Not Now

By Jonnie Garrett Frankel

Depicts the personal struggles of the young student Stacie Galloway during the loyalty crisis at UC Berkeley, including Stacie's romantic involvements, dramatic events with her housemates, and family issues. The author weaves the experiences and escapades of fictional characters into historically real events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2009
• ISBN: 9781450080125

Book preview

Copyright © 2009 by Jonnie Garrett Frankel.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters in this story are fictitious, products of the author’s imagination. However, the story evolves within a background of actual historical events.

Cover drawing by Jonnie Garrett Frankel

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

53764

CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1    Spring Forward

Chapter 2    Undergraduate Kaleidoscope

Chapter 3    Floyd

Chapter 4    A Wisp of the Willow

Chapter 5    Delaware Street

Chapter 6    More New Friends

Chapter 7    Settling In

Chapter 8    Nellie and Clarence

Chapter 9    The Academic Senate7

Chapter 10  Lex

Chapter 11  Stacie’s Dinner

Chapter 12  Perietta

Chapter 13  Willa

Chapter 14  Sleuthing

Chapter 15  Pot Luck

Chapter 16  Yoshi’s Dinner

Chapter 17  Summer

Chapter 18  Autumn Colors Changing

Chapter 19  Christmas at Home

Chapter 20  The New Year

Chapter 21  Facing Up

Chapter 22  Hardball

Chapter 23  The Way It Bounces

Chapter 24  Counterpoint

Chapter 25  Choices

Chapter 26  Cody’s Caper

Chapter 27  Cracking the Right Wing

Chapter 28  History Fletulates

Chapter 29  The Compromise

Chapter 30  The Wimp

Chapter 31  Fanfare

Chapter 32  The Farewell Party

Epilogue

Author’s Notes

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

For Ted and our wonderful family.

PREFACE

TO STACIE, BERKELEY in 1949 was in all ways fascinating and remained exciting after years of being there.

A deep sigh of early summer pulled through her nostrils, held for a beat, and slipped out her open mouth. Eyes wide, alert to the place, she was still aroused by the town’s sensuous aura. Domed by a sky of pinks and blues, bantam clouds edged in grays—grays not to be taken seriously in the California way of ignoring the somber. Protective trees waved at anyone who cared to look, their green arms warmed by sleeves of burnished gold.

Berkeley meant bookstores and books, new and used, mugs of conversation coffee in tiny shops. Sather Gate, the handshake of hospitality to Stacie. The Big C, up on the hill above the Greek Theatre, boasting, humorous, friendly. Throaty chimes of the Campanile spoke to her with the understanding of a grandparent. She was truly at home on the foliage-softened streets, lined by old houses, some handsome, some not, many converted to students’ rooms and apartments.

Berkeley in 1949, swollen with expectancy, eye-to-eye searching, ready gatherings around impassioned speakers, fast-talking people vibrating along the sidewalks. The little town forever fomented and fermented while its neighbor, the eternal bay, shimmered calmly, paternalistic, patient. An elegant San Francisco skyline glided north toward Mt. Tamalpais, the reclining Indian woman.

Like the lounging woman, the wise and ancient bay rested comfortably, watching the Berkeley scene. It twinkled, perhaps with some amusement.

This was Stacie’s Berkeley and she loved it.

CHAPTER 1

Spring Forward

THE CORNERS OF her mouth tugged upward as Stacie drove her thirteen-year-old Plymouth through homey, fully lived-in neighborhoods toward Grove to meet a new landlord and look at a rental apartment. A fresh beginning. Rejecting an old pattern of dependence, not too happy with herself, not too sure but yearning for a new direction. She sniffed and drew in little gasps, wary but hopeful, and at least very much on her own. That was the important thing. She could make her own mistakes and possibly even do something right.

It was May, her birthday month; time was shoving, and the future wanted shaping. The past, however defective, could be useful. Cruising along the pleasant streets, she mused as she often did, over the spread of events that dramatized her years in this incomparable town. In Berkeley there was enough ammunition to cope with the downsides, the foibles. Subdue them. Outlast them.

Distracted, her lips moving as she preached to herself, she guided her timeworn car, a great turtle of moldy green, almost to Grove. She paused, referred to a circled newspaper ad resting on the seat beside her. The neighborhood improved; she found the address, parked, and got out. Six wooden steps led to the porch of a well-groomed, freshly painted house. Stacie rapped on the door of landlord Mr. Sidney Portnof.

