After making my request, the school scheduled a series of meetings for me: a walk-through of the greenhouse, a conversation with my immediate supervisors, and a final decision to be reached and relayed to me by the office of the provost, a Mr. George Round. By the time the last meeting came up, I’d been circling the prospect of new money—my new money—for weeks, and it had crept beneath my skin. I found myself looking critically at things like dish towels and tea cups, thinking about color schemes and bookends that might improve the atmosphere of my home. It wasn’t as though I’d be swimming in gold if the raise went through, but I would be able to take myself out to eat now and then. I could, as John so kindly pointed out, replace my torn jeans. There was, deep within me, still some trace of that undernourished girl who clung to the rail of a ship and dreamed of America, and I wanted so badly to impress her. To show myself how far I’d come.
Sitting outside Mr. Round’s office, I smoothed my skirt over my knees and tried to keep from hyperventilating. A secretary perched nearby, typing. Her method was peculiar—she’d stare at the paper, taking measured breaths, fingers poised—and then with no warning burst into motion. Then she’d stop to think again. It was difficult to listen to, in my condition; I spent the silent periods in tense anticipation of a new surge of keystrokes, and when they came each one resonated in my head like the blow from a hammer. I had no idea what the provost was likely to say. My initial bluster had worn off, but in the meantime I’d grown attached to the idea of being comfortable—something I couldn’t remember ever having been before. I clasped my hands tight, and looked at my shoes. Scuffed, of course.
The telephone rang.
“Yes? Yes. Alright.” The secretary looked up at me and smiled. “You can go in now.”
This, then, was it. I walked through the large oak doorway into a corner office, brightly lit by two enormous windows. Another desk, bigger than the secretary’s, was stationed ten paces away in the rear, and behind it sat a frowning gentleman in a perfectly pressed suit. I smiled to myself—George Round was not round. He was slender, and had a nice lavender tie. There were, I noted, three separate houseplants in the room, an African violet, a philodendron, and some type of fern. Obvious choices, probably selected for him by the secretary or some unseen wife, but still—well cared for. Positioned for sufficient sun. George Round looked up from the paper in his hands, and motioned for me to sit down.
“Miss—”
“Andropov,” I supplied, unnecessarily.
“Yes, of course. Well.” He cleared his throat. “Tell me—” I leaned forward into his pause, prepared to defend my understanding of soil types and inflation rates and educational horticulture. My significance as a human being. “Do you have lilies in your greenhouse?”
“I’m sorry?” The simplicity and directness of his question caught me off guard.
“Lilies,” George Round repeated. “Do you have any?”
“I do.”
We both waited for the other to continue. George Round twitched his moustache.
“And what—”
“I have several—”
We laughed.
“Well, that’s lovely.” His glasses must’ve fogged, because he took them off and cleaned them, using the underside of his pretty tie. “I care a great deal for lilies. Such an elegant flower.”
“I agree,” I said. “Most people prefer roses. Which—I like them well enough, but there’s something ordinary about the shape of them, I think. People are familiar with roses. Whereas lilies—”
“A simpler profile, but somehow more elusive.”
“Yes.”
There was a brief silence. George Round picked up the stack of papers in front of him, and straightened them out, clearing his throat again. A tick, I wondered, or the precursor to our real conversation? Perhaps now he’d question my core competencies, or bring up my behavior towards Kay. As far as I knew she’d never ratted me out, but I couldn’t be sure what was written there. Dark marks in the file cabinet.
“This all seems to be in order,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, I think I have everything I need. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Andropov.”
“Sir.” Not knowing what else to do, I stood up. “And my salary increase?”
“Oh! Approved. Heartily approved.” He beamed. “Unless you’re unhappy with the amount?”
“Not at all,” I said quickly. Later, I would wonder if this was a mistake, if I could’ve asked for more. A skill I’m still learning. “Thank you.”
“It will be reflected in your next paycheck.”
I nodded and thanked Mr. Round again, and when I walked out into the antechamber I gave the secretary a dazed smile. That was all? That was all. I’d thought of nothing else for weeks, prepared my arguments for days, and now it was over. I had done well. The sun was shining; early fall. Practically still summertime.
As I pushed out of the building, I wondered if George Round knew to water the African violets from the bottom, and whether he remembered to spritz them when the furnace dried out the office air. Probably so. And if not, what did it matter to me?
It was hot, I realized. The good pair of stockings I’d worn to look chic were now sticky with sweat, so I ducked behind a tree and peeled them off, rolling them up into my purse. I walked to the ice cream parlor and got myself a scoop of strawberry, then wandered around until the cream melted down onto my fingers, and threw the half-eaten cone away. Despite being happy, there was a strange feeling in my fingertips, toetips, the top layer of my skin. Unresolved energy, sparking. I thought about wandering until I found Colin, my unfortunate old flame, and throwing him against the side of a building to see how he liked it. Probably he would, probably too much.
What had I hoped would happen? Perhaps that my life would change. But people walked by and no one congratulated or admired me. My body just kept going, like a well-wound clock. I took a taxi to the department store and picked out a new blouse and new dress and new pair of work pants—reinforced duck cloth instead of denim. In the dressing room I paused to feel the weight of the fabric against my skin, slightly different with each garment. I took another taxi home and tipped the driver well. We passed a moving truck at one point, which of course I gave no thought to at all. In the pivotal moments of your life, how often are you really paying attention to what matters? I’d like to ask Vera that: I suspect her answer would be different from most people’s. Different from mine, absolutely. She’d probably wrapped every item on that truck herself, with cleverness and care. Her own innovative solutions. And perhaps what I felt was not just the glow of a job well done, but some subconscious glimmer of anticipation.
The next day, all our lives would change, every one. In a couple of brief sightings: a man peering into a greenhouse, hat in hand. A girl, breathing against the glass to clean it, startled by the closeness of his face. I know it was Vera’s idea to bring them to Maple Hill, and so now, looking back, I wonder how much of the future she might have expected. Reason suggests: almost none. But when did Vera stoop to reason?