by Greg Fields
McIlweath looked from her face down the length of her reclining body. Anne’s small breasts had not retreated into her chest. They rose firmly, pushing out the contours of her red blouse. He followed the line to the cave of her stomach, then further still to her hips, her thighs and her legs. She had kicked off her shoes, and McIlweath could see her toes curling and uncurling slowly as he rubbed her temples. He looked back to her face. Anne’s eyes were fully closed, her lips parted languorously to show her white teeth. Her thin lips wore no lipstick and appeared rather dry. McIlweath gazed at Anne’s ears and the place there where her hair fell and hung down into the narrow space between his legs. He reached down to twirl a lock around the fingers of his right hand. At the same time he moved his left hand to the small valley at the base of Anne’s neck, just above her sternum, and rubbed gently. Neither spoke.
At length Anne revived as if pulling herself back from some forlorn precipice. She stretched her legs and arms, nearly knocking McIlweath’s cheek with her fist as she did so. “I’m tired, Tom. This is so relaxing. Maybe you better head home.”
McIlweath sighed. “If you really want me to, Anne.”
“I think it’s best. It’s getting late and I’m really sleepy. Call me tomorrow,” she said as she sat up at the far end of the couch, “and maybe we can work out together.”
“I wouldn’t mind working out a little bit right now,” said McIlweath as he rose to his feet. His limbs were heavy but he did not want to go.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’ll call you around noon, okay? Thanks for coming tonight.”
“Thank you, Tom. I had a fine time, in spite of the play.”
“But that’s all we did.”
“I had a fine time anyway.” She walked him to the door. McIlweath turned to face her in the entryway. He placed a hand on either side of her taut, narrow waist. Anne placed one hand on McIlweath’s shoulder in return. They kissed then, once, twice, three times. Anne’s lips were not especially soft—perhaps, McIlweath thought, they are too narrow to be soft—but they were warm. McIlweath liked their salty taste. He parted his lips slightly and ran his tongue along the perimeter of Anne’s mouth. Anne did not open her lips. She absorbed the play, then drew back. She looked up at McIlweath and smiled.
“Good night, Tom. I’ll see you tomorrow. And thanks again.”
McIlweath was out the door before he knew it, before he could even reply. He shook his head slowly and walked back down the driveway to his car.
Tom McIlweath did not sleep well at all that night. For most of it he lay with his hands behind his head, gazing at the stark ceiling. In the bunk below Dan Rosselli gently but regularly snored, although that was not what kept McIlweath awake.
It was Anne Newbury that robbed him of his sleep, as she did from time to time. In his more cogent moments McIlweath concluded that his relationship with Anne was not what he would call normal, and probably not healthy. Yet, as a young boy might kick dirt over an anthill, leaving the ants invisible for the moment but still crawling frantically below the ground, McIlweath covered his conclusions with a genuine affection for the girl herself. He had indeed grown to like her very much. The vulnerability he had perceived from the first still remained, but McIlweath had also discovered facets of her character equally as endearing. She was not a complex woman by any means, a fact which would most likely have turned him in the other direction had he determined this before he could get to know her, but which now intrigued and attracted him greatly. It was Anne’s heretofore sheltered existence which made her appear vulnerable, and it was her simplicity, her lack of sophistication, the absence really of a hard intellectual formation, that deepened that vulnerability, making McIlweath want to shield her from every conceivable blow.
Simplicity. Anne Newbury was still a schoolgirl. She swam, she studied, she slept. She had a few friends. Whatever Tom McIlweath put before her was bound to be new, whether book, play or the ideas within, whether an afternoon in New York or an evening at the movies. Her sense of wonder attracted him, her notion that she might be, as it were, coming out.
