Page 2 of One of Them

Relieved that she was no longer on the spot, Anne made sure to compose herself—just thinking about her father could totally undo her.

Before his death she’d been excited by the prospect of Vassar—he’d been proud she’d been accepted—and not at all bothered by the fact that she was the only one of her class at Nightingale-Bamford who would be attending that year.

So she had not been prepared for just how unmoored she would feel when she got there.

How lonely. She had been rather desperate when she’d fallen in with this group of girls; they lived on her hall, and she’d been relieved and grateful that they had accepted her.

This little clan had propped her up, kept her going—Carol and Peggy, Tabitha and Midge.

Midge was a bit whiny, and Tabitha very naive, but Carol had a caring, even nurturing way about her, like a big sister.

And Peggy was funny; Anne always had a good time with her.

They had become her friends, her bulwark against that lost, untethered feeling she’d battled almost all last year.

Now she had a place. She belonged. Only Virginia was the problem.

Unfortunately, she was also the leader, and the key to knowing the rest of them.

So it was essential that Anne do nothing to upset the delicate social scaffolding she’d managed, just barely, to erect.

They were still nattering on about Delia, and Anne let her gaze stray out the window and toward Main Gate.

What grass was left between the dormitory and the gate had started to pale and dry, but the trees, bedecked in brilliant fall foliage, were imposing.

Majestic. Many of them had been planted nearly eighty years ago when the college was founded, and they had become part of its history, its present and its future too.

Now she was poised to become part of that history, if she could manage to navigate both the academic and social shoals of her life here.

She somehow thought that the latter was the more treacherous of the two.

Abruptly, she stood. Unsatisfying as it had been, the lone sandwich cookie was gone and the tea that remained in her cup was now cold.

She said goodbye to her friends, grateful to slip away.

She said she was going to study—she had a French quiz coming up, and French was not her strongest subject—but when she got outside, she found she’d been craving the air, the light, the space.

Even though it was a bit chilly, she walked over to Daffodil Hill.

There were no daffodils in bloom now, but the hill overlooked Sunset Lake, a small, placid body of water in which a few goldfish—large, fat, glowing—swam slowly around.

Anne didn’t see any goldfish today, but she happened upon a gaggle of geese.

A couple were gliding along the surface of the lake, but most were on the bank, engaged in what looked like various kinds of fractious social behavior—two were harassing a third, who flapped its wings in agitation, while the others looked on.

Did this have to do with food? Territory?

Mating? Anne couldn’t tell; she knew nothing about geese.

But she could see that even these birds had to conform to a particular social hierarchy; it seemed no one was spared.

She thought about that even when she had turned and headed back to the dorm.

The next afternoon, Anne was on her way to tea again when she caught sight of Delia Goldhush closing the door to her room, brushing back the tight, springy curls from her face and striding down the hall.

Anne immediately looked away, but not before she’d had a chance to register the details of the other girl’s outfit: camel skirt, camel cashmere twin set, pearl choker.

All this seemed typical attire for a day on campus, spent in class or at the library, but draped over Delia’s shoulders was a slightly worn, honey-colored mink coat.

And instead of brown, black, or even navy shoes, she wore a pair of dark-red pumps, the color rich yet almost brooding.

Though the day was nippy, she wore no stockings of any kind, and her bare legs propelled her quickly down the corridor.

Anne found herself analyzing—and admiring—the seemingly artless way Delia had put herself together, the conventional garments somehow rendered fresh and interesting because of an unexpected addition—the mink—or color—the shoes.

She watched until Delia had disappeared down the stairs.

It was just after three o’clock; was she headed to the Rose Parlor?

Doubtful, as Anne had never seen her at tea.

But she was curious, so she too went downstairs and peeked into the room.

Just like yesterday, the tea service—plate, not sterling, but still elegant—was laid out on a long table, and all around the room sat girls drinking from delicate gold-rimmed cups and nibbling on cookies. No, Delia was not among them.