As she studied the lyrical vine carved into the old door, it opened abruptly, revealing a short elfin man in his sixties with a winsome, sassy face fringed in gray. A wide-brimmed straw hat sat assertively on his head as he tilted it around the door to beam his greeting. Happy to see her, ready to communicate.

How do you do? I em Sidney Portnof.

He pumped her hand, delivering words in a melodious European rhythm. Small pebble eyes searched Stacie’s face. A master of charm, a man one could not easily dismiss, his intensity made the most of the moment; and she was ready to be pulled along.

So you called about the apartment. Please come in, young lady.

He dipped in a formal little bow and, with a sweeping motion of his arm, invited her inside. The room in which they stood was simply furnished, old-fashioned, and spare, as flavored with old Europe as the man himself. Furnishings were in maroons and dark-stained wood, straight chairs with worn velvet backings, photographs displayed everywhere—old family pictures, some stiffly posed studio portraits from decades ago, and a scatter of recent little snapshots. Serious faces in oval gold frames, forever fixed in an earlier time, hung on faded fleur-de-lis wallpaper.

Depths and layers of many years were lovingly preserved in this interior, from lace curtains to carved antique sideboard. Glass cupboards displayed hand painted mustard pots, toothpick holders, celery vases, and old china. A brass samovar occupied the place of honor. Books, magazines, and newspapers stood in orderly stacks on the dining table, coffee table, and end tables.

Stacie lingered at an amateur painting of two people who appeared to be Portnof and a woman she took to be his wife.

Thet was painted by my grenddaughter, Tamar. She paints much weirder now. Sort of cubist Freud Dada stuff. But she was very young when she painted thet one, almost a child, and it came out pretty nice. Tova, my wife, liked thet picture a lot.

The portly man walked over to a cut glass decanter of deep red and set up two tiny matching stem glasses.

We should hev my little ritual of a thimbleful sherry to mark the occasion. Hit shows I’m being hospitable. He twinkled at her and handed her a glass. For myself I usually drink Cenadian Club whiskey, but for a young lady, mebbe sherry is better. He held his glass in salute.

After downing his sherry neat, still wearing his hat, he launched into a stream of questions. Was she a student? Where did she grow up? Where did her parents live? What was she majoring in? Was she working? Did she have any pets?

Sipping the teasing little draft, Stacie found partial answers to some of his questions, but he seemed more interested in talking than listening; and soon Mr. Portnof was driving her in his late model Chrysler to inspect the rental apartment. As he sped and braked, sped and braked, he talked about himself.

I myself em a Jew from Lithuania. I grew up in a little town we called Yevye, near Vilnius. Yevye was just a little hemlet, a shtetl. Thet’s a place where Jews were ellowed to live. Jews were not ellowed to live just anywhere on the lend.

He braked at an intersection to allow several cars to pass.

By the twenties I was living in Los Engeles. I hed my own produce business in LA for years—delivered fruits and vegetables to the big markets and hotels, nearly all of them. I knew Irene Dunne and Harold Lloyd and lots of the movie stars then.

He shot her a proud side-glance as they raced along. They used to say ‘Hello, Sid,’ and visit with me anytime I ren into them. Charlie Cheplin was my favorite in the films, although he wasn’t always so friendly. But my wife, Tova, developed terrible ellergies living there. She hed ellergies in Philadelphia and then again in Los Engeles. We finally hed to move north.

Do you like living here, Mr. Portnof?

Hit’s okay; hit’s ha pretty interesting place. We lived here for about eight years before Tova died. By then I owned some income property in this area, and my daughter lives here with her femily. I like the university, and I use the library on the kempus, but there’s no real Jewish community here the way there is in Los Engeles. No real Jewish restaurants and delis. Don’t get me wrong. I’m really quite heppy here.

Stacie smiled, responding sparsely to the talkative man. She enjoyed his perky manner and managed to interject, Charlie Chaplin is a favorite of mine too.

Before Mr. Portnof finished his tale, they arrived at an old two-story house, built she guessed in the previous century, and which was probably grand in its time, much larger than the small houses surrounding it. They climbed to the big front porch and massive wooden door. The house, though large, was grand no longer. The exterior paint was peeling, the carved front door was thoroughly time battered, grass and weeds grew unbarbered in the yards.

