Message from Nam (4 page)

“I can’t do that, Mother,” Paxton said quietly, her big green eyes searching the face that always seemed more like a stranger’s. “I made myself a promise a long time ago.” But it was more than just a promise to herself, it was something she felt she owed her Daddy.

“You’d never be happy in Boston, Paxton. The weather is appalling. And it’s an enormous school. You’d be much better off closer to home, in familiar surroundings. You can always take some graduate classes at Harvard later.”

“Why don’t we just wait and see if I get in, that makes more sense.” But what made sense to her made very little sense to her mother. It annoyed her no end that Paxton was holding out so stubbornly for a northern school when she could have gone to Sweet Briar and stayed so much closer to home. George turned up one Saturday afternoon to vent his views and Paxton smiled to herself while she listened to him. Talking to George was just like talking to her mother. They both believed that her life was destined to be close to them, and that it was foolish of her to try to spread her wings and expand her horizons.

“What about Daddy, George? He seemed to have come out okay, in spite of venturing up north to go to school with the Yankees.” She was teasing him, which amused her if not him. Among his many other virtues, her brother George had not been blessed with their father’s sense of humor.

“That’s not the same thing, Pax. And you know I’m not fixated about the South. I just think that for a woman, Sweet Briar is a better choice. Mother’s right. And there’s no reason for you to go all the way to Boston.”

“With that kind of attitude, they might not even have discovered America, George. Imagine if Queen Isabella had told Columbus that there was no reason for him to go all the way to the New World.…” She was laughing at him and he was not amused by it.

“Mother’s right. You’re still a child, and it’s ridiculous to do this just to prove a point. You’re not a man, and there’s no reason on earth for you to go to Harvard. You’re not pursuing any career like medicine or law, there’s just no reason for you to go anywhere. You should be close to home with us. What if Mama gets sick? She’s not as young as she used to be, and she needs us here.” He tried everything on her, including guilt, and it served only to enrage his sister. She couldn’t understand why they wanted to clip her wings. But they seemed to feel they owned her.

“She is fifty-eight years old, not ninety-three, George! And I’m not going to sit here for the rest of my life, waiting to take care of her. And how the hell do you know what career goals I want to pursue? For all you know, I want to be a brain surgeon. Does that make it okay for me to go north to school, or do I have to stay here and bake cookies no matter what, just because I’m a woman?”

“That’s not what we’re suggesting.” He looked pained by her bluntness.

“I know that.” She tried to regain her cool. “And Sweet Briar is a wonderful school. But all my life I’ve dreamed of going to Radcliffe.”

“And if you don’t get in?” He looked at her pointedly.

“I will. I have to.” She had promised her father’s memory. She had promised him before that. She had sworn she would make him proud of her and follow in his footsteps.

“And if you don’t get in?” her brother persisted coldbloodedly. “Then will you agree to stay in the South?”

“Maybe … I don’t know.…” The three Ivy League schools didn’t appeal to her either, and she hadn’t given any serious thought to Stanford or Berkeley. She couldn’t begin to imagine going there, and she didn’t know anyone in California. “I’ll see.”

“I think you’d better give it some serious thought, Paxton. And you’d better think twice about upsetting Mama.” Why did he have to do this to her? It wasn’t fair. Why did she have to sacrifice her life for them? What did they want from her, and why did they want her there in Savannah? It seemed so pointless. Just so she could go to luncheons and meetings of the Daughters of the Civil War with her mother, and eventually join a bridge club, so Beatrice wouldn’t be “disgraced,” so Paxton stayed within the mold. But she didn’t want the mold. She wanted something more. She wanted to go to the School of Journalism at Radcliffe.

She had often told Queenie as much, and Queenie was the only one who encouraged her, who loved her enough to be willing to release her. She knew what Paxton needed, and she wanted to see her fly free of the two people who seemed to expect so much from her and had always given her so little. She had a right to more than that in her life, and her mind was so bright, so full of new ideas, she deserved something more than the life she would have if she stayed in Savannah. And if after she went away to school, she wanted to come back, then Queenie would be there to welcome her with open arms. But she wasn’t going to beg her to stay, or nag her like the others.