Too restless to sit, Anne grabbed the two pecan shortbread squares still on the oval platter and ate them on her way back to her room.

There was enough time before dinner for a trip to the library.

She slipped into her navy chesterfield coat.

Back in August, she had thought it so sophisticated.

But now the velvet collar struck her as fussy and precious, like something more suited to a twelve-year-old than to the sort of young woman she so badly wanted to become.

The sort of young woman Delia Goldhush already seemed to be.

Anne headed toward Taylor, and upstairs to the Art Library.

At this point in the semester, it would be sparsely populated.

Quiet. And there, seated at one of the tables, was Delia, the mink heaped in a chair beside her.

Delia looked up, and while she didn’t exactly smile, something in her expression made Anne feel it would be all right if she sat down at the table too.

Delia’s gaze returned to the book she had been reading.

It was a book Anne had with her as well—Helen Gardner’s Art Through the Ages , assigned to everyone taking Vassar’s introductory art history course.

So Delia must be taking Art 105 too. It was midway through the semester, but Anne had never seen her at any of the lectures.

Well, they were held in a large auditorium, 150 or so students, and besides, the lights were dimmed to facilitate the showing of the slides.

Anne sat down and casually laid her own copy of Gardner on the table.

Delia didn’t look up. Opening to the assigned chapter, Anne dutifully studied the images—Gothic cathedrals in their soaring splendor, statues of saints, of Jesus enthroned—but she was finding it hard to concentrate.

Maybe she should say something? Nothing clever or witty sprang to mind.

For some reason, she wanted Delia to notice her.

She herself admired Delia’s seeming independence and disregard for what other people thought about her.

Anne couldn’t imagine ever feeling that way, but she wanted to see, up close, what it was like for someone who did.

Anne looked at her watch. It was now close to five o’clock.

She’d been sitting here unproductively for almost an hour; she hadn’t even turned a page of her book, but instead read the same two paragraphs over and over.

At some point Delia had gotten up and left the library, and though Anne had the urge to follow her, she had remained where she was.

Delia might think it was strange, might think that she was strange.

So she waited another fifteen minutes before gathering her things and leaving; the dining room in her dorm would be open, and she could have an early dinner.

Maybe afterward she’d be able to summon the concentration she needed for her schoolwork.

On the way back to Main, she ran into Peggy and her friend Josie, who lived in Lathrop, and stopped to chat.

By the time she’d gone back to the dorm and left her coat and books in her room, dinner was already in progress and the dining room was full.

Standing in line to receive her meal of meat loaf, carrots, and lumpy mashed potatoes, Anne looked around.

Delia was already seated, accompanied only by a book—not Gardner—propped up on the table in front of her.

She seemed oblivious to the lively conversations and occasional yelps of laughter that eddied around her.

Instead, her attention was focused on whatever it was that she was reading.

Though the room was crowded, the seats directly alongside and across from Delia were, as usual, empty. On impulse, Anne headed for one of them and placed her tray on the table. Delia looked up but said nothing.

“Is it all right if I sit here?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

How rude. Anne was humiliated by the question, but walking away would be even more humiliating, so she sat down anyway.

Delia’s gaze settled back on the book whose title, Anne now saw, was in French.

Hadn’t she heard that Delia’s American parents had raised her in Paris?

Yes, that was it; Tabitha’s father, an ambassador or something, had known the family over there.

Anne had never been to Paris, though she longed to go; the idea that Delia had been brought up there was just another intriguing thing about her.

Looking down at her meal, Anne’s sense of discomfort grew. Why had she decided to do this? She was aware of Peggy and Midge sending anxious looks in her direction, not pointing exactly, but clearly taking note. This had been a mistake, and she ought to get up—

“What do you think of Abbott?” Delia asked, closing the book and setting it beside her empty plate.

“Excuse me?”

“Martin Abbott? He gave the lectures on medieval and Gothic art.” When Anne didn’t immediately respond, Delia went on. “You’re in Art History 105, aren’t you? I saw you in the library with a copy of the Gardner book.”

