Bette’s Four Bold Tasks by Peter_Cleveland
Author’s note: I took a short break from the multi-chapter New England Triad series (N.E.T.) to write this standalone short story. Here I’m trying for a lighter and more comic tone. The action here takes place somewhere in New England (okay: Hartford County, Connecticut) a few months after the end of N.E.T.’s action. Some characters appear in both works. You do not need any familiarity at all with N.E.T. to understand this new story. I hope you also enjoy it. — Peter
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The university’s graduate program in English was small. Most of the students seemed to be wives of professors in other departments or wives of business executives in the area–never husbands. Plus a handful of idealistic young men and women in their twenties who were hoping, against all odds, to build a career as a college professor. Probably none of us was going to set the academic world on fire, but graduate students were almost always a delight to teach.
Much graduate work in English here was done as independent-study projects. Which is why a charming, very smart, and very pretty natural-blonde twenty-something and I were alone in my office late Friday afternoon, poring over the Oxford edition of Jonathan Swift’s poetry. Bette Schneider her name was, and she often liked to tease people about her German background.
“But Herr Doktor Professor Lancome,” she was saying, “even allowing for…”
I interrupted, teasing back. “That’s ‘Herr Doktor Associate-Professor Lancome,’ Fraeulein Bachelor-of-Arts Schneider!”
She smiled engagingly. “How about if I just call you Stephen?”
Flirting with an undergraduate would be an insane risk for a professor these days. Even flirting with graduate students had gotten dicey. But small sparks had been flying between Bette and me for a year, and I felt comfortable enough with her to take a chance now. I smiled back.
“That would be fine, Bette. In private.”
“Got it.”
Bette’s brain was as fine as her body. She saw that the details of a fashionable woman’s excrement in “The Lady’s Dressing Room” had to be seen through shifting layers of irony and social criticism and also through a narrator who clearly is not Swift himself. And yet, and yet… even allowing for all that, wasn’t there something just a little odd and unsettling in the language here? Would you bet any money that Swift didn’t have some kind of problem with women?
“I think you’re right, Bette,” I said. “There is something unsettling in this poem, and it’s hard to put your finger on exactly what it is or exactly where it’s located. Might make a nice research project, trying to pin it down, if you’re interested. I don’t know if feminist theory might be helpful here. Mary Ellen Spivak might have some good suggestions if you feel like pursuing that angle.”
Bette looked up from the notes she was jotting–looked at me as though I had said something wise and immensely helpful. Which I was fairly sure I hadn’t.
Our conversation drifted away from Swift and onto personal matters–another thing you could do with graduate students that you’d hesitate to do with undergraduates. Undergraduates were too apt to misinterpret all familiarity as the first stage of sexual harassment–“grooming behavior” or something.
But the graduate students had lived long enough–and had gotten comfortable enough with their own sexuality–that they could tell casual conversation from flirting from harassment. They enjoyed the first of the three and sometimes the second too.
By now it was late in the afternoon, 4:30. Bette and I both could see that the chances were low of any more wise insights about literature flowing from either of us. But we were enjoying each other’s company.
A small ornamental pin on Bette’s sweater again caught my attention. It was a silver disk about the size of a nickel. A bas-relief image of what looked like a three-bladed propeller filled most of the disk. Between the tip of each blade and the edge of the disk was a small hemispherical cavity. A fourth small cavity was in the center.
“Tell me about your pin,” I invited. “It looks vaguely familiar. I think I’ve seen one or two like it on people from time to time. Maybe with little jewels above the propeller tips. What’s it mean?”
Bette looked uncomfortable and relieved at the same time. “Uh, yes, Stephen. That’s part of the reason I asked for a conference today.”
I swiveled my desk chair to face her. I crossed my legs, laced my fingers together and raised my eyebrows, silently inviting her to go on (while looking professorial to the max). My gaze shifted among her blue eyes, the pin, and that sweet, high, Teutonic bosom on which the pin perched. The nipples had to be pink, I judged. She is a very beautiful young woman, I judged. With a very impressive brain. Just my type, except for being about ten years too young. I was 39. According to her records, she was 25.
“There’s an organization I’ve recently gotten involved with,” she said. “It’s called Lodestone. It’s hard to describe. It’s for adult women–you have to be at least 23.
“Lodestone is a strange blend of things. It’s kind of a cross between a sorority and an honor society and a mystical outfit like Eastern Star and an Outward Bound program and a secret society sort of thing like Skull and Bones. It’s for women who somebody has identified as potential movers and shakers in some way or another. The selection process is pretty unclear to me at the moment. For some reason they invited me to join. Two members looked me up, invited me out for coffee, and made a pretty convincing case. A lot of very impressive, very successful women are members, it turns out. It’s a network: they help one another. I’m not permitted to name anyone.