The envelope arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, and it was sitting in the mailbox when she got home, along with one from Stanford. And Paxton held her breath the moment she saw them. It was a warm spring afternoon, and she had strolled slowly home, thinking of the boy who had asked her to the spring prom just that afternoon. He was tall and dark and handsome, and she had admired him for the past year, but he had been going with someone else. And now suddenly he was free, and Paxton’s head was full of dreams and wishes. She was going to tell Queenie all about him eventually, and now suddenly, there was the letter she’d been expecting. Her whole future on a sheet of clean white paper, folded and sealed into an envelope from Harvard. Dear Miss Andrews, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to … Dear Miss Andrews, we are sorry to inform you that … which one was it?

Her hands shook as she took the envelopes out, trying to decide which one to open first, as she sat down on their front steps in front of the solid-looking brick house, and decided to open the one from Radcliffe first, because in truth it was the only one that mattered and she couldn’t bear the suspense of waiting till she had opened the other. She flung her long blond mane over her shoulders and down her back, closed her eyes and leaned against the intricate wrought-iron railings, praying for her father’s blessing on their answer … please … please … oh, please let me have gotten in … She opened her eyes and, as quickly as she could, ripped open the letter. And the opening line was not at all what she had expected. It gave nothing away at all, and droned on endlessly about what a fine institution Harvard was, and what a fine applicant she was, and it was only in the second paragraph that they said what she’d been looking for, and she could almost feel her heart stop as she read it.

“Although you have all the qualifications to make an excellent candidate for Radcliffe, we feel that … at this time … perhaps another institution … we regret … we are sure that you will do extremely well at any academic institution you choose … we wish you well.…” Tears filled her eyes and the words danced in a blur of grief as they cut through her heart. She had failed him. They had turned her down. All her dreams dashed in a single instant. Radcliffe had denied her. And what would she do now? Where would she go? Did she really have to stay in the South, with all its narrow thinking, familiar themes, and proximity to her mother and brother? Was that it? Had it come to that, then? Or would she go to Vassar? Smith? Wellesley? Somehow they seemed so boring.

Hesitantly, she tore open the second envelope, feeling nervous now. Maybe it was time to give some serious thought to Stanford. But not for long. They said it in the first paragraph instead of the second, and their answer was almost identical to Radcliffe’s. They wished her well, but felt she would do better at another institution. Which left … nothing. The choices she already knew she had, and an unknown quantity at Berkeley. She could feel her spirits plummet as she stood, walked up the steps, and let herself into the house. She dreaded having to tell her mother.

She told Queenie first, of course, and the old woman was grief-stricken for her at first, and then, finally, philosophical.

“If they didn’t accept you, then it wasn’t meant to be. One day you’ll look back at that, and know it.” But in the meantime, the prospects it left her with were depressing. She didn’t want to stay in the South, didn’t want to go to a girls’ school, and she couldn’t even imagine going to Berkeley. Now what? But Queenie’s thinking was more advanced than Paxton’s. “What about California? It’s a long way from here, but you might like it.” One of her daughters had moved to Oakland several years before, and although she’d never been there, she had always heard that San Francisco was lovely. “I hear it’s beautiful. You won’t be cold like you will up north.” She smiled gently at the child she had loved and comforted since she was born, and it hurt her now to see her so bitterly disappointed. “Your Mama would kill me if she could hear me suggesting it to you, but I think you ought to be thinkin’ about California.” Paxton grinned. Her mother would kill both of them if she could hear half of their conversations.

“It seems so far away … so … I don’t know … so foreign.…”

“California?” Queenie grinned. “Don’t be silly, it’s only a few hours away by plane, leastways that’s what my Rosie keeps tellin’ me. So you think about that too. And you pray about it tonight. Maybe that school in Berkeley gonna be your solution.”

