to the dreary bus ride home for Thanksgiving weekend.

On Wednesday morning the week before Thanksgiving, Hank called her in to his office. He had his finger on a space in his desk calendar, a missal covered with hard, hieroglyphic marks that passed for his handwriting. "I'm going to the Press Club lunch and meeting at noon. Would you like to come along?" He glanced up. "About four of us at the station belong. You might want to consider joining. Good contacts. A comradely group."

"Why, yes, thanks! Of course, I'd love to go. I'll think about joining, too. Though I don't know if I can afford many extras right now," she added slyly. Her pay was very small and at the time of her hiring, he had promised her a raise in six months if things worked out. But this invitation was a first. Usually, she went to lunch with the secretaries.

He shrugged. "Do what you want. Anyhow, we can take the company car--there'll be four of us--to the meeting, which is downtown. The speaker is William Bradford Huie."

Joan gasped with pleasure. She had read the distinguished writer's novels and watched him devotedly on The Longines-Whittnauer Hour TV show for years. She admired everything about him, including his romantic looks and Southern accent.

The invitation so casually given thrilled Joan. She had not considered herself eligible for that organization, but she was a professional now, a neophyte, but still professional. In the rest room shortly before their departure time, Joan examined her appearance critically. She was unhappy she hadn't been wearing her navy suit; the lavender tweed dress was only so-so. How like Hank to present this gift to her so off-handedly, as if he had tossed her a bouquet over his shoulder.

In the car with them was the station manager, Chet Martin, and the news reporter, old Jerry Gimbel, who spoke frequently about his years on the Sun Times.

"Did you ever meet William Bradford Huie?" Joan asked him. He seemed to have met or worked with practically everyone important in the news business, including Ed Murrow and Lowell Thomas.

"I sure did. During the last year of the War, I was detached from my outfit to write for the Stars and Stripes, and who should come into our headquarters one day but Huie. He had just returned from Italy and had some whoppers to tell. Of course, I interviewed him and got a humdinger of a story, if I do say so myself."

Everyone smiled. Jerry was something of a has-been and his bragging was tolerated by most everyone with good natured resignation.

Joan found herself a little awed at the assemblage of newspaper and television royalty, most of whom Hank pointed out to Joan. The food seemed better than average despite the obligatory grumbling of others at their table. The speaker entranced Joan, and his topic, appropriately, was the growing importance of television information and its relationship to print media. After the talk, Joan went to the powder room while Hank and the others chatted with old friends. She freshened up her appearance and went back to the dining room, but her group had left the table area. She saw a young man nearby also seeming to be waiting for someone, so she approached him.

"Excuse me, do you happen to know Hank Zahn, or Chet Martin and Jerry Gimbel? I came with them, but they seem to have disappeared."

He turned to look at her. She noticed first his dark blond hair streaked by the sun and then his eyes as they grew interested. "No, sorry. This is my first time here. I know only co-workers from the paper and recognize just a few Northern Lights from the press."

"I'm in the same boat." She introduced herself, naming the station and the Noon Show.

"Really! You've got a pretty good thing going there. I'm Eric Holland with the Trib."

"General reporter?"

"General dogsbody. Only my second year, so I'm still making the rounds--council meetings, four-alarm fires, occasionally a robbery or murder."

Then Joan felt her arm being touched and she wheeled to see Hank and the others. "Where'd you go? We've been talking with the guest of honor."

"Oh, no! I missed meeting him?" Joan glanced toward the front of the room near the speakers table, but it was clear of people. She looked at Eric and shrugged. "My hero and I missed it."

"I admire him, too. I didn't miss everything, though. I'm glad to have met you."

"Thanks." She turned to follow the others out, but then looked back at Eric, who was watching her. She gave him a smile and a wave. She felt sure she would be meeting him again.

Chapter 34

Walk with Light

"Joan, we insist," said Mrs. Otis, nodding at her sister, who nodded back. She offered Joan another cup of tea and a repeat of the cucumber sandwiches and crumb cake, but Joan begged off, indicating she was full to the brim. Her landladies had asked her over for Sunday tea again, and Joan felt obligated to please them. They were old dears, though, and her greatest challenge was not in keeping up her end of the conversation, but in knowing how to tactfully refuse their constant offerings of food and drink.

"It seems such a shame to put you to so much trouble. I can take the bus to the airport."

"Nonsense! We'll be happy to drive you. It's too hard to lug your suitcase on public transportation."

Joan still looked at them doubtfully, hoping they hadn't felt she was hinting for a ride.

