Goyal-The Mystery of the Wife of Bath

The Mystery of the Wife of Bath

Issue 15

  Thea picked up her pace muttering ‘damn’ under her breath, hers was the last classroom. She hurriedly rounded the left turn into the glass bookcase-lined double-wide hallway of the English Department just in time to see Susie’s brown curls disappear around the edge of the heavy mahogany door as it swung shut.
  Sr. Mary Gertrude, the Directress of Upper School, stepped into Thea’s path about fifteen feet in front heading the same direction, arms laden with piano books. Thea inhaled sharply, pausing her stomping assault on the ancient oak floorboards. She was in for it now, she thought, late for World Literature, and moving like an all-terrain vehicle across the Mojave, rather than a finishing school ninth grader.
  What a piece of sanctimonious work, Sr. Mary Gertrude Fordham, but oh– were those calves fine. Ruffle-collared striped shirt cinched perfectly into butt-hugging Italian wool pencil skirt in slate gray, and the clincher– four-inch peep toe stilettos, in matching gray leather. In 1983, nuns in the Bleeding Order of the Holy Blah Blah Blah no longer had to wear all black, but were they actually allowed to be sexy? The faint silky hose, warm sheen, covered the shapely muscles and so-slim ankles. Only one way to get that kind of buff. How did a nun get to go to the gym - a mystery - the free time between mindful prayer sessions.
  Tell-tale creaking announced Thea’s tardiness. Sister Mary Gertrude effortlessly swirled hundred-eighty on one icepick pump and delicately hovered the other one with toes flirting upward.
  Heart nearly pounding out of her ribcage, Thea froze. If called a third time into the Directress’s office in one semester, she would surely lose her scholarship and have to switch to Lincoln Public mid-school year.
  She had been skating precariously with her folks, twice chastened this semester already. Last time, grounded for a month after she had stolen pages of perforated hot lunch tickets from Sr. Bernadette’s top drawer when she fell asleep at her desk in the middle of European History. It was simply irresistible, the way her huge round head lolled onto the pillow created by her crossed hands resting in turn on a billowy drooping chest, so that only the bottom inch of the heavy silver cross on her blouse front was visible below the slack mouth under a haired lip. Becca sketched the priceless strip of comedy live from a central vantage point within the classroom. The other girls had silently egged Thea on, eyebrows ferociously mouthing ‘do it!’
  “You’re late again, Thea,” unmoving lines for lips released the statement, stern-jawed, while steely blue orbs punctured her veneer. It was remarkable how Sr. Mary Gertrude’s face, so devoid of color and charm, managed to convey cold, powerful beauty.
  Thea was in good company, even the upper-class girls quaked in their penny loafers should MGF cast a chilling lizard eye in their direction. Perky blonde bob, athletic form, you could believe she was any age from twenty-nine to fifty-nine. No one knew how she went from piano teacher to Head Mistress of a prominent school in a day, or how she never faltered, saying exactly the right thing to parents, community members, diocese leaders, and other nuns. And she looked badass while doing it, with unapologetic posture and not a minute to spare from important decisions of running the hundred and sixty-year-old girls’ preparatory school in a gorgeous, sprawling Georgian red brick that caused board members of Connecticut's historic register to drool.
  “I’m sorry, Sister,” Thea stammered in pink tones, as she rushed past “Iron Heels,” the statuesque disciplinista, floating a whiff of floral petals, and slammed herself with her own backpack while trying to slip it off and open the classroom door at the same time.
  The hefty door closed more loudly than intended, an unfortunate feature of the prior century’s construction, either gentle latch click to ensure it wouldn’t slide back open or big bang, nothing in between. The girls jumped in their seats while attempting to hide giggles. Up front Miss Myrtle Winthrop’s chin went lax.
  “Kindly take a seat,” an eyebrow shot up over the scarlet readers.
            In the seat saved for her, Thea pulled out her English notebook and pencil, not daring to link eyes with Susie, Jane, Savitri or Becca who formed the immediate chair-wide perimeter, for risk of erupting in uncontrollable snickers. She pushed her auburn bangs out of her eyes, evened her breathing and instead trained her eyes at the front of the classroom. Ms. Winthrop’s ample middle-aged form, clad in homely brown cardigan and long chaste skirt, that could have stood erect even starchless, was wrestling with a dwindling piece of chalk to highlight the key themes of “The Wife of Bath’s Tale.”
  Miss Winthrop waddled around to face the room, with Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales cocked open in her left hand, and chalk clutched in a powdery right hand. Her bowl-cut pewter hair was deeply side-parted and pinned with a plastic barrette. How did she not know that barrettes were for females under the age of five? As she spoke ardently, spittle collected in the corners of her forever down-turned mouth. She must have felt it, wiping with her hand, depositing more chalk dust on a furry white cheek.
  Thea let a glance slip at Becca on her left, and they each used every one of the forty-three facial muscles to suppress laughter over the cartoon sketch in progress. A gentle nudge from Savitri on the outside of her right forearm served to focus Thea’s self-control as she surreptitiously passed her left hand under the crook of her right elbow to accept the tiny folded note. Then began the covert procedure of uncurling and decoding the microscopic missive, not unlike tweezer defusing a bomb on their beloved show ‘Mission Impossible.’ It read ‘MW=WM-M+W(MGF).’
  She sent Sav a look of exaggerated confusion, wondering how this riddle tied in with the girls’ typical ribbing of Myrtle Winthrop, ungenerously pegged as a loveless hippie matron, whose unabashed passion for literature seemed without fail to uncover if not invent sexual innuendo in whatever text was under discussion.
  Myrtle’s throaty voice hiccupped with excitement, “Many would call her progressive, a women’s libber, centuries before her time! She’s got opinions on a woman’s role in marriage, about sex, power play, role in the Church—” her tone dropped an octave and decelerated, “What, pray tell, is so funny, Thea?”
  Thea’s stomach jumped into her mouth— had she seen the note? Unblinking, she slid her left hand clenched sweaty with the paper scrap down to the negligible space between the wooden seat and her rear end. “No, not funny, Ms. Winthrop. I was just thinking about the Knight and why he—”
  “Why don’t you bring whatever’s in your left hand up front, you can lay it right on top of the piano.” Her usually good-natured chubby face became an implacable mask.
Thea paled several shades. Imploring Savitri with a piteous permission-seeking glance, she trudged the gauntlet to the front of the classroom All eyes on her, ears rang white-hot as if they would explode. Chalk dust produced a sneeze fit for an ogre and startled her back to thinking mode. She would be ousted, her parents would not let her see the light of day after this.
  She woodenly turned to face her classmates, gravitas before the executioner’s swing, unworthy- yet awaiting- a Hail Mary. When none came, she placed the unintelligible shred of evidence on the glossy black hood of the baby grand and returned to her seat, slumped in fear of the wrath of Sr. Mary Gertrude, logarithmically worse than what her parents would serve up.
  “Tomorrow, we’ll discuss our gap-toothed heroine’s commentary on sexual freedom, and any potential references to non-traditional love.”
  Eyes around the room rolled.
  Thea thought to herself, now that was a mystery- the Wife of Bath liked women too?
  At the end of class, Ms. Winthrop motioned Thea to remain.
  Sixteen classmates filed out slower than a dirge, sending prayers of a sort: Susie, Jane, Becca, and Savitri last, her beautiful tawny face scrunched in sadness and shaded with guilt.
  “Who passed you the note?” Ms. Winthrop stood close enough to waft warm breath laced with cigarettes and stale coffee onto her student.
  “I don’t know, I just felt a nudge.” She fidgeted, laying flat the pleats of the short plaid polyester uniform skirt.
  “Thea, what does the note mean?” She pulled off the glasses and stared her down, lines of her face furrowed deep.
  “I have no idea, Ms. Winthrop,” she edged backwards.
  “So that’s how we’ll play this game, is it?”

