Mudwoman

  Her mother Agatha Neukirchen—this mother, the one of whom M.R. spoke easily and proudly to interviewers—the Quaker-mother, still living in Carthage, New York—had not ever used cosmetics of course. As her father Konrad Neukirchen had not troubled to shave, considering it a colossal waste of time, yet rarely trimmed his beard, that sprawled from his jaws like wires very oddly graying from the ends inward.

  To the Quakers, what was unproven, insubstantial, false—was notional.

  Far politer than the Skedds’ Bullshit!

  Where another might speak dogmatically, or say I know this! the Quaker would say, more provisionally, I hope so.

  As a university president, M.R. was unusually soft-spoken, gracious. Never would she claim I know this but only—in a firm voice—I hope so.

  Yet now, M.R. was not so clear-minded, or so hopeful. Her heart was beating in alarm as downstairs the voice lifted again, concerned:

  “Ms. Neukirchen! Your guests . . .”

  The president’s staff would protect her. In fact, the president had two staffs—Charters House, Salvager Hall. There was not much exchange between the two staffs which were devoted to very different services for the president but increasingly, both were concerned with protecting the president from her own—possible—errors of judgment, mistakes.

  She was late for the Conference dinner hosted at Charters House—but how late? Surely not more than ten minutes?

  Frantically her fingers smeared makeup on her face, in upward swipes. The soft skin beneath her eyes had to be filled in, somehow—the bruises beneath her eyes made her appear cadaverous.

  Or maybe it was just the light in the antiquated bathroom with its twelve-foot ceiling, low-wattage lightbulbs overhead. M.R. could not see her watch-face clearly.

  Surely not more than—twenty minutes late?

  Now came a deeper male voice—

  “M.R.? Are you all right? Most of the Conference guests are here. . . .”

  It was S___, her dean of faculty. M.R. had appointed S___ to his position, S___ had no right to speak sharply to her, when others might overhear.

  And his voice unnervingly distinct, as if S__ had ascended the stairs to the first-floor landing.

  Go away! Leave me alone! You have no right to come up here!

  In the mirror, M.R.’s face did look distinctly improved. The blood-sac bruise in her cheek appeared to be hidden beneath makeup. And now—M.R. would pat loose powder on the makeup, with a powder puff made of some synthetic rubbery substance. Her fingers shook with—was it anticipation? Excitement?

  Wanting to lean out the bathroom door and call down to S___ that she was on her way, she’d be downstairs within three minutes.

  Wanting to call, for all to hear, in her cheery-confident M.R.-voice—“I’m fine! Thank you.”

  She would tell them—she would lie so very convincingly, as only a seasoned and trusted administrator might lie—that at the very last minute she’d had a “crucial” phone call—she’d been “unavoidably delayed.”

  She would apologize of course. M.R. always apologized when it seemed necessary. But she would not apologize profusely, like one who has good reason to apologize.

  She would tell them she’d been delayed in such a way that no one, not even S___, who’d been M.R.’s friend, or friendly acquaintance, since she’d first come to the University, would feel that he might ask her what the “crucial” subject was, and if the emergency situation prevailed.

  Her dinner guests would be sympathetic, of course, and respectful—though most of them were far more distinguished in their professions than M. R. Neukirchen was in hers—(that is, in academic philosophy)—yet not one of them could have been named president of this distinguished University, and not one of them would have been capable of doing M.R.’s work.

  She was sure of this. Yes!

  M.R. squinted at her watch-face, standing now at the window—still, she couldn’t see the time. Drinks were scheduled for 6 P.M., dinner for 7 P.M.—she dreaded to think that the time was nearing 7 P.M. Surely—she wasn’t more than twenty minutes late?

  M.R. who was but partly clothed—in underwear, beneath a just-slightly-soiled flannel robe, and barefoot—would hurry back to her room, on the floor below. Her pale-gray light-cashmere suit from Bloomingdale’s was laid out on the bed, just returned from the cleaners. She would wear a white silk shirt with it, with large pearl buttons, buttoned to the throat. And a pale-orange silk scarf, a gift from a colleague who’d bought it in Thailand—one of M.R.’s “trademark” silk scarves.

