Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(56)
Last week Jilo had spotted Jeannette Walker, a freshman, a pretty girl with an hourglass shape and a secondhand intellect, carrying Professor Ward’s copy of Leaves of Grass. With a singular lack of care, she had left it deserted on a picnic table outside the auditorium with heavy clouds building overhead. Jilo had rescued it . . . and then watched later as the panicked girl returned, frantically seeking to retrieve that which she had so callously abandoned. It wasn’t stealing. This book belonged to Jilo now. She’d earned it.
Lionel had used this book as a tool to seduce her, and she had paid for it with her flesh. With her heart. The words “the embrace of love and resistance,” haunted her now, for they seemed to have divined the course of the affair, understanding it in a way Jilo herself only did now that she’d witnessed its full fruition. “I sing the body electric,” Ward had quoted, “The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them,” he’d continued, pressing her back into the wall as he leaned one arm forward to brace himself and wrapped a leg around hers. He’d held them locked together like that, his lips hovering a mere hairsbreadth from her own, as he spoke in a soft whisper the remainder of the stanza. That moment. Yes, it was precisely then that she had fallen in love with him. “You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.” A gate he now shunned in favor of a new portal.
“Unequaled,” she heard her own voice repeat Professor Ward’s appraisal of her, using the word as an agreement, a pledge, a threat, and a promise all rolled into one. A worry line creased his forehead, but other than that he remained cool. Perhaps for the first time, she saw him completely—not as her love, not as the mate who completed her, but as a vain and aging man. A seaman whose sextant had enabled him to navigate this course many times before; an actor who’d returned again and again to the same role, employing the same props for each performance. “You’re far too kind. I’m sure you’ve known many like me before.”
“Oh, no, Miss Wills. You are special,” the dean continued, oblivious to everything save his own agenda. “Unless you face a spectacular reversal of fortune during your final examinations, Miss Temple assures us you are certain to graduate as your class’s valedictorian.” He raised his hand and pointed at her. “So you make sure to stay on course. Don’t go letting spring fever or the sight of some young buck turn your head.”
“No, sir,” Jilo responded.
“Fine,” the dean said, shifting his weight and pushing a bit back. “You have given this institution your best work, and we four have spoken. We all agree that we would be remiss if we didn’t band together and address the issue of what should come next for you.” He looked from her to his colleagues. Taking their silence as assent, he continued, “With that in view, we’ve invited you here to discuss your future.” He nodded toward Professor Ward. “I understand from Lionel that you have ambitions in the field of medicine.”
“Yes, sir, I do.” Jilo shifted forward on her seat, sitting up straight. “I believe more opportunities are available to me today than any of my sister graduates since the inception of this institution.” Enthusiasm overtook her, causing her to slide out of her seat and stand. “As you may know, three years ago the American College of Surgeons admitted its first Negro female into its ranks. My dream, no, my intent is to follow in her footsteps. I hope that you—”
“Miss Wills,” the dean said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, “I have been apprised of your goals.” One hand waved her back into her chair. He waited for her to slip onto the seat, wiping his hand across his mouth as he seemed to consider how to proceed. “I do so admire your youthful passion.” His lips puckered, then bunched up into a reassuring smile. “But I worry that your youth and your passion may in fact work against you. Here, at this institution,” he raised his hands palms up and gestured widely around as if to take in the entire campus, “we seek to ingrain confidence in our girls. However, we must also educate them in regard to the greater world in which we find ourselves. Inject a bit of reality into their dreams.” Nodding, as if in agreement with himself, he tilted his head to the side. “It is true that a few women have succeeded in obtaining medical degrees. Some have even begun to practice medicine. But they are curiosities, the bearded ladies, if you will, of the medical profession. Medicine is, after all, a man’s profession.”
“Any man would refuse treatment from a woman doctor,” Professor Charles broke in.
“Then I will treat women . . . and children.”
A look that straddled the line between amusement and irritation rose up on the dean’s face.
“Miss Wills,” the registrar spoke for the first time. “I assure you,” she said, pushing her thick spectacles back up the bridge of her nose, “women would be no more inclined to seek out care from a female doctor than would a man. Important issues such as a person’s health shouldn’t be left to a woman’s discernment.”
The dean nodded approvingly.
She and Lionel had spent hours together, speaking of her dreams, discussing the changes that were coming about in the world. He had supported her. Encouraged her. In spite of her feelings for him in this present moment, she turned to him for support.
He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her pleading eyes. “You must understand, Miss Wills”—she felt a chill creep across her heart at the sound of her lover’s voice speaking her name in such a formal, removed tone—“medical schools have a limited numbers of seats available for incoming students. Only a fraction of those seats are open to Negro students. You have to place your community’s needs before your own unrealistic dreams. Even if you could make it into medical school, even if we supported you in this effort, you have to understand that you would be stealing that seat from a deserving male student, a student who could actually help the Negro community.” His hand reached up to straighten the knot of his tie. “Besides, you’re a young woman. You will undoubtedly choose to marry, and children will follow. You’ll have to stop working at that point. So your entire career would last how long? Two years? Perhaps five? This type of education is a waste on a woman.”