Mrs. Otis misunderstood her look and said, "I'm a very good driver, really! My husband taught me, and I've always loved it."

"She drives fast," her sister said laconically.

Joan thanked them, accepting their taxi service. She had decided to splurge on a plane ticket for her trip home for Thanksgiving. The round trip would cost a week's pay, but she had it to spend, and it would be well worth it. She felt as if she had been left behind in another age, never having been in an airplane. This short trip, only one hours and thirty minutes in the air, would be a wonderful way to broaden her experience and save her from hours on the road.

When she called her mother to give her the arrival time, Alma had responded typically. "By plane! Well, Mrs. Plush, I didn't know you were so wealthy."

Joan felt her face grow hot. "It's my money and I want to do it! I hate the thought of sitting for hours on that old bus and then having to turn right around and do it again two days later."

"Boy, I would, if it meant saving money. You don't know what saving is."

"No, I guess I don't."

She was going almost directly from work. Hank had let her leave at 3:00 that Wednesday. She took the el home because it was faster, and then ran the two blocks to her apartment. The sisters were watching for her, peering through the front window. Joan waved at them. At the back of the house, the 1939 Packard had been backed from the garage and turned around, ready to head out.

Joan changed her dress into a traveling suit and matching hat, slung her coat over her shoulders, and grabbed her pre-packed suitcase, flying out the door. The plane left at five and it was nearly four. She was supposed to check in at least thirty minutes ahead of the flight. But Midway was not too far, and if Mrs. Otis really did drive fast, she'd make it.

Joan started to climb into the back seat. Mrs. Otis stopped her. "You sit up here with me, Joan. Delia will sit in the back."

"Are you sure?" she asked Miss Hampton.

"Of course, dear. I prefer it. Sitting so near the windshield makes me feel that things are flying at me."

As it turned out, a fog had come in from Lake Michigan, and she had to wait another thirty minutes for the DC3 to take off. When the passengers were allowed to board, Joan was a little disappointed to see such a small plane. She glanced anxiously at the sky. Would the plane be able to get through that dense bank of clouds without another plane running into it? What if they ran into ice on the trip--a cold front was coming in. Would the wings be weighted down? These questions had not occurred to her until she saw the little plane sitting aslant near the boarding gate.

The stewardess was comforting, though, when she found out it was Joan's first flight. She even sat beside her on takeoff and brought her a Coke before she started serving dinner. "We're not supposed to, but let's say it's a medical emergency." She gave Joan a conspiratorial grin. "You were about to pass out from nerves, weren't you?"

But the trip was uneventful excepting a few thrilling moments when they hit air pockets and seemed to drop like a runaway elevator. The food, roast beef and baked potato with asparagus on the side, was heavenly, Joan thought. This was the life and worth every penny of her savings. Again, during the landing, the stewardess sat beside her and gripped the arms of her chair tensely.

"Don't tell anybody, but I hate this part."

It seemed smooth to Joan, though, and she wondered if there was something she didn't know which if she did, she'd be worried about. Exiting the plane and walking across the tarmak to the Des Moines airport, Joan had the sensation of being a celebrity. She laughed at herself for her pretensions, knowing how unimpressed her mother would be.

After all the ragging about the flight being unnecessary, Alma seemed genuinely excited about Joan's trip, asking her about the weather and how long it took. They got home about nine o'clock, Joan still too excited to settle in for the evening.

"I know," she said. "I'll change my clothes, and then let's go over to see Louise. It's not too late, is it?"

Her mother hesitated. "Louise isn't there anymore."

"What?"

Alma shook her head sadly, setting her purse on the dining room table and removing her coat. "I haven't mentioned this before because I kept hoping it just wasn't true, not really, that she'd come to her senses."

"What did she do, Mother?" Joan demanded.

"You remember Martin, that skunk with the wife. That was the so-called new man she had taken up with. She lied to me, Joan. She told me a false name even, so she wouldn't have to explain why she was going out again with a married man. Well, now she's done it. She and Martin ran off last week. They quit their jobs--she wrote me this--and have moved to California. I can't believe it."

"Is Martin divorced?"

Alma shook her head, her lips pursed in disapproval. "His wife won't give him a divorce and he's got no grounds, so he and Louise are just living together."

Joan blew out her cheeks with a puff of surprise. Then she shrugged. "It is their business, though. I don't think we should be too hard on them, do you? They must love each other very much since they tried to give each other up once but couldn't. It's sad in a way, but rather romantic."