  The meeting was set for Thursday, two days after the incident, at 3:30 pm in the Head Mistress’ office with her parents, and the Guidance Counselor, Sister Mary Constance. Apparently, Ms. Winthrop had already fully communicated her input. No other students had to be there because Thea had not offered up any implicating information. She didn’t know if the note was going to make an appearance.
  Lunch on Wednesday at their usual large rough-hewn wooden dining table in the far back left of the cafeteria was a somber affair. Thea idly stabbed her fork at beef tomato macaroni casserole, normally a favorite, while soggy green beans remained untouched.
  Becca took a bite of her cheeseburger, “You don’t think she’ll pull the scholarship?”
  Thea stared heavy-lidded.
  Jane said, “Nah. You play violin with the local symphony and your grades are awesome. She’ll come up with something more creative to make you suffer.”
  “Jesus, Jane,” said Becca, eyebrows joining as one.
  Jane shrugged innocently.
  “Constance will stick up for you.”
  “Fat chance, no way she’ll cross Iron Heels.”
  “What’s the big fucking deal, just a note,” said Sav.
  All eyes turned to her not saying what they were thinking.
  Susie arrived with a lunch tray bearing no lunch, but five little plates of plastic wrapped freshly baked soft in the center double chocolate-chip cookies that had just been birthed into the dessert station. These were cookies of legend, baked daily for the students’ lunch. By heaven-sent buttery aroma alone they nearly balanced the scales against the repressive atmosphere of the Blessed Convent of Parma. Then there was the incomparable, euphoric taste of these delectables, which for the moment made the girls forget the rigid creativity-squashing moral and behavioral code of their school environment. Three minutes later not a crumb remained.
  “Exactly, remember when Susie snuck out during Liturgy and went up the secret stairs to the Dome above the Cathedral?”
  Chuckles. “Or when Jane walked onto the flat tiled roof outside Latin class because Rabbi Myers never showed up for class?”
  Giggles, “What about when Thea pretended to pass out in World Religions to get out of the quiz?” A few more escapades were re-lived, putatively more mischievous than the matter at hand.
  “This ain’t no big.”
  Thea was not reassured, “Guys, what if I have to go to Lincoln?”
  Silence blanketed the friends.

