Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes - Jan David Blais - Страница 14

“THAT BLACK KID SURE BROUGHT PAUL UP SHORT,” I observe. “No good deed ever goes unpunished.”

Jonathan nods. “When you wander into opinion, you’re asking for trouble. That’s happened to me when I was least expecting it. Here Paul knew he was getting personal, he just didn’t expect that kind of reaction.”

“It could have made him gunshy but I saw no sign of that later.”

“He learned a lesson. Be fearless but not stupid, that’s another way to say it.”

Over dinner Jonathan is more pensive than usual. I ask what is wrong.

“I’m still pissed. I can’t get over losing that part of the story.”

“I hear you, but Paul’s life is more interesting than his death could ever be.”

Jonathan shakes his head. “If it bleeds, it leads. A celebrity? And intrigue? Together the two halves make a fantastic story. But you know, if they give it to Hersh I’m thinking he’s not going to have an easy time of it. He burned a lot of bridges with My Lai, military sources, I mean.”

“That was decades ago.”

“People have long memories when you show them up.”

“Ah, come on, an old pro like him’s got an address book a foot thick. He’ll always find somebody with a grudge that’s willing to talk.”

Jonathan has this funny look on his face. “Maybe it’s not too late.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I could still do it on spec. As far as the magazine’s concerned it’s no skin off their nose, not if I give them what I’m under contract for.”

I feel bad Jonathan won’t be working on that part of it. I feel bad I won’t be working on it. Much as I hate to admit, it would be sweet to help find the bastards responsible. Is there anything I can do, I wonder. I’d better look into that and damned quick, too.

* * * * * * *

AS MY SENIOR YEAR BEGAN, the battle over “Paul’s future” was in full cry, but I had already made one big decision. Pour X into Y you get Z, design a bridge that’ll stay up – someone else could worry about such things. I’d been caught up in the Sputnik lamentations but as events unfolded I was more interested in how we dealt with the Russians than how they got the thing up there. When I told Benny about my load of History and Government he laughed, telling me welcome to the club.

Jim was engaged, and my mother appreciated Sheila’s healthy influence on son number one. He was growing up despite himself, apprenticing for a plumber and going to school nights for his license. Right after high school he joined the National Guard to stay out of the draft. He drilled weekly in the red brick armory on Cranston Street near Tante Héloise’s house and went to camp in the summer. He still spent time with his buddies, but not as much. Football was in the past as, apparently, were thoughts of college. These days he swung from a shorter but sturdier chain.

It interested me that Catherine’s non-Catholic environment wasn’t the end of the world. She still went to Mass Sundays, at the Newman Center. We had interesting debates, thanks to a Philosophy course she was taking. Everybody had followed the accounts of Pius XII’s death and the election of John XXIII. One Sunday night shortly after the new Pope’s election we were having dinner at our house. Somebody asked me how the La Salle community was taking the change.

“One of the priests studied in Rome, he has great stories about what happens on the inside, the politics and all.”

“No,” my mother said, “the Holy Spirit playing politics?”

“Everything’s political,” my father said. “Anything can be bought will be bought.” “I meant what I said as a joke, but I certainly wouldn’t go that far!”

“You say God works through men, Fiona, that’s how men are. No better, no worse, no exceptions.”

“You don’t mean money changes hands,” Catherine ventured.

“No, but say you’re a cardinal and you want so and so to win. If you want my vote I’ll expect you to come across when there’s something I need.”

My mother shook her head. “How you men can steer an interesting discussion in the most boring direction. I want to know, what do they think of the new Pope? He certainly looks to be a man of the people.”

“He’s from a humble background,” my father replied, “his family were farmers. Can’t be all bad.”

“A nice change from the so-called princes of the Church,” my mother sniffed.

“He’s almost eighty,” I added. “Some people say he’s an interim Pope, they couldn’t agree on somebody who’d be there a long time.”

“See, what’d I tell you,” my father grinned. “Politics.”

“People are saying he might surprise people,” I went on. “He has a habit of doing the unexpected.”

“Not to change the subject,” my father pointed his finger at me, “you saw our troops just left Lebanon. Would you say we did the right thing going in there?”

“It’s a friendly government and was in danger of falling, so I’d say, yes.”

