Tell Me if the Lovers Are Losers

  They did not respond. Hildy did not turn.

  “Sure, what the hell, read it. But I’m OK, you hear? I’m on the right side of the law.” Her voice was bitter “You should be flattered really, Annie. It’s a compliment if you think about it. That I remembered so well what you said. It means, if you think of it, that you said it well. Really. You could try looking at it that way. Your words were burned upon my memory. But I tell you”—she spoke to Hildy’s back—“I know the rules and I’m OK.”

  She left the room abruptly.

  chapter 9

  Ann read Niki’s paper and judged it a good one. The thesis, her own after all, had validity. Niki’s examination of it was thorough and well documented. “It’ll get you an A maybe,” Ann wanted to say to Niki. But she did not see Niki, except in passing, in bed asleep or pretending to sleep; at a distance on the way to or from class; across the dining room. Ann wanted to say to Hildy, “You were right,” but Hildy maintained a troubled silence. Ann slept badly in that room those two long days, could not concentrate on her studies, could not see her way through to any resolution. The air in the room was restless, too bright so that it pricked at you, too dark so that it tossed you about. Like the other two, Ann spent most of her time those days away from their room.

  She studied with Eloise in the library. She lunched with Ruth at the Student Center. She walked about the campus with Bess. She ran errands downtown with Sarah. She returned late to the room and greeted whoever might be there (usually Hildy) before putting out her light and resolutely closing her eyes. She felt isolated, abandoned.

  Finally, on Friday afternoon, she decided to answer Eloise’s persistent query.

  “Something’s very wrong. It’s Niki. And Hildy.”

  “Does that have anything to do with why Niki has excused herself from practices?”

  “It does, indeed it does,” Ann said. “The trouble is Niki’s long paper. It’s all one of my ideas. I was talking one day and what I said is what Niki wrote. Hildy saw it. Then I read it, to be sure. Hildy didn’t read it.”

  “What does Niki say?” Eloise asked. “You needn’t quote her precisely.”

  “She says she hasn’t broken any rules.”

  “What does Hildy say?”

  “Nothing. But you know what she is thinking.”

  Eloise nodded and studied Ann with pale, quiet eyes. “What about you? What do you say?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t write it, there’s that. On the other hand, it is my thinking. But, I mean—if a professor gives a lecture and you think he’s right, and you understand something as he has explained it—and then you write an exam based on that understanding—what about that?”

  “You’re not a professor,” Eloise said.

  “That’s not the point, is it?”

  “Not exactly,” Eloise said. “So you feel that it’s not plagiarism, exactly.”

  “Not the lie outright,” Ann agreed.

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “Honestly? I don’t care. Except for them. And my peace of mind. I don’t know if they’re as—unhappy—as I am, but. . . .”

  They sat at a long oak table amidst stacks of books. Behind long windows, snow hurried down in flurries. Eloise dabbled with her pencil on a sheet of paper, making intricate little boxes in a geometrical design.

  “I’d advise you to consult Miss Dennis,” Eloise said, finally. “Why don’t you talk to her?”

  “About what? Behind their backs?” Ann believed there was no solution.

  “Alternately, you could just wait until enough time passes and everyone has forgotten. Everything dies down, in time.”

  “It wouldn’t be fair. I’d be telling on Niki.”

  “Often, if you give problems time enough, they straighten themselves out.”

  “Wait. If we all talked to the Munchkin, all three of us. That might work. Do you think it might, Eloise? If we all agreed to accept her decision. Eloise, you’ve done it. You’ve figured out what to do.”

  Eloise glanced over at Ann. “That wasn’t what I had in mind, but it’s more expedient than what I had thought of.”

  “If I can get Hildy and Niki to agree. How can I do that?”

  “You can do it. It’s the kind of thing you can do.”

  “I hope so. Niki won’t like it. Lord, I feel better.”

  “A weight has been lifted from your shoulders?” Eloise suggested, smiling.

  “And—with luck—placed on somebody else’s,” Ann agreed.

  Miss Dennis, her voice puzzled on the telephone, was sorry she could not see them sooner, but the first free time she had was Sunday afternoon. She would be out of town but could return for a late afternoon meeting. She would be happier if Miss Gardner would divulge the nature of the problem? But, if she could not do that, then Miss Dennis would expect them at four. Unless, with a lift of hopefulness to the thin voice, things worked themselves out before then. Well, if Miss Gardner felt that was unlikely . . . .

