HERBERT GOLD
127
Humanity," - but the bobble of the fraternity pin on the tip-top pinna–
cle denied my previous statement. There must be a course in Humanity.
"Do you have any imaginary friends?" the Provost asked her.
"Never. I used to think I did, but not anymore."
"Do you have any real friends?"
''I'm a sister of Kappa Psi."
He nodded. What he was giving her now was time. This takes a
moment. She looked clear and bright and well-nourished by the atten–
tion.
"So perhaps," said the Provost, "what happened to you was entirely
real in your mind, but imaginary for people who lack your, uh,
imagination. "
Penelope gazed at me. Her eyes were pennies - no change possible.
"Do I have to drop the course?"
"No, but I'll not read your term paper. My reader will give you a
grade."
''I'm writing this really neat paper about Thomas Mann, I think. I
wish you would look at it, Doctor. Didn't he write 'The Magical
Mountain?'"
The Provost turned to the parents. Their expressions - indignation,
inner heat, solidarity forever - had not yet registered the altered condi–
tions of this trial. "I believe Professor Gold is satisfied. Are you, Sir?"
"Just one thing," said Penelope's father. I realized her mother had
not spoken a word. "I'd like an apology from Doctor Gold."
"For what?"
"For implying that my daughter should
see
a psychiatrist."
A
moment later, after the fit was over, why was the Provost
wrestling me back into my chair, why were my
J.
Press shirt and 346
Shop jacket wet with sweat, why was my tongue bleeding? Apparently I
had attempted to leap upon the parents, but the quick-thinking univer–
sity administrator had foreseen this reaction and stopped me with a
hammerlock and a cocked knee before I could move more than a few
inches into the mote-laden, steam-heated, winter air. He was now mov–
ing us on to our next stations in life, our duties
to
perform.
"Thank you very much for coming to this conference. You may go
now." Perhaps T. Charles Provost had other problems to solve. He
stood at the door. Penelope, her pin afloat, stopped in front of me and
touched her nipple with its burden of fraternity emblem. "My fiantz" -
fee-antz - "is furious," she said.
Her mother, a handkerchief to her nose, followed her out. Her fa–
ther
followed both of them. The provost gazed at me, nodded, and I
followed in a moment. The door shut behind
me .
Now it's been twenty-five years since that door closed, but I can still
