Chapter 2

October 1971 – Yale University

"The Dining Hall will be closing in 10 minutes," reminded the cafeteria lady as she passed each table. Angela sighed, and scooped out a hunk of her last piece of chocolate cake. She smiled, and closed her eyes as she sucked off the frosting from the spoon. This is good, Angela thought. Rich and creamy - and what an improvement on my last class... If I had to listen to Dr. Evans say one more word about how brilliant Carrie was in our presentation... Carrie didn't lift a finger! Stupid group projects. I'd like to see her explain why those shifts occur in the marketplace!

Angela usually ate at the sorority house, but in the name of variety – and the munchies - she would come down here every so often.

She walked out of University Commons with a throng of students. Several of them were headed in the same direction, and she caught her reflection amongst the others in the glass doors of the next building over. Angela squeezed her eyes shut in self-disgust, and two tears escaped. Why couldn't she stop comparing herself to everyone? She took the nearest walkway that led her away from her innocent adversaries. This path added another 7 minutes to her walk back to the sorority house, but she didn't care. She was dying to be alone.

Kicking pebbles into the grass as she went, Angela remembered walking down 53rd Street with her father. It had been a late winter that year, and it was still snowing. He was taking her to see Fiddler on the Roof as an early 14th birthday present, and they were dressed to the nines. Smiling down at her, he was in his favorite double-breasted suit with the gold buttons, a soft, white scarf, and that black wool overcoat she thought looked so dashing. Herself in the new dress her mother bought her, Angela had grinned up at him, excitedly. She was in a prim, drop waist, black velvet dress, with a slim, white collar and a coral cameo. Wearing black nylons for the first time, low-heel, black, patent pumps, and the rabbit fur capelet her parents had gotten her for Christmas, she'd felt like a princess. They'd had such a wonderful night. She'd pleaded for ice cream afterward, which her father thought was funny. They'd found a street vendor, and walked down Broadway with their cones, steam puffing from their mouths as they sang their favorite lines from the show. That was the last time Angela remembered feeling pretty. That was the last time she remembered being a kid.

By now, tears were steadily curving down Angela's cheeks. She really missed her father. He had been Yale alumni, and she'd always wanted to be a part of that, too. It felt like fate when Yale College announced that they were opening their doors to undergraduate women for the first time the very year she'd be entering. As far as Angela was concerned, Yale was hers. She remembered wearing her father's too-big, letter sweater to bonfires on the beach, or just to cozy up with a book in their home library. There was even a picture of her in it when she was 5 or 6, that he'd framed and put in his study. He would've been thrilled she made it here. He was always happy when she did well in school. Angela pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. Damn heart attacks! She blew her nose hard into the lacey cloth. Her mother never really seemed to notice her efforts. Her mother was amiable, and always congratulated her big achievements. But she didn't act like she was interested in all the work it took to accomplish them. Maybe she just didn't know.

Her mother had always seemed more interested in how pretty Angela was growing up. She had remembered hearing her mother beam about her looks when she spoke to relatives on the phone, or to neighbors at the Club. It sure had been a while since she'd caught her doing that.

After her father died, Angela found herself hanging around their cook and their gardener for company. She'd hop up on the kitchen counter, and watch Carwen bake. Carwen was such a dear old soul, and would always double the frosting on Angela's cupcake. She had a lovely Welsh accent, but spent most of her time listening. Angela would tell her about the hard time she was having finding a place to sit at lunch, and about the girls who snickered at the red splotch they discovered on the back of her skirt. One afternoon, she'd come in to the kitchen crying after being officially voted her out of her girl group at school - even by the girl she thought was really her friend. Carwen looked into her eyes, smiled sadly, and handed her a warm brownie.

Sometimes Angela would sit in the gazebo, petting her darling cat, Little Whiskers, while Ben, the old gardener, weeded the flower boxes. He'd tell her stories of growing up with his brothers and sisters, his love of running, and some of the things he'd seen logging the miles. In grave tones and long pauses, he'd given her a teenager's firsthand account of trench warfare. He told her of his favorite constellations he'd found both at home and abroad, his way of steadying himself.

Angela didn't have a lot of deep conversations with her mother at this time, but with these two, she felt extraordinarily close. She was able to say what she was thinking when she was around them. Angela really wanted to be close to her mother, especially after her father died. But the more the wanted to, the more she felt like she couldn't. It was just easier to do her own thing, and let her mother do hers. Then everything just became awkward.

Angela remembered often running through the echoey house, and into the kitchen to grab a couple of Carwen's delightful concoctions. After a while, Angela noticed herself putting on some weight. She'd avoided people, especially her mother, even more after that. Her mother had always been so polished, and Angela felt self-conscious. The occasional criticism of various people Angela had heard her mother make over the years would come randomly into Angela's mind, and it really hurt her, personally. Her mother didn't actually say anything about Angela's appearance, that she knew of. Her mother hadn't done much of anything after her father died... "Ugh!" Angela shot her hand to her temple, willing the tsunami away. I am NOT going there tonight! Sometimes things were too much to deal with.

Finally rounding the curve to the sorority house, Angela smiled as she walked in. "Thank you, Mrs. Abbott."

The kindly housemother smiled as she closed the door. "Good girl, Miss Robinson. I'm glad you made it. 3 more minutes, and I'd have to start clocking demerits against you."

"Yes, ma'am. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, miss."

Just then, Angela spun around. "Oh, Mrs. Abbott? How is your heart feeling today?"

The older woman smiled, "Oh, you're a sweet one to ask. This afternoon I did get a pain, but the ol' trinitrin did the trick."

"I'm glad," Angela nodded, and walked toward the rec room. She paused in front of the bulletin board. Ahh, time for the annual sorority ball. Angela sighed. I bet Trish is going.

Angela had been hurt when Trish had requested a roommate change at the end of the last semester, but at least she had gotten to be her friend for a while.

Angela stared sadly up at the flyer, and then down at her worn, bulky sweater. She missed getting dressed up. She knew she didn't feel pretty, but she'd forgotten she used to. It's not like Angela didn't know how to look her best. Her mother had been familiarizing her with style, fabrics, and designers since she was in grade school. And Trish had spent hours teaching her how to do hair and makeup - well, her hair and makeup. But Angela assumed the tenets were transferrable.

The date on the flyer said November 13th. Two weeks, Angela thought. A smile slowly appeared on her face. Two weeks.

As Angela was lying under her white eyelet comforter that night, she looked up through the window and out at the Big Dipper. Okay, Ben. I trust you.