  Ann’s next step was to speak with her roommates, individually. Hildy went up to the room after dinner Ann followed her and accosted her as she sat reading an astronomy textbook.

  “Hildy?” Blue eyes, magnified by thick glasses, looked up at her Ann had planned a tidy little speech, defining the problem, justifying her decision to contact the Munchkin, explaining her motives. She did not use it. “I’ve made an appointment with Miss Dennis. Sunday at four For all of us.”

  Hildy waited.

  “I think she will have to judge for us. I haven’t told her what the problem is. I think we can all agree to go along with what she decides.”

  “No,” Hildy said. “I cannot agree to believe what I do not believe.”

  “But, Hildy,” Ann protested.

  “Can I?” Hildy asked. “Mustn’t I rather know for myself?”

  “I trust Miss Dennis,” Ann said.

  Hildy studied her “You do not know, for yourself, what is the right in this?”

  Ann shook her head.

  “And you are unhappy. Yes, I can see that you are. You would want me to do this?”

  “Please.”

  “Then I will go to the meeting.”

  “And abide by her decision?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what she’ll say. I guess it means we can be finished with this quarrel. We can go back to normal.”

  “It is Niki who has the quarrel. And you, also, have the quarrel.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Hildy shook her head. “But even so, yes, I will meet and will abide. This—division—it is not good.”

  Niki, to Ann’s surprise, agreed immediately. “Sure, that will settle things, one way or the other I should have guessed you’d cook up some plan, Annie. Sure, I’ll go along with whatever the Munchkin says.” She grinned. “It’ll screw up my plans if she has me thrown out for plagiarism though.”

  “Could that happen?”

  “Don’t act so innocent. This is the East, as you so often remind me.”

  “But I don’t want that to happen. Niki? Really I don’t. That’s not what I had in mind.”

  “Ann. Annie. I know that. But if you’re going to be a mover you’ve got to accept results. Don’t worry, it’s OK with me. That’s the way things happen. Screwups. Unless, of course, the Munchkin sees it my way. I thought about that, I did. So don’t worry, Annie. I’m not worried.”

  “So you think she’ll say that the paper is all right?”

  “Who knows? I think it is. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Ann said. “And I don’t care. Frankly, I don’t. I just want this thing finished.”

  “Me, too,” Niki agreed. “Will Hildy go along with this?”

  “She said she would abide. That was the word she used. But she didn’t say abide by the decision. I don’t know, Niki. I don’t know anything. I don’t know what Hildy will do. Or why she’ll do it. I don’t know what you’ll do, or why. But—we ne
ed somebody else’s opinion.”

  “It’s not opinion you’ve contracted for You know that, don’t you?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And I will go along with whatever the Munchkin decides. You have my word on that. I don’t have any choice in the matter.”

  “I could call off the meeting. Should I?”

  “I don’t know, Annie. Should you?”

  “No.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sunday morning it snowed. Flakes fell from low gray clouds. It was the first, light, snow of the long winter. Snow, only an inch deep, that would not stay long on the ground. At most it would make the roads slick for a couple of nights. During the day the sun would melt the snow, while the cold at night would freeze it. However, this snowfall was a herald for heavier snows to follow, storms that would block roads and blanket mountains, snows to leave the world more beautiful than it had been, beautiful especially the long-branched evergreens. This light snow was a vague reminder, an absent-minded promise.

  By late afternoon, it died down to flurries that drifted idly. The three girls did not walk together to their meeting. Hildy remained in the library until it was time. Ann was with Eloise, who accompanied her most of the way to the little house and left her with wishes for good fortune and an acknowledgment that she did not see how that was possible. Niki was already in the house when Ann arrived. Her bike was parked in the snow. Hildy arrived shortly thereafter.

  Miss Dennis, silent, led them into the study, poured them tea, and sat in her leather chair. Ann once again sat facing the little woman. Hildy was cross-legged on an oriental rug, before the fire. Niki put her cup on the mantelpiece and stood behind Ann, restless, chewing on her finger.

  “So it is serious.” The Munchkin was the first to speak. “Can it be this serious, I wonder Miss Gardner?”

