Page 46 - WTP Vol.X#1

On October 13, 1967, soon after I arrived in Ox- ford, I pulled a red tweed miniskirt up over my trendy patterned stockings which covered the scales on my shapely legs, left my room and strode out into the ancient English city. Just twenty-two, I’d come
to the university to study for an MA, a next step in the academic career my parents and I envisioned for me, believing I’d have to make my way in the world on the strength of my brains and Irish-American charm. Since birth, I’d contended with a rare disor- der which made my oval face unusually red and my skin rise in hillocks of thick scale. My parents had schooled me to believe no man would want me until I was cured. So far, no cure had shown up. I’d dealt with my body by ignoring it. Figuring men would shy away from me, I shied away from them and never dated, even in college.
Today however, a young American guy I hadn’t yet met had invited me to tea—of all things. Joe Starshak knew one of my classmates from my women’s col- lege in the States. She’d told him I was studying at the university, as was he, so he’d asked me to come by. I assumed there’d be other people there, since “tea” in Britain often meant a group of people gathered for cookies, a hot drink and everything from idle chitchat to intellectual sparring.
Making my way down the Woodstock Road, dodging red busses and shoppers, I headed for the central crossroads, called Carfax. Which way now? Pretend- ing I knew how to get to the party, I swung left into one of the loveliest streets I’d ever seen. Spires leapt from towers. College buildings made from yellow stone rooted in the curving street. For a moment I stood stock still, letting the startling beauty of the place enter far into my eye. Then I got moving again. Passing Minty’s furniture shop, I began to worry. What would Joe think about my skin? Would he be frightened? Turn away? I had so little experience meeting young men. I had no moves, no way to calm whatever questions or fears they might have about
the way I looked. Don’t think about that, Kaier, I told myself. Just keep going. The sound of my shoes tap- ping the pavement calmed me as I looked far down the street. Lovely medieval Magdalen Tower, some- what darkened, I noticed, by years of coal dust and car exhaust, shot up, delicate and sturdy. Fix your eyes on that, Annie. You’re going to a party close to it.
Drawing near the square tower, searching among a row of carved stone windows for the arched door which would let me into Magdalen, the complex of graceful dining hall, chapel and dorms where the party was to be held, I heard my mother talking in my head, “now don’t get too excited, dear. Joe’s just doing a favor for your friend from college.” My mom, who had a beautiful face, glossy chestnut hair and full red lips, thought a woman needed good looks before a man would glance at her. But today a man had asked me—sight unseen, it must be admitted. To shake off Mom’s voice, I slipped through the curved entrance. Who knows what this party might be like? Joe had invited me. Surely he’d be kind.
I’d gotten used to the idea that about thirty individu- al colleges made up the University of Oxford. You mainly lived and studied in your college. St. Anne’s, one of the five for women, was mine. Magdalen was Joe’s—although I didn’t understand if he actually lived here or just met with his professors and hung out with friends here. The receptionist, called a “porter” in Oxford-speak, told me where to find “Mr. Starshak.” Surrounded by glowing stone buildings, I picked up speed. I’m here. Let’s see what happens.
Joe turned out to be a tall, excitable guy in chinos and a blue sweater. “Ah, Anne, you’ve found us in our mo- nastic cell,” he said, talking to the room at large but smiling at me.
“Not too hard,” I replied. Not wanting to offer him my scaly hand, I broadened my smile and glanced around. A handful of young men in corduroy jackets and a few women with long hair parted in the middle lounged in the lovely room, smoking and laughing in short sharp barks which thudded against the carved wooden paneling on the walls. “Not too monastic either.”
Joe laughed, offered me a chair, asked if I’d like tea. The others seemed to be passing witty remarks about politics and each other. Filling a mug for me,
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Act Two
anne kaier