Delta Belles Page 6

  Write soon and come home when you can. We all miss you.

  Much love,

  Mama, Daddy, & Cassie

  All three names were signed in Mama’s handwriting. After the two pages of Mama’s letter came three heavy sheets torn from a sketchbook. Cassie’s crayon drawings showed a good deal of artistic promise, Delta thought. First a landscape scene of a brown and white horse running through a meadow, with a giant rock in the background. Then a rendering of Stone Mountain’s main street, again with the granite slab hovering overhead. And finally—a tribute to Daddy, no doubt—a close-up rendering of the monument itself, with a half-carved head dominating the foreground.

  Delta wondered what a psychiatrist would make of these drawings. She could just see Sigmund Freud scratching his beard: Ja, but what is the psychic oppression symbolized by the colossal boulder hanging over her head?

  The last few pages had been ripped from a first-grader’s writing tablet, wide double lines with a dotted line in the middle. In a careful, childish hand, Cassie had filled these sheets with a story that made Delta laugh—the tale of a young and beautiful princess, captive in a high tower on a massive stone outcropping. But when the handsome prince climbs up to the tower window to rescue her, he finds his true love surrounded by tall stacks of books. The princess refuses to leave with him because she hasn’t yet finished the one she is currently reading.

  It was the last sentence that cracked Delta up: “Go away and learn your alphabet,” the Princess told him. “And don’t come back until you ve got something interesting to say.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  Delta looked up, startled, to see a flash of wispy light brown hair backlit by the sun. She hadn’t heard anyone come out onto the terrace. It was Dr. Suzanne Hart, her creative writing professor, holding a white ceramic mug in one hand and several books in the other.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  Delta stood up abruptly. “No, it’s fine. Let me clear some space.” She moved the letters to one side to give Dr. Hart room on the table for her books.

  “Do you want something? Coffee?”

  Delta had already resumed her seat, and now she found herself craning her neck to look at Dr. Hart. The woman was in her forties, perhaps, but seemed younger. She had a round, girlish face with just a hint of crow’s feet. Delta knew from experience that those hazel eyes could go steely and stern in class, but at the moment they seemed open and welcoming. Dr. Hart was smiling, anticipating an answer to her question. Suddenly Delta realized the incongruity of the scene—herself seated, her professor standing there like a waitress poised to take her order.

  She jumped to her feet. “Yes, coffee would be great. But I can—”

  “Stay put,” Dr. Hart said amiably. “I’ll get it. You want cream or sugar?”

  Delta sank awkwardly back into her chair. “Saccharine, if they’ve got it. No cream. Ah, thanks.”

  “You want me to take that in?” She pointed at the plastic glass that held the remains of Delta’s watery iced tea.

  “That’d be great.”

  Dr. Hart took the glass and her own coffee cup and returned in a moment with two steaming mugs, several paper napkins, a spoon, and a small bottle of liquid sweetener. “It’s getting a little chilly out here.”

  “It’s autumn, all right.” Delta shook a couple of drops of the sweetener into her cup, stirred it, and glanced at her watch.

  “Do you have to be somewhere?” Dr. Hart asked as she settled herself across the table from Delta.

  “Not until four thirty. I have a rehearsal. For the—uh, for the Delta Belles.” Delta felt herself flush. “It’s kind of a singing group, informal, really. Folk music. We got started as an act for the Harvest Fest last year, and it just snowballed from there. Now we’re being asked to sing other places, and—” She sputtered to a stop. How embarrassing was this, to be talking with a professor about a stupid talent show?

  Dr. Hart grinned. “I remember. You were the highlight of the show. You and Lynn Stanton’s Pillowcase People, that is. From the sublime to the ridiculous, I suppose. Lynn’s act is so dumb it’s funny. Your group is really good.”

  Delta gaped at her. “Thanks.”

  “So, what were you laughing at when I came up?” the professor asked. “It seemed pretty hilarious, whatever it was.”

  “My little sister Cassie,” Delta said. “She sent me drawings and a story she wrote.” She showed Dr. Hart the pictures, then gave her a brief synopsis of the princess’s tale and read her the last line.