  Ann looked at Hildy and then at Niki. They both waited. She collected her thoughts. “We, all of us, want you to decide a question we can’t decide for ourselves. Except Hildy.”

  “If it is within my province, I will do so.”

  “I don’t know why I’m the one to talk,” Ann said, “but maybe I am. I’m not so involved. Niki’s freshman paper presents a thesis of mine.” She considered this. It was fair enough, bare enough.

  “The question is a point of plagiarism, I think. Niki believes that she has not plagiarised, because she wrote it all herself, following ideas as I had stated them. Hildy believes—” Ann realized that she did not know what Hildy believed, although she understood it. “Hildy believes not,” she concluded.

  Miss Dennis studied them from behind gray eyes. “You ask me then to sit in judgment?”

  “Yes,” Ann said.

  “You are prepared to accept the terms and consequences of judgment? Miss Jones?”

  “Why not?” Niki shrugged.

  “Miss Keonig?”

  “No.”

  “Hildy!” Ann cried.

  Miss Dennis raised a hand to silence Ann. “I think I understand Miss Keonig. I sound pompous, but it is a most disquieting position you put me in. However, I think Miss Koenig”— She gazed at Hildy. “And we have read Plato together.”

  “Yes,” Hildy said.

  The fire crackled. Its lights glinted off Hildy’s glasses. Behind her, Ann felt Niki’s dark presence, her impatience.

  “Let us begin then,” Miss Dennis said. “Can you tell me, Miss Gardner, how this occurred?”

  “I’ll try. You see, we often help one another with our work. For example, Niki and Eloise Golding showed me what I was doing wrong when I studied for the Coordinated Sciences course. Because I had a D at midterm. And once I helped Hildy revise an English paper.”

  “What did that entail?”

  “I read the paper and tried to figure out what she had done wrong.”

  “Did you advise her on content?”

  “I don’t think so. Did I, Hildy?”

  “You didn’t.” Niki spoke.

  “Anyway we help one another in that way. Niki asked me to give her advice about English. She wasn’t satisfied with her grades.”

  “They were poor? I don’t remember that,” Miss Dennis interrupted.

  “Not bad. But she wants a B in English. She needed an A on her long paper to bring up her cumulative average. But I’m trying to show how we were in the habit of talking about the courses and helping one another if we could.”

  “There is nothing wrong with that. There is much right with it.”

  “That’s what I think. So the long papers came due. Hildy—I asked her what she was writing about. I think that’s how it happened. She told me, and it was King Lear and I talked about a pet idea of mine. Because I studied Lear in English last year.”

  Miss Dennis asked, “Are you apologizing?”

  “I sort of lectured,” Ann said.

  “It is a temptation. But that is not the source of the present problem, is it?”

  “No it isn’t. Niki’s long paper says what I said. It’s my ideas.”

  “I see. In how much detail did you speak?”

  “I was thorough, but I didn’t quote extensively. I showed how the idea related to major aspects and possible major themes. I was fairly general.”

  Miss Dennis turned to Niki. “Miss Jones?”

  “It’s just that simple. I want an A and I figured Ann’s ideas would be of high quality. Impeccable quality.” Niki grinned. “I remembered what she had said, pretty much. I went over the play with that in mind and worked out textual proof. I wrote the paper.”

  “How did it happen that you two read this paper? I think I am correct in saying they have not been returned.”

  Niki answered for them. “That was all up-and-up. These two—they’re not in question. I had it on my desk and Hildy saw the title. She hasn’t actually read it. Ann’s read it, but she asked me first. They’re clean.”

  “And you?”

  “A little sullied, I think. No more.”

  Miss Dennis slid down from the chair and poured more tea. She stirred sugar into hers. Ann watched her hands, deft and tiny, without rings, the nails cut square. Hildy sat cross-legged watching the flames.

  “What do you feel about this, Miss Koenig?”

  “To take somebody else’s idea is not right. A paper must be your own, your own ideas and your own writing. Otherwise you must acknowledge the person from whom you have taken. That is so?”

  “That is so. Let me ask you this: when Socrates refers to just judges, what does he mean?”

  “He means that a few among those who sat in judgment dealt with the facts of his case. The others, the unjust judges, made their decisions because of their own emotions, or for presumption about where this habit of questioning would lead. Some perhaps even for revenge. But the just judges understood that under the law and under the gods Socrates had acted and taught rightly. His purpose was to bring out the truth.”