But that night at dinner with her mother and George, they continued to believe that her solution lay a great deal closer to home, and as far as they were concerned, the answer from Radcliffe settled the question. They weren’t even disappointed for her, they were relieved. And like Queenie, they said it was meant to be. But unlike the old black woman who had cared for her, they seemed almost pleased to see her dreams ended. And through it all, Paxton felt as though somehow she had disappointed her father, as though she had let him down, because she had been turned down by his alma mater. She wanted to say that to someone, to admit how terrible she felt, but for once she didn’t think Queenie would understand, and it was obvious that her mother and brother wouldn’t either. And her own friends were wrapped up in their own miseries and joys. Everyone was totally obsessed with the schools they were hearing from, and whether they were getting turned down or accepted.

The boy who’d invited her to the prom called that night, and she tried to share some of her feelings with him but all he could talk about was having just been accepted by Chapel Hill, and he seemed not even to hear her. It seemed to be a time for solitary grief or celebration. And that night when she went to bed, she lay there thinking of what Queenie had said that afternoon, and wondering if the idea was totally mad, or if it was worth thinking about. More importantly, if they’d even accept her. But by the end of the week, her mother and George had worn her down, and she agreed to enroll at Sweet Briar the following week, with a silent promise to herself to re-apply to Radcliffe the following year and keep on trying until she got in, no matter how hard she had to work to get in, or what it took to convince them. She felt a little better having established that plan, and knew it would be more bearable staying close to home as long as she knew it wasn’t forever.

And then on Monday, the answer came from Berkeley. They were delighted to inform her that she’d been accepted. And although she wasn’t even sure why, her heart skipped a beat, and suddenly she was excited. She hurried into the kitchen to show Queenie the letter they’d sent. The old woman beamed at her, as though it was the answer to everything, and she had known all along it would come.

“See that? That’s yo’ answer.”

“What makes you so sure?” How could she know?

How could she be certain? But the other options certainly didn’t appeal to her.

“How do it make you feel?”

“Good. Actually. Kind of excited and scared … but happy.”

“And the other schools you been talkin’ about? How do they make you feel?”

“Depressed … bored … pretty awful.”

“That don’ sound like a happy solution to me. I’d say this be a better solution. But you think on it, honey. You pray. You listen to the lord, and listen to yo’ stomach. Always listen to yo’ gut … always listen to what you feel inside.
You know.
We all do. We know it right here.” She pointed to her big belly with a serious air. “When you feel good, it’s the right answer for sure, but you feel kinda sick, kinda squirmy, kinda miserable, then you done make a
big
mistake, or if you didn’t yet, you going to!” Paxton laughed at the simple wisdom, but she knew Queenie was right, as usual. She always was. The old woman knew. She was a lot smarter than Paxton’s mother, or George, or even Paxton.

“The crazy thing is I think you’re right, Queenie.” She sat down in a kitchen chair, nibbling on a carrot stick and looking pensive. She was young and beautiful, and there was something very peaceful about her face. She was someone who was at one with herself, and had been for a long time. She was quiet and strong, and whole, which was rare for a girl her age, but since her father’s death almost seven years before, she had done a lot of thinking. “What am I going to say to them?”

“The truth, when you know what that truth is. And don’t do something ’cause I tell you to. You too smart for that, girl. You do what
you
want to do, and what you know is right, when you know it. Think about it first. You’ll know when it’s right.” She pointed to her stomach again and Paxxie laughed and stood up. She was tall and lean and lanky, like her father had been, and oddly graceful. She was taller than many of her friends, but she had never really minded. And much to Queenie’s surprise, she had no particular interest in her looks. She was beautiful, but it was almost as though she didn’t know or care. She was interested in other things, matters of the heart, the head, the soul. She was too much like her father to be aware of her looks, and her indifference to her blond good looks frequently irritated her mother. She wanted her to model in Junior League fashion shows, and events for the Daughters of the Civil War and Paxton wanted none of it. She was quiet and shy, and amused by all the pressure and politics that went with those events, but she had no interest in them whatsoever. She liked talking about serious things with the teachers at her school, the recent developments in Viet Nam, the ramifications of Kennedy’s death, Johnson’s stand on civil rights, Martin Luther King and his marches and sit-ins. She had a passion about the important events going on around the world, and their links and ties and effect on each other. It was what she liked to write about, and think about, and be involved with.