“You won’t be writing any critical editorials, I take it.” My comment calling Korea a tie still rankled him.

“This is different. We did the job and we got out. That’s the way to do it.”

“I don’t see why we mess in other countries’ affairs,” Catherine added.

“It’s nothing new,” my mother said, “we’ve been doing it forever.”

“Who runs a country matters,” my father said. “We don’t send troops for no reason but if a friend needs help and we have something at stake, that’s different.”

“It just doesn’t seem right to get mixed up in somebody else’s business.”

My father frowned, “Sometimes their business is our business, too. That Nasser is a bad actor, cozying up to the Rooskies like that. If you ask me, they’re behind all the uproar over there, no question about it.”

At my mother’s insistence I applied to Harvard and Brown, as well as Holy Cross in Worcester, forty miles west of Boston. Harvard was impressive – the tradition, the stately buildings, the famous graduates – but word came, no scholarship. My father said he’d swing it if I really wanted, but a few days later Holy Cross came through with tuition, room and board, though I’d have to work in the dining hall as part of the deal.

I have to admit, the prospect of leaving the Catholic cocoon was making me nervous. While most of the Brothers fed my fears, once again Brother Robert stood above the pack. Welcome the unknown, he said, that’s where the most interesting things happen. What a great person, I thought, but I also thought, easier said than done.

My decision came down to this. In addition to gaining knowledge, I wanted the next four years to deepen my Catholic beliefs and tune them up for real life. And so it was I cast my lot with the Jesuits and Holy Cross.

Our family was doing all right except for one thing, but it was a big one. With success, my father had become more remote than ever, having less time for us. I sensed he felt we sapped his energy, interfering with more interesting and important things. Also, better able to read the signals, I knew there were other women. I recall the sadness in my mother’s face when it grew late and he still hadn’t come home. What went on between themselves they kept from us. I went along, minding my own business, feeling sorry for my mother, and for him, too.

But spurred on by Catherine, mother was stirring, working on persuading herself the time was right for a return to the stage. Thriving at Brown, Catherine had already been in several plays. I admired theater without appreciating it, considering entertainment thin gruel for people of serious mien. It took me much too long to realize that art is also a handmaiden of truth, that it may illuminate the human heart far better than endeavors that tackle it head-on. That aspect of Brother Robert’s genius was still lost on me. I’d had glimpses, recently with On the Road, last year’s clandestine choice, but like so many things file this one under “opportunity lost.”

Military service was now on my mind as classmates talked about registering for the draft. Next year, when I turned eighteen, I’d have a Selective Service Card in my wallet too, and a student deferment. I put aside the ROTC materials that came in my acceptance packet. I’d gladly serve my country when and if, just not yet.

I’d never tested the Saturday night school dances but the prospect of my senior prom pushed me into it. I had taken Joan to a couple of movies but the last time it was really awkward. When I slid my hand across, hers just sat there. Jim clued me in on hand-holding, that it meant more than it seemed. If a girl really held your hand back, squeezing it or rubbing it, this was an invitation to take the next step, which was put your arm around her. If she leaned against you or put her head on your shoulder, well... But Joan’s limp fish stopped me cold. I finally pulled my hand back and sat, distracted and miserable, through the film. April Love, ha! I called her once more and she said she was going steady. Actually made me feel better. I wished her luck.

So on a chilly early December evening, Omer and I set out. Omer had on his shiny rust-colored jacket but I didn’t say anything. We were nervous enough already. I had to talk him into going but I figured the Brothers wouldn’t run these things if they weren’t okay. I had on a gray tweed sport coat, the kind with brown leather buttons you never button and new loafers that began killing me the first block. “This is such a waste of time,” he said as we passed Mt. Pleasant. “I can’t dance, what’s the use?”

“Just do what everybody is doing.”

Easy for me to say. I didn’t know how either. One time my mother offered to show me how. She was a great dancer, I’d seen her at weddings and so on, but I said no thanks, that would be too weird, I thought, dancing with your mother. All I knew was what Catherine taught me the one time I let her try which was also the last time.

I told Omer, think of a square on the floor. Step ahead with your left foot, then move your right foot up to it and across, then back with the left – something like that. You do this over and over. The girl does it backwards.