  Miss Dennis asked, “How is it that you know that?”

  “You taught me,” Hildy answered. Her eyes regarded Miss Dennis steadily. “I understand. You think it is not so simple.”

  “I think it is not simple,” Miss Dennis agreed.

  “Can you show me the rightness of it?” Hildy leaned forward. “If you could. I can see how it is not simple. I can think of that and understand it. But in myself I cannot make it right. In myself I know it is wrong. There is a lie in that paper. Can you show me that there is not?”

  “That is Miss Jones’s job,” the Munchkin said.

  “Oh no,” Niki’s voice grated. “I won’t do that. I don’t have to.”

  “Yes,” Hildy said. “You do.”

  Miss Dennis agreed.

  Niki shook her head again, denying it.

  Ann gave way to exasperation. “What are you after, Niki?” She twisted her head to look behind her Niki’s eyes were closed and her fingers clutched the fragile handle of the teacup. “You agreed. Remember? You said you would.”

  Niki opened bleak eyes. “Yeah. OK. Look, Hild
y,” she began. “There is a convention about ideas in print, and when you are plagiarising them and when you are not. If you take somebody else’s words and present them as your own, that’s cheating. We’re agreed about that. No question. I didn’t do that.

  “But what about ideas without print? What about conversations, where people exchange ideas? Ann talked about this, and she made good sense to me. I agreed with her ideas. Are they still just hers then? Or, if I am convinced by them, do they become mine? I think they are mine also, from that point on. So, when I write them out, it is my own work. And there is no plagiarism involved.”

  They all watched Niki as she spoke. A silence followed, where only the fire chattered. Niki waited.

  “No,” Hildy said. “That is not the truth of it.”

  “I am not lying.” Niki loomed forward.

  “You are not telling the truth,” Hildy said quietly.

  “You don’t want to hear the truth. You don’t want to see what really is the truth.” Niki came out from behind Ann’s chair and paced the room as she spoke. “You and your categorical negatives and affirmatives. Things aren’t that simple. Yes or no, that’s not enough.”

  “It is the very beginning,” Hildy said.

  “There is no very beginning,” Niki answered. “You live in a dream world, where God is a daddy who keeps things orderly. Where right is different from wrong. That’s all illusion, and you don’t admit it. I’ll tell you what’s right. Winners are right, by definition. They have the power to make themselves right. In this world you have to know what you want, and go after it. Whether it’s good or bad, you have to fight for it, hard and sometimes dirty. If you can’t, well tough luck on you. If you’re not willing to kick in a few teeth, you won’t get what you want, if you’re not willing to lose a few of your own teeth.”

  She paced back and forth, too large for that room. She looked at nobody as she spoke. Her eyes had an inward focus. “We’re not free agents. I’m not. You’re not. I never made a free choice in my life. So I’m out for myself—where’s the crime in that? So is everybody else. Even you Hildy. I can show you. I want to go to Berkeley and I need B’s for that. To get a B in English I need an A on a paper Annie gave me an A paper idea and I took it. Simple as that. That’s what’s simple. And what about you? You’re going back to marry a man your father has selected for you, to raise chickens and darn socks. You’ve turned your back on Stanton too. On what it stands for. On your friends here. And you’ve already done that, always done that, from the first. But you’re not thinking about that, or them, or the money the College has invested in you. The volleyball team, what about them? You’re so concerned with being right. But you’ve used Stanton, the same way I have. You’ve lied, by implication. You may say it’s different because you put it on your application, but that difference doesn’t mean anything.” Niki crouched between Hildy and the fire. She thrust her face into Hildy’s. “Do you hear? That difference doesn’t mean anything. Nothing. Because we’re the same, you and me. Call it what you like, we’re the same thing. That’s all we can be because we’re human beings and there’s nothing simple about that. Only our rhetorics differ. And it doesn’t matter what we do with our lives, or why we do it. Because we just die in the end and it’s over. The great accident, the joke. People are frightened so they convince themselves there is meaning to it. History, progress, knowledge: none of it works. None of it makes any difference whatsoever to anythng. The world isn’t going to be saved. It isn’t even lost. It just is. We scrabble around on its surface. Like bugs. The biggest bugs grab what they can. That’s it.”