  She had very nice leather shoes, with a low heel. Far more expensive shoes than M.R. would ever have bought for herself except in this role as President Neukirchen of whom a certain standard of dress, grooming, behavior was expected.

  What a relief it would be, to be dressed! And her face made up to appear some semblance of normal.

  Except—M.R.’s hair . . . She’d forgotten her hair, that was shapeless, limp, threaded with silver now at her hairline. . . . Jesus! Like a God-damn haystack Mrs. Skedd would sneer at her own reflection, running rough fingers through her carroty-colored hair.

  Like Mrs. Skedd, M.R. would have to shrug and laugh.

  “No time now. No time.”

  Hurriedly M.R. patted her hair down, tried to brush it, shape it, with her fingers. She’d meant to make an appointment to have her hair cut—styled—but hadn’t had time, or had forgotten; as she’d forgotten, or canceled, appointments with her dentist, eye doctor, tax accountant. By brushing her hair back behind her ears, so that, seeing herself from the front, she saw relatively little hair, M.R. felt less obvious distress. However her hair looked would have to do.

  President Neukirchen was not, frankly—chic. In some quarters, absence of chic suggested sincerity, lack of vanity.

  Yet another time, maddeningly—just perceptibly closer:

  “M.R.? Excuse me, but—”

  God damn S___! Her dean of the faculty whom she’d appointed to his position of power—who surely talked behind M.R.’s back, complained of her—if but gently, fondly—had no right to take a single step on the stairs, to ascend to the president’s private quarters.

  M.R. stood at the (shut) door and spoke through it:

  “I’m fine! I am fine! Thank you! I’m on the telephone, I have urgent business, I will be downstairs in five minutes!”

  Not that S___ could hear her, two floors down.

  Still M.R. called: “Just substitute for me! For five minutes for God’s sake! Thank you! Thank you very much! I am fine.”

  Except: S___’s voice so near, voices in the front hallway, doorbell ringing, late for her own social engagement—M.R. was feeling anxious, a little clutch—twinge—of something curdled in her lower gut—a need to use the toilet, quickly.

  “Oh God! Help me . . .”

  In past weeks, she’d had some sort of intestinal flu, or diarrhea—not severe, and not chronic—but a flaring-up, a terrible clenching-pain sort of flaring-up in her lower bowel, in times of acute anxiety.

  But—now? No worse time—than now.

  Of the antiquated fixtures in the third-floor bathroom, none was older, less “modernized” than the toilet, which was positioned in an alcove of the room, out of sight of the sink; as if the very sight of the toilet, crude, oversized, dull-glaring-white, was likely to be distressing to genteel sensibilities. Yet M.R. had no choice but to hurry to the toilet, clutching her lower belly. Such pain! And so suddenly! The toilet was oversized like the sink, so that, trying to sit on it, M.R. could barely touch the floor with her toes; and how sticky damp the floor was, in the vicinity of the toilet. In the large rust-streaked tank attached to the toilet there was a perpetual melancholy trickling of water, like unacknowledged sorrow; the once-white porcelain toilet bowl was badly stained, no amount of scouring by any household staff could remove from it the feculent grime of decades
. On this toilet seat, M.R. felt suddenly paralyzed; though needing badly to rid herself of the terrible scalding-hot diarrhea in her lower belly, she could not; nor could she urinate; her bladder ached, yet she could not urinate; a terrible pressure was building inside her, yet she could not release it for she feared a sudden pounding at the door—S___ having ascended the stairs not only to the (private) second floor, but to the (yet more private) third floor, now dared to knock on the bathroom door; or, more horrible still, grasp the doorknob and fling the door open, for there was no workable lock in this old door as, in the Skedd household, the children’s bathroom door had no lock for—as the Skedds explained, numerous times—you couldn’t risk having locks on the God-damn doors, some God-damn crazy kid would lock himself inside, or herself—Mr. Skedd would have to break the God-damn door down, that was the case.

  Excitedly Mrs. Skedd spoke of this possibility—or maybe, it had already happened—a girl had barricaded herself inside the bathroom, slashed her wrists—what came next, Jewell never knew for Mr. Skedd interrupted his wife with a snarl: Chrissake shut your mouth, woman. Nobody needs to know ancient history.