“That is so dumb!” he shouted. I found it hard to disagree.

Fifty cents wasn’t a fortune, but we stopped to think it over. Why pay anything for an awkward and painful couple of hours? Omer shook his head, “I can’t do it.” Then Ain’t That a Shame began to filter through the half-open door... that did it for me. I pulled out a dollar and handed it to the kid I knew who was the guard. He gave me back two quarters and pressed an ink stamp onto my wrist. “Go to the bathroom, show this to get back in. Leave the building you don’t get back in.”

This seemed reasonable. If I left, I wouldn’t want to get back in.

“C’mon, Omer,” I said. “Look, if it’s that bad, we’ll leave.”

He sighed, reaching for his money. “Okay, you win.”

I’d never seen the auditorium so lit up. It made our assemblies look like midnight on a moonless night. We found ourselves in a crowd of boys beneath the overhanging balcony in the back of the room. The girls were from all over but the boys were from La Salle, all of them. The Brothers said they couldn’t be responsible for outsiders, but it was really to improve the home team’s chances. We spotted several clots of girls as we sauntered through the crowd, toward where the dancing was happening. The lines of girls stretched along each side of the room. I nudged Omer. “There they are.” Suddenly I had this image of Buzz Sawyer pointing out a formation of Jap planes to Hotshot Charlie. Why? These girls weren’t the enemy, were they? They were playing slow music that would fit my box step, so I set off toward one of the lines, Omer trailing behind.

Before I go on, let me explain something – what I was looking for. In a girl, that is. It didn’t happened often, but what made me look a second time and a third, was a really pretty face. And nice hair, particularly if it was long. I didn’t have much experience with girls’ bodies because of those loose-fitting clothes I’ve mentioned – that’s probably why their faces interested me so much. This may sound weird, but it was like shopping for shirts, which I was forced to do at the start of every school year. Walking down the rack, I’d look for a color I liked, such as white or blue, and a pattern, such as striped. What the material felt like didn’t matter until I came to a shirt with the right color and pattern. Then I’d check out the material. Anyway, that’s what I was looking for.

As I walked along I kept my eyes open for a pretty face, preferably a small and interesting one like Ann Blyth or Piper Laurie. Being behind the girls as I was, I couldn’t see their faces too well so I had to break through the line then casually turn and look around. I worked my way nearly to the end when all of a sudden, there she was. A little shorter than me, long dark hair, a small nose and large eyes and, well, the most beautiful face I’d ever seen. She was talking to some other girl but mostly just staring out at the dancing. I edged closer. She had this kind of sad expression as if she wanted to dance and didn’t know why she wasn’t. I looked around to see who was waiting to pounce but nobody else was even sizing her up! I elbowed Omer. “What do you think?”

He moved out to get a look, then came back. “You better make your move fast. Boy, is she stacked!”

Stacked? Honest to God, I hadn’t even noticed. She was wearing a sweater that wasn’t all that tight but now that I looked he was right, but as I said before, for me the face was what mattered. And so there is no misunderstanding, let me say my standards were extremely high. At times I worried why some of my friends seemed so successful with girls but I rationalized that by thinking there were plenty of girls I could ask, but not many met my standards. It wasn’t that I had to be in love with somebody to be interested in them – not exactly, but close. My glasses had a lot to do with this. They gave me this serious look, because glasses imply a person is studious, which in my case happened to be true, though not to the exclusion of normal interests like sports and so on. And a person who was serious about things, or at least looked serious, had to act serious, he couldn’t fool around as much, if you know what I mean. So when that kind of person asks a girl out, it means something.

Shake, Rattle and Roll was on – too fast. I looked around. A couple other kids in the area now. Finally, the last few bars... please let the next one be slow. I took a deep breath and exhaled, when Mr. Tambourini the History teacher came over the microphone – he was acting as deejay. “We’ll take a break now. Be back in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes! No way I could just talk with her for ten minutes. At least when the music was on you didn’t have to say that much. Omer was pulling at my sleeve. “Let’s get a coke.”

“Go ahead. I’m going to hang around.” I wasn’t about to let her out of my sight.