I used to take care of the yards here, but now I ken’t. My beck is not too good anymore. But I will probably get this place spruced up one day before long. I should do that for the nice people who live here.

Empty and echoing, the apartment that Portnof showed her consisted of the original parlor of the old house, a spacious dining room, and an oversized kitchen, all with high ceilings and high vertical windows. The three rooms lined up railroad-style, one after the other, with room enough in the parlor for a sitting area, bookshelves, and her upright piano, room enough in the dining room for her big low bed as well as her homebuilt dining table and some chairs. In the dining room near the doorway to the kitchen sat a black potbellied stove. With the belly of a plump bird it craned its long chimney-pipe neck up to the ceiling. Too good to be true.

The kitchen accommodated a built-in eating table, a noisy old refrigerator, and a sturdy gas stove, which might be a beauty once the grease was scoured off.

A dingy, unattractive, share bathroom hid across a dim hallway from the kitchen. The unknown person, with whom she would share the bath, occupied an apartment also tucked across the back hallway.

In spite of the dreary little bathroom, she was definitely surprised by and pleased with the apartment. It was shabby and dusty but offered a luxury of space to work with, as well as ample light and character. Work would be required, but it would be fun to decorate in her own way. Her designer’s imagination fired up, kindled by elaborate ideas, as she studied each wall and corner.

Where hev you been living, Ms. Gelloway? Portnof continued to wear his hat, studying her as she studied the living quarters.

Right now I’m living up east of campus. Everything about my current apartment is new and shiny, and I have a little view of the bay, but the place has no charm. There’s something cold and slick about it, and it’s not nearly as big as this one. In any case, I cannot afford it. The rent is going to go up a lot right now. So I need to move. Stacie’s eyes ran along the faded walls and musty windows of the empty rooms as she spoke.

From the heavy front porch door, an entry hall led to what would be Stacie’s living room door on the left and another large apartment on the right. A stairway led to apartments on the second floor. The wooden floors were battered with use, but they were a durable old hardwood. Dubious about sharing a bathroom, but with the main rooms so large, appealing, and cheap, fifty dollars per month, she decided to risk it and made a quick decision. Perhaps this is where she could find the strength of her own independence and pull away from the darker forces that tormented her.

Yes, Mr. Portnof. I’d like to take this apartment. I do have a cat. He’s very well behaved, though. Would that be all right?

My guess is thet your ket is a gentlemen. Hit’s okay. You could bring your ket. The landlord’s eyes were smiling.

How soon may I move in?

Ez soon as you like, young lady. I collect the rent on the first day of every month, so you now owe me thirty-two dollars for the remainder of this month. If you like to paint any of the walls, you may do that, any colors you like. The implication was clear that improvements would be up to her.

This was all of the house she had seen, had met none of the other residents, but she wanted to try it. She sucked in her breath, let out a nervous rattle of a laugh, and wrote Mr. Portnof a check for thirty-two dollars.

After saying goodbye to landlord Portnof, Stacie made immediate plans to move, eager to get on with it. She dialed her friend Fuller Jones, who had a friend with a truck, and asked whether they could help her move her things the following day. Fuller cleared his throat a few times and reluctantly agreed, but his frown traveled the telephone wires.

Mm-mm, I don’t have much time available, Stacie, but I guess I might be able to squeeze in a couple of hours. I hope you don’t have too much stuff.

Thanks, Fuller. You’re a buddy. I don’t really have a lot, and I’ll get everything packed up nicely today. See you in the morning then, at my old place. She hung up rather hastily before he could think of a reason to change his mind.

At a nearby market she collected an assortment of empty boxes, stacked them in her car, and rushed home to spend the rest of the day and the next morning packing her belongings, discarding old clothes, papers, and as many nonessentials as she could. As she worked, she was swept into a hasty momentum to get out of the tight, frigid apartment up on the hill and away from her old landlord, Mr. Howard Kilgo.

Even though she was a close friend of Kilgo’s nephew, the landlord had made frequent excuses to get inside her apartment to monitor his tenant with glinting bird-of-prey eyes, snooping to examine the polished floors, squinting at her lazy cat, pointing to a mark on the wall or a smudge of dust on the venetian blinds. He scrutinized her behavior as well. She was never at ease there.