"Romantic! I think its disgraceful."

"Does anyone else in the family know about it?"

"No, and I'm supposed to break the news to them tomorrow. What a Thanksgiving!"

Joan didn't look forward to the trip to the farm. She had asked her mother in a letter if they could go out to eat on Thanksgiving, just the two of them, maybe with Louise, instead of the trip to the farm. Her grandmother had gone to the Lutheran nursing home last year, her memory gone. Grandfather Lilley had died Joan's first summer home from Northwestern; Grandmother Lilley was in Kansas City with her youngest daughter Thelma, who had remarried. Joan wondered why she should torture herself with another effort at familial feelings among people she cared so little about. Her mother had not even responded to Joan's suggestion.

Her uncle Ralph was barely managing the farm now; through the years he had proven to be not the farmer his father had been. Trees needed pruning or cut down, roof tiles needed replaced, the barns were in need of paint, and the windmill, still used for all but drinking water, was nearly falling down.

"Gotta get someone up there to do some welding," he drawled when asked about its safety.

Inside, the furnishings were exactly the same. Joan stood in the comfortable living room and wondered about the past. This room, this house was full of her grandparents and their hopes, vanities, expectations. No fireplace because the house had central heat, an innovation for 1915 and proudly advertised by the absence of a chimney. The once expensive red velvet curtains were faded to a soft rose, but they had been her grandmother's delight for years. The built-in china cupboard in the dining room had been virtually emptied, mainly by Louise and Rose, Alma too self-effacing to insist on her fair share; its intricate design of leaded glass seemed an anachronism. Who now planned to maintain one's family home forever and build in such lasting beauty and quality?

Soon Joan was interrupted by her cousins, Jimmy and Caroline, who greeted her and introduced strange people they had in tow. Their spouses as it turned out. Though younger than Joan by three years, Caroline even had a baby girl, napping in a car bed in the library. Joan's uncle Roy hooted "city slicker!" at her again, now a worn and ineffectual taunt. But Geraldine was there, accompanying her mother, aunt Rose. Geraldine's girl was ten now, a dusky beauty, much resembling Tony. Joan had always liked Geraldine's forthrightness, even her criticisms, as if her cousin could say the things that Joan either couldn't admit about her family or was too intimidated to say.

"Chicago, eh. So you got away, too," Geraldine said, lighting a cigarette and eyeing Joan from the depths of the big rocker in the dining room. It was after Thanksgiving dinner and the other women were cleaning up in the kitchen. Joan hunched on an upright dining chair, wishing she had the guts to smoke in front of her mother and the others but knowing she never would.

"Yes, and I love it. If it weren't for Mother, I wouldn't be here today. I like you and Rose and Louise, but why," she said in a lowered voice, "do we drag out this family get-together stuff for every single occasion? Am I just a cold fish who didn't get the message?"

Geraldine blew out smoke and a laugh. "You got the message, all right, and so did I. Sure, I come along now and then to please my mom just like you do, but you notice I live in Texas. I'm about as far away as I can get. It takes two days driving to get to Corpus Christi and I figure that stops drop-in visits from the uninvited." She gave Joan a grin. "You're invited, kid, anytime."

"Thanks." But Geraldine had only suggested something, not told her why. She looked inquiringly at her cousin.

Geraldine waved her hand like she was swatting gnats. "Look, this bunch doesn't exactly overwhelm us with acceptance and generosity, forgiveness even. I think that's called love. Don't get all guilty because you don't feel what you can't feel. Just make a vow, Joan Lilley, that you'll not pass along that wonderful characteristic of self-righteousness that this family has cultivated. You'll have it to some extent, of course, since you trained at their knee, but at least you've questioned their damned sanctimonious attitude. You're not your mother any more than I'm mine. Then there's Louise. Look what she dared to do."

"I think it was the only thing she could do if she wanted happiness. She's over forty and must have thought this was her last chance."

"You bet! But they'll rake her over the coals because they think its the thing to do. Make her feel the pain before they allow her back in their good graces. Poor Louise."

Geraldine's words clung to her on the ride home and the next day. She thought they would always remain with her. Her family had been so knotted up with the need to make pious behavior the norm that affection and understanding were denied as suspect, for the weak. They seemed to be motivated more by fear than love, and those two things, Joan was coming to understand, could not exist together.

The talk with Geraldine helped explain her relatives and certainly her mother with her stern rules. She loved her mother, though, and a great sympathy arose in her as she thought of Alma spending in her miserly fashion all those lonesome years without benefit of her father's generous and accepting ways. He might have tempered Alma's almost frantic urge toward self-abnegation, admirable perhaps in a nun but too high a standard for a daughter to match.

