Arc of the Comet

by Greg Fields

  “Thank you, Tom. I had a wonderful time.”

  “So did I, Anne. I hope I can see you again.”

  “Of course you can, silly. We see each other in the pool every day.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know. I’m teasing. I’d like to spend more time with you, too.”

  “Maybe next weekend?”

  “Of course. Whenever.”

  They stood facing each other. They did not touch. McIlweath’s hands hung self-consciously at his sides.

  “I’ve got to go in. Thank you again. Good night.”

  She had unlocked the door and spun inside with one quick motion while McIlweath stood there awkwardly. The door closed before he could take a step toward her. He paused a second, then walked back down the driveway. He had not been quick enough to kiss her good night.

  But nothing could taint that evening. He would let no disappointments rise within his timid psyche; he would not judge himself. It had all been what he had hoped.

  McIlweath climbed behind the wheel of his old car, started it, revved it and turned on the radio, which played a song he recognized. As he drove back down the dark, sleeping street he started to sing along with it, loudly and with feeling. Electricity rippled through him. He knew it would take some time before he could calm himself enough to go to sleep.

  ***

  A day or so later, Conor Finnegan and Lanny O’Hanlon had a conversation as they lay in their beds in the dark.

  “What was she like?”

  “Fair.”

  “Only fair?”

  “No more than that. I don’t know, Lanny. There’s something about her that was really off-putting. I can’t describe it. I think I’ve blocked the whole ugly experience from my mind. A coldness, I guess. She’s pretty aloof.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s hard to tell, rooms. I only talked with her for a few minutes, but she seemed as if the ground never touched her feet. She has a hard time relating to anything outside her own little world, that much was obvious. She doesn’t like anything. At least that’s what I sensed.”

  “The perfect woman for him. Do you think the rest of us will ever get the chance to meet her?”

  “I don’t see how you can avoid it. Christ, the way things are going, we’re all likely to be ushers at the wedding.”

  “Do you think he’s getting into her pants?”

  “Rooms, I don’t think he even knows where her pants are. Mac’s not the most worldly guy you’re ever going to meet.”

  “No joke. See you in the morning.”

  Tom McIlweath’s life, comfortably pleasant to begin, took on a vibrancy he had never before experienced. He viewed all issues now through one prism, and that prism was Anne Newbury. She lent an excitement to even his simplest tasks, for he reasoned that these must first be completed before he could see her again. She deepened his colors and drew new lines on his portrait.

  He saw her daily. After workouts they would wait for each other and eat dinner together in the Commons. There they would review their days. Anne became for McIlweath a confidante, a barometer of all things personal and academic. Aside from his friendship with Finnegan, he had never before known such trust. Anne, for her part, was less introspective in their conversations. She preferred to speak furtively about friends or common acquaintances. Anne was a bit of a gossip, and a catty one at that, but McIlweath did not mind. He was flattered that she chose to share these things with him alone, even if they did seem somewhat trivial.

  McIlweath wove his entire existence around her nexus. He drove her across town to her classes at Douglass. He called her each night even after spending the early evening with her. If he were going to the grocery or to the drugstore, he would call her to see if she needed anything. Some nights, if they knew their studies would not be too demanding, they would go to the library, spread their books on a corner table and alternately study and chat. Each weekend they spent as much time together as they could. When McIlweath could afford it, they would go to a movie or a play or a concert somewhere on campus. If not, they would sit in her living room and watch television, often with her parents. McIlweath began to go to church with Anne and her family, an oddity for which he drew much teasing from his friends, including and especially Finnegan, who knew that McIlweath had never been terribly religious.

  In short, Tom McIlweath was smitten, thoroughly and totally. He had found something he had only rarely imagined himself attaining. Anne Newbury embodied the idealized traits of femininity to which he had long been attracted. She was intelligent, self-confident, poised, athletic, and, in her own way, very pretty. Moreover, she had accepted him. Anne accepted his insights, she used his strengths when she needed them, she was amused by his wit. She became a vortex into which swirled and spun Tom McIlweath’s sense of self and with it, all hopes, all aspirations, all realities.

  His growing involvement seemed to be a major event in the young man’s life. As such, it compelled Finnegan, who paid close attention to the process, to take a hard look at his own status.

  What he saw did not displease him. In fact, he was generally content with where he was and where he perceived himself to be going. The struggles of his first year had evaporated. He had carved a place for himself at one of the finest universities in the land. He had made Dean’s List each semester he had been eligible. The past three terms he had received only one grade below the top mark, and that in a political science course in which he had had a philosophical difference with the instructor that, Finnegan was convinced, had led to an artificially low mark. He had settled into a major in history, where he truly excelled, for his great memory enabled him to catalogue details while weaving them into comprehensive theories. Finnegan had grown close to one professor whom he had taken for three consecutive terms. Dr. Miller, a small, tattered man who had been at the college thirty years, was now sponsoring him as a Henry Rutgers Scholar. It was considered at the time a great honor, and Finnegan knew in fact that he would be selected. Academically, then, he was accomplishing all he had set out to do. If he continued down this course, Phi Beta Kappa would await him, the crowning glory of a marvelous career.