  On the ghastly toilet M.R. sat cringing, shivering. What her life had become was unfathomable to her yet she had no choice, this was the life she must live. Even as, from downstairs, in the front hall a virtual chorus of voices lifted:

  “Ms. Neukirchen? It’s almost 7 P.M., most of your guests have arrived . . .”

  These were not mocking voices. She knew!

  A tragedy, they were saying.

  These grave-faced individuals. For of course their subject—the subject of their three-day Conference—was predicated upon the tragedy of others, precipitating the opportunity for intellectual speculation, ethical debate, the possibility of intervention.

  “ . . . beyond our most pessimistic predictions. And our demographics show it will worsen—unless we can intervene.”

  So it wasn’t Alexander Stirk of whom they spoke.

  In the high-ceilinged dining room of Charters House M.R. was seated at the head of the table, her back to the pantry door that swung open, and shut; open, and shut as servers brought food to the table to be presented to M.R.’s distinguished guests. M.R. smiled to think what Mrs. Skedd would say, Mudgirl waited upon like a queen! And Mudgirl’s mother, who had filled her mouth with mud to silence all speech in her, forever.

  M. R. Neukirchen at the head of the table. M. R. Neukirchen, president of the University.

  Why was it happening, M.R. wondered, that, with passing weeks, ever more swiftly like a narrow stream rushing through a crack in rock, enlarging the crack, to rush more swiftly, these old—ancient—memories were rising in her, with the threat of drowning her?

  Why, she wondered, wasn’t she more frightened?

  “Intervention isn’t so easy. The U.S. must respect the rights of sovereign states. . . .”

  “ ‘Sovereign states’! Liberia, Zimbabwe . . .”

  “ . . . remember Rwanda . . .”

  “ . . . Darfur will be next.”

  M.R. felt a small clutch of alarm: Darfur? She was moderately well informed on these other African states, but knew virtually nothing about Darfur.

  She was moderately well informed in most subjects, or gave that impression. Like any successful administrator M.R. knew the questions to ask, to allow others to demonstrate their expertise.

  What a relief, to be here! Downstairs, with her guests!

  In her proper place at the head of the table. As if nothing were amiss or could possibly have been amiss, an hour before.

  At the farther end of the table was S___, the dean of the faculty. S___ who’d cast glances of—concern? worry?—in M.R.’s direction, which M.R. seemed not to notice.

  I am fine. I told you—I am fine! And now I am here, and I am the hostess.

  M.R. hadn’t been conspicuously late for her guests, who, as it turned out, had been directed into two rooms as they arrived—the larger of the living rooms, and the library—by the canny S___; the strategy being, M.R. supposed, a very clever one—guests in one room might plausibly assume that their hostess was in the other room, and not register that she was absent.

  And then of course—M.R. had appeared in their midst—well before the hour scheduled for dinner.

  Breathless and apologetic—“A telephone call! At first it seemed like a genuine emergency, but then—the situation is under control now, or nearly. . . .” Her gaze was direct and forceful, forthright.

  They’d believed her of course—how could they not have believed M. R. Neukirchen.

  Even S___ believed her. (She was sure!)

  All that had happened to her upstairs, on the third floor, or almost happened—all that was rapidly fading now, like a bad dream exposed to the air.

  This dinner! What a pleasure to be here, in the company of such distinguished individuals! Their earnest conversation eddied about her, avidly and sincerely she listened.

  “ . . . intervention isn’t easy—of course. That’s why bold steps are needed. Our current diplomacy . . .”

  “ . . . yes but there are religious principles at stake, as well. Not everyone wants to be ‘saved’ on our secular terms. . . .”

  “ ‘Saved’ from AIDS? Are you serious? Of course—sufferers want to be ‘saved.’ ”

  “ . . . not always, and not in our secular terms.”

  “ . . . not secular, scientific. There is a distinction.”

  As president of the University, M.R. was hosting a dinner at Charters House in conjunction with the University’s annual Conference on Ethics and Economics—this year’s theme was “First-World States and Third-World Relations”—with a special symposium on AIDS in Africa.

  It was the third and final evening of the prestigious Conference that had been inaugurated in 1991 with a multi-million-dollar endowment from a University alum who’d had a distinguished career in the foreign service, as well as having inherited great wealth. Among the participants were the current chair of the National Committee on Bioethics, a Nobel Prize–winning economist with the World Bank, the executive director of the Rawling Institute for Advanced Study at the University of Chicago, and a (female) filmmaker who’d produced an award-winning documentary on the lives of girls and women in West Africa, which had been shown at the Conference.

