When Women Were Dragons(9)

My aunt swiveled her gaze and let it land directly on me. Her eyes became normal again. “Alex, you’ve been quiet,” she said. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking about, my love.”

I wasn’t expecting to be addressed, and her sudden gaze nearly made me jump. “I don’t know,” I said, falling over my words. “Not the clock,” I added, a little too loud, even as my eyes unconsciously flicked back to the minute hand, which inexplicably hadn’t moved since we started dinner. I had already been told, repeatedly, that it wasn’t polite to stare at clocks when you’re at the dinner table. It was unkind to our guests, my mother explained.

“Ah,” my aunt said. “I see.” She exchanged an amused glance with my mother, who was now at the door between the living room and the dining room, and who was not, I could tell, amused.

My aunt returned her attention to me. “Do you know what we’re talking about, Alex?” she said.

“She doesn’t care what we’re talking about,” my mother said, putting her body between my aunt and me, interrupting the moment. She hoisted the casserole dish and grabbed the soiled utensils, clanking them inside. She bustled back into the kitchen.

“Drop it, Marla,” my father said. His voice was cold and flat and unforgiving.

Marla didn’t take her eyes off me. “We’re talking about your mother. This woman here,” she gestured in the direction of my mother’s retreating figure. “I believe you’ve met.” She smiled at the table. No one smiled back. She persisted. “Did you know that your mother—your mother—graduated top of her class, but the Mathematics Department refused to give her an honors distinction because she was a girl?”

“What’s honors?” I asked, even though I didn’t actually care. Beatrice was giggling and I thought this conversation was stupid and I wanted more than anything to ask to be excused.

“Honors is when you take a regular degree and make it fancy,” my aunt said. “Because the person who earned it is fancy.”

“Mama already is fancy,” I said. My mother patted my head as she hurried back and forth between the table and the kitchen and my father guffawed approvingly.

“You see?” my father said. “Alexandra knows what’s what.” He lit his cigarette and leaned back in his chair, relaxing a bit.

“It’s Alex,” I said quietly, with a scowl. No one noticed.

“But do you think that’s fair, darling?” my aunt pressed, lighting her own cigarette, and blowing smoke at my father. “Shouldn’t her teachers have said she’s the smartest, since she actually was the smartest? In front of everyone?” Auntie Marla’s gaze held me in place. Her eyes seemed a bit larger than normal. The rims of her irises shone like gold. I couldn’t move if I tried.

“Obviously,” I said. I was in the third grade. I knew about fairness.

“It doesn’t matter,” my father said, angrily waving the smoke away. “Alexandra, go to the living room.” He glared at my aunt. “Who cares about her problem sets and papers? Who cares about honors and awards? No one remembers them. What use is a college diploma for a person who is perfectly happy keeping a lovely home? Foolish use of money, if you ask me. And time. And for what, really? She took a spot at the university that could have gone to a smart boy with a bright future who would likely have gone on to produce something of value. Seems like a waste to me.”

The room grew suddenly hot. My aunt was big and loud and shiny. Sometimes she laughed louder than any man I knew. I found her thrilling, but terrifying too. She had a way of occupying a room that felt dangerous. She was heat and claw and intentional velocity. Even then.

My cheeks flushed. My aunt ignored my father. She kept her eyes fixed on me, with a tiny curl of a smile hiding in her mouth.

“So there she was, your mother, the very smartest and best in her whole class, a shining star, and she applies to graduate school to study mathematics, and they don’t take her. They say no. Not because she’s not smart enough, but simply because she was a girl. Well, now. Does that sound fair to you?”

I didn’t say anything. But I don’t think my aunt was actually talking to me, not really.

“So instead, your darling mama became a clerk at your dad’s bank. With her algorithms and slide rules, her lightning-fast figuring. And guess what, she was amazing. She was a sorceress with numbers. She could make any fund—literally any one—grow like magic. She tied spreadsheets together like mystical knots and made numbers expand simply by looking at them.” Marla moved her hands in big gestures as she spoke, the bracelets on her wrists glinting as though they were on fire. She closed her eyes and her face glowed.

“You’re being ridiculous!” my mother said from the other room. She was upset. I could tell. But I couldn’t tell why. Beatrice giggled and my father told me again to go to the living room, but I couldn’t seem to move.

My uncle filled another cup. “Lady accountants,” he guffawed. “Of all the stupid—”

Marla reached over and swatted him on the back of his head. She did this without altering her position or posture and without looking at him at all.

“Gah!” my uncle choked. “Marla!” My aunt acted as though she hadn’t heard him.

“That’s magic, my darling,” my auntie Marla said to me. “What do you think of that?”