“Many members choose not to wear their pin except at official Lodestone functions. Junior members like me have to wear our pins all the time unless we have a fairly good reason not to–we’re in a uniform, say, or in surgical scrubs. The number and color of jewels on the pin’s surface mean things. They’re sort of like Boy Scout merit badges. As you see, I have none so far. I’m very new. I should have one jewel tomorrow.
“You’re probably wondering, but I don’t see the connection between a lodestone and a propeller either–if in fact it actually is a propeller. It might not be. Some things get explained only after you’ve advanced a bit in the organization.”
I was surprised to see a bright, mature young woman like Bette get so caught up what seemed to be a rather silly secret sorority. But I decided I’d be nice and not scoff. “You said that Lodestone is connected to our conference?” I prompted.
For some reason Bette blushed. “I know this all must sound silly, Stephen, but please hear me out. Members have to advance through several levels. These levels have names like Boldness, Risk, Trust, Resilience, Change, Power… you get the picture. Each level has four tasks. You see the four holes in my pin. A little jewel is glued in for each completed task at that level. Each level has its own type of jewel. As the levels rise, the four tasks get harder. When you have finally completed every level your pin has four diamonds. I know this sounds incredibly Mickey-Mouse: you don’t need to tell me! It’s just one of those things. I’m sure the Masons and the Rotary Club have their own collection of silly rituals.”
“And universities too,” I reassured her. “It’s okay, Bette. I’m not thinking any less highly of you.”
She looked relieved. “Stephen, you can help me in this. It will cost you not a cent and only a few minutes of your time–and I guarantee you will consider it time very well spent. Could you do this for me?”
I had taken plenty of risks already this afternoon. What’s one more? “Of course,” I said.
Bette continued her explanation. “Thank you. Now, as I understand it, to some extent the tasks are pretty standard, and to some extent the tasks are tailored to each particular woman. I’m at the beginning of the first level. The first level is Boldness. The jewel color is red. Now brace yourself. My first task of Boldness is to display my body, close up, to someone who has never seen it. Someone to whom such display would be thought inappropriate. If the woman is heterosexual, as I am, the other person has to be a man. There’s some debate about who to display yourself to if you’re bi or a lesbian.
“I’m assuming that, as a married man, you don’t get offended and grossed out at the sight of a woman with her pants off. Somehow I even get the impression you rather like women’s bodies.”
“Perhaps I do,” I deadpanned, “now that you mention it.” Bette smiled.
She walked to my office door, glanced about the hallway, closed and locked the door. She returned and stood before me.
“Obviously, I’m uncomfortable with the assigned task; and obviously, that’s the whole point of having me do it. Becoming able to do many more things, boldly, even if they make me uncomfortable. So, obviously, boyfriends aren’t allowed as partners here. Guys you are trying to turn into a boyfriend aren’t allowed. But even if you’ve fantasized about them from time to time, male professors are just fine for the task. Assuming they haven’t already seen you with your clothes off.
“You’ve already said yes, Stephen, and I’m holding you to your promise. Is now a good time? The hallway is empty, by the way, and all the office doors are closed, I think we’re the only people on this hall.”
“Wait, Bette,” I said, my mind racing. “I presume Lodestone will want documentation of some sort, attesting that this task was successfully completed? Am I supposed to certify in writing that on Friday, February 5, Ms Bette Schneider removed her pants in my office, and I much enjoyed the sight of her lovely private parts? And then you give the signed document to a third party? Does the metaphor of ‘time bomb’ make as much sense to you as it does to me?”
“Of course, Stephen. No one would ask you to do that in this day and age. Here’s all you need to do. I will pose for you. You take a photo of me with my phone. Or if you prefer, I’ll take a selfie. The photo will have a time-and-date stamp–say, today at 4:47 PM. Then you just pick up a piece of letterhead and write something like, ‘From 4 to 5 PM on February 5, Ms Bette Schneider and I met in conference to discuss Jonathan Swift’s poetry.’ I show a certain person from Lodestone the timestamped photo, and I show her your note. She smiles, makes a mark in a record book, says ‘Good girl!’ and hands me an envelope with my second task. Then she glues a red so-called jewel in the top socket of my pin. I retain possession of the note and the photo. Nobody else sees either of them again unless some question of my integrity arises.