Arc of the Comet

by Greg Fields

  Had she, in truth, formed anything? Or did Lynda Hoelscher function now nihilistically, a dispirited wraith, exacting a retribution from those who had invalidated her faith?

  She had seen him again, willfully. Was it purely vengeance, as she had said, a conviction that she now had the strength to draw from him instead, to satisfy herself at his expense? Or perhaps Lynda, the constructions of her life shattered, sought penance by submerging again in the currents and eddies that had swept away the innocence of those constructions. Now there was nothing for her to believe in, nothing worthy of belief, and so self-gratification becomes the only possible reward. No cost exacted can be too high because nothing is left from which to pay.

  Glynnis Mear arrived back at the dormitory, went to her room, undressed and crawled into bed. It was still relatively early, only 11:00, and she did not feel tired, but she had no desire to deal with anyone else this night, and she had no mind to study. Going to bed, pulling the thick blankets up around her neck, would be a suitable insulation. Sometime after midnight, she drifted to sleep.

  The next morning she awoke early for an 8:30 class. Lynda had not yet been in. Glynnis rose, showered, dressed. She did not see Lynda until mid-afternoon when she returned to her room between classes.

  The two young men were indeed students at Penn, seniors. They shared an apartment near campus. Shortly after Glynnis had left, Lynda asked them to take her there. She had sex with each of them, singly and together, throughout the night, allowing them to do everything their collective imaginations could conjure. Around noon she had taken a cab back to her own campus. She was tired now, and a bit sore. She wanted to sleep.

  Glynnis closed the door behind her and went to the library. She remembered the young boy into whose groin Lynda had driven the battering ram of her knee early in the autumn. Somewhere, Glynnis thought, the violence, the vengeance, had been turned inward. Glynnis knew, too, that in the face of such nihilistic fury her friendship could offer little.

  And, for reasons she could not begin to fathom, she thought at once of her mother.

  ***

  Tom McIlweath pulled a mental plug and let all the thoughts run out. Then, intellectually formless, he sought to work himself into a trance. He knew that the mechanics of the body perform best in rhythm. No distractions exist to pull the rhythm away. The human body, devoid of interference from outside, works its own magic, and efficiently.

  McIlweath saw nothing around him save the softly undulating green just below and before him. He did not see Finnegan and his other friends who were in the area. He did not hear their voices, nor the calls of his teammates. McIlweath shook his arms violently up and down, spasmodically snapping off his gyrations at the elbows and wrists. The air wafted against his body, chilling his skin although he did not perceive it. He did not acknowledge what he felt.

  “Swimmers, take your marks.”

  McIlweath stepped up onto the blocks. The green before him had no texture. His motion in ascending the blocks was wooden; his muscles, loosed only with the greatest care, tightened down through the length of his body.

  “Set.”

  The command was not a word, but an expulsion of air bitten off at the end. McIlweath heard it and reacted without thinking. Instinct dominated. He arched his back, leaning forward and pointing both arms to the green womb below him. Tense now, all tightness; wound like a spring for the timelessly eternal split-seconds in this pose, the mind a void, hearing no more, seeing no more, just tension, wrath and fury, legs taut, arms taut, back taut, and leaning ever so slightly, breathlessly, for the edge; don’t think, don’t listen, don’t see, don’t breathe, don’t . . . Bang!

  The gun released him. McIlweath stretched his every fiber into the water, his legs shooting him forward. He thrust out his arms and straightened his back. His gentle face contorted into a hideous, straining grimace. That image of Tom McIlweath’s face, an anomaly to his quiet, brilliant nature, now twisted and medusan, would stay with his friends who caught a glimpse of it, Finnegan especially would remember it, in retrospect comforting himself that the beast lurked within McIlweath, too. In this blinking moment, he let it surface.