  Twenty-six guests and M. R. Neukirchen at the head of the long, elaborately set table and as the guests conversed animatedly—AIDS, famine, war, war atrocities—the responsibility of first-world nations—the responsibility of American universities to investigate moral, political, economic and medical issues—the wisdom/folly of the military intervention in Iraq, which had immediately unleashed an unexpected/inevitable insurgency against the American-led coalition forces—as in Afghanistan—and, oh!—the horrors of female circumcision in West Africa, of which the young woman filmmaker spoke in the most graphic and unsparing terms, even as (frozen-faced) servers brought plates of exquisitely prepared food to the table. Though M.R. listened with rapt attentiveness to the conversations nearest her yet with a part of her mind—again the image came to her, of a wild-rushing stream cutting through a rock facade—she found herself at another table altogether—the long plank table in the Skedds’ kitchen amid a babble of voices—such a babble of voices!—in which Jewell’s (small) voice was never heard—steeling her (small) body against being jostled, her (plastic, scummy) water-glass upset, bits of ketchup-drenched meat loaf on her plate slyly snatched from her by the gangling pubescent boy whose chair abutted hers; for always at mealtimes in the Skedd household there was what Mrs. Skedd called a damn ruckus precipitating flurries of pinches, slaps, shoves and profanities from both the Skedds that they might maintain some sort of (temporary) order; M.R. smiled to think of the sticky oilcloth covering on the plank table which it was her task to keep clean, between mealtimes; a task that was easy, with one of Mrs. Skedd’s supply of gaily-c
olored kitchen sponges that darkened grimly with time; and the oilcloth covering in which, when she was feeling nervous, or anxious, she made faint marks with the prongs of her fork; as, in the years to come, in school classrooms she would contain the almost-uncontainable energy that thrummed through her body like electric currents by sitting very still, back straight and head straight and her eyes widened in utmost attentiveness and respect staring at the teacher at the front of the room—at the adult in the room—as at any adult in her presence—that the adult might sense the appeal I am the one who listens, I am the one you can trust, I am the one who will excel.

  For it is the adults of the world who are the angels of the Lord.

  For it is the adults of the world who will, if they wish, save you.

  As the conversation swerved to the subject of female exploitation in Africa—the fact, as the filmmaker said passionately, that sex-relations are initiated by men almost universally in the African sub-continent, no matter if the man is AIDS-infected and his condition known, and no matter if the “sex-partner” is a child—(and suddenly it seemed an awkward fact, at M.R.’s dinner table there were only seven women amid the twenty-six guests, and four of these the spouses of distinguished men)—M.R. found herself thinking of the second floor of the Skedds’ house where the girls slept in their cramped and often smelly dormer room, which was at least less cramped and less smelly than the boys’ dormer room on the other side of the house; thinking of certain things the “big boys” did when no adult was near, still more the things the “big boys” said which were swear words and obscenities not to be repeated by any of the girls, at least not in the presence of adults; for there is the child-world, and there is the adult-world, which must be navigated with the utmost care. And what was done to Jewell—was anything “done to” Jewell? Set beside the mudflat, no subsequent outrage could much matter.

  Infant mortality, AIDS-infected infants, infanticide—“Especially the killing of female infants no one wants, tossed away like trash into the underbrush”—and M.R. seated at the head of the long, elaborately set candlelit table that seemed, with its large swath of antique Chinese carpeting beneath, to float upon a dark and unfathomable sea; thinking with a curious sort of tenderness of the doll—not the tossed-away rubber doll, ugly, naked, and very dirty but the other—the gift-doll—the pretty doll with the pale-blond hair, in the satin party dress—given to her by the “mountain-man” who was her friend. For there was the unspoken bond between them. He is the one who pulled Mudgirl from the mud seeing that Mudgirl was not a rubber doll or any trash tossed into the mud—he is the one who loves Mudgirl. Yet somehow, in her shyness Jewell could not acknowledge him, even as she could not stammer Thank you for this gift let alone Thank you for saving my life.