Friday evening Willa had them to her apartment for dinner. Joan noticed for the first time that Willa's classy look was being undermined by a thickening of the waist and a mottling of grey in her light hair. But she was ever the gracious hostess and kind friend. Her table provided the extra touches that Joan had always admired--the cloth napkins, a branch of juniper and a few mums from the florist for a centerpiece, the dainty Porslund china set with the rosemaling design. Joan detected a little self-consciousness on the part of Alma, as if she felt she was being measured next to Willa and found wanting. Perhaps she had been. Again, Joan was aware of her own lack of acceptance of her mother. She had given back what she had got, sometimes cruel, disrespectful to Alma. Would they never be able to love one another without a critical eye?

Joan fixed her mother's breakfast on Saturday morning, getting up early to scramble eggs and make coffee. Alma was pleased.

"This is deluxe."

"I might have brought it to you in bed except you wouldn't stand for that, would you?"

Alma laughed. "Heavens, no! I don't like to eat in bed, even when I'm not feeling well. It's so messy and uncomfortable. But," she continued shyly, "this is nice."

Joan had called Walt when she arrived home, and he had asked to take her out for dinner and a show at the KRNT Theater. There was to be a performance of My Fair Lady by a road company. She didn't let him pick her up, however, since he lived on the other side of town. And besides, she liked to keep the appearance of their relationship on a "just friends" basis.

They ate early at the Skandia, a downtown restaurant near the theater with pretensions of a bistro. The place had cozy booths and several adjoining rooms for dining as if it had started out small and then grown large in a series of afterthoughts. Walt had New York strip and Joan a club sandwich of sliced turkey and ham. Joan was facing the back, and while they were waiting for their dessert of caramel cake, she saw a couple moving toward them on their way out. Rod? She stared, her breath coming quicker.

He looked different, not just older, but a little heavier around the jaw. He wore the same serious expression, but his hair was shorter, neater. A little ahead of him, guided by his hand on her shoulder, a pretty, pregnant girl moved cautiously through the crowded aisle.

His eyes met hers. He continued to look, a moment longer than one would with a complete stranger and then smiled and waved. Joan waved back and followed his progress through the restaurant until he reached the cashier to take care of his bill.

"See someone?" Walt asked, half-turning in his seat.

"Someone I once knew, but it's been many years. I guess that's his wife."

"His?" He scrutinized her face. "Is that the old boyfriend?"

Joan nodded and looked down at her plate and sighed. Seeing Rod again was perhaps inevitable. She had not called him over and forced a face-to-face meeting. What would have been the point? She hadn't wished for blood to be spilled. But she was all right. It had not been as difficult as she had imagined. Her wound was healed.

Walt continued to look at the couple as they stopped at the cashier's desk. "They seem to be expecting."

"Yes, but that's what Catholics do, don't they," Joan said, she hoped lightly. Still, it was a catty thing to say.

But Walt laughed. "You seem to have gotten over him."

And then Rod and the girl were coming toward their table. Joan introduced Walt as her former professor. He stood up and shook hand with Rod.

"A friend now," Walt corrected with a smile at Joan.

"This is my sister Sally," Rod said, stepping aside to bring the girl forward.

"Rod's been so nice to take me out while he's been home."

"Her husband's a naval officer and just finishing up a six months cruise," Rod explained. "He'll be back in time for the birth, though."

"We hope," Sally said with a smile, patting her protruding stomach.

"Did we meet at your sister Mary's wedding?" Joan asked Sally. "I thought you looked familiar, but in your present condition I wasn't sure."

Sally laughed and nodded. "Rod reminded me you'd been at the wedding. I think we may have bumped into each other on the dance floor during the reception, but it was a crowded mess and I was rather absorbed in my own romance." She shrugged apologetically.

"So are you out of Northwestern now?" Rod asked Joan.

She told him of her job in Chicago. "And are you still in law school?"

"I got my degree last June. I decided to stay on at Notre Dame so I could do it all in six years. I'm practicing in St. Louis."

They were all so very polite, the routine murmurings of acquaintances. Joan had a sense of unreality as if they were reading lines in a boring play.

"I suppose you're leaving for Chicago soon?" he asked her.

"Tomorrow. I'm flying back in the afternoon."

"Ah, lucky you. I've got a long drive tomorrow." He held out his hand. "It was good to see you again, Joan. Good luck on the new job."

