The Ninth Wave

by Eugene Burdick

  "The girl's morals are all right," Mike said. "You can leave now. She's safe."

  The boy in the yellow jacket squatted down comfortably on his heels. He smiled at Mike. The other boy, who had reached in his pocket, walked over to the thermos bottle. His eyes opened wide as he sniffed the cork.

  "Why, George, I do declare they were drinking," he said. "This bottle smells like liquor. Imagine him bringing liquor along and giving it to the poor girl. The rascal."

  "Put on your coat, Georgia," Mike said. "We're going.''

  He stood up. Before Georgia could stand up one of the other boys reached into his pants and took out another toy baseball bat. The boy in the yellow jacket looked up and grinned.

  "Now don't be in a hurry. Just because we came," he said. "You were planning something with the girl before we came. We don't want that blanket and all that good liquor to go to waste. Why don't you just go ahead and keep up the good work?" The boy spoke precisely and slowly, almost solemnly. But his tongue flicked at the corner of his mouth.

  Mike stood still. He looked down and Georgia was staring at the boy.

  "Don't mind us," the boy went on. "We'll sort of stand guard. You just go ahead and skin her clothes off and you can pecker her right here on the beach. Then you'll save yourself the motel money and we'll make sure you have privacy."

  The boys, unconsciously, all moved forward a step. The boys swung their bats. They looked down at Georgia.

  "If you don't we'll persuade you," one of the other boys said. His voice was choked.

  The boy in the yellow jacket jerked his head around.

  "Shut up, Eddie," he said. "Don't be rude to the man. He appreciates the help we're giving. Why don't you just start in, mister? Just as if we weren't here. Give her a kiss and get her hot and. then skin her clothes off. A piece at a time. Her sweater and her skirt and then her brassiere . . . oh gosh I forgot girls wear slips, don't they. I'm sorry."

  "Listen, buddy, you're getting yourself in trouble," Mike said. His voice was flat and steady. "Why don't you just take your boys and clear off the beach?"

  "Oh, gosh, you've got it all wrong, mister," the boy said. "We want to help you. You've probably been trying to get into that girl for a long time now. We're going to help you out."

  "I won't ask you again," Mike said. "Get off the beach."

  The boy stayed squatting for a second more. Then he stood up and as he did his face changed. The humorous joking look left his face. He was suddenly, instantaneously, angry and, somehow, it made him look much younger.

  "Ya tellin' us to shove eh?" he said. "You and everybody, always tellin' us to shove. Off the beach, off the road, off the Palladium dance floor, off the school grounds, off the sidewalk. Always get off, shove! Awright, big tough guy. Cops ain't around to make us do it. So you do what we say or we'll pound the living piss out of ya. See?" The boy's language changed; the elegance and precision peeled off as if he had been speaking in an artificial voice. "Take 'er clothes off. Take yours off. Then screw her."

  The other three boys stood rigid. When they looked at Georgia their faces came undone; went limp and ragged, sagging with excitement.

  It was getting dark along the beach and occasionally a car turned on its lights and the faint yellow column of light swung out over the beach. It was still light enough, however, to see the boys.

  Mike looked down at Georgia. He could not see her face clearly, but he sensed that she could see him.

  "O.K., mister. Just git goin'. Start skinnin' down. Take your clothes off," the boy said. "Then you can help the girl with hers."

  "Boy, I'm not going to take my clothes off," Mike said slowly. "The girl isn't going to take her clothes off. There's not going to be a show this afternoon."

  The boy looked startled and then puzzled. His face twisted and he looked quickly at the other boys. Then he took out a set of brass knuckles and slowly put them on. He grinned at Mike.

  "You a bully, eh? A tough egg," he said softly, with pleasure. "You like to kick people round. Maybe we'll kick you around. Ever see a man worked over with little baseball bats and brass knucks? It's not nice, mister. Now you just start skinnin' down."

  "You'd better come after me," Mike said. "I'm not skinning down. Neither is the girl."

  He looked down at Georgia. She picked up the thermos bottle and stood up. She held the bottle like a club.

  "We'll fight them, Mike," she said in a distinct voice.

  The boys looked at one another. The boy in the yellow jacket grinned.

  "No. You start up the path," Mike said. He turned to the circle of boys. "All right. Come on in. You were doing the big talking. Why don't you come on in? There's just one guy and a girl. That's all. Nothing to be afraid of."

  The semicircle tightened around them. The boys no longer looked young and somewhat overdressed. They crouched forward and in the twilight they looked huge and dark, menacing. Their faces were twisted with excitement. The boy in the flannel jacket took two steps forward, his hand carefully cocked, the brass knuckles gleaming.

  Mike's mind slowed down, he watched the boys carefully. Precisely he remembered what the Marine at Nouméa had told him. about in-fighting. "There's no man on the face of the earth who can stand a kick in the nuts. An Eskimo, a Russian, a Texan or an African will stop everything and grab their nuts if they get a good kick. It's the first law of in-fighting."