I was happy to be rid of Omer so I could concentrate. The crowd began to thin but now a couple of guys, seniors, were lurking, pointing at different girls and making obnoxious remarks. The object of my desire was still there with her friend. All of a sudden she turned and our eyes met. I looked away. When I looked back she was looking away but then she quickly looked back to see if I was looking back, which I was. I thought I saw her smile... she said something to the girl next to her and they giggled. Were they laughing at me? Now I was watching like a hawk... one more laugh and that was it, she’d never know what she missed. I must have been there a couple of minutes but they just went on talking so I figured it was something else.

Where was Mr. Tambourini? Where was Omer, though I didn’t really care. Finally, the music started again. The Great Pretender. Perfect! I steadied myself and closed in, brushing back my hair and straightening my glasses with my finger. Some kids were already dancing. I noticed she was quiet again, just staring at the floor.

“Uh, excuse me.” She looked at me... God, was she beautiful. “Would you like to dance?” I expected her to say no. I mean, I wouldn’t have blamed her, but then...

“Sure.”

She stepped onto the floor and turned to see if I was there. She had done this before. “My name’s Sandra.” My hand was around her waist. Her hand was on my shoulder. I fumbled to get hold of her other hand and started my box to the music.

Owowowowowoyesss! I’m the great preetennderrrr…

“I’m Paul Bernard. I’m a Senior here.” I wished I were ten years older.

“I’m at Saint X, I’m a Junior.” Turned out she even knew Catherine slightly. I asked her what courses she was taking and so on, and we danced on, my box acting well, she doing hers backwards. I began thinking maybe it was time to try my other step where you pivot and turn ninety degrees. The one-eighty I hadn’t yet mastered.

“It’s been warm, hasn’t it,” she said. “Do you think it’ll ever snow?”

“Yeah, but I don’t mind. I have a pretty long walk. It’s better than freezing.”

“I take the bus usually.”

“Where do you live?”

“Warwick.”

Warwick! The other side of the earth. “How’d you get here tonight?”

“My friend’s boy friend has a car.”

“You’re here with some girls.” Omer flashed through my mind, but I quickly decided let him take care of himself.

She was quiet for a moment. “We saw you looking at us.”

“I... I was trying to figure out if you wanted to dance.”

“That is why we came, you know,” she smiled. It made her look even prettier, if that was possible.

“I meant with me...”

At this she laughed out loud, then recovered quickly, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you but you know, you’re really funny.”

Whatever I thought of myself, being funny wasn’t part of it, funny in the sense of, well, fun. I hoped she didn’t mean the other kind of funny. Suddenly she put her arm around my neck and came closer, now my glasses were brushing her hair and I couldn’t even see her face, which was nearly resting on my shoulder. I could feel her... bosom, I guess you’d say. When you’re with your friends or thinking about things there are words for it but when it’s a girl right in front of you... Omer was right, she was big.

Then... damn! Here it comes again, a mind of its own. At least it wasn’t an occasion of sin this time, I wasn’t thinking about anything and we were hardly touching except where she couldn’t help it but still I decided to back off. I didn’t want her thinking she’d started something like I did between Omer and Rita Hayworth, but then again, this is what you hope happens, up to a certain point but not beyond if you follow me. I moved my feet back from hers a little. This helped but it was awkward. I wondered what we looked like. She was still holding me around the neck, tighter than ever. The image of an open ladder, side view, came to mind.

I’m wearing my heart like a crown…pretending that you’re still around.

When the music stopped she let go but didn’t leave. Like I said, it was very bright out there and Jim told me the Brothers sometimes actually separated kids. Leave room for the Holy Ghost, they’d say, stuff like that.

“Want to dance again?” She smiled and nodded.

I was looking around to see if somebody would try and ace me out and, strange thing, this guy standing next to us with his arm around a girl was staring at Sandra and the girl he was with had this really angry look on her face. I turned the other way and another guy, his girl was tugging at him. Sandra seemed flustered. She knew guys stared. Thankfully the music started and I resumed my box, less nervous now but troubled by what I’d just seen. “You come to these a lot?” I ventured.

“Not very often.” She paused as if to say something. There was this sweet, sad expression on her face. “They, well, they’re usually not much fun.”

