Old Lovegood Girls by Gail Godwin

Author:Gail Godwin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

Speaking of the “G” in G.E.T., Feron Hood had published another novel, Mr. Blue, and had contributed to the capital campaign fund. She continued to send an annual donation to the Sophie Sewell Hood scholarship established when she published Beast and Beauty.

My years at Lovegood shine bright as ever. There, for the first time in my life I felt secure enough to try my wings. It was while reading a story of Merry’s in a bathroom stall that I decided I wanted to become a writer.

Susan Fox had been honored to be the recipient of such a personal revelation, even after she came across it in the library, almost word for word, in a newspaper interview. She wished she had been secure enough in those first years at Lovegood to seat Feron across from her in the famous Saxon Hall armchair (which now graced her study at Dinwiddie House) and follow her former commanding instincts: “What was it like, to sleep outside in that Chicago park? How did you keep warm? What were your thoughts?”

However, the initial Lovegood years were her “humbled” years, when she was seeking to build a new life from the ground up after bringing the roof down on herself at Saxon Hall. With the young Feron she had stopped at: “You can count on a discretionary ear in this office if you ever feel the need to say more about that stressful period of your life.”

Having later read and pondered Beast and Beauty, she was fairly certain the runaway girl never did sleep in a Chicago park, but under the blankets with an ex-convict, now safely fictionalized into the sympathetic character of a beast.

I could have gone to jail like the headmistress of the Madeira School, she thought. Jean Harris was fifty-seven when she shot her lover. I was forty-two when I broke his windows and bit the policeman, and was carried away screaming. What made the difference? If I had gone up to his campus apartment packing a pistol? Not my style. Just as I never would have penned such obscene foolishness as the famous Scarsdale Letter. Her rabid handwriting was a neurotic giveaway. When I told President Brook to leave the mailings to me, I meant handwritten letters with real ink to five thousand former students and friends of Lovegood. And as I did my stint (thirty each afternoon in my study at Dinwiddie House), I would call to mind how many recipients would recognize the writing on the envelope with the Esse Quam Videri crest. Mrs. Camilla Cherrington, my savior in ninth grade, gave me my distinctive cursive. I entered her class writing in a stiff upright with unconnected letters and left it with a facsimile of her elegant, loopy slant because I wanted to copy everything about her. Some people, if they are lucky, meet an early savior who makes all the difference. Does anyone remember me as an early savior? Did Jean Harris have one? Was she one to any of her girls?

Feron Hood’s Mr.

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