  He watched the boys creep in. The two baseball bats were yellow in the half-light and they swung in easy arcs at about shoulder height.

  "Me first," the boy in the yellow jacket said. "Let me clip 'im one first. Dirty son of a bitch. Big-mouth bastard. Let me have 'im first."

  Georgia threw the thermos bottle at the boy. He put his hands up and the bottle bounced away. For a moment the boy stood straight and unprotected.

  Mike aimed and kicked the boy in the groin. His toe hit cartilage and bone and something very soft. The boy screamed sharply. His hands shot out in front of him, fingers widespread and grasping. Then delicately they moved down toward his groin. Mike caught the hand with the brass knuckles in mid-air, twisted it sideways. The boy's free hand grabbed his groin, but Mike had his other hand behind his back.

  In the dim light the other boys stumbled forward.

  "Just a second," Mike said. "I've got his hand behind his back. The one with the brass knuckles. You take another step forward and I'm going to break one of his fingers backward over the knuckles. Before you can get me I'll break every god damned finger on his hand."

  The boy in the yellow jacket was still blubbering, but the pain had eased enough so that he could hear Mike.

  "I'm ruined," he said shrilly. "Get me to a hospital. That's what I need. Christ, I'm ruined. He kicked my nuts off. I can feel one of 'em hanging down my leg."

  The boys hesitated. Mike held the boy's hand so that they could see it. He bent the middle finger backward over the knuckle and the boy screamed again. But he did not take his other hand away from his groin.

  "All right," Mike said. "We'll just walk up to the highway together. The three of you first. Me and your buddy second. The girl last. Just throw your baseball bats on the sand. Right now."

  They hesitated and Mike pulled on the boy's finger. The scream sounded out above the waves, louder than the whir of tires along the highway. The boys threw their bats down and started up the side of the rock.

  Mike picked up one of the bats, then pushed the boy ahead of him up the path. When they came out on the highway the night was sliced by the swift passage of car headlights in the blackness.

  Mike let go of the boy. The boy put both of his hands to his groin. He held himself tenderly and from between his fingers black drops fell. His eyes were wide with terror.

  The other boys took him by the elbows and led him to their car. It was a cut-down, powerful car with chrome exhaust pipes sticking from the hood. They eased the boy into the back seat and he screamed as he sat down. The car shot out onto the highway with a roar.

  Mike turned t
o Georgia. They walked over and got in Mike's car.

  Georgia sat forward on the seat with her arms around her knees. Mike started the car.

  "Don't go home, please, Mike," she said. "Drive up the highway. Up toward Santa Barbara."

  Mike drove slowly out onto the highway. He drove past Cliff Rock, past Malibu Beach and then picked up speed when they came to the divided highway. They came to Point Mugu and the highway swung inland. Across the dun-colored salt grass and sand dunes the superstructure of the ships at Port Hueneme broke the last light with a spidery precision. They went through Oxnard and Ventura and they came out on the great swooping highway that follows the curves of the shore. Salt spray blew across the highway. Below Carpinteria the highway went up abruptly like an arrow, and they came out on the plateau above the ocean. The smell of oranges was strong.

  "Can we stop and eat something?" Georgia said. "I'm hungry."

  Mike stopped at a seafood restaurant and they had abalone steak. He ordered a bottle of red wine and they were both thirsty. They drank the bottle and ordered another one. When they were finished they drove on toward Santa Barbara. When they passed the first motel on the outskirts of Santa Barbara Georgia looked up.

  "Let's stop at a motel," she said. "I don't want to go home tonight."

  Mike stopped at a motel that backed up to the ocean. He registered and then drove the car down to one of the neat little cottages. When they went in, Georgia turned on the lights and leaned against the bureau. She turned and looked at Mike. Her eyes were very bright and frightened.

  "Mike, there are millions of people like those boys, aren't there?" she said. She gestured and took in the world outside the neat motel room. "I never saw them before, but I know that there are millions of them out there."

  "Sure. Millions."

  "And we're separated from them by just a thin little boundary that anyone can walk across. A few policemen and some laws. That's all the boundary there is. They can walk across anytime they want to." Her eyes were focused rigidly on the wall. "Why don't they just get organized and take over? What holds them back? They could just come walking in anyplace, with their little baseball bats swinging from their wrists. Into homes and schools . . . and everyplace."

  "Because they're scared, Georgia," Mike said and his voice was tired. "Because they're scared and because there are guys like me around that know that they're scared. I'm one of 'em, Georgia. I know what they want and why they want it. There are millions of them, you're right. All mad, frustrated, petulant, whining, ugly."

  "I never saw them before," Georgia said.

  "No. Of course you never saw them before," Mike said. "All you saw was your father and Morrie. They think they're tough and practical, but they're only tough and practical when they're dealing with their own sort. They don't know about those others out there. They don't know that those millions are waiting for some sort of instruction on how to act. And because they don't get instructions, because no one tells them, they act the way they feel. Which is tough and mean. So someone has to tell them how to act; someone has to give instructions and say that you act like so and so and such and such. Morrie can't do it. Your father can't do it. I can't do it. But I can give orders to someone who can. I can tell Cromwell and he can tell them."

