“I’ve noticed most of the other houses are closed for the summer” I said.
“We usually close, too, but our house corps president, Eleanor Vanderson, raised enough money for us to do some much-needed redecorating in preparation for rush and for a visit from the financial adviser from National. She’s coming in August to audit the books, and we dearly hope she can offer some suggestions to improve our situation. When I agreed to be here to supervise the workmen, the girls asked if they could stay. Two of them are taking graduate classes, and the other will be a senior. Debbie Anne’s technically a freshman and I was opposed to having her.” A dark look crossed her face, then vanished as she gave a rueful laugh. “But Eleanor determined that we needed four monthly residence fees to cover the utilities, and Debbie Anne was the only other girl in summer school.”
“Well, good,” I said lamely, not at all interested in the subject or much of anything else, with the exception of surviving the ordeal and achieving the sanctuary of my own sofa. Winkie was swirling the wine in her glass, apparently content to sit in silence for what might be a very long time. To cover the sound of my rumbling stomach, I asked, “How long have you been the housemother?”
“Three years. After the divorce, I worked in an exclusive dress shop for almost ten years, but then my back began to trouble me and I was forced to give up my job. This position rescued me from a very bleak situation. A year from now I’ll be eligible for social security and a nice pension from a fund established by the National Board. I’ll miss the excitement, but it will be a relief to have my own apartment where I can do as I please. Here, I must admit, I’m basically on duty twenty-four hours a day, supervising the kitchen and custodial staffs, handling deliveries, counseling the girls, attending training and social functions for the campus housemothers, and serving as hostess for the house. There are so many restrictions that I sometimes feel as if I have more rules and regulations than the girls.”
“Indeed.” I artlessly looked at my watch and then at the cat, which, like any sensible creature, had gone to sleep during Winkie’s whiny discourse on her job description.
She caught the hint and stood up. “Shall we go to the dining room, Claire?”
I rose with alacrity. “That’s a wonderful idea. I haven’t seen my daughter all afternoon, and while Rebecca was showing me around, she mentioned that Caron was already here and in Pippa’s room.”
“All the girls are staying in the wing off the lounge. It saves on utilities. During the school year, those rooms are used by the house officers, but with just the four…
She stopped to stroke Katie’s head, then led me out to the foyer and paused in front of two portraits of women clutching white cats. The cats had uniformly bulgy eyes, as did one of the women.
“These are the previous housemothers,” she told me. “The chapter was organized eleven years ago by a group of dedicated alumnae. Muffy was the first housemother, and she stayed nearly seven years. She’s out on parole now and dropped by to visit just last month. Pattycake was here only a year before she decided to find other employment. She wasn’t a Kappa, and the girls did not find her sympathetic. Some of the seniors still remember how detached she was when her first Katie was run down by a garbage truck out back. One of them told me, in the strictest confidence, of course, that Pattycake was never pleased when they dropped by to say good night to Katie or leave little gifts of catnip and squeaky toys.”
“Imagine that,” I said, trying not to do so myself as we went through French doors to the dining room.
Pippa, Rebecca, and Jean leaped to their feet as if we’d brandished automatic weapons, their ubiquitous sorority pins sparkling madly on uniformly pink expanses. Caron glanced curiously at them but kept her seat as Winkie formally introduced them to me, escorted me to a chair, and told them to sit back down. The majesty of the moment ended with the shatter of crockery from behind the kitchen door, followed by the dispirited wail of someone who was not Kappa material. Eyes rolled like loose marbles, but no one was motivated to go to the kitchen and investigate the disaster
“I’m so excited that Caron’s my new trainee,” Pippa chirped, dimpling at me. “She’s going to make a swell My Beautiful Self consultant, don’t you think? She’s got such motivation, and you’re going to be astounded at how well she does once she starts working the high school market, where there truly is a need. The school colors are purple and gold, so you can imagine what a challenge it’ll be. But I just know she’s going to stick with it and become one of my top earners.”
“And you do get a cut, don’t you?” I said.
Caron gave me a look meant to wither me into silence. “I’ve already explained that, Mother I’ll get a cut from my trainees, too. It’s like a pyramid, but there’s all this room at the top.”
Unwithered, I said, “Pyramids rise to sharp points.”
“I’m using the color analysis theory as a basis for my senior thesis,” Pippa continued blithely. “I’m a psych major, and I intend to explore the psychological factors that result from someone’s acceptance of her appropriate palette, particularly if that person”-she eyed me critically-”has always worn the wrong shades. It’s funny, but the client seems to go through predictable stages: denial, anger, mourning for the lost colors, and then acceptance and celebration of the new beautiful self. I plan to use this in therapy when I go into private practice.”
Jean laughed. “Mourning for the lost colors?”
“Woe is me,” Rebecca inserted with the same mockery, “no more mauve. However can I go on living?”
Jean and Rebecca grinned at each other. Pippa flushed while she considered her rebuttal, no doubt based on guidelines from National that delineated the amount of violence acceptable in the dining room. Winkie continued to glance at the kitchen door and sigh, and Caron did her best to slither down in her seat and disappear.
I finally tired of the uncomfortable silence and said, “What are you majoring in, Jean?”
“Political history. I’ve been accepted to law school at Yale beginning this fall. I’m taking a course this summer in economics, and working for the dean at the law school here.”
“Mrs. Vanderson’s husband,” added Winkie, having mistaken me for someone who cared. “She helped Jean attain the position.”
Jean gave Rebecca an enigmatic look, then turned to me and said, “In exchange for office duties, I’m allowed to sit in on lectures. Dean Vanderson okayed it with the professors.”
“How kind of him,” I said. “What are you majoring in, Rebecca?”
She swept her hair over her shoulder, checked to ensure she had our profound attention, and said, “Communications, with a focus on theater. I graduated in May, but I want to be in the productions this summer to enhance my résumé, and darling Carlyle promised me at least one leading role. I do hope you and Caron will come see.”
I’d begun to notice that they were all eyeing Caron in a predatory manner, as if they were crows and she an appetizingly steamy mound in the middle of the highway. Little did they know I planned to send her to college on some remote Canadian island near the North Pole, where she would be more likely to join an organization of feral elves than of sorority girls. I managed a polite smile. “We’ll certainly try, Rebecca.”
Debbie Anne came into the dining room with a tray piled with serving bowls, mumbling apologies that only I acknowledged. Half an hour later, I made my escape. Caron refused to accompany me, insisting that she was in the middle of her training session and anything more than the short break for dinner would destroy her concentration. I assured her I would wait up for her so we could discuss certain topics, thanked everyone for the meal, and left before any Kappa hymns could be sung in my honor.