  For half a breath Tom McIlweath was a semi-naked Superman, skimming the air above the water. In the next instant he headed downward and broke the plane. He faded beneath the water’s surface, his back still straight, his arms and legs still pointed, but all outlines dissolved under the water that closed over him. He pulled his arms sharply back to his sides in an effort to draw himself as far along as possible under the water where resistance was minimal. He locked his ankles and knees together, then released his long, sinewy arms. It was time to stroke, feverishly, frantically, rhythmically.

  If one sits above the water and looks downward at the stroke, the butterfly makes no sense. The swimmer does not swim. He fights the water in a struggle, if not for survival, then at least for dignity. He kicks both feet in one motion, a breaching whale slapping at the water with his flukes. His arms reach before him, then pinwheel around unnaturally. His back thrusts up and down as in an act of copulation. The water fights back to block his passage. He must wrestle it, Jacob and his angel, and it will not release him. Or perhaps it is like a street fight: he must take the water forcefully, brutally, in anger, in a flash of fury, and have his way with it, control it without loving it. He must pound it to submission.

  For Tom McIlweath and for the five other young men against whom he swam, the butterfly stroke was little different than it appeared. It was a brutal race, based on an unnatural movement. More than once in practice McIlweath’s rhythm had been broken: he would open his mouth at the wrong time, ducking his head as the stroke demanded when he pulled his arms back, and gulp a mouthful of chlorinated water. The water would not be a quiet mistress; it would not submit calmly. Even now in competition, his body working in a carefully contrived mechanical pace, he felt no peace, certainly not in the traditional sense. The race was a sublime struggle that he met most efficiently only when his mind held nothing of the pain, the breathlessness, the groping desperation of it all. During a race, the rhythm, the trancelike, mindless rhythm, was paramount, a holy flame to be tended and preserved.

  The race covered 200 meters, or four lengths of the pool. McIlweath had no strategy. In many races of different strokes or distances, he could plan his attack: go out fast and strong, coast in the middle, keep pace slightly behind the leader, then pass him in a finishing kick—whatever it might take. Here, in the 200 butterfly, McIlweath just swam, as hard and as fast for as long as his rhythm would allow.

  At the 100-meter turn McIlweath was even with the leader. He did not know it because he did not choose to look around him. He continued to swim hard, and his opponent weakened. McIlweath stretched past him, taking sole possession of the lead shortly after the halfway turn. The remainder of the race he increased his advantage, each windmill stroke pulling him farther ahead. Flip around at 150, then head for home. McIlweath hit the wall a full two seconds before his closest competitor. He clung to the tiling, breathing deeply, his lungs clawing for what they had forfeited the last two minutes. McIlweath realized he had won only after the coach approached him from poolside with his time. He did nothing to acknowledge his victory, no gesture, no smile. McIlweath had not lost a 200 butterfly all year. This was to have been his toughest race. The top swimmer on the other team had similar times, and had placed last year at the Easterns, but it had only been half a contest once the starting gun unchained them both.

  After a few seconds, McIlweath climbed out of the pool, took a slap on the back from his coach and walked to his celebrating teammates. The trance had finally broken, but the young man still did not hear the cheering of his teammates or of the small crowd cluttering the bleachers. He took a towel and dried off. Exhaustion claimed him for the moment. All he wanted to do was sit. Tom McIlweath, victorious but hardly smug.

  He had swum twice earlier that day, the more conventional 500 and 1000 freestyle events. He had won them both. The se
ason had half ended and Tom McIlweath had yet to lose a race of any distance and of any stroke. The team itself struggled, winning a few, losing more, but the young freshman swam well. People had begun to take notice. McIlweath for his part wished that the team were doing better, that they could win more as a group. His performance so far pleased him, but it was not his nature to gloat. He knew, though, how rare his personal satisfaction was, and how hard he had worked to attain it.

  He would not be smug. McIlweath feared that, if overconfidence caused him to relax his regimen, all his accomplishments would be lost. He worked harder than ever in practice to keep himself sharp, and he knew that he was in the best shape of his career. ’Glory at best is a fleeting thing,’ he told himself, ’and meaningless, nothing more than an acceptance of other people’s standards. I’d rather please myself.’

