Page 7 of One of Them

But since her father’s death, Anne hadn’t wanted to celebrate her birthday, and this year, she didn’t even tell anyone about it.

Instead, she went to her classes just like it was any other day.

It was only when she was alone that she took out the photograph album she’d brought to school with her, looking at each image as if it were a portal back to the before time.

Here she was at age three, in a frilly party dress and paper crown.

Another photo showed her a little older, poised on the ice at the skating rink in Central Park, her hands tucked deep into a small black muff.

But she spent the longest time gazing at a picture in which she and her father were together; he was holding her in his arms, and they were looking not at the camera but at each other.

Then she closed the album. Her father wouldn’t have wanted her to be unhappy, she knew that.

Yet she was unhappy, and the dark mood persisted into the next day, and the day after that.

Then she began to see signs posted around campus for a dance at Yale.

These “mixers,” she knew, were a tradition, a chance for the girls and boys of the two colleges to meet and hopefully get together.

She’d heard about several girls who’d met their boyfriends that way, and even one who went on to get engaged.

A dance might be fun, and even if not, it would certainly be distracting.

And since most of the girls on her hall were going, Anne decided she would join them.

Peggy told her that a bus would pick them up early on Friday evening and take them to New Haven; later that same bus would drive them back to Vassar again.

Planning for the dance set off a low-level hum of excitement among the group.

Dresses were purchased, compared, accessorized, sometimes exchanged or loaned.

Attention was given to shoes and stockings; new shades of lipstick and rouge were tried, considered, and rejected in favor of others.

Some of the girls made appointments at the beauty shop on Raymond Avenue, pulling pages from Mademoiselle , Vogue , Glamour , and Harper’s Bazaar to use as inspiration.

A sleek Veronica Lake look or a glamour updo, bangs or a side part.

After some serious thought, Anne settled on a black dress whose belt had a rhinestone buckle, and a jade necklace that her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday.

She thought the jade was an unusual choice, something that even Delia Goldhush might admire.

But why did that matter? She highly doubted Delia would be on that bus to Yale.

On the night of the dance, the girls on Anne’s hall came downstairs in a group, the mingled scents of their perfume—Tabu, Evening in Paris, White Shoulders, Chantilly, Arpège—enveloping them in a heady cloud.

Anne chose a seat by the window but scarcely noticed the scenery that unfurled before her; she was thinking about the night ahead.

Her experience with boys was limited; they hadn’t been too important to her before, though she was ready, even eager, for this to change.

Her Vassar friends were beginning to couple off; there had even been an engagement in their group—Midge’s boyfriend had proposed, though they would wait until graduation for the wedding.

It was hard for Anne to imagine; she’d never even been kissed.

In high school she’d had a crush on her friend Astrid’s older brother Erik, but he scarcely noticed her, and while she’d had a few dates during her senior year, none were of any consequence.

But this night would be different. The boys she would meet would be smarter, more interesting, more worldly. Or so she hoped.

Soon enough they had arrived, and were pulling up to the Payne Whitney Gymnasium, where the dance was being held.

“I heard that the boys swim laps stark naked,” Virginia said.

“Really?” Tabitha asked. “Is that true? Or just a rumor?”

“It’s absolutely true,” said Virginia.

“But how can you be so sure?” Peggy asked. “Did you see them with your own eyes?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you ,” Virginia shot back.

The girls were still giggling as they got off the bus.

Inside the vast space were groves of papier-maché trees, dense with silk leaves—gold, orange, and scarlet.

On one side of the gym, tables covered in white cloths held drinks, sandwiches, and cookies; on the other side a dais had been set up where a band was playing; several couples were already dancing to “Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief.”

Virginia was immediately approached by a tall boy in a navy blazer, and Peggy was surrounded by a small cluster of girls Anne didn’t know at all.

The music was lively, and the dancers spun and twirled; though she longed to join in, something held her back.

Then Midge appeared. “There you are! Duane’s been waiting.

” Midge’s boyfriend—no, her fiancé—Cliff Danforth was a junior at Yale, and he had arranged dates for some of the Vassar girls who came with her.