  “Sounds like you’re not the only one in the family with creative talent. How old did you say she is?”

  “Six. Just started first grade—which is, in her words, infernally boring. ”

  “She sounds smart.”

  “Maybe too smart for her own good. She learned to read before she was four.”

  Dr. Hart sipped at her coffee and looked at Cassie’s pictures again. “She’s six, and you’re—what, nineteen? That’s quite an age difference. How is that for you, being a big sister?”

  Delta grinned and ducked her head. “I have to admit, at first I wasn’t thrilled about it. I was thirteen when she came along, and accustomed to being an only child. Besides, when you’re thirteen, you pretty much feel different all the time—you know, out of step with the rest of the world, uncomfortable in your own skin.”

  Dr. Hart raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine. You’re attractive and intelligent—and, unless I miss my guess, popular.”

  “Think newborn colt, all legs and eyes, then add braces, and you’ll get the picture. I was a test model for some alien species.”

  The professor smiled. “I suppose we all feel that way in adolescence.”

  “Then, as if your typical teenage angst weren’t enough, add a new baby sister to the mix. I felt as if I were walking around wearing a sign that said, ‘My parents still have sex,’ and believe me, that’s the last thing a thirteen-year-old wants to advertise.”

  Dr. Hart laughed. “But clearly you dealt with it and have a good relationship with her.”

  “Yes, I do—now,” Delta said. “As a teenager I complained about babysitting for free, but for the most part I liked being a big sister. I grew up. And now I can’t imagine life without her.” She took another sip of coffee, shook in two more drops of sweetener, and chanced a surreptitious glance at the professor. “Did you mean that, about me having creative talent?”

  “Relax, Delta,” Dr. Hart said. “This isn’t an inquisition, it’s a coffee break. And yes, I did mean it. You’re doing very well in my class. Creative writing is about creative thinking, and I like the way you think.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. In fact, that’s why I stopped by today. Frankie and I would like to have a talk with you.”

  “Frankie?”

  “Frances Bowen. She teaches Shakespeare and Renaissance Poetry, among other things. She’s—” Hart paused for a moment. “My housemate.”

  “I haven’t met her yet.”

  “Trust me, you will. You’ll either love her or hate her, but however you feel about her, you’ll learn a lot in her classes.” The professor chuckled. “Compared to her, I’m a pushover.”

  “Ah,” Delta faltered, not knowing quite what to say, “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Anyway,” Dr. Hart went on, “Frankie and I have been talking about you, and we believe you’d make a good English major. Have you declared a major yet?”

  “Actually, I haven’t. But I’ve thought about English,” Delta said, a little less intimidated. “Lit was always my favorite class in high school, and I do like to write.”

  “Great. Come to dinner Wednesday, and we’ll talk.”

  “Dinner? At your house?” Delta fought it but couldn’t keep the panicked tone out of her voice.

  Dr. Hart gathered up her books. “Right.”

  “Wednesday,” Delta repeated.

  “Six o’clock. I’ll give you directions. It’s walking distance fro
m campus.”

  “All right,” Delta said. “Thanks for the invitation.”

  Dr. Hart drained the last of her coffee and stood up. “It’s not the lion’s den, you know.” She gave a little laugh. “Well, to be perfectly honest Frankie does roar a little, I’ll admit, but she rarely bites. And she’s one hell of a cook. You won’t be sorry you came.”

  EIGHT

  FLINT AND STEEL

  Delta stood on the tree-lined street in the gathering dusk and pulled her jacket more closely around her. A few tired leaves let go in a gust of wind and swirled around her feet.

  She checked the address Dr. Hart had given her. This was it: a cozy-looking brick Arts and Crafts cottage that sat back from the street with an enormous maple tree arching overhead. The maple hadn’t shed yet, and its crimson leaves caught the last glow of sunset and blazed in fiery radiance against the purple sky. Above the maple, one star winked on—Venus, she thought, low in the southwest.

  Nervously Delta checked her watch. Five-fifty-seven. Was she dressed all right? She had chosen bell-bottom jeans and a sweater—casual, but not too scruffy. She didn’t want to look like an unwashed hippie or a disrespectful teenager.