  "Let's go outside," she said. "Maybe we can walk along the beach."

  They went down a steep wooden stairway and came out on the beach. They took off their shoes and left them on the bottom step. The sand was still warm. They walked by a large hotel and the sound of music came from the open windows.

  Once Georgia left him and walked down and stood in the shallow water. Then she came back and they continued down the beach. In the deep sand her coltish, almost crippled gait was emphasized.

  They went past the hotel and came to a small oval stretch of sand. Georgia sat down. Mike sat down beside her.

  Faintly, like an exudation, the cooling ocean gave off the smell of petroleum. It was the thin passing debris left on the surface by the day's passage of tankers.

  A faint light came from the sea; a sort of bluish loom that deepened as each wave broke and then receded. The light was good only for close vision, but Mike could see Georgia's features and her fingers clasped around her knees. The light was adequate only for that. If he moved his head back only slightly she blurred and became indistinct.

  She lifted her head. In the blue, faint, oceanic light her eyes were invisible except for splinters of light that reflected from the big bony eye sockets. Her head moved and he knew she was looking at him. Her lips parted to talk and then came together silently.

  He noticed that his fingertips were trembling against his pants.

  "Mike, you're so . . . " she said and paused, her lips open, trying for the correct words. "You're like one of those little glass balls that has artificial snow and a winter scene inside of it. You shake it and the snow swirls around the scene. Except that all one sees of you is the swirling, the snow. All the things are there inside, but I can't get a fingernail into the glass to pry it open. It's all smooth and tough." She licked her lips. "And you don't want anyone inside. You'd fight it; you'd keep them out." Her voice faltered and Mike felt that she was almost crying.

  Mike leaned forward and kissed her. At first he was only aware that there were a few grains of sand caught on her lips. The tiny pieces of sand worked between their lips, like nuclei of irritation. And then from the grains of sand a sensation of raptness went through Mike. He stiffened and was caught in an experience he had never. known.

  He pushed Georgia back on the sand. He put his hand on her belly and it was round and firm. It felt incredibly feminine. Her mouth opened slightly and he could feel her breath against his tongue.

  Dimly, he was aware that her breathing was the rhythm of the ocean; identical with the rise and fall of the waves. He felt caught between the two rhythms; one pressing against his eardrums and the other communicated through his lips. He felt incapable of moving, caught in a luxury of immobility and, on some deep and hidden level, afraid that if he moved he would end it.

  Georgia pulled her lips away and sat up. She clasped her knees. Mike felt a huge despair; he was certain that she would deny him.

  "Not like this, Mike," she said. "I'll take my clothes off."

  He felt a slow surge of relief. She stood up and in the darkness he heard the soft gnash of a zipper, the hissing of cloth over flesh.

  When she knelt down beside him he could, in the bluish loom, make out her naked breasts and the swelling of her shoulders. He kissed her on the neck and then ran his hands over her breasts. She breathed into his hair. When he rolled over on top of her, her arms went around him and her hands locked over the small of his neck.

  "Mike, I'm not sure of anything," she whispered. "Nothing . . . not anymore. Except one thing . . . I want all of you in me. Not part of you, but the whole man . . .lonely . . . person."

  She sighed and seemed to fall away from him.

  CHAPTER 20

  "A Low But Certain Ground"

  Two days later Georgia came to Mike's office.

  "You told me you'd tell me about politics today," she said. "Remember?"

  "Sure," he said. But he had not and he made no effort to pretend. He grinned at her and then got up from his desk. "Let's go upstairs. That's where the politics takes place."

  They took the elevator and went up three floors. They walked down the hall and entered a room with "Computation Room" on the door.

  The room was large and bare. In one corner was a table with a Pyrex coffee maker, a stack of paper cups, a box of sugar cubes and a can of condensed milk. Along the other wall was a long low machine. It had a smooth glistening top, thirteen metal pockets and a number of counters on it. The letters I.B.M. appeared on a metal crest. The machine was well rubbed and it hummed. Bedside it, on a metal table, were several boxes of cards.

  A woman was leaning against the machine, She had the taut, wiry, nervous body of a marathon runner. A cigarette hung from her lower
lip. She wore a cheap rabbit-hair sweater. Her breasts were sharp and small and she looked very confident. She looked at them through the cigarette smoke that swirled past her eyes.

  Without looking at the machine, the woman pressed a button. The humming rose in pitch; took on an eager sound. The woman touched a lever and instantly a stack of cards began to feed from a hopper into the machine. The cards were snapped flat, caught between some rubber belts and flicked into one or another of the thirteen pockets. The stack of cards in the hopper jiggled downward. The pockets, each one balanced on springs, moved downward under the weight of the cards. The cards shot into the metal pockets with a sharp snip of sound that was repeated with incredible speed.