She smiled and murmured her thanks. The touch of his hand with its warmth and strength had shocked her into a sad memory of what they had been to one another. Rod and his sister turned around and left. Walt looked at her inquiringly, one eyebrow raised.

Joan fingered her spoon. "We dated only one summer, but our time together was very intense and . . ." she hesitated, not wishing to be misunderstood, "troubled. He's earnest and sober about life, and so am I. I guess it's easy to see how we became serious right from the start. But there was too much against us. We were doomed," she smiled at Walt, "like characters in a Greek tragedy."

She picked up her cup for a sip of coffee, but it had grown cold. It was true that between them, they had formed a relationship so dense it seemed opaque, without any lightness. They may not have been right for each other after all. Rod, good and true soul that he was, matched her own seriousness too well.

She gave a small laugh. "You'll think I'm being overly dramatic about it. That little meeting seemed quite ordinary."

"Oh, I don't know. You and he were polite but oddly indifferent, maybe for a good reason--like self-protection. I had the distinct impression that neither of you could afford to give away too much of yourselves."

"You know, it strikes me that if its right between a man and a woman, no obstacles are too great. With Rod and me, they seemed unsurmountable. But it's over now. And I don't intend to dwell on the past."

He covered her hand with his and then patted it in a fatherly kind of way. "Good. Eyes front, fo'ard, h'arch! It's the best way to go."

The theater was only two blocks away, so they walked through the gathering dusk, brightened at intervals by shop windows and street lights like spots on a stage set. Even with little traffic, they paused dutifully at the intersections and obeyed the injunction to "WALK WITH LIGHT." It occurred to Joan how much she wished to do that very thing, and then she gave a small laugh.

"What's so funny," Walt asked.

"Nothing. I'm seeing where I want to go, that's all. Don't mind me, Walt; I'm still trying to find my way." She shivered. The air was chill but no snow was expected.

On Sunday, Joan went to church with her mother. It had been redecorated from the gloomy place of her childhood to fifties modern with bleached wood and soft green and gold colors. Even the altar area had been shifted from the corner to the end of the room with now a center aisle. Only the stained glass windows over the choir remained the same. Joan felt even more a stranger now than she had as a child when she could only escape the sense of not belonging through her imagination.

She sang as lustily as her mother and the others and tried to concentrate on the prayers, but she couldn't quite get a feel for the religious. This was not her church and never had been. She recalled the only truly religious experience she had ever had, when as a child she had seen an old man from the windows of her father's car and felt a sense of oneness with him, with the universe, if that was what her sensation had been. At any rate, that one time had convinced her of God. She was still seeking His church, had not given up on Him.

Her mother seemed proud and grateful to have her along to present to her friends as "living in Chicago now, working for a television station." Joan played her part, too, and smiled and smiled. This church had been the core of her mother's social life, the source of her understanding of life. It was where she felt comfortable in her responses to others. Let it be, she told herself. Nothing would change except herself, and that was the hardest thing of all to be realized.

In a way, Joan wondered if she was like her ancestors who'd voyaged across the ocean to make this country their home. She could see herself as something of a pioneer seeking a new country, but she hoped she wouldn't, like those 19th century pioneers, try to shed all vestiges of her past that made her different from others. She wanted to value her heritage, keep those attributes that were significant–honesty, directness, kindness–but add to them, if she could, what had been missing–the ability to share feelings, for one thing. She could only try.

As far as her family's adherence to goodness as an end in itself, there was really nothing wrong with that. Certainly the ancient Greeks had held up goodness as an ideal. But they had also extolled beauty and truth. For the old Norwegians, keeping a balance between the three ideals seemed to present the most problems; and so they relegated the violin to the attic as a sinful instrument. Joan was quite sure she would never do any such thing.

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I wish to thank my family, those who have gone before and those still very much around, who have made such an impact on my thinking and doing. I particularly admire the strong ancestors who left kith and kin to come to this country, armed with little but hope and a willingness to work hard. I cannot name everyone in my family who influenced me, but they are legion.

Secondly, I am grateful for my husband, Max, and my three sons, Jon, Brad, and Kit, who put up with my absent-mindedness while in the throes of composition. Their patience is my reward.

Also, I cannot say enough good things about members of the Writers Group at Volunteer State Community College, who as individuals have "vetted" everything I've written, making helpful comments and giving much needed criticism when warranted. I wonder if I could have stayed the course through this and my other writings if it hadn't been for their encouragement.

http://jeanneirelan.com/