  Okay, she thought, no more stalling. Exhaling heavily, she opened the gate, latched it behind her, and went to ring the bell.

  Immediately all hell broke loose. From behind the closed door Delta heard a wild scrabbling sound, deranged barking, a crash, a curse. At last the door opened on a harried-looking Dr. Hart clutching the collars of two enormous poodles—one black, one white.

  “Sit,” she commanded.

  Delta looked frantically around for something to sit on.

  “Not you, ” Hart amended. “You come in. I hope to God you like dogs.”

  The poodles had stopped barking and, much to Deltas amazement, were perched on their haunches gazing eagerly at her, their tongues lolling. She had never seen a standard poodle up close before and had always derided the miniature variety as pampered little furballs. These were real dogs, muscular and alert, surveying her with intelligent, perceptive eyes.

  “Sure, I love dogs,” she said, stepping across the threshold and extending a hand for the animals to sniff.

  “Meet Bilbo and Frodo, then,” the professor said. “Frodo’s the black one.”

  “Hello, boys.” Delta got down on one knee and petted each of them in turn.

  “Beasts,” Dr. Hart muttered. “Well, come on back to the kitchen. Frankie’s cooking. Hope you like Chinese.”

  Only once had Delta seen her writing professor outside the classroom, and now she looked small and unimposing in faded jeans and a navy pullover sweater, with her hair tied up in a ponytail.

  Dr. Bowen, hovering over a wok in the kitchen, was also clad in blue jeans, and wore a denim work shirt. Delta hadn’t had her for a class yet, but the woman had a reputation for being an excellent professor, hard as nails and extremely demanding. Up close, she reminded Delta a little of Hawthorne’s Great Stone Face, with intense, deep-set eyes divided by a permanent frown line, uncompromising features, and short, thick, salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Frankie, this is Delta Fox,” Dr. Hart said.

  She looked up and smiled briefly. “Frances Bowen,” she said, wiping a hand on her jeans and extending it in Deltas direction. “We’re having egg rolls and crab Rangoon and Cantonese chicken with mushrooms. Oh, and there’s sweet and sour soup on the stove.” She turned to the dogs, who had come to stand on either side of her. “No begging,” she said in a quiet but authoritative voice. “Out of the kitchen and into your beds.”

  The two poodles gazed up at her with an utterly crestfallen expression, then went to the breakfast room and lay down on two enormous pillows situated under the windows.

  “They’re very obedient,” Delta said.

  “Discipline is a gift to intelligent minds,” Bowen said. She arched an eyebrow in Delta’s direction. “Remember that when you get into my class.”

  DR. HART HAD BEEN RIGHT. Dr. Bowen was, in Hart’s words, “one hell of a cook.” Dinner was exquisite, especially the crab Rangoon, which turned out to be delicate, crispy wonton shells filled with cream cheese and crab. Delta had never used chopsticks before, and it took her a while to get the hang of it, but once she mastered the technique, she found the Cantonese chicken to be equally good.

  Even more interesting than the dinner, however, was the discussion around the table. Dr. Hart mentioned the Delta Belles and folk music, and from there the conversation segued to protest rallies and civil rights and the state of the nation. It took Frankie Bowen all of ten minutes to get wound up and going strong.

  “Anyone who’s not outraged,” she said, “isn’t paying attention. It’s 1966, for God’s sake. The Civil Rights Act and the

  Voting Rights Act have both been passed, but how many black students do we have here at the W? Two? Three? How many high schools in this state are still segregated? How many people are hindered from registering to vote, or required to take literacy tests or pay poll taxes? We might as well be living in 1866, for all the difference it’s made.”

  “Frankie—” Dr. Hart said, reaching a hand in her direction.

  “Don’t shush me,” Dr. Bowen said, glaring at her. “Somebody needs to speak the truth. King said, ‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.’ If we don’t stand up for other people’s rights, it’ll be our rights that are taken away next.”