  His years at college had developed in Finnegan a genuine enthusiasm for learning. Although a history major, Finnegan did not lock himself into just one discipline. The great ideas of man attracted him almost lustfully. The perplexities of the human condition expressed themselves in many forms, and Finnegan wished to investigate as many as he could. Each exploration taught him something new, so he delved not only into world history but into English literature, religion, economics, political science, mathematics. He studied German, fascinated by its phonetics and logical constructions, and inspired by its literature, until he was nearly fluent. In all the questions were the same: How do we work? What does it mean to be truly human? How do we all fit together? And what do we want? What, as human beings, do we truly want?

  Where did he project that knowledge to take him? Conor Finnegan rarely dwelt on the specifics of any future direction. His work with the senator these past two summers had quickened his pulse. He had fallen instantly in love with practical politics, and love soon grew into passion. His issue focus had been the concerns of the elderly, and within that context he had written speeches, advanced the senator’s public appearances, represented the senator before various groups. Finnegan told himself that it was important work. In truth it appealed to two central aspects of his character: the desire to do some good, and the desire to be recognized for what he did. Finnegan did find gratification in his work. He had spent a good deal of time uncovering the depth of his issue, and his research had been reflected in at least three pieces of legislation introduced by the senator, one of which became part of a broader omnibus bill that eventually passed and was signed into law. The senator had read on the floor of the Senate a few speeches Finnegan had written, including one particularly literate attack on the current administration’s Middle East policies.

  T
here was a glamor to it all that had turned Finnegan’s head. He had appeared on television, he had spoken to large public gatherings, he had lunched and dined with major local, state and national political figures. He had even met several well-known entertainers when the senator appeared on a charity telethon. The glamor settled into Finnegan’s blood. In his position with the senator he believed himself to be working fully to his own excellent capabilities and, in so doing, cultivating the attention of a grateful constituency.

  All this led him to conclude that his first choice would be a career in politics. He thought that he would go to law school, one of the fine Eastern ones like Harvard, Yale or possibly Virginia. From there he would go to Washington and work in government. The legislative branch appealed to him, but he could see himself in a top spot at an agency within the executive branch. Later, who could tell? Perhaps he might make his own run at elective office. Finnegan relied upon his boundless self-confidence, as he had always done. The right things would happen. He merely had to set a general course and ride the currents of circumstance. He had no doubt that it would all flow to his advantage.

  In the meantime, Finnegan was truly enjoying his time at college. His love of learning did not preclude him from enjoying as full and as active a social life as he could cultivate. He continued to stay fit, playing basketball as often as he could, playing handball or the newly discovered, thoroughly eastern game of squash, or running. He had many friends. His living situation surpassed any of his previous expectations. He had a comfortable apartment with his three closest friends, brothers really.

  Tom McIlweath’s relationship with Anne Newbury disturbed him slightly, though, for it pointed out the one gap in it all. Finnegan knew several women, most of whom he had met in class, and he had spent some time with many of them—occasional dinners, a football game, perhaps a play. But he had never been close to any type of involvement. He had, quite simply, never wanted to entertain anything which might limit him. Yet there was something in Tom McIlweath’s total immersion in Anne Newbury that captured Finnegan’s curiosity. Since he had connected with Anne, McIlweath seemed fresher, more personable, sharper, and, in general, a better, happier person. That was, by all knowledgeable accounts, the way it should be, yet Finnegan had never before observed the process. While he might have some misgivings about Anne Newbury as an individual, he could not help but admire what she had done for his friend.

  At present there was no prospect of anything like that happening for Conor Finnegan. He was not particularly certain that he wanted it to happen, even though his curiosity had been piqued. He resolved that there was nothing he could do about it in any case. Finnegan was attracted to women; he enjoyed their company, he enjoyed their touch. But for now, he would not go out of his way to find the kind of relationship his friend had found. He would wait, and watch what happened, for he reasoned that there must be some downside to this puzzling process. “To every action there must be an equal and opposite reaction,” so said Newton. So be it.

  Human emotions are not governed by physical laws, but he would wait and see. In the meantime, Finnegan felt slightly deprived that it was Tom McIlweath, his shy, sometimes awkward friend, who had entered into the experiment, and not he.

  ***

  “Anne, have you ever thought about moving into the dorm, or getting an apartment, maybe?”

  “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

  “I would think you’d just naturally want to. You’d be more independent. You could do what you want.”

  “I’m independent now. I can do what I want. My parents don’t bother me.”

  “That’s probably because you don’t bother them.”

  “I try not to. I do what they ask.”

  “But that’s my point, Anne. I would think a bright girl like you wouldn’t want to be answerable to anyone.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I don’t mind running errands for my mom or dad, or keeping my music low, or being in at a reasonable hour, especially if they’re taking care of everything I might have to think about. I don’t have to worry about what I’m going to eat, or fixing anything that breaks. I don’t have to worry about paying bills. We get along fine. Why should I want to change that?”