  Among the small crowd watching the meet were Conor Finnegan, Lanny O’Hanlon and Dan Rosselli. O’Hanlon, feeling the hard wooden bleachers digging into his thin rump, decided to leave after McIlweath’s last race. Rosselli and Finnegan stayed for the entire meet, Rosselli because he had swum competitively in high school and, friendship with the star aside, he enjoyed the milieu.

  Finnegan remained because he felt a quiet pride in Tom McIlweath, something almost proprietary. Finnegan had found McIlweath back in California, or so he thought, had pulled him out of his shell, had dragged him across country and watched him set up here. Now Finnegan could share a stake in his friend and vicariously exult with him in victory. McIlweath’s success meant more to Finnegan than it did to the swimmer himself.

  “Did Tom always swim like that?” asked Rosselli after O’Hanlon had left.

  “No one really knew. Our school didn’t have a swim team. Mac always kept to himself and no one ever figured him for a star. Ironic that no one knew who the best athlete in our school really was. He had to come clear across country to prove himself.”

  “Well, he’s damn good,” said Rosselli, and then after a few seconds pause, “Maybe I should have done that.”

  “You swam in high school, Dan. Why didn’t you go out for the team here?”

  “No desire, Conor. I wanted to put swimming behind me and concentrate on other things.”

  “Like having a good time.”

  “Right. Like this. A lot of fun, don’t you think?”

  Finnegan smiled. “Absolutely. What could be more fun than watching a swim meet on a Saturday afternoon in a dank old pool? That’s what college is all about. Who needs wild parties and loose women?”

  “We do, old chum. We just can’t find them.”

  “Alas.”

  The meet ended shortly before 5:00. Rosselli and Finnegan rose to leave. “Danny boy, you feel like getting something to eat?”

  “What do you have in mind? The Commons?”

  “Tony’s,” replied Finnegan, naming a popular cheap Italian restaurant near campus. “I’ll even pay as long as you limit yourself to one main course.”

  “Let’s go, Chief.”

  Finnegan and Rosselli walked the two blocks to Tony’s. The midwinter sky hung a low canopy. It would snow that night. When they stepped outside the gym it was already dark. A light breeze came across the river.

  “You hear from Stephanie yet?” asked Finnegan as they walked along.

  “No. Not since Christmas. She’s probably busy with school and all. She works, you know. Waitress in a coffee shop.”

  “Yeah. She probably hasn’t had a chance to write/”

  “We had a great time over Christmas. I’d like to get her to come up here for a weekend. She’d love it. She’d like all you guys.”

  “No doubt she’d be a better roommate than Reg.”

  “Jesus, Frankenstein’s monster would be a better roommate than Reg. All he does is sleep. He never talks anymore. He doesn’t even study. The guy’s a zombie, Conor. I don’t know what’s happened to him. He didn’t use to be that way.”

  They reached the restaurant, a two-story bleached-brick building identifiable by a single blinking sign on its corner. The interior was cramped, the bar and dining area jammed into the same small room, the bar occupying the right half and a few tables scattered across the left. There was a rear room, too, but that was very compact and reserved for those few diners who liked the food but preferred not to mix with the raucous college crowd that dominated the main area. The restaurant had no décor: the floor was covered with tiles, many cracked or split; the tables were rickety wood, covered with oily cheesecloth in typical red-and-white checked patterns. On the walls hung several old pictures of the Rutgers campus from decades ago. Here and there, initials or a Greek fraternity marking had been dug into the soft wood walls. A thin layer of haze hovered over the bar and spread to the dining area.