Humming and packing, ready to close a small chapter of her history, she filled the boxes and spoke comforting words to her hefty orange tomcat, who watched her closely and jumped into one of the cartons, ready to be moved along with her books.

CHAPTER 2

Undergraduate Kaleidoscope

STACIE GALLOWAY WAS nearly eighteen when she crossed the mystical border four years ago, pushing her life in Oakland behind her to begin college in Berkeley. The border between the cities was a line drawn clearly on the map, but her own transition from adolescence to adulthood as she crossed that border stretched along in ambiguity. It was something of a tale of two cities.

She praised her lucky fate to be born a few miles from one of the world’s great universities, a school that she, daughter of the financially strained working class, could afford. A shy, unsure, adolescently awkward late bloomer, she was beginning the occupation she idolized, that of a university student. Roving the campus, senses alert, she simmered with a grand potential, and her romance with the place began. Potential was a concept she knew well.

In fact, she thought, potential is practically my theme song. I’ve never yet become myself. I’m always getting to be me or trying to get to be me. I must be around somewhere, as soon as I can figure out who, where, what, and why.

From a distance, Stacie, the impassioned undergraduate, resembled a slender stalk of wheat, with long honey amber hair falling free and loose to the middle of her back, her firm waist narrow and supple. Up close, a strong sculpted frame and sturdy limbs were apparent. Prominent cheekbones accented her animated face.

Hell-bent to learn everything she could, Stacie was in such a ravenous hurry that she tended to skim the surface, a flitting skeeter on the ripples of a pond. Her appetite for learning was voracious, if indiscriminate, and left precious little time for sleep. She might not plumb the deeper depths, but her unbridled adoration for the university smacked of reverence. The University of California was her cathedral, her place of worship. This is where all ills could be cured, especially her own.

With her friend Maggie of high school days, she moved into a small apartment on the north side of campus, located from an ad in the Berkeley Gazette. The tiny abode, perched over a garage, was her home during her initiation to the intellectual delights of the college town.

How do you feel about Oakland, Mag? Stacie asked one night as they were about ready to fall asleep.

You mean our dear hometown? Fremont High and all that? mumbled Maggie drowsily from her narrow bed, tucked into the shadows of the room.

Yes, Oakland, our womb, our ontological nourishment.

Mmmm. I try not to think too much about it, except for every weekend when I have to go home.

For me, I think of it as a muted period of gestation. How’s that? A gestation headed for birth traumas. Then stumbling along, crawling and toddling, hoarding up questions, hiding the hurts—watching, waiting, and wondering. Stacie too was getting sleepy but was loath to give up the day or any line of thought.

I think you’re suffering from a nose cold of verbosity from your creative writing class. ‘A muted period of gestation’ is a bit heavy for me. Maybe it’s your embryology class getting to you. Gestation makes me think of distorted little embryos with big heads floating around in smelly fluids. I think we were out of the womb and pretty much evolved while we were in Oakland. We spent a good part of high school trying to figure out what the war was all about. And I know you worked at any number of jobs. That’s not so immature.

Maybe so, but I know I was stumbling and fumbling. Storing up all those questions, and now in Berkeley I’m scouring the place for answers. What I tend to run into, of course, is just a lot more questions, but sometimes I think I hit upon an answer here and there. Or at least part of an answer.

You’re the one who can think up the questions.

I’m hoping to have solutions to the mysteries of the universe flow through the funnel of Berkeley directly into me, the empty vessel.

Mmm. Lots of luck. Let me know when they get there. But I hope it’s not going to be right now. Please don’t funnel any more metaphors into my groggy head tonight.

Her roommate, Maggie, a talented art major, small and energetic, hair bouncing in ringlets of raw umber, sparkling eyes, freckles all over, a little chipmunk smile, emitted a power derived from unswerving self-confidence, ability, and an industrious application to art.

Maggie drew strength from a certain belief in her own ability and her future success while Stacie vacillated, not sure of her direction, riddled with doubts about herself and what she could do, nonetheless believing that the future held wonder and glory. She was confident about the future, if not the present.

The next morning, as they brewed coffee on a hotplate in a corner of their little room, Maggie yawned, packed up some paints, and said, Fuller is coming in this weekend, Stacie. Are you planning to be around?

