That woman despised me for returning my date to the girls’ dormitory after curfew. She even went so far as to write me a sarcastic note stating I was no longer allowed to enter the dormitory, and if a co-ed living in Quigley Hall would stoop so low as to go out with me, I would have to send another man to fetch her, someone whose conduct was “more becoming a gentleman of the university.”
Her name was Velma Jane Battenbaum. We called her V.J. Battleaxe. She never moved from her station at the reception desk, and whenever we stood before her to sign out a girl, she did her best to melt us with the sinister glare of those prison-gray eyes framed by horn-rimmed glasses.
Her hair was pulled back in a bun that may not have been undone since she graduated from the university. Her breath would convert gold to lead, and its pungency was amplified by her hissing, raspy voice. She also had an uncooperative leg that scraped when she walked.
Word got out I was banned from Quigley, and the incessant ribbing I took was unbearable. I boasted I would get even by stealing Dean Quigley’s portrait hanging in the foyer of the hall named after her. The painting was V. J.’s pride and joy, and like V.J., the late Dean of Women’s framed visage viewed all males disapprovingly.
To call my bluff, the denizens of my dorm passed the hat and raised $100. The die was cast. I would pull a jersey over my head, walk backwards into the foyer, grab the portrait, and bolt. That night my cronies hid in the Quigley parking lot to watch.
The theft would have gone off flawlessly except for one thing. V.J. came after me with a vengeance! Outrunning her shouldn’t have been a problem, but when I heard the hissing and scraping behind me, I was immobilized by uncontrollable laughter.
Just as her gnarled old hand was about to grab my jersey, I mustered enough self-control to flee to my cheering compatriots, but not before I heard her rasp, “I know who you are.”
She couldn’t … no way. I was just one among thousands of male students at the university. Still, I had a sense of foreboding.
Back in my dorm, I got a phone call. “Put Dean Quigley’s portrait in my car’s back seat, and I won’t report you to the Dean of Men.” Click.
Then it hit me: here was a decent, caring old lady giving a foolish, irresponsible boy a second chance. Had she reported me, I would have been expelled immediately.
Late that night, I put Dean Quigley’s portrait in the car. Turning to go, I saw V.J. in the foyer, arms crossed, watching me. I bowed my head in abject shame.
She knew and I knew: this incident was a major milestone in my growing up process. I was a better person because I got a second chance from V. J.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