  Tony’s filled a need. Its atmosphere spoke to the bawdy yet innocent stage of a young man’s life, a stage of tentative emergence into responsibility and dimension. One could feel safe there, and because the clientele was overwhelmingly Rutgers students, part of something larger. Here one could go to relax, to take a meal far better than standard college fare, to drink some wine and share some ideas. And even if the latter did not happen, one felt as if it did simply because of the communality of the place. It was, above all else, a college restaurant. Finnegan loved it, and went there as often as he could afford.

  They had arrived early enough to get a table. Shortly the place would be jammed with a noisy throng of drinkers and diners. They seated themselves near the door and took two menus, huge plastic things that were awkward to open because of their size. They didn’t need them. Each ordered a veal parmesan dinner, spaghetti on the side, with a liter of Chianti to split.

  “About Reg,” continued Finnegan. “He’s really gone downhill. I’m a little worried about him. Has he ever said anything to you about what’s eating him?”

  “Like I said, he’s a zombie. He doesn’t talk to anyone. I know he doesn’t like his father much. That could be it.”

  “Why does he have a problem with his father, do you know?”

  “He thinks his father forced him to come here and has all these expectations for him. His father apparently was a real star here thirty years ago. Big football player, good student. Went on to business school. I guess he expects Reg to be the same way.”

  “That’s a tough order. Reg doesn’t strike me as exceptionally blessed in the brains department. He seems like the type who has to work hard for whatever he gets. If he’s not motivated, he’ll get blown away.”

  “He used to work pretty hard. Now he doesn’t do anything. I know he’s on probation. Flunked four out of five first term. He’s not going to do any better this semester unless he pulls himself together.”

  Finnegan shook his head. “A sad case, paisan. We should feel fortunate to be where we are.”

  “You know, Conor, the odd thing is that it hasn’t been that hard. Not like I anticipated. We’ve got to work a little more, sure, but it’s really not that tough. I haven’t run into anything I couldn’t handle with a little effort. Maybe I’m smarter than I thought I was.”

  “Maybe, Dan. Maybe you’re a latent genius.”

  The wine arrived. They filled their glasses and drank. Rosselli took a slice of the pre-dinner bread.

  “I didn’t want to swim this year because I was afraid it would hurt my grades. I think I regret that now. Especially after watching Mac.”

  “How good were you, Dan?”

  “I was good, Conor. Good enough to make this team. I swam breaststroke and the short sprints. I made states two years in a row.”

  “Maybe you can swim next year.”

  “Maybe I should. I miss it, and I never thought I would. Probably like you miss basketball.”

  “I do miss it,” said Finnegan. “But I try to make up for it. I play a lot on my own.”

  “Not the same, Conor. No one’s cheering for you there. I swim at the pool every time it’s open, but I swim lousy. I can’t get excited. No one’s calling my name. No one�
�s cheering me on. It’s not the same if no one’s paying attention.”

  Both Dan Rosselli and Conor Finnegan did indeed need the cheering. Their friendship had grown quickly from their first meeting because they provided a perfect complement to one another.

  Dan Rosselli had grown up in a small town on the south Jersey coast. Rutgers had always been his destiny. His family was of relatively modest means and he possessed talents enough to warrant a fine college. Rutgers was affordable for in-state residents and close to home. Rosselli enjoyed the security of knowing his environment; he had no urge to go far afield. He frequently went home for the weekend, chugging down the highway in an ancient dirty-white Ford he nicknamed ’The Ivory Crusader,’ toting a bag of soiled clothes in need of washing and enough books to impress his parents.

  Rosselli, like Finnegan, was an only child and that one fact had formed the basis of his personality. Dan Rosselli enjoyed the spotlight. His parents provided him with as many material comforts as they could afford. They took their greatest pleasures in sharing good clothing, fine and plentiful food, and annual vacations with young Dan. In return, Dan cultivated their affections and interpreted their pride. He worked hard to feed that pride, to do well in whatever he might attempt, both for his own betterment and for his parents’ approval. In high school he had done well enough scholastically, but discovered that, unless he were at the very top of his class, the rewards were intangible. He received no trophies for making the honor roll.