Oh, I might stick around long enough to say hello to old buddy Fuller, and then I can take off for the weekend if you like. I’ll explore my roots at home again. Back to my gestation. Maggie never seems to notice the depressions I lug back with me after my weekends at home.

Your images are harder even on an empty stomach than they are on an empty head. Wait till after I’ve had my doughnut.

Stacie poured boiling water through the grounds mounded in the paper filter of her new Chemex, inhaled the rich aroma, and asked, How does Fuller like Seattle?

He can hardly wait to get out of the navy. Me too. I have to listen to him talk about some sexy woman trombone player who’s also in the navy and plays in the same band.

At least Fuller’s still in the USA. Most of the boys in our class have waded in mudholes around the world that would make Seattle look pretty attractive.

He would dearly love to be sent somewhere exotic, but with his eyesight, they won’t do it. He just gets to blow his bassoon and look at the Waves.

Fuller never misses seeing much, as far as I can tell. He catches every dumb thing I do, and quite a few I don’t, and then bashes me about.

He just picks on you because he likes you. In fact, he likes all good-looking females, damn him.

Do you know what our work schedule at Stebbins is this week?

The girls washed dishes at a co-op where they could take their meals at a reasonable cost. In addition, Stacie worked at other jobs to support herself, usually on the campus.

Here’s the schedule. I’ll pin it to the board. We have Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, and we’ll share our shift with Phyllis Fisher.

Terrific. I love to wash dishes with Phyll. She’s involved with so many things, I always learn something.

I agree. She’s a great person. Also I’ve noticed her brother has a big, sloshy crush on you.

Rosie. He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he? He’s taking me to see a play on campus this week. Tell me, what do you think of this coffee? Is it strong enough? The girls swayed slightly in rickety wooden cafe chairs and rested their elbows on an old card table.

Not bad at all. Although I miss spitting out the grounds from our old aluminum pot. So, Stacie, tell me now that I’ve had my caffeine and sucrose, are you still crazy about this place, this town, this Berkeley, I mean?

Oh yes. In spades. In all caps. In neon. It’s my kind of place. I love the outrageous characters, every sort you can think of. I even like the ones I don’t like. I like seeing mixed-race couples walking around together. So liberal and progressive. Something we never saw at home.

Don’t forget homosexuals. We didn’t even know they existed before we came here.

I know. There’s a sweet boy who works at my lab who invited me to a party at his apartment. Turned out he’s of that persuasion, and he and his roommate give sedate little parties with as many females as males. They serve mulled wine and play soft, gentle music. They’re quite domestic and such nice people.

How’s your eternal indecision over your major coming along? Maggie poured herself some more coffee. Are you going to stick with English?

No, much as I’d love to, I’m afraid I’m not good enough. Can’t see that I’d ever be a real writer, much less make a living by writing. Science beckons me, and I think I’m going to change to premed. Can you see me curing the diseases of humanity?

Maybe. But why so revolutionary? You could be asking for trouble. It’s probably easier to get away with writing. At least you could use a male pen name. There are mighty few women accepted by medical schools.

I know that’s true; they don’t accept many. I wonder if it’s worse for Jewish students or for women. The med schools have out-and-out quotas for Jews no matter how good their grades are. But I like taking premed classes, and I don’t mind that there are hardly any girls in them. I like my science classes, and I know that if I’m really good enough I can get into medical school even without going through a sex change. They do accept a few women each year.

I think I could see you as a physician, Stace. In the meantime, remember I want to spend some time this afternoon on my painting of you, the quintessential woman student.

It’s not clear to me why you want me to sit for that. What you do on the canvas is barely even human, let alone looking like me. Stacie peered into a mirror at the tanned image of herself, her Pippin green eyes, streaked with blues, brows bleached from the sun; and she exaggerated her silly, jack-o’-lantern smile.

You see I have two eyes, one on this side and one on the other, and two of these and two of those. How is it that you see me as a big pile of blocks with a bunch of little sticks poking out?

It’s all in the interpretation, Maggie answered. It’s true that I stretch things a lot for a composition, but still I get a great deal out of having raw material from the real world to stimulate my imagination.

I suppose that’s me, really raw material. Okay, I’ll get back here sometime this afternoon and let you turn me into a freely distorted heap of geometry.

