flies away leaving a trail of bloody feathers. There’s a lot of feathers and a lot of blood. Well, red paint, no doubt, but still . . . it looks as if there’s been a lethal pillow fight—the My Lai of pillow fights. Giant white birds are suspended from the ceiling, white feathers drifting from their ruptured bellies like candy from piñatas. The feathers drift steadily—how Gretchen has engineered this part is a mystery—onto a scene of bizarre carnage. Eleven—I know it’s eleven without having to count—baby dolls sit in a circle around a pyre of wood. In the center of the pyre a mannequin in a torn Disney princess nightgown sits cross-legged, knitting. Even from out here on the sidewalk I can see the bloodied bandages on her hands. She’s knitting a shirt made up of prickly green leaves—the nettles, no doubt—and, more disturbingly, barbed wire. Ten of the eleven dolls wear shirts made of this strange fiber. The eleventh doll is standing reaching its one chubby baby fist up toward the girl on the pyre. Its other arm has been ripped off. Feathers and blood pour out of the little gaping hole.
The fact that attractively dressed people—mostly in black—are standing around this scene, gesturing toward it with their plastic tumblers of wine, only makes the whole thing more unsettling.
My little crew of Grace students have come up beside me. We’ve lost a few in transit—but here are Mrs. Rivera and Amelie and Mr. Nagamora. What in the world will they make of this?
I would like to flee the scene, but how would I possibly explain that to my students? Besides, as I stand here, foolishly keeping Aidan holding the door, Gretchen Lu spies me from inside and comes running out to get me.
“Oh, Professor Greenfeder, thank God you’re here. It’s turned into a real circus. The board of trustees was invited, and there are some reporters, and everyone’s asking me what my inspiration was? So now that you’re here you can explain everything, right?”
Chapter Eight
Gretchen Lu takes me by the hand—even if I wanted to resist, the blunted shape of her bandaged hand, soft as a kitten’s paw, totally disarms me—and leads me to a small group standing next to her project. I recognize a few of the teachers—full-timers for the most part—and the head of the English Department, Gene Delbert. Gene, in black jeans and leather jacket, is nervously swirling red wine in his tumbler while talking to a small group of older men and women whom I guess to be trustees. I notice there’s a feather sticking out of Gene’s hair and resist the temptation to pluck it loose. Several of the men and women standing around have feathers in their hair or clinging to their clothing. As a result their serious expressions seem feigned, like children who’ve been surprised in a pillow fight, pretending innocence.
“Oh good,” Gene says when he sees Gretchen leading me forward. “Here’s the instructor who gave the assignment. I’m sure she can make clear her intent.”
Gene says
intent
the way a lawyer might use the word in phrases like
with harmful intent
. I also notice that he’s called me an instructor, not professor, making clear, I’m sure, to the college trustees that I am an expendable part-timer. There’ll be no sticky tenure issues to cope with when they fire me for inspiring this scene of feathery carnage.
I take a deep breath and, dropping Gretchen’s hand, gesture toward Elisa on her pyre. I notice, now that I’m closer, that the mannequin’s mouth is sealed with silver electrical tape. I open my mouth to speak but the voice that I hear isn’t my own.
“ ‘The Wild Swans’ is yet another allegory of the silencing of women’s creativity,” the voice explains much more eloquently than I could have hoped to. “While Elisa works she is sworn to silence, just as the woman artist is forced to give up her true voice in order to produce in a man’s marketplace.”
I turn around and find Phoebe Nix behind me,
The fact that attractively dressed people—mostly in black—are standing around this scene, gesturing toward it with their plastic tumblers of wine, only makes the whole thing more unsettling.
My little crew of Grace students have come up beside me. We’ve lost a few in transit—but here are Mrs. Rivera and Amelie and Mr. Nagamora. What in the world will they make of this?
I would like to flee the scene, but how would I possibly explain that to my students? Besides, as I stand here, foolishly keeping Aidan holding the door, Gretchen Lu spies me from inside and comes running out to get me.
“Oh, Professor Greenfeder, thank God you’re here. It’s turned into a real circus. The board of trustees was invited, and there are some reporters, and everyone’s asking me what my inspiration was? So now that you’re here you can explain everything, right?”
Chapter Eight
Gretchen Lu takes me by the hand—even if I wanted to resist, the blunted shape of her bandaged hand, soft as a kitten’s paw, totally disarms me—and leads me to a small group standing next to her project. I recognize a few of the teachers—full-timers for the most part—and the head of the English Department, Gene Delbert. Gene, in black jeans and leather jacket, is nervously swirling red wine in his tumbler while talking to a small group of older men and women whom I guess to be trustees. I notice there’s a feather sticking out of Gene’s hair and resist the temptation to pluck it loose. Several of the men and women standing around have feathers in their hair or clinging to their clothing. As a result their serious expressions seem feigned, like children who’ve been surprised in a pillow fight, pretending innocence.
“Oh good,” Gene says when he sees Gretchen leading me forward. “Here’s the instructor who gave the assignment. I’m sure she can make clear her intent.”
Gene says
intent
the way a lawyer might use the word in phrases like
with harmful intent
. I also notice that he’s called me an instructor, not professor, making clear, I’m sure, to the college trustees that I am an expendable part-timer. There’ll be no sticky tenure issues to cope with when they fire me for inspiring this scene of feathery carnage.
I take a deep breath and, dropping Gretchen’s hand, gesture toward Elisa on her pyre. I notice, now that I’m closer, that the mannequin’s mouth is sealed with silver electrical tape. I open my mouth to speak but the voice that I hear isn’t my own.
“ ‘The Wild Swans’ is yet another allegory of the silencing of women’s creativity,” the voice explains much more eloquently than I could have hoped to. “While Elisa works she is sworn to silence, just as the woman artist is forced to give up her true voice in order to produce in a man’s marketplace.”
I turn around and find Phoebe Nix behind me,
Similar Books