“That’s right,” Anne said. “I am.” So Delia had noticed her there.

“I was wondering if you found Professor Abbott’s lectures stimulating. Enlightening, even.”

“Well, not exactly stimulating —” Anne thought Professor Abbott was exceedingly dull.

“Of course not. He’s an intellectual clod,” Delia said. “All head and no heart. Listening to him talk about architecture puts me right to sleep. I’ve seen those churches, I know how they can make you feel—”

“Weightless. Or so I would guess.” Anne had never been in France or anywhere else in Europe, but the photographs of Gothic cathedrals, with their vaulted ceilings and attenuated columns—the way the light poured down from above and filled those lofty spaces—had nonetheless stirred her.

“Like you’ve left the ground and are floating way, way up there.

.. like you’ve somehow defied gravity, and become more spirit than body. ”

“Exactly.” Something in Delia’s expression changed; she now looked interested in Anne, or at least in what she had to say.

Anne, who understood she’d said the right thing, was absurdly pleased.

“But you’d never guess that from listening to him,” Delia added.

“Too bad Katzenellenbogen isn’t teaching this semester. ”

“Katzenellenbogen?” Anne had never heard the name. She thought it sounded ridiculous, like something made up, but wasn’t about to say so.

“He’s written so much on medieval iconography— Allegories of the Virtues and Vices in Medieval Art , The Central Tympanum at Vézelay —he’s just so smart, so insightful.”

“So why isn’t he teaching this section?”

“He’s on leave this semester. But he should be back in the spring, and if he is, I’m going to take a seminar with him. Germany’s loss was our gain.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had to leave the country.”

Anne waited for Delia to say more, but when nothing else was forthcoming, she said, “You sound like you have very high standards.”

“Don’t you?”

“I’ve never taken an art history course before. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

“You should expect more. I hope Abbott doesn’t ruin it for you.”

“You’ve taken art history courses?”

“Not in any formal way. But my father had a gallery in Montparnasse, and we had a house in Vence too, so artists were always visiting. Picasso, Matisse, Dali, Léger, Chagall—he was friends with everybody.”

“You said he had a gallery,” Anne asked, not wanting to reveal that not all of the names Delia rattled off were familiar to her. And where, exactly, was Vence? “He doesn’t have it anymore?”

“The war ended that,” she said. Her expression was unexpectedly serious, even grim. “Now we’re back here, and he’s been trying to reinvent himself. He opened a gallery in Greenwich Village. But it hasn’t been the same. Actually, nothing has.”

Before Anne could reply, Carol appeared at the table. “There you are,” she said. “I was looking for you. Don’t you remember what we had planned for tonight?”

“Tonight—oh, right.” It was Virginia’s birthday, and a few of them had arranged a little surprise for her—a cake, some silly hats, and a bottle of champagne bought from a liquor store in town.

“Aren’t you going to help me set up?”

“Of course.” Anne hadn’t finished the meat loaf, but it was no longer hot and hadn’t been all that appetizing even when it was.

Carol was making a point of ignoring Delia, and while this made Anne uncomfortable, she knew Delia wasn’t invited to the party and couldn’t think of a graceful way to include her in the conversation.

But Delia had picked up her book again. She barely responded when Anne said goodbye.

“There,” Carol said when they were out of earshot. “I thought you needed rescuing.”

“So this wasn’t about the party?”

“No, though Tabitha bought some balloons, and I suppose you can start blowing them up. I just thought you’d been sitting with her long enough.”

Anne said nothing. Carol didn’t have to explain that sitting with a Jewish girl was not going to enhance her social standing here; quite the opposite.

Anne thought of Delia striding through the streets of Paris, conquering the worn cobblestones in her dark-red shoes.

But that was Paris, not Poughkeepsie. Carol was only looking out for her, trying to protect her.

What would she—or any of them—have said if they had known that despite her name, Anne Bishop was Jewish too?