  Dr. Hart listened patiently until Dr. Bowen’s rant wound down and then said, “Well, that was, ah, impassioned. ”‘

  Dr. Bowen turned and gave a little nod. “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  Delta suppressed a chuckle. Dr. Bowen might have a reputation for being forged of steel, but Delta liked her. Most professors lived in the academic netherworld, not bothering with anything that did not relate directly to their areas of expertise. Dr. Bowen was intelligent and articulate and passionate about issues that went well beyond the range of Renaissance literature. She was real. Her friendship with Suzanne Hart was real. Clearly they cared about each other, but they challenged each other too. Like flint on steel, sparks flew and fire was born.

  Now that fire rose up inside her, a compelling voice, and for the first time she had a name to put to it: a sense of calling. It felt like driving on a country road with all the windows down, like standing at the ocean at sunrise.

  Like leaving home and coming home all at the same time.

  NINE

  RAE DAWN’S REVELATION

  Sophomore year

  SPRING 1967

  Alone in her dorm room, Rae Dawn sat staring at her philosophy textbook. She had read the page in front of her three times already, and not a single word of it had registered.

  She sank back in her desk chair and looked out over front campus, dappled in light and shadow as moonlight shone through the trees. Across the quad, porch lamps illuminated the wide veranda of the music building. Two students sat on the top step, talking and laughing, and over their voices she could hear the sounds of a piano drifting on the night air. A rectangle of yellow light pooled on the grass outside Manfred Gottliebs office window.

  Philosophy didn’t concern her in the least. Oh, she would study it dutifully and would no doubt do well in the class—she had always compensated for her background by being a good student, and those habits were hard to break. But philosophy was a requirement for the education program, and the idea of teaching had fled to the farthest recesses of her mind.

  She was now an officially declared music major. She was being taught by Manfred Gottlieb. Nothing else mattered.

  She gazed down at the golden rectangle of the professors window and felt a glow rising up in her, as if the light were a fire that warmed her through to the core. A complicated counterpoint echoed inside her head—a score the professor himself had recently composed and had played for her in his office after her lesson yesterday. A piece of such immense power and emotion that it seemed to swirl within her very soul, filling her l
ike helium, inspiring her and lifting her beyond herself. She couldn’t get it out of her mind.

  Nor could she rid herself of the nagging voice that told her she had been untruthful with her friends.

  Every time she left a lesson with Dr. Gottlieb, Rae Dawn was flying, exultant, empowered as if nothing could touch her. But whenever she thought about her deception, she felt twisted, wrung out, and hung to dry.

  With Lauren and Lacy—even with Delta, her closest friend—Rae had kept her secrets. No one except Gottlieb knew about her background, about her parents or the Airstream or growing up on Hobo Creek. Not even about the nature of her scholarship. They all thought she was from New Orleans. They teased her about being exotic and mysterious, and she played along, content to keep them in the dark. On holidays, when she had no choice but to go back to Picayune, she returned to school as soon as possible and spoke to no one about her family.

  But she couldn’t keep up the charade forever. She couldn’t share with them her excitement about Gottlieb’s lessons or her change of major or her hope for the future unless they knew the rest. And besides, she was weary of the facade.

  She had determined to do it at dinner tonight. But then Tabitha Austin appeared at their table, and Rae Dawn clammed up. She wasn’t about to confess all with Tabby hanging on every word.

  Rae sighed and raked her hands through her hair. People like Tabby inevitably set her nerves on edge. Rich, beautiful, popular people who seemed utterly convinced that the world owed them everything.

  Delta Fox was popular, of course. And pretty. And if not rich, at least well off enough not to have to worry about things like tuition and clothes and books. But Delta was different. She wasn’t caught up in herself. She was … real. Authentic.

  That was the word Dr. Gottlieb had used today when they were discussing principles of creativity. “For a composition to live,” he said, “it must be authentic. It must rise from the very depths of the soul. It may emanate from agony or joy, from struggle or victory. At its best, it comes from all of these, reflecting the breadth and depth of human experience. But whatever else it is, it must be transparent, vulnerable, holding nothing back.” He had looked into her eyes with his cloud-blue gaze. “If the composer hides in darkness, the light will not shine through the music.”