“His name’s Malcolm. Charles William sent me a picture to show you. Isn’t he cute? Charles William said he was a Greek god.” She produced a photograph of a young man with a crew cut that stood straight up on end and big features and a somber smile. I took it from her and stared down into the paper eyes. Paper and silver oxide, black and white and shadows, icon, omen, prophecy? Do the genes know what they are seeking? Do our ends seek our beginnings?

“Don’t you think he’s cute?”

“I guess so. What’s wrong with his hair?”

“He was Charles William’s roommate last year. Charles William says he’s a Greek god.”

“Well, I want to go. You know I want to go.”

“You have to buy an airline ticket. It costs twenty-six dollars.”

“That’s okay. How old is this guy?”

“The same as us. He’s a sophomore.”

“He looks like a baby.”

“I think that was taken last year. We can get the airline tickets at the airport. Oh, Rhoda, you can wear your green dress we bought at Helen’s.”

“I hope it fits.” I got up from the bed and rummaged around in my crowded messy closet for the dress. Right before we had gone back to school in September Charles William and Irise and I had gone shopping. Under Charles William’s tutelage I had bought an emerald green satin dress cut down so low in the bosom my nipples almost showed. It had a bustle of green satin in the back and was so tight I could hardly zip it.

“I think you’re going to like this boy,” Irise giggled again. “Charles William says you’re going to like him a lot.”

Prophetic. Twelve days later on a Friday afternoon Irise and I boarded a Southern Airlines plane and flew from Tuscaloosa to Atlanta. The plane bobbed up and down in the clouds, gained and lost altitude without warning. Passengers clutched their airsickness bags, wrote mental wills, prayed to be forgiven, prayed to live. But I was too excited to be scared. I sat by Irise and thought about my luggage. I had three pieces of luggage and a hat box. In one suitcase was my green satin dress and some silver slippers and a pair of elbow-length white gloves and a Merry Widow and a girdle and some nylon hose. In another I had three sweaters, three skirts, three blouses, six pairs of underpants, three brassieres, four pairs of socks, some penny loafers, and a suit. I was carrying the third piece of luggage, a cosmetic kit with my cosmetics and a fitted jewelry case and a book. The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. I took out the book and began reading it as the plane dropped fifty feet, then recovered, then dropped again. I tore off a piece of airsickness bag to mark a poem.

I died for Beauty—but was scarce