CHAPTER 16

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FATHER HAD NO intention of housing Vivian while she studied. Vivian complained to Mother that Father’s house was too noisy with the boys running around, and Mother suggested that Aunt Faye might appreciate the company and the extra income. Aunt Faye lived in a bungalow not far from the university and Vivian had been there a handful of times with Mother. During their last visit, Aunt Faye had scolded her younger sister for being foolish enough to marry that Irishman, though Father’s family had emigrated to British North America at some point during the previous century.

Uncertain what Aunt Faye would make of her decision to pursue higher education, Vivian was relieved when Mother received a letter from her sister agreeing to the arrangement on a trial basis. Mother said it was important never to suggest to Aunt Faye that she benefitted in any way from Vivian’s presence in her home. If Vivian could accept that she was no more or less than a burden to her aunt, they’d get along fine.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing here, young lady.”

Aunt Faye lifts the coffee mug to her lips and takes a sip. Her face sours. “Bring me the sugar. Didn’t I say to add sugar?”

Vivian’s first instructions were to deposit her bags in a poky bedroom and put the percolator on the stove. Keen to maintain a roof over her head for at least the first semester, Vivian wordlessly obeys her aunt, searching the kitchen cupboards before returning with the sugar, wondering whether the next four years of her life would be like this.

“You want to escape the influence of your sinful father and I admire that. But universities are full of grandiose notions. Don’t forget your purpose—to find a husband who will respect you and honour the institution of marriage.”

Aunt Faye always dresses in black. She wears her war widow status like a badge of honour. But even black fades. Her clothes were purchased years ago and her grey hair descends to her waist when she releases it from her bun. She wears no makeup and has no telephone. Teabags are reused at least twice. One of her neighbours leaves the previous day’s newspaper on the front step every morning.

“As Mr. Lee says, there’s no sense in wasting paper,” Aunt Faye explains the first time she orders Vivian to fetch it for her. Vivian wonders how many other small acts of charity her aunt accepts from friends and acquaintances.

The rain pitter-patters on her umbrella and water puddles on the stone beneath her brown heels. Her green bag matches the pencil dress beneath her long trench coat; a simple first-day outfit she spent too much time thinking about.

Black leather Oxfords slap the top step. A freckled man with a red tie tucked into his V-neck sweater races past her to the shelter of the building. A handful of students in sport jackets joke with each other as they hurry up the same steps in unison.

Vivian pauses at the doorway and folds her umbrella. Drops fall onto her curly brown hair, restrained by a green headband. “Law isn’t a good fit for a criminal. You should choose a different field of study.” Her father’s last piece of unsolicited advice. She thinks about her father’s condescension, Ruth, his mistress Mrs. Langston, the small amount of money he deposited for her first-year fees and living expenses. Pursuing what she wanted was seen as inappropriate, even wrong. Why?

Someone taps her on the shoulder, and she turns to find a striking woman in a long tweed coat folding her umbrella. Tall with cool blue eyes, blonde hair neatly tucked into a French twist, and a natural elegance that reminds Vivian of Ruth. The woman stretches out her hand. Vivian shakes it.

“Bernice Kingsley.”

“Vivian Thompson.”

“We’re the new world, Vivian. We don’t want to be late.”

Bernice whispers in Vivian’s ear. “Can I borrow a pen?” The grey moustached professor marches over to their seats and chastises the two of them for “colluding.” During the next class, a young bushy-browed teacher directs fifty percent of his questions at Bernice; his definition of equal opportunity. Bernice finds ways to exact her revenge. She has a particular talent for making shy, male students blush. “If they can’t handle me, they shouldn’t have chosen law,” she remarks, unrepentant.

On Thursdays, Aunt Faye dons her long black wool trench coat and walks to the seniors’ centre to play bridge. Vivian throws herself back onto the threadbare raspberry sofa and puts her feet up on the coffee table, polished to a high sheen. A few minutes later, Bernice rolls up in her father’s Aston Martin. Aunt Faye’s is a clean but dull home: old carpet, tired floral wallpaper and mustiness emanating from the curtains. It’s so much brighter when Bernice comes to visit.

Bernice brings her usual complaints about having to endure another of her parents’ extravagant parties, along with an array of party treats she was able to pilfer unnoticed. Cigars, cognac, glazed shrimp, caviar, meringue, imported cheeses.

While the pair of them work their way through the fancy scraps, Bernice launches into light-hearted impressions of the men who attend these gatherings. She stands by the open kitchen window puffing cigars or swigging whiskey, pushing out her stomach and talking in a booming voice about those stacked pin-up girls. The way she holds herself is uncanny.

“Your father gives you a lot of freedom,” Vivian says.

“He calls me a force to be reckoned with,” Bernice replies as she thrusts one of Aunt Faye’s dull dinner knives into a block of gruyère.

Bernice jokes sometimes that she will cut off her long blonde hair and practice the law in men’s suits. Vivian doesn’t think much of it until she catches Bernice looking at another woman the way men do, captivating them with her own desire.

Time moves quickly in that first semester. The workload is heavy and Vivian toils ferociously, determined to outperform her male peers. Still, she finds time to socialize despite the inevitable tedium of her dates. It doesn’t seem to matter how she behaves or what they do. Uniformly uninspiring: guys who call her “baby,” the greasers, the heavy drinkers, the pseudo philosophers, the trophy boys, the wealthy and unambitious, the ambitious and self-centred. She blames her parents’ dysfunctional relationship for her resistance to attachment. She hates the idea of being on somebody’s arm, being led as if she is incapable of finding her own way.

Yet before she knows it, Bernice is popping over with stolen Christmas party snacks, and the first semester is almost done.

Vivian meets Todd at a Christmas party. He buys her a dry martini and she expects him to be as dull as the others. But he’s different. For one thing, he isn’t a student. “I work at an office supplies firm,” he says and she wants to stop him there, but it is Christmas, so she lets him continue. He tells her about his business goals, his plans for setting up something of his own, and he explains all of it with a quiet confidence that she admires. He inherited some seed money after his father died in the war. Todd stops himself and apologizes for talking about business. “It’s refreshing,” she tells him, and she means it. He asks her for her opinions.

He has a handsome smile and knows how to dress sharply. Even better, she feels as though she has his full attention and is certain that she’ll never have to fight for it. She isn’t infatuated. It isn’t love at first sight, and yet, there is something about him. They would be good, as partners.

Loud knocking on the front door startles Vivian. She pulls back the living room curtain as a cab leaves the curb. Bernice is wobbling on the step. It’s 10 pm but it’s bridge night and Aunt Faye isn’t home.

“These are for you,” Bernice manages to say as she passes Vivian a near-empty whiskey bottle and an empty box of chocolates. She lurches into the doorway and Vivian helps her inside. Bernice collapses into a chair, head lolling.

“Daddy’s fixed it for me,” she says, slurring. “Me and Ralph Locke are engaged. I’m dropping out of law school.”

“Who’s Ralph Locke?”

“The son of a hotelier. It’s because ... it’s very good for Daddy’s business.”

“You’re a grown woman. You can make your own decisions.”

Bernice barks out a laugh and then starts bawling.

The wedding invitation arrives a couple of weeks later. Vivian declines it and all of Bernice’s social invitations until Bernice stops asking. It isn’t the fraudulence of Bernice’s situation that she finds objectionable; it is her weakness, her unwillingness to fight for herself. In the end, Bernice is no better than Mother. Vivian cannot waste her time associating with people like that.