  “You’ll have to leave someday, Anne.”

  “I suppose so, but I’m not looking forward to it. I’ll never understand why you did what you did, no matter how you try to explain it. It’s almost as if you resent me living at home and being happy about it. I’m sorry if I have none of your angst.”

  “I don’t resent it, Anne. Your parents are fine people. But sooner or later we all have to make our own way. I think you learn more when you’re away from home. There’s none of that security you mentioned. You have to create your own. That’s a massive task, but it has its rewards. No, I don’t resent you living at home. I’m just curious as to why.”

  “I guess I’m just a simple girl, Tom.”

  The simple girl had made plans to watch an old movie on television one Saturday night. She had heard it was good, noticed its schedule, and thought a night in sounded fine. McIlweath, not wishing to concede a weekend evening to a few reels of celluloid, suggested they watch together at his apartment. She agreed.

  What McIlweath had not known was that Conor Finnegan and Dan Rosselli, with nothing planned for the evening and no prospects in sight, intended to watch the same movie. When Finnegan told McIlweath that morning that he and Rosselli would be home that night, McIlweath at first was dismayed, but then he considered that this might be an excellent opportunity for his two friends to come to know Anne a little better. In fact, it might be great fun having everyone together.

  The movie, a classic World War II film, was to start at 9:00. Anne arrived at 8:45, McIlweath scurrying down the stairs in a rush of arms and legs to meet her.

  Finnegan and Rosselli had already settled into their seats, one in each chair at opposite corners of the room and thereby leaving the couch free. At McIlweath’s urging they had dressed civilly. Usually on Saturday nights, if they were not going anywhere or seeing anyone, they would be dressed almost slovenly, Finnegan in gym shorts and Rosselli in his pajama-like hospital greens. McIlweath feared that that might be offensive, and so he had lobbied for street clothing.

  Tom and Anne sat on the couch after perfunctory greetings. Until the movie started they spoke only to each other. McIlweath, ever solicitous, asked Anne if she wanted anything to eat, to drink, to sit on, to warm her, or to cool her down. No, she said, she was fine just the way she was.

  The movie began violently, war footage backing the opening credits. The grainy grays and blacks dived at various lengths across the small screen. In the darkened living room the picture cast light patterns on the walls and ceiling.

  A few minutes into the film, a new character (they were all new at this early point) walked onto the screen. He was portrayed by a veteran character actor often seen in war pictures like this. “Who is he?” asked Anne.

  “I can’t think of his name,” replied McIlweath, slightly above a whisper. “I’ve seen him a thousand times.”

  “No, I mean in the movie. Who is he?”

  “Some colonel, I think.”

  The colonel spoke his piece to his commanding officer, something about American vulnerability should the Germans anticipate the planned airborne assault near a particularly obscure village, inland from the Channel.

  “Where’s that?”

  “In the Netherlands, Anne.”

  “Why would the Germans want to attack it?”

  “They don’t. The Americans are looking to attack it from the air. The Germans already hold it.”

  “Oh.”

  Rosselli and Finnegan shifted in their chairs. Finnegan took his eyes from the screen briefly to look at Rosselli, who, feeling his friend’s glance, shook his head slowly. Finnegan went back to the movie.

  At a commercial break McIlweath leaned over and whispered something in Anne’s ear. She whispered back, giggling. Finnegan tried
to discern their conversation without being obvious about it. He picked up a few words, and what he heard was hardly mysterious or secretive. They seemed to be mentioning how someone on the swim team resembled the German colonel. Why whisper? Finnegan, for all appearances intently watching an advertisement for a stomach antacid, tried to interpret something deeper, but he could not.

  McIlweath stood up. “Anne and I would like some popcorn. Anybody else?”

  “What’s a war movie without something to munch?” replied Rosselli.

  “Especially something that sounds like bones breaking. Make enough for four, Mac.”

  McIlweath disappeared down the hallway. Anne said nothing as she watched the movie, nor did she let her eyes stray from the screen. The smell of popcorn wafted down the hall from the kitchen with the bullet-like sounds of exploding kernels. The movie had resumed. War had resumed. Anne sat rigidly in place, her hands and eyes immobile. Finnegan and Rosselli, growing progressively more uncomfortable, could think of nothing to say, and so watched in silence.

  McIlweath returned, thankfully for all concerned, with a salad bowl full of popcorn and several napkins. Anne reentered the realm of the senses, turning her head to him with a smile. “I missed you,” she whispered as McIlweath sat back down beside her. Finnegan and Rosselli both heard it. They looked at each other as they leaned over to the coffee table to grab some popcorn. They had read each other’s minds, and discomfort began to morph into amusement.

  On the screen a group of paratroops huddled in the hold of an airplane. The plane bumped and swerved, knocking the unsteady men into one another.

  “What’s that noise?” asked Anne through the crunching.

  “What noise? Where?”

  “On the airplane. Why is it bumping around? There,” she said as a muffled thump rocked the plane again. “What’s that?”