Stacie rushed off to her embryology class, took a few minutes after class to confer with classmates about lecture notes, and then hurried through a growing drizzle to her job at the veterinary science lab up on the hill where she worked as a histology technician. She enjoyed the histology procedures, which she had learned on the job.

Her raincoat went on a hook behind the door, her damp books stowed in a corner as she settled into work, concentrating on the pig embryo slides she was preparing. Her boss, Dr. Anthon, blew into the room from the wet outside, saying as he always did when it rained, Duck weather! He pulled off his raincoat and slid onto a lab stool near her. Dr. Anthon was a bulky man with great cowlike eyes and delicate small feet, a scientist who had written a number of papers on anthrax but who was totally disorganized around the lab. The staff called him Dr. Anthrax when he was not around.

He swiveled on a stool near Stacie and began to chat. Last night at my house we ate dinner on a table my two sons managed to hammer together from some old lumber we had. The thing barely stood up, but we had our dinner on it, in any case. Mildred is such a good mother. She always thinks of the right thing to do for the kids.

Your boys must have loved that. Stacie paused in her work to accommodate her boss. He pulled a family snapshot out of his wallet and showed it to Stacie.

Mildred’s great with the kids and the house, but believe it or not, she’s insanely jealous. She actually goes through my little telephone book on the sly, looking for suspicious numbers. She came up with the incredible idea that I was involved with Rena, our mousy little illustrator.

Stacie felt distinctly uncomfortable with this confidence, how utterly inappropriate, but managed to answer, I’m sure Rena is the soul of propriety. Maybe you should have them speak to each other. Rena would probably relieve Mrs. Anthon’s suspicions.

Oh well. I’d just as soon have her think it’s Rena, he laughed maliciously and winked.

Self-conscious and bothered, Stacie inserted a set of slides into a holder as Dr. Anthon watched her return to work.

The professor picked up a slide, glanced at it, and spoke affectionately, You know, you’re the best histology technician we’ve ever had in this lab. Your slides have the sharpest definition and the clearest color contrast.

Thank you, Dr. Anthon. I enjoy doing the stains.

Several days later, Anthon with his Duck weather! blew in again and said, Stacie, it’s almost Christmas. I want to get you a present. I admire the pullover sweaters you wear in those light edible colors. They have a new selection of cashmeres down at Roos Brothers.

No. No, Dr. Anthon. Please don’t do that. A cashmere would be much too much really. And we’re going to have a Christmas present pool in the lab. We’ll each draw one name for a person to give a present to. Both of our names will be in it. And there’s some kind of dollar limit on the price of the presents.

I know about the pool. We do that every year. But I’d like to take you down and let you try on some sweaters so I could get one for you. You’re a fine technician, Stacie, and a lovely girl. We’re all happy to have you working here.

I don’t need any special presents really. I have slides in timed staining vats right now, and I have an appointment with my roommate to help her with a painting she’s doing. I really couldn’t go anywhere, Dr. Anthon.

A few days later her boss rambled in again as she was slicing thin pieces of tissue embedded in wax.

Thank god, it isn’t duck weather, she thought as she worked, not looking up.

He carried several gift-wrapped packages and handed her the largest one, a box with gold paper and a big gold bow.

Here, lovely Ms. Stacie, is your Christmas present from me. See what you think of it. These are for the other girls. I always get presents for the staff.

Nervously Stacie opened the package and removed a short-sleeved cinnamon-colored cashmere pullover sweater. It was stunning.

It’s much too nice, Dr. Anthon. I don’t see how I can accept this.

Please put it on, Stacie. I need to know whether it fits.

With some apprehension, she took the sweater into the restroom and pulled it on. In the mirror she saw that the color was perfect for her, harmonized with her loose amber hair, and so was the fit. Woodenly, she made her way back to the lab where her boss glowed with delight, his great bovine eyes shining.

Stacie murmured in a small voice, It’s a lovely sweater, Dr. Anthon. It’s really too much for you to do.

It’s gorgeous. It just needed you to fill it out.

He ran his hand along her shoulder, touching the softness. I love the feel of cashmere, don’t you? There’s nothing else quite like it. I’m sure this sweater knows it’s in the right place now, next to your wonderfully soft skin. And now, dear, how about a little Christmas kiss?

Stacie looked down at the man’s small feet, which suddenly looked like hooves, squeezed her eyes closed, and realized she had made a big mistake. She should never have put on the sweater.

