Mrs. Lieutenant: A Sharon Gold Novel by Phyllis Zimbler Miller
Authors: Phyllis Zimbler Miller
Ads: Link
slides back into the booth. "Some protester you
are."
"It was slung across my chest." She
hesitates. "Are you from New York?"
"Philadelphia. What made you think New
York?"
"I have a friend who says pocketbook and
she’s from New York. I say purse."
"Where are you from?"
"Highland Park, a northern suburb of Chicago
– near Lake Michigan."
She won't admit this to her parents – ever
since that moment in sixth grade when her life changed forever
she's kept her own counsel – but her decision to go to a college
which wasn't a continuation of her high school crowd has been a
mistake. Michigan State – as opposed to the liberal hotbed
University of Michigan – is so apolitical. There are no marches or
sit-ins or teach-ins. MSU's local chapter of SDS – Students for a
Democratic Society – has almost no campus visibility. She hasn't
even bothered to join.
A few weeks earlier, the head of the local
SDS chapter had perched on her desk at the “State News” office
wearing his starched – rumor said done by his mother; he is from
Lansing – monogrammed dress shirt, a single chest hair poking up
from the partially unbuttoned front. "Can you believe how MSU
hasn't changed in the last few years?" he asked.
"It hasn't?" she said, then felt compelled to
add, "Look at the changes in restrictions on women students – no
more curfews. The dispensary now gives out birth control pills. We
had that entire semester of guest lectures on sex topics sponsored
by the university."
He got off her desk and left without
replying.
Now Robert says, "MSU is certainly different
than the East. I didn't know what I was getting myself into by
coming out to the Midwest."
"Like ROTC?"
His eyes shift to his coffee cup, then back
to her.
"I chose ROTC." Her face must be betraying
her thoughts because he rushes on, "And ROTC has a right to be on
campus just like every other campus organization."
"ROTC supports the war machine! Do you know
how many boys your age may be getting killed right now in Vietnam
as we sit here having coffee?"
"Serving their country."
"Getting killed for nothing."
They stare at each other as other students
brush past their table, carrying trays loaded with fried
substances.
Suddenly he leans towards her and
recites:
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Sharon flushes. "That's the beginning of 'To
An Athlete Dying Young.'"
Robert nods. "By the English poet A. E.
Housman."
An ROTC cadet reciting poetry? "What's your
major?" she asks.
"Political science. What’s yours?”
“Journalism. I’m a junior.”
"Senior,” Robert says about himself. “I don't
think I've seen you around before. If I had, I'm sure I would have
remembered."
Sharon smiles. "It's a little hard to know
all 40,000 people on campus."
"We must not travel in the same circles. Are
you a Greek?"
"An AEPhi. I live in the house." No need to
explain to him that pledging a sorority provided the only way she
could live off campus after freshman year. MSU’s in loco
parentis policy is that women students who did not live in
sorority houses had to either be a senior or 21 to not live in the
dorms.
She checks her watch. Lance will be furious
if she's late getting the story written. She’s a fast typist but
not a Wonder Woman.
She stands. "I've got a deadline."
He stands too. “And I’ve got to get back to
the field. Maybe I'll see you around," he says.
Now Sharon follows Robert’s lead on the dance
floor of the Officers Club of Ft. Knox, Kentucky. Sometimes it’s
hard for her to reconstruct how that chance meeting at the ROTC
protest has led her
are."
"It was slung across my chest." She
hesitates. "Are you from New York?"
"Philadelphia. What made you think New
York?"
"I have a friend who says pocketbook and
she’s from New York. I say purse."
"Where are you from?"
"Highland Park, a northern suburb of Chicago
– near Lake Michigan."
She won't admit this to her parents – ever
since that moment in sixth grade when her life changed forever
she's kept her own counsel – but her decision to go to a college
which wasn't a continuation of her high school crowd has been a
mistake. Michigan State – as opposed to the liberal hotbed
University of Michigan – is so apolitical. There are no marches or
sit-ins or teach-ins. MSU's local chapter of SDS – Students for a
Democratic Society – has almost no campus visibility. She hasn't
even bothered to join.
A few weeks earlier, the head of the local
SDS chapter had perched on her desk at the “State News” office
wearing his starched – rumor said done by his mother; he is from
Lansing – monogrammed dress shirt, a single chest hair poking up
from the partially unbuttoned front. "Can you believe how MSU
hasn't changed in the last few years?" he asked.
"It hasn't?" she said, then felt compelled to
add, "Look at the changes in restrictions on women students – no
more curfews. The dispensary now gives out birth control pills. We
had that entire semester of guest lectures on sex topics sponsored
by the university."
He got off her desk and left without
replying.
Now Robert says, "MSU is certainly different
than the East. I didn't know what I was getting myself into by
coming out to the Midwest."
"Like ROTC?"
His eyes shift to his coffee cup, then back
to her.
"I chose ROTC." Her face must be betraying
her thoughts because he rushes on, "And ROTC has a right to be on
campus just like every other campus organization."
"ROTC supports the war machine! Do you know
how many boys your age may be getting killed right now in Vietnam
as we sit here having coffee?"
"Serving their country."
"Getting killed for nothing."
They stare at each other as other students
brush past their table, carrying trays loaded with fried
substances.
Suddenly he leans towards her and
recites:
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Sharon flushes. "That's the beginning of 'To
An Athlete Dying Young.'"
Robert nods. "By the English poet A. E.
Housman."
An ROTC cadet reciting poetry? "What's your
major?" she asks.
"Political science. What’s yours?”
“Journalism. I’m a junior.”
"Senior,” Robert says about himself. “I don't
think I've seen you around before. If I had, I'm sure I would have
remembered."
Sharon smiles. "It's a little hard to know
all 40,000 people on campus."
"We must not travel in the same circles. Are
you a Greek?"
"An AEPhi. I live in the house." No need to
explain to him that pledging a sorority provided the only way she
could live off campus after freshman year. MSU’s in loco
parentis policy is that women students who did not live in
sorority houses had to either be a senior or 21 to not live in the
dorms.
She checks her watch. Lance will be furious
if she's late getting the story written. She’s a fast typist but
not a Wonder Woman.
She stands. "I've got a deadline."
He stands too. “And I’ve got to get back to
the field. Maybe I'll see you around," he says.
Now Sharon follows Robert’s lead on the dance
floor of the Officers Club of Ft. Knox, Kentucky. Sometimes it’s
hard for her to reconstruct how that chance meeting at the ROTC
protest has led her
Similar Books
