A certain percentage of freshmen dropped out in the first several weeks of their first semester at Wainscotia. You’d hear of someone—mostly girls, but there were boys, too—who just “broke down”—“couldn’t sleep”—“cried all the time”—“felt lost.”
But Mary Ellen seemed determined not to be one of these. She was deeply unhappy and seemed to us—(to some of us, at least)—on the verge of a nervous collapse but there was something willful about her—like a cripple who doesn’t seem to know she’s a cripple, or a stutterer who doesn’t seem to know that she’s a stutterer.
Another strange thing: alone among the girls of Acrady Cottage Mary Ellen Enright received no mail.
And yet stranger: Mary Ellen Enright seemed to expect no mail, for she walked by the mailboxes without glancing at her own.
We asked our resident adviser Miss Steadman what she thought we could do to make Mary Ellen less lonely and Miss Steadman suggested leaving her alone for the time being, for “Mary Ellen” had traveled a long distance—from one of the eastern states like New York, New Jersey or Massachusetts—and was feeling a more acute homesickness than we were feeling, whose families lived in the state and whom we could visit on weekends by bus.
Is “Mary Ellen” Jewish? we asked.
Miss Steadman said she did not think so. For “Enright” was not known to be a Jewish name.
But she seems like she’s from—somewhere else. Like she’s not an American—sort of.
Miss Steadman frowned at this remark which clearly she did not like.
Miss Steadman would tell us only that Mary Ellen Enright was the sole resident of Acrady Cottage whose complete file hadn’t been made available to her, as our resident adviser. She’d received a file from the office of the dean of women for Mary Ellen but it was very short, and some of it had been blotted out with black ink.
Hilda McIntosh described how in the first week of classes she’d come into her room on the third floor one afternoon—and there was her roommate Mary Ellen Enright standing in front of Hilda’s desk staring at her typewriter.
This was Hilda’s portable Remington typewriter, one of her proudest possessions which she’d brought to college. Not everyone in Acrady Cottage had a typewriter, and those who didn’t were envious of Hilda!
And there was Mary Ellen staring at the typewriter with some look, Hilda said, “way beyond envy.”
Like the girl had never seen a typewriter before! Like it was some new invention.
So Hilda said, speaking softly not wanting to startle Mary Ellen—(but startling her anyway, so that she jumped, and quivered, and her eyelids fluttered)—You can try it, Mary Ellen, if you want to. Here’s a piece of paper!
Hilda inserted the paper into the typewriter. Hilda indicated to the girl how she should type—striking several keys in rapid succession.
The girl just stared blank-faced.
Like this, see? Of course, you have to memorize the keyboard. That comes with practice. I learned in high school—it isn’t hard.
The girl touched one of the keys, lightly. Like she hadn’t strength to press it down.
In a faint voice she said, It doesn’t w-work …
Hilda laughed. Of course it works!
The girl peered at the back of the typewriter, as if searching for something missing.
In a faint voice saying, But—there’s nothing connecting it to—to …
Hilda laughed. This was like introducing a rural relative to, well, an indoor toilet! Funny.
Look here, Hilda said.
Hilda sat down at her desk and the keys clattered away like machine-gun fire:
SEPTEMBER 23, 1959
ACRADY COTTAGE
WAINSCOTIA STATE UNIVERSITY
WAINSCOTIA FALLS, WISCONSIN
USA
UNIVERSE
The new girl Mary Ellen stared at this display of magic—the flying keys, the typed letters that became words and sentences—and could not seem to speak. As if her throat had shut up. As if the clattering typewriter frightened her. As if she couldn’t bear the sight of—well, what was it? Hilda couldn’t imagine.
Hilda encouraged Mary Ellen to try the typewriter again but Mary Ellen backed away as if it was all too much for her. And suddenly then, her eyes rolled back in her head, her skin went chalky-white—and she fell to the floor in a dead faint.
“Mary Ellen?”
One of them was speaking to me. She’d come up behind me.
I was very frightened. I knew there were informers like my brother Roddy—of course. But I could not comprehend if I was behaving like a guilty person or whether, in my EI status, I was behaving in a manner appropriate to my circumstances.
The girl was the one called “Hilda McIntosh.” She had a round bland moon-face and a very friendly smile. Her hair was a chestnut-colored “pageboy.” I could not bring myself to look her in the face, still less in the eyes, for fear of what I would see.
The empty gaze. The iris in the eye the size of a seed.
I wondered: Was this person an informer? Did she know who Mary Ellen Enright really was? Had she followed me?
It was often the case, here in Zone 9, that individuals followed me. Yet in such practiced ways, I could not be certain that they were following me by design or by coincidence.
I’d had to escape from—wherever it was—the lecture hall in the building near the chapel—Hendrick Hall—as oxygen was being sucked from the room by the others—(I’d counted sixty-six student-figures seated in steep-banked rows)—and the professor-figure at the podium continued lecturing on the rudiments of logic. Some Y is X. X is M. What is the relationship of M to Y?
I did not cross the green. The open, vulnerable expanse of the green. Making my way like a wounded wild creature close beside buildings and through narrow passageways in order not to attract attention.
Not daring to glance up, to see who was “seeing” me.
The EI will be monitored at any and all times during his/her exile.
Violations of these Instructions will insure that the EI will be immediately Deleted.
In a sequence of hills, mostly downhill, approximately one mile to Acrady Cottage where I would hide in the third-floor room assigned to “Mary Ellen Enright.”
It was the epicenter of the Restricted Zone 9. It was my imprisonment. Yet, I felt safe there.
I entered the