Page 47 - WTP Vol.X#1

Joe wondered if I’d heard from the “redoubtable Kathy,” my college classmate whom he’d known in Chicago, his hometown. Buoyed by his attention, I chatted cheerfully about this ambitious young wom- an who had an odd habit of walking on tiptoe. She’d set off to Helsinki on a Fulbright scholarship. “Not sure what the appeal of Iceland is,” said Joe, waving a bottle of milk at me in a questioning way.
“Dark for hours and hours in winter,” I said, holding my mug out.
“Oh, Kathy’ll make a go of it.” He poured a steady stream of thick milk. “Say when.”
He put down the bottle and perched on the broad edge of a chair opposite me. His fine brown hair lay straight across his head like my father’s.
Swinging his leg, he looked at me with an open, friendly expression. “So what’s it like at St. Anne’s? Do they lock you up at night to save you from the depredations of men?”
I chuckled and took a drag on my cigarette. “Indeed they do. Those gates clang closed on the dot. Though the dean seems to know all about the best places to climb in over the walls.”
“They always do—deans.”
“She told us the fines would be doubled if anyone fell from the top of the wall into her flower bed.”
This was going along fairly well. It wasn’t too hard to chat with Joe—even about subjects with a faint sexual tang. Though I didn’t see myself climbing over the St. Anne’s wall after the hour men were supposed to be off campus, I could fake being sophisticated, at least in conversation. For choice of topics, I followed Joe’s lead. I did wish he’d chat about the windy city,
a place I knew from family trips. He could probably talk without a stream of snarky remarks. If he did, I’d be more comfortable with him.
Pretty soon though, newcomers jostled into the room. Joe got up from his perch on the chair arm to
look after them. As I glanced around the room, wish- ing I knew if it were Joe’s so it could tell me more about the man, my eye caught a handsome marble fireplace topped by a large mirror. Someone had stood a row of party invitations on top of the mantel. Whoever lived here had a pretty frantic social life.
For a while I tried to get the hang of talking with a few people who lounged in big comfortable arm- chairs near me but that was harder going. They quizzed me about what I was doing in Oxford but they didn’t seem deeply interested. Soon they revert- ed to fast-paced quips and hilarity among themselves. The men threw their heads back so their long curls shook when they laughed. I sunk into my chair. The fizz had gone out of me. Always uneasy when I didn’t feel part of things, after a while I got up to leave. Joe was chatting with another guy at the far end of the room, so I put down my mug, nodded to my nearest neighbors and slipped out.
~
However, Joe must have found me interesting. In a letter—these were the days before texts or email—I told my parents what happened next.
This chap, Joe Starshak, showed up at my door on Sat- urday asking for tea, invited me to the theatre for Tuesday, and arrived, ready for the aforesaid play, when I got back from class on Monday night. I barely had time to change. The play was a contemporary effort and quite good. Joe is a nice chap, constantly try- ing to be ultra-witty. But we had a pleasant time.
Surely there’s a note of triumph here. Despite my parents’ beliefs, a young man had taken me out. I can be forgiven for crowing.
What did I ask Joe to do while I changed that night? I had one largish room with a washstand, bed, two chairs, and a desk. I must have suggested he wait in the wide hallway of the old Victorian family house which St. Anne’s had retooled for students. It’s almost unimaginable now how inexperienced I was, how little able to read Joe’s intentions. I remember
a gentleness in him which at the time I took for a determination to do the right thing by a newcomer to Oxford. I probably also hoped he might be interested in me—even perhaps in a romantic way. I held my breath in those days, making it up as I went along.
I probably joked when I asked him to wait in the hall—“idle yourself whilst I get into something chick.” With the heavy wooden door closed, I scrubbed the
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