That was the last thing I expected her to say. Being so beautiful and all, she ought to be the most popular girl in the whole place, then again, when I first saw her she wasn’t dancing. And what Omer said, the first words out of his mouth, and these guys staring at her... she was embarrassed because she looked so great! Maybe guys were so overcome by her looks they were afraid to ask her to dance, or for a date, the kind of guys a nice girl like her would want to know. Suddenly this wave of confidence came over me. If what Sandra wanted was an ordinary person who wouldn’t try to do anything or at least not that much, somebody she could be with and not worry about things... I glowed inside. This was me to a T.

We were out there a long time, some fast dances too, talking about everything, even between the numbers. She liked baseball – unfortunately she was a Yankee fan though her being Italian I could accept that. Ianello was her name, she was the oldest of seven, all boys but her. At the break, she said she had to check in with her friends which I understood, she’d come with them, after all. Omer found me. He was looking pretty gloomy. “You were dancing a lot. With that same girl.” He acted like I had stabbed him in the back.

“That is why we came, you know.”

“I’m going to leave. Acne. I have no chance. It’s too bright in here.”

“Did you try?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I need to go to the bathroom.”

I looked back at Sandra... she was talking with her friends. I wanted to keep her in sight so I could find her right away when the music started, but if she liked me, I figured, or at least didn’t mind me that much, she’d be there when I returned. So Omer and I went and got a couple of cokes. “That girl... what’s she like?”

“Oh, I don’t know, she goes to Saint X. She’s from Warwick.”

“That’s a long bus ride.”

He read my mind. If things went well I would definitely ask her out. He had this sly expression on his face. “I never was that close to anybody that big,” he said. It seemed Omer had developed this obsession after the Rita Hayworth incident though it wasn’t all my fault, he’d probably been thinking about it already. “You were dancing close... did she rub them against you?”

I glowered at him. “You have a dirty little mind, don’t you.”

He laughed. “Don’t we all? What are you, some kind of statue?”

A statue I was not. Suddenly the music was on again. I had to get back. “Come on, you’ll do better this time,” I said. Even if Omer was a sex fiend mentally, he was still my friend. I was relieved his hang-dog expression was back. We returned to the spot I’d left Sandra but... where was she? Her friends were gone too. I looked around frantically. Suddenly my heart sank. She was on the floor with Harry Croft, a loudmouth jock, a real jerk. He was wearing his letter sweater, naturally. They were dancing back and forth when suddenly he grabbed her around the waist with both hands and pulled her in really tight. I tensed. I felt like going out there and punching him though he was six-three also who was I to watch out for Sandra, I’d just met her and maybe I read her wrong. After a few seconds of groping, she shoved him away and stomped off the floor. She and her friends put their heads together then Sandra and this other girl started to leave. They passed close to me but Sandra had her head down.

Omer saw her, too. “Why didn’t you stop her, lover-boy?”

“Omer, you really are a shit.”

Well, that was it. Fed up with “La Salle boys,” she had left. And the evening had started so brilliantly. I began shuffling toward the exit when I saw Sandra and her friend coming back. I stepped in front of her. “Sandra,” I said. Her eyes were moist and red.

“Hi,” she said, blinking and looking away.

They were playing a really fast song but throwing caution to the wind I gestured and she smiled and led me to the floor. I’m not very good at this, I said. She said don’t worry, I’ll show you how. It turned out to be a fast box with a lot of turning and when I let go of her she spun around before re-entering my happy, confused orbit. When the set was over I asked if she’d like a coke and she said yes. We were sipping in the lobby no beverages food smoking on floor and I told her about myself. She also liked to read and had a nice camera, not as good as the Leica but better than my old one. We went on, back and forth until finally she looked at me in this funny way. “You know,” she said, “you’re different from the others.”

Normally this would have been discouraging, but I figured, that is I hoped she was talking about Harry Croft. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s nice. You’re nice.”

Nice? Nice! The next set was all slow numbers, and she put her hand around my neck and held me close when we danced which drove me wild so I fell into the ladder again. During Good Night Sweetheart, I asked for her phone number. I committed it to memory which wasn’t that big a deal except my mind was filled with thoughts and feelings so I repeated it a couple of times. “Shall I write it out for you?” she laughed, but I replied crisply, “West 5524R. Right?”

