All The Pretty Dead Girls. John Manning
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of the shrine to Mariclare.
“Why isn’t there a wedding picture?” Sue, thirteen at the time, asked.
Her grandmother smiled slightly. “Your parents eloped. I’m afraid your grandfather didn’t approve of your father.” She then added in a whisper, “He blames your father, you know. He was driving the car when they crashed.” She wagged a finger. “So don’t ever ask your grandfather about your father.”
“But didn’t my father have any family? Don’t I have any cousins or grandparents on that side?”
Gran shook her head, her heavily sprayed hair not moving. “He had no people.” She sighed, and picked up a photograph of Mariclare in her cap and gown at high school graduation. “Every day, I thank God you weren’t in the car with them.”
“Are you going to the opening ceremonies tonight?”
Sue’s thoughts were brought back to the present by her roommate’s question.
“Well, I haven’t really thought about it. I was just thinking as far as getting here and collapsing.”
Malika smiled. “Well, I’d like to skip it. But it’s mandatory, honey. Didn’t you know? If you don’t go, they’ll give you demerits or something. Besides, there might be a protest, and I don’t want to miss that.”
“Protest? Why?”
Malika shook a finger at her. “Susan dear, clearly you aren’t reading the official statements the school sends out.”
“Well, we got so many…”
“Joyce Davenport is here to welcome us all to the new school year!”
Sue smirked. “Okay, clue me in. Should I know who she is?”
“Do you not watch television?”
Sue gave her a small laugh. “Actually, no. My grandparents never allowed it. My grandfather would watch the news, but that was it.”
It was Malika’s turn to laugh. “Well, can’t say you’re missing much. Anyway, Joyce Davenport. One of Wilbourne’s esteemed alumnae. And a scary forked-tongue mouthpiece for the far, far, radical right.”
“Never heard of her.”
“She is the High Priestess of the Rapturous Right in this country. Basically, what you need to know is that she’s made a career out of smearing people she doesn’t agree with. She doesn’t debate them on the issues, she just calls them names. Traitors. Perverts. Faggots.”
“So some of the students might protest?”
“Wilbourne isn’t exactly a hotbed of liberalism,” Malika said, “but there are enough girls here who oppose Davenport’s brand of politicking that you see a few hecklers.”
“Well, she has a right to her opinions, don’t you think? Isn’t there such a thing as freedom of speech?”
“Oh, of course. I don’t want to shut her up. But if she has a right to spew her views, then the students have a right to say what they think, too.” Malika shook her head. “She’s really scary, Sue. Wait till you hear her. She’s written some really terrible books about politics—even one defending Joe McCarthy, if you can believe that. They always trot her out on the twenty-four-hour news channels to say something outrageous about women’s rights or minorities or gays. She suggested after 9/11 that the United States should just nuke the Middle East and be done with it. She calls the Palestinians savages.”
“Sounds like a real doll.” Sue suspected this Joyce Davenport was a favorite pundit of her grandfather’s. Politics weren’t discussed much in their household; indeed, as Sue quickly learned growing up, her parents weren’t the only forbidden subject for conversations. If Sue ever voiced an opinion that differed from her grandfather’s, she was told she was wrong—no questions asked. When she asked once why a woman couldn’t be a minister in their church, Granpa had said simply, “That’s God’s will,” and Gran had gestured with her hand to be quiet, to drop the subject, to not push Granpa too far. For when he was pushed too far, his anger could fill the entire apartment, leaving Sue and her grandmother suffocating for air.
Sue’s grandfather was a formidable man, despite his stooped shoulders and white, wispy hair. He was a senior partner in a large law firm that specialized in representing major corporations. Sue had often heard Granpa thunder about the evils of labor unions, welfare, minorities, women in the workplace—and every pronouncement that came from his lips seemed almost like a command from on high. He was convinced there was a massive liberal conspiracy to turn the country into a Communist welfare state with “everyone on the dole!” When he was in one of his rages, he would slap the dinner table with his hand and dishes would literally go flying. “Tax and spend, tax and spend, taking money from the hardworking to give to the shiftless and lazy!” he’d bellow. “That is not the America the Founding Fathers envisioned when they created this great country! No prayer in school indeed! Abortion on demand! Is it any wonder God has turned his back on this great nation?”
Opposing all of these horrible liberals was doing “God’s work”—and Granpa truly believed that was his mission in life. “And God has rewarded me,” he’d say, “not only for my devotion to His commandments, but for doing His work.” He’d gesture around at the massive dining room, the fine china on the shelves, the sparkling chandelier hanging over his head. “Look at the bounty He has blessed me with! Look at my beautiful young granddaughter, who will someday carry on my work!”
Indeed, when Sue was young, she would parrot whatever Granpa said. “Liberals are going to hell” or “Abortion is murder” she’d chime in her child’s voice. How Granpa had beamed when she said such things around his friends.
Yet as she got older, and actually began studying these issues at the Stowe Academy, a few thoughts of her own dawned on her. She wasn’t as liberal as Becca, who went through a “hippy phase,” as Gran called it, and declared all inheritance laws should be abolished. But still, Sue began to see the value of labor unions, how they had protected the American worker—and while she struggled with the idea of abortion, she did think a woman should have the final say about what happened to her own body. But she knew she could never share such heresy with her grandfather. He believed she remained true to his ideals. So when she eventually decided to go to law school, he’d been pleased.
“That’s my girl!” he’d said proudly. “You’ll go straight from law school to an associateship with my firm—and then there won’t be any stopping you, my girl!”
What she didn’t tell him was she wanted to be a civil rights attorney.
There’s plenty of time to cross—or burn—that bridge, Sue thought, as Malika kept up a steady tirade against this Joyce Davenport person. After I get out of law school, I’ll be free to do what I want.
“Of course, you might like her,” Malika was saying.
“You mean, the speaker?” Sue asked.
Her roommate’s eyes twinkled. “Yeah. Who knows? Maybe you’ll turn out to be a real firebrand right-winger.”
“I like to think of myself as being part of the sensible center.”
“The center’s just for people afraid to take sides,” Malika told her, only half joking, Sue thought.
“That kind of thinking only keeps people divided, in my opinion.”
“Maybe so.” Malika sighed. “But where Joyce Davenport is concerned, I just can’t see reason. I can only imagine the hate she is going be spewing from the lectern tonight.” The girl shivered. “When I think of her, I think of the devil.”
“Okay,” Sue said, smiling, “now that is extreme.”
Her roommate’s dark eyes had closed in on her. “You girls who’ve grown up in sophisticated cities think there is no such thing. But even though I have been well educated all my life, I am not so far removed from my