Page 56 of One of Them

For the next several weeks, Anne devoted herself almost exclusively to her schoolwork.

No more walks over to the diner or Alumnae House, no dances at West Point, and especially not at Yale.

She was going to graduate with the best grades she could, and that meant she had to put aside almost everything else.

There was the paper, and there was the preparation for the exam.

And then there was the task of curating the show for the art gallery.

Mrs. Bancroft had twenty-two pieces of Rossner’s sculpture in her possession, and she sent them all to Vassar.

When they arrived, Anne was able to go through them more carefully and from those twenty-two, select twelve for the exhibition.

Most were small pieces, meant to sit on a table or shelf, but she decided to open the show with a life-size piece, and then selected another life-size piece to end it.

Her aim was not only to describe the trajectory of Rossner’s work and analyze her subject matter, but also to speculate on the visual references in her work and put it into an art historical context.

As she considered the sculptures, arranged them—first as a series of index cards, laid out and moved around on her desk, and then, with help from the gallery assistants, in the actual space allocated to them—Anne had so many questions.

Was Sophie’s choice of stone determined by the subject, or did the subject arise out of her response to a particular piece of stone?

Since she worked in both large and small scale, how did she decide on the size of each piece?

And what about thematic connections? Women, figures drawn from myth or literature, animals—was there a connection, and if so, what was it?

She wrote to Sophie in Be’er Sheva, hoping she would provide answers, and in her letter, asked if Delia was still there.

It took a while but when Anne received an envelope with a postmark from Israel, she tore it open eagerly.

... I worked with stone, not words, so whatever I have to say will be more of a distraction than an illumination.

And your questions are so perceptive that I’d rather let you speculate and draw your own conclusions than burden you with any prosaic, humdrum information I might share.

Let your imagination take you where it will and pay no mind to me.

I’ll be interested to see where you land.

As for Delia, she left in the spring and said she was going to New York. You can write to her there.

Reading these lines, Anne felt a mixture of annoyance, frustration, and admiration.

Delia had stressed, more than once, how unconventional her mother was and here was the proof.

She refolded the letter and put it back in its envelope.

Even this nonanswer might be an answer of sorts; maybe she would find a way to use it.

And at least Sophie had told her where to find Delia.

She wrote and when she didn’t hear back, she called, twice, but both times the phone just rang and rang.

She knew she could get on a train to New York and knock on the door of Delia’s house but really, how much punishment was she supposed to take?

Delia clearly wanted nothing to do with her and it was time to accept that.

Anne continued to work on the project. She found it challenging, at times frustrating, but also thrilling in a way she had not anticipated.

She burrowed into the research, prepared wall texts, and produced a catalogue essay that went through seven separate drafts before she was finally satisfied.

She began to think that she could make a life doing this.

The breakup with Drew, while no longer as consuming or painful, had left her feeling soured on the idea of romance.

Maybe she would never get married, but instead forge a path as a thoroughly modern career woman, devoted to her work, not a husband or children.

What if this show was only the first of many she would go on to curate?

Throughout the process, Anne continued to feel Delia’s presence and, simultaneously, her absence.

Even now, she harbored the hope that if Delia saw firsthand the effort Anne had made on her behalf, she would finally forgive Anne’s execrable behavior in their sophomore year.

Yet when the show opened, Delia was not there to see it.

Still, it was a festive gathering. Students and faculty came into the gallery.

They nibbled the nuts from silver bowls, took cheese-topped crackers or pastel mints from trays that were circulating, and drank cups of fizzy red punch.

The small group of girls Anne knew from freshman year—Peggy, Carol, Midge, and Tabitha—were all there.

All except Virginia. Peggy and Tabitha congratulated Anne, and then, lowering her voice, Peggy said, “Delia Goldhush’s mother is the artist? ”

“She is,” Anne said.

“I had no idea,” said Peggy.

“We didn’t really know anything about her, did we?” Tabitha said.

Anne was surprised by the comment, and even more surprised when Peggy said, “Well, now we do,” and touched her cup of punch to Anne’s. “To Delia—and her mother.”

Anne thanked them both for coming and went to greet Miss Grayson, who for this occasion wore an ivory silk blouse and a long satin evening skirt that shimmered when she moved.

The hem of the skirt was deeply scalloped, and when she turned, Anne saw that there was a large bow at the back.

Her earrings were faceted, sparkling drops, and rings adorned all her fingers but her thumbs.

She was more dressed up than anyone here, and Anne loved that. Delia would have loved it too.

“Miss Bishop!” her professor said. “Congratulations. You did a fine job with this. You should be proud.”

Anne was quiet. She had been hoping for something more effusive.

“I’m sorry Miss Goldhush isn’t here,” Miss Grayson said.

“She never answered my letter.”

“Nor mine, which is a pity. This exhibition would make her happy,” said Miss Grayson.

Then she added, “Do you see that man? He’s from the Poughkeepsie Journal .

They’re going to run a piece about the show in their Arts and Culture section.

And that girl, the one over there?” Anne followed her gaze.

“She’s taking pictures for the Miscellany News .

You can get copies of both, keep a record. It may be useful one day.”

“Yes, I will,” Anne said. But she was still disappointed: no article or photographs could ever be the same as being here, face-to-face with these works of art.

The event was winding down when Miss Grayson came to find her again. “Miss Bishop, may I have a word with you?”

“Of course,” said Anne.

“Let’s go into my office. We won’t be disturbed there.”

Anne followed her out of the gallery and up the stairs. When they were alone, the professor said, “I told you that I reviewed Delia Goldhush’s file.”

Anne wished this conversation were not happening. Reviewing the file meant dredging up Anne’s role in what happened; did they really need to discuss this a second time?

“Going over it again made me wonder about Mr. McQuaid. So I made some inquiries. It seems that Miss Goldhush was not... the only one.”

“I don’t understand.” Anne could guess, but she needed it spelled out.

“Just that his name has been associated with other students here at the college. Three of them.” She paused, presumably to let that sink in.

“In the light of that information, the dean’s response to Miss Goldhush’s situation may have been an overreaction.

Perhaps some of the blame should have been extended to Mr. McQuaid as well. ”

“I didn’t know any of that,” Anne said. “None of us did.”

“Of course not. It was kept quiet. But this has been Mr. McQuaid’s last year at Vassar.

He’s been offered a tenure-track position elsewhere.

In California, I think. He’ll be starting there in the fall.

And Dean Schoales retired last year, which means that the two people who were most involved in Miss Goldhush’s expulsion will no longer be associated with the college. That changes things.”

“Do you mean...”

“Perhaps Miss Goldhush can come back. That is, if she wants to. I’m going to bring the whole matter to the attention of President Blanding. I have a strong feeling she’ll agree with me.”

Anne felt herself breaking into a wide smile. Yes, she had been instrumental in getting Delia expelled from Vassar. But now it seemed she might be instrumental in her being invited back. And wouldn’t that be something?