“Right!” The music stopped and she said she’d better get back to her ride. I said I’d call, she said she’d like that. She liked Westerns, too. Walking out, Omer made another crack but I let it go. The most beautiful girl in the world had just given me her phone number. Outside we ran into Terry and Jerome. Terry and I had long since mended fences but Jerome was his same morose self. “Why do I bother with these dances?” he said. “Damned waste of time. Last time you’ll see me here.”

“You were dancing a lot,” Terry said to me. So people had noticed.

Jerome gestured toward the crowd, “What do you think’d happen if I asked one of those white chicks to dance? Not that any of them’d say yes.”

Even Terry was glum. “Why don’t they ever invite some colored girls?”

“That’s the trouble,” Jerome went on, “damn Brothers...all talk, no action.”

Terry burst out laughing. “No action, that’s for damn sure! No action at all!”

Well I got my license. My mother drove a hard bargain – you want the car, you take dancing lessons. So twice a week for six weeks I climbed the stairs to Arthur Murray’s in a Westminster Street office building. I stared out the window over the shoulder of this woman old enough to be my mother as she initiated me in waltz, rumba, tango, swing and perfected my fox trot. All of a sudden my box had lots of company.

Several times Sandra and I got together, movies and, you guessed it, a hockey game. The most we had done was hold hands because we’d never really been alone and I didn’t know how she’d react anyway. It made me nervous that these excuses were about to disappear. Prom night, my parents beamed as, resplendent in white jacket, plaid tie and cummerbund, I drove off in the old Plymouth, corsage on the seat beside me. I debated, wrist kind or the kind you pin on, and went with wrist as safer. Pink sweetheart roses. We looped back for Angelo who was taking a Mt. Pleasant girl. I don’t remember much about the evening but what happened at the end I will never forget.

I’ll be the first to admit we were late. We stopped at a diner then drove Angelo and his date home. I shut off the motor and turned off the lights and there we sat. Sandra slid over toward me and I put my arm around her shoulder. When I turned to face her she came closer... closer...and... we kissed. I put my other arm around her and we did it again, longer and harder. Times like this I wished I didn’t wear glasses but I couldn’t take them off because that would send the wrong signal to a girl like Sandra. She still thought I was different in a nice way, but that night I didn’t feel at all different or nice. I was hoping, sort of, I’d have the grace to stay pure, with this wonderful girl who wasn’t that kind of girl at all, but there we were in what can only be described as a clinch. Suddenly, there was this blinding light. We jumped apart.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God!”

Next thing the door opened and this face looked in. Her father. It smelled like he’d been drinking. “Way past your curfew, young lady,” he rasped, shining his flashlight at us. “Let’s go. You’ve said enough goodnight already.” Sandra looked at me, this wretched expression on her face, and without a word she slid across to the other side. He slammed the door, and I was left to watch my pink chiffon dream trudge up the walk and disappear into the house behind an old man and his bathrobe.

I really wanted to see Sandra again. I practiced disguising my voice in case somebody like her father answered. I thought of hanging around her school, too, but I did neither, I’m not sure why. A couple of years later, I heard she got married and moved. That night, that agonizing night, I was so unhappy. God help me, I said, lying awake, the first girl I ever liked who liked me back. You better help me, God, I sure can’t help myself.

Next Sunday I was totally focused. Body of Christ, Blood of Christ. My mind began to wander... where in the Bible do we see the sixteen-year old Jesus? What did he feel like when he looked at girls? Did he wonder what they were like under all those clothes, or did he already know? Did he ever get a hard-on? Did he accept pleasure knowing it wasn’t his fault (often it isn’t)? If not, how can you say he was a real boy? And if he wasn’t a real boy, how could he be a real man? There is no mention of these things that preoccupy boys, girls too, I supposed, though I knew nothing about what they dream of. Why couldn’t Jesus show me the way, not leave it to a bunch of men in black?

I felt like I was shrinking into myself, becoming an observer. On the sidelines, peering through his lens, notebook in hand, Paul Bernard reporting on life, his life. It made no sense. Though if you thought about it, perhaps that was just as well.