Duane Lancet had been chosen for Anne, so she followed Midge across the room to where a ruddy-cheeked young man stood waiting, blond hair slicked back from his forehead.

“Nice to meet you, Anne.” He extended his hand.

“Would you like to dance?” Duane was stocky and at least two inches shorter than Anne; nothing about him appealed to her.

But maybe she was being too judgmental. Midge gave her a little shove in his direction.

“Go on!” she whispered. “You didn’t come all this way to be a wallflower. ”

Duane put his arms around Anne, and they started to move across the floor.

He was an adept dancer, and to her surprise, Anne felt graceful in his arms. Then the song ended, and the next one, “I Love You for Sentimental Reasons,” was considerably slower.

Duane took the opportunity to pull her close.

Anne could smell the aftershave he wore.

But it felt all wrong—she’d only just met him—and she pulled back, putting some distance between them.

“What’s the matter?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“Then why act so stuck up?”

Was it stuck up not to allow him to press up against her? “I’m thirsty,” she said. “Can we get some punch?”

“Sure thing.” Duane released her and walked toward one of the tables; the cut-glass punch bowl was surrounded by small cups, and he politely filled one and offered it to her before taking one of his own.

The punch was pink and slightly fizzy, and she tried to make it last so she wouldn’t have to dance with him again right away.

As she watched, he pulled a small flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and poured some of its contents into his cup.

Anne was surprised, but the flask disappeared quickly, and when he noticed her gaze, he asked, “Do you want some?”

“No!” Anne was more emphatic than she’d meant to be, but she was sure this wasn’t allowed; he might be asked to leave, and she would be blamed along with him.

“What a wet blanket.”

What a horrid boy was her silent retort. Wanting to get away from him, Anne said, “I need to use the powder room.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is a men’s gym,” he said. “Yale’s a school for men . No powder rooms here.”

“Well, I’m sure there must be some accommodation for the ladies,” she said icily, and went off to find a chaperone, who in turn escorted her to a private restroom somewhere upstairs.

Anne remained there for a long time, and when she eventually returned to the dance floor, Duane was nowhere to be seen.

Good riddance. Then she spied Peggy, who came up to her. “Where’s your date?” Peggy asked.

“Oh, he stepped outside for a minute.” Anne wasn’t inclined to tattle on Duane; it would only get back to Midge. “Where’s yours?”

“He stepped outside too.”

Something about the way she said this made Anne laugh; maybe she thought her date was a dud? Soon they were both giggling, and Anne felt better than she had all evening. Then Peggy said, “Do you know a girl named Miriam Bishop?”

Anne felt the air had suddenly been sucked from her lungs. She had been Miriam Bishop all the way through school; she’d only decided to use her middle name, Anne, when she started at Vassar. “Why do you ask?”

“I ran into someone named Elizabeth Hunnewell. She went to Nightingale-Bamford. Isn’t that where you went?”

“Yes.” Anne was buying time, but she was running out of it. Quickly.

“That’s what I thought. So if you went there, you must have known her.”

“No, I didn’t. Maybe this girl—you said her name was Elizabeth?— is confused.”

“She seemed very sure. And she also said that she and Miriam had been very good friends.”

Just hearing Elizabeth’s name was like a small electric shock, and Anne wanted to end this conversation. And look, there was Duane. She waved to him; could he see how desperate she was? She didn’t wait to find out but marched right over, leaving Peggy where she stood. “Let’s dance!”

He seemed doubtful, but when Anne practically heaved herself into his arms, his slightly wary expression relaxed, and he grinned and pulled her to him.

She didn’t find him any more appealing than she had an hour ago, but this time she knew better than to resist. She needed him now; he was her defense against anyone exposing her secret.

As Duane spun her around the room, Anne forced herself to smile, even though she felt the anxiety thrumming inside.

Why hadn’t it occurred to her that this dance might draw girls from other nearby colleges, and that she might easily run into someone she knew?

Anne and Duane danced to three songs in a row, the last one quite fast, and this time, he was the one to say he needed a cup of punch.

So they stopped dancing and drank two cups of punch each; to Anne’s relief, the flask didn’t reappear.