The professor tilted her chin up, ran his hands around her waist, along her back, and planted a moist kiss on her mouth, wiggling his tongue between her lips and pulling her tightly against him.

Stacie tried to finish the kiss quickly, gasped, and jumped back with a little laugh, forcing a casual tone.

Yes, merry Christmas, Dr. Anthon. But there’s no mistletoe in here. She giggled nervously and sputtered, I hope you and your family will have a fine holiday. It should be fun with two young children. I love the sweater. Thank you loads. And now I have to get to some tissues I’m embedding. With a sweaty hand she grabbed a small beaker of eosin, gave another dopey little laugh as she rushed away to a room where other people were working, and banged into two lab tables in her haste.

You idiot, she screamed silently at herself. You complete idiot.

Her face was hot and flushed as she clumsily tried to work with a vat of molten wax, thinking, Maybe that’s one lesson you’ve learned anyway. Don’t accept big gifts from men if you don’t plan to follow through. Of course they’re going to expect something in return. The tainted cashmere was too warm to work in and added to her discomfort and guilt.

Her thoughts were turbulent. It might be touchy now to continue with her job at vet science. Could she keep her boss at arm’s length and not make him furious? Could she return the sweater to him? If she didn’t, would she feel she owed him something? If she left, she would need a reference from him for another job. Damnation. What was the right thing to do after somehow managing to mess up? I think I’ve caught terminal hoof in mouth disease from this place.

Although she was intoxicated by the excitements of content and substance at the university, another awakening competed for attention. Stacie had been an awkward, plain little social klutz in her middle teens, ill at ease with boys except when discussing school subjects; and for the most part, they had paid her little attention.

Quite abruptly in her late teens and especially at the university, her rough edges smoothed and softened. A sensuous fullness played around her mouth. Incredibly and almost overnight, seeming multitudes of males noticed her presence.

With her basic shyness, clumsy inexperience, and doubts about herself, she was unprepared to cope with this phenomenon. The whole flattering revolution was fun, hilarious, and downright astounding; but she had no idea how to deal with it.

Her college years were permeated also with the bigger realities of the world—the final stages of the war with the tragedies of several friends and relatives taken prisoner, injured, or killed on distant battlefields; wartime full employment for those at home; wartime rationing of meat, sugar, and gasoline. Then the heady victory over Germany, the death of President Roosevelt in his fourth term, the atom bomb with history shaking clouds billowing over Japan, and the horrible revelations of the death camps of Hitler.

Endless discussions ground on as to whether President Truman had been right in his decision to drop the A-bombs. The most vocal students claimed it was a heinous wrong. Young servicemen returned and attended colleges on the GI bill. The vets were a seriously directed group of students as the world settled into the welcome relief of peace, healing, and moving forward.

Staccato fast, many issues hit at Stacie and her restless thoughts. Probing questions of religion. Explosive changes in music and art. Stravinsky had stunned the world with his new rites of music, and Schoenberg percussed the scene with twelve tones. Picasso revolutionized all approaches to painting and sculpture, and college conversations heated with questions of what is art?

Stacie first tasted the magical beauty of Bach and Beethoven at the same time as that of Bartók, Milhaud, Copland, and Prokofiev. Of Giotto and Michelangelo at the same time as Picasso, Paul Klee, and Ben Shahn.

Could capitalism survive, or did exploitation of the workers contain the seeds of capitalism’s inevitable decay? Do the ends justify the means? How much socialism is good, and when does corruption and unmotivated mediocrity set in?

The atom could be harnessed for energy, or it could wipe out mankind. The living cell fascinated the world with its genetic capabilities, viruses invading and replicating in their own images. Every field exploded around her with exciting revelations, influencing the future, even as Stacie was first studying the fundamentals, the watershed discoveries of the past.

Fuller Jones, tall and gangly, brashly bright, bespectacled, and as accomplished and devoted to music and composing as Maggie was to art, returned after the war to attend UC on the GI bill. In time, Fuller and Maggie, the perfect couple, set their wedding day.

Fuller and Stacie took the same physics class and strolled one day across a small bridge near the Faculty Club.

How do you like your job these days, Stace. Any better than your last one?

At least no one is chasing me around lab benches, but I’m not sure it’s any better.

"How did you get away from the old lecher