Ten minutes later Milady Ambitious Chekhovian comes back downstairs and attempts to stab a tangerine with her fork, fuming and furious. We all watch the fork break into two pieces.
"What is it? What happened?" I ask.
"See for yourself," she says. Then she turns toward the door, almost hissing. "Are you coming or not?"
Slowly, shyly, as if willing herself to disappear into the thick night, a finger-woman walks in. I recognize her immediately. It is Mama Rice Pudding.
"Hello there!" I pick her up and place her on my palm.
"You two know each other?" Milady Ambitious Chekhovian asks.
"Well, hmm. . We've. . m-met once," I stutter.
"Oh, yeah? When was that?" Miss Highbrowed Cynic asks, frowning. "And how come we don't know about it?"
Deciding that the best defense is a good offense, I snap: "In fact, I should be asking that question. In all this time, why didn't you ever tell me about Mama Rice Pudding?"
Milady Ambitious Chekhovian briefly considers the notion. "What do you think would have happened if we told you? What good would it have brought?"
"I have a right to know that I have a maternal side," I insist.
"Great, just what we needed," says Miss Highbrowed Cynic, grumbling to herself. "We crossed an entire ocean to get rid of this sticky miss. Alas, she found us here as well!"
Suddenly it dawns on me. Does my leaving Istanbul in such a hurry have anything to do with this?
"Wait a minute, hold on," I say. "Is this why you brought me all the way here to America?"
Miss Highbrowed Cynic and Milady Ambitious Chekhovian cast guilty looks at each other.
"Time for some real talk! Let the cat out of the bag!" says Little Miss Practical, shrugging nonchalantly.
"Okay, it might as well come out," says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. She turns to me, her eyes blazing with fire. "I don't know if you recall, but sometime ago you were traveling on a steamboat and this plump woman with two sons sat beside you."
Of course I remember. I nod my head.
"Well, you might not have realized it, but you were profoundly moved by your encounter with that woman. She was young and pregnant with her third child. When you looked at her you lamented the opportunities you lost. You almost wanted to be her. If I hadn't acted at once and made you write "The Manifesto of a Single Girl," God forbid, you were going to get trapped in your dreams of motherhood."
"So I wrote that manifesto because of you?"
"Yes, of course," says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, as she paces up and down. "I thought that would be the end of the story. But when Mama Rice Pudding noticed you were curiously watching pregnant women and mothers with their babies, she decided it was high time for her to come out of hiding and introduce herself. We tried to reason with her, and then we threatened her. But she didn't budge. She was going to upset the status quo, so we performed a military takeover. We forced you to leave Istanbul, but apparently Miss Nuisance followed us here!"
"But, if she is a member of the Choir of Discordant Voices, she should have an equal say in all matters," I venture.
"Thanks, but no thanks. We can't let that happen," Miss Highbrowed Cynic says, rubbing her temples as if on the verge of a migraine.
"We are not a democracy, okay? We were always a monarchy, and now we are a tight military regime," roars Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. A spark flickers in her eye as she turns to her chum. "Let's have an emergency meeting."
As the chairpersons of the High Military Council's executive committee, Milady Ambitious Chekhovian and Miss Highbrowed Cynic move to a corner, whispering in fierce tones. After what seems like an eternity, they walk back, their footsteps echoing their determination, their faces grim.
"Follow us outside," says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian.
"Where on earth are we going at this hour?"
"Move!" she scolds me, and then calls out to the others: "All of you! On the double!" At three-thirty in the morning, under the watchful gaze of the braver squirrels, we march in single file in the snow. Our teeth chattering, our fingertips numb, we pass by the library and the dormitories.
"How serene the universe seems tonight," mumbles Dame Dervish as she takes a deep breath.
How she's able to find something positive to say even under the most stressful circumstances is a mystery to me. I pick her up and put her inside my sweater so she doesn't catch a cold. We move along in this fashion until we arrive under a massive tree.
"What is this?" I ask.
Miss Highbrowed Cynic delivers the answer: "I discovered this tree when we first arrived here. On sunny days, it's a perfect place to read. I would have much preferred to show it to you in the daylight, but I need to do it now. Pay attention to the tree trunk. What does it look like?"
Oddly enough, a mammoth balloon like lump bulges out of the tree's thick trunk. It looks like a giant shriveled-up prune or a huge wrinkled walnut with ridges. Or else—
Miss Highbrowed Cynic gives me a sidelong glance. "Tell me, what does that mass resemble from afar?"
"Well, I don't know. . It's almost like. . like a brain. . " I say.
"Bingo! It is a Brain Tree," says Miss Highbrowed Cynic.
"So tonight we have all gathered under the Brain Tree," Milady Ambitious Chekhovian says, launching into a speech. She has climbed onto a branch, where she pouts like a dictator assessing his people's intelligence before starting to lecture them.
"This is a historic moment," she bellows. "The time is ripe to make a choice once and for all." She points an accusing finger at Mama Rice Pudding. "Do you want to be like her? A forlorn housewife? Or would you rather live your life like a majestic arboreal brain?"
I can't take my eyes from the tree. In the velvety dark of the night, surrounded by all this snow, the tree looks fearsome and impressive.
"Please don't listen to them," whispers Mama Rice Pudding as she clings to my legs. Tears have formed in her eyes. So fragile she is. So little I know about her. I've seen her only twice while the others have been with me for years.
"We can make a great team, you and I," says Mama Rice Pudding.
"I'm sorry," I say.
A strong wind blows in fitful gusts, swirling the flakes. I feel like I'm on the set of Doctor Zhivago. This is not Russia and there isn't the slightest possibility of a Bolshevik revolution on this campus, but there are still profound emotional changes under way.
Finally, I muster the courage to answer. "If I have to make a choice, I'll certainly choose the Brain Tree."
"But you made me a promise!" Mama Rice Pudding bursts forth.
"I'm sorry," I say again, unable to meet her eyes.
Milady Ambitious Chekhovian jumps down from her branch and Miss Highbrowed Cynic grins at her, shouting, "Give me five!"
Partners in crime. They do such a complicated high five, with their arms and fingers passing through each other's, that we all watch with awe.
When the show is over Dame Dervish sighs heavily, Little Miss Practical takes off her glasses and cleans them nervously, Mama Rice Pudding cries silently.
"Now you have to repeat after me," says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. "I've traveled wide, I've traveled far—"
I do. On the snow-covered Mount Holyoke campus, under that breathtaking Brain Tree, I swear these words to myself:
"I've traveled wide, I've traveled far, and I've placed writing at the center of my life. At last I've reached a decision between Body and Brain. From now on I want to be only, and only, Brain. No longer will the Body hold sway over me. I have no want for womanhood, housework, wife work, maternal instincts or giving birth. I want to be a writer, and that is all I want to pursue."