  Later that afternoon, Thea was subdued by nerves but grateful when Jane offered to meet her during Library period to do homework. They chewed gum aggressively and exchanged looks of panic alternating with support while writing out their study notes. Thea also chewed on a strand of long russet hair, and woefully got the gum stuck in it. In the fifteen-minute break between Library and European History, they hit the restroom and then went for an inside walk, as freshmen were not allowed on the Smoking Porch and it was too damp for the school’s grounds. Taciturn, they sauntered down the dim back hallways.
  Their path took them by Sr. Mary Gertrude’s spacious office, familiar for its soft lighting from the green shaded desk lamp and misleadingly inviting leather couches. The door was strangely ajar, someone hadn’t clicked it closed. Thea first saw the black pumps, casually tossed to the side on the exquisite Persian carpet. Her breath caught. Eyes nearly popped out of her head as they next landed on an image burned into the retinas for her remaining days on earth. Iron Heels and Myrtle were locked in an embrace and passionate kiss, leaning against the front of the desk.
  Jane in turn, noting the shift in Thea’s body language, immobilized silently into an awkward twist to afford a view into the little tableau as she passed the door slit.
  “Holy Shit!” they mouthed to each other, the whites of their eyes visible all-round.
  Thea, emboldened by a nascent creativity bubbling deep within her young soul, let the oak planks creak ever so slightly as she turned to pass yet again by the cracked door, overtly making her presence known while peering inward. She willed her eyebrows stay put, and her expression remain placid. The effect was immediate, and the objective easily accomplished- her two educators sprang apart in anguish, one white as paper, the other a robust crimson.
  It was a mystery- what went on behind doors thought to be closed.
  The girls turned back around. With casual pace and audible footfall, they made their way down stately wood-paneled hallways to European History, hearts pounding out of their chests, laughter powerfully suppressed as a pin holds a grenade.

  Thursday’s meeting arrived with nary a second thought, let alone trepidation. Thea met her parents at the Visitor’s entry at 3:25. The volunteer student at the desk had the radio on low playing the latest top forty, Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.”
  “Why did she need to see us today?” her father asked.
  “Just routine. I think they like to check in sometimes with all the students getting scholarships.” Thea was nonplussed, even sheepish, a contrast from the dread pall of two nights ago, as she showed them a few historic features of the elegant Front Hallway.
  “Hmff,” said her father.
  “Well, that’s just lovely,” said her mother.
  Sister Mary Constance, of short and heavy stature, in a long black skirt, met them at 3:28 to usher them into the period Drawing Room, furnished with graceful velvet settees and sumptuous cascading drapes in ochre and muted azure, and scented with lavender potpourri. Gilt frames adorned three walls not bearing windows, balding white men of the cloth, be it black or red, and a couple of pastoral oils.
  Sr. Mary Gertrude arrived at 3:31, also muted in attire, white lawn shirt buttoned up to the chin, silver cross on heavy chain hung half-way down her chest, and an A-line charcoal skirt with non-descript flats. Perhaps a touch discomfited, wondered Thea, having noticed both the extra minute, unprecedented in the fastidious Directress, and an unusual downward slant of her facial features.
  Brief opening remarks commenced, and extra niceties were piped in by Sister Mary Constance. Thea trained her eyes on the Head Mistress unflinchingly. What was she saying? Something about appreciation of Thea’s academic and musical accomplishments. Thea sat bare knees crossed under hands daintily clasped, as she cocked her head at her parents with a closed lip smile and occasional eye lash flutter. Her mind raced over opportunities for demands for fun and freedoms at home. Like the Wife of Bath said, women should get their own way.
  Head Mistress was saying that she saw no impediment to renewal of the scholarship throughout the remaining high school years- they could also consider waiving the work study portion, provided, of course, that Thea maintained her academic standing, just a perfunctory requirement, of course, given her exemplary performance to date, of course. At 3:35, she wrapped the session with noting how pleased she was, of course, that the family had come in to hear the good news in person.

KAVITHA REDDY GOYAL was born in India and raised in Ireland and the northeastern US. She recently retired from a thirty-year career in medicine and pharmaceutical research and is turning to a life-long dream of writing, with work on a novel. She is a wife and mother of two adult daughters, and makes her home in the Philadelphia area, where she enjoys nature and the arts.

The Mystery of the Wife of Bath​

The Mystery of the Wife of Bath