She viewed the world in black and white, that was obvious. White were those things which agreed with the values her limited past experience had imposed. Everything else was black. McIlweath ignored the moralism inherent in this and found it somewhat refreshing, particularly in contrast with the ethical compromises espoused by professors, the thinkers and writers they studied, and most of his fellow students. To Anne Newbury it was wrong to take drugs, to swear except in moments of the most extreme provocation, to act contrary to the wishes of one’s parents, to stay out late, to speak poorly of one’s country, to drink alcohol except for a rare wine and the occasional summertime beer, to steal. There could be no exceptions for any of this. There could be no exceptions because she had never considered any. If it wasn’t to be done, then it simply and finally wasn’t to be done by anyone, anywhere. She had confidence in her beliefs. They were, really, more than beliefs: they were certitudes. McIlweath found her confidence reassuring in an era where few lines were drawn, where pervasive doubt was not only acceptable but widely cultivated. If Anne could adapt herself to the growing complexities around her, she might truly find a lasting personal contentment. That adaptation was a tall order, McIlweath thought, but one of which she was most probably capable.
Anne’s character, too, absorbed him, so fascinating in its traditional simplicity. She absorbed him thoroughly, mind and body. They spent part of each weekend with her parents. They rarely went to McIlweath’s apartment or spent time with his friends. They took long walks through her neighborhood and watched television in her family’s den. They did not venture too far afield from the secure surroundings of Things Newburyian. A trip into the city to go to an art museum was a singular grand adventure and required days of planning. More usually they would spend a Saturday in the pool, then eat dinner at Anne’s house. There was, at the time, no need for anything more exotic. McIlweath could see that the elder Newburys were just like their daughter—self-confident, simple, with the highest standards for themselves and the environment they created around them.
In short, McIlweath enjoyed Anne’s company immensely, almost as much for what she wasn’t as for what she was. He catered to her expectations and she in turn comforted him with her attentions, with her willingness to accept him into her world and with her belief in his quality as a human being.
She did not, though, comfort him physically. The incident on the couch that evening had not been atypical. Anne resisted any physical contact beyond the basics of a goodnight kiss or two and some occasional handholding. McIlweath did not consider himself to be excessively passionate. He had never had much experience with women and he remained a virgin. Nevertheless he still had his urges, not necessarily for full intercourse (although the thought did not intimidate him), but at least for something more graphic than he had been allowed. He had been seeing Anne for several months now, yet his most recent embrace was no more passionate than his first. McIlweath thought it odd. Very odd, especially in light of the early nature of their relationship, which revolved around a swimming pool wherein they exercised in various degrees of undress. Anne, in fact, had seen nearly everything of McIlweath’s body there was to see, save for his genitals, which even so had been covered so tightly by a wet swim suit that little was left to fantasy. McIlweath, too, had studied Anne’s body. He had seen her nipples hard and cold under a wet suit, and he had followed the tight curve of her buttocks. They still saw each other this way, almost every day. But what this aroused in McIlweath was universally suppressed by Anne’s apparent lack of arousal. After so many months and so much time together, McIlweath had yet to touch Anne’s breasts.
Yet through all the tumbling eddies of his thoughts and reactions, McIlweath could not deny that he felt a growing closeness with Anne. He did not think it bordered on love, but that certainly might be a logical and eventual evolution. She had assumed a larger and larger part of his life. She was a co
re that continued to grow, pushing the parameters outward and crowding the remainder of his life’s pulp. McIlweath had created his own vulnerability in subconscious parallel to what he perceived in Anne by opening up his deepest ideas, aspirations and fantasies to her inspection. She nurtured that vulnerability and protected it. She shared it with no one. She became for McIlweath a reflecting mirror, an anemometer, a knotted twain. McIlweath looked forward to shared experience and, as a part of that, a shared intimacy. He wanted to hold her, to express physically what he had already expressed intellectually and, in so doing, if his body found gratification, could that be wrong? Hasn’t she too felt some of this? Why does she suppress it? In the end McIlweath reconciled as best he could to the peculiarities of their relationship, as he always did. He sighed, and rolled to his side.
The next day he called Anne shortly after noon. They met an hour later at the pool and went through a leisurely workout. Although the season had ended the month prior they both wanted to stay sharp. For Anne in particular the stakes were high. She had qualified for the summer nationals in July, and was working out formally with her local private swim club. A strong finish at the nationals could earn her a spot at the World University Games, or Universiades, to be held later in the year in Belgrade. Anne had never been abroad. The prospect of swimming on the national team intoxicated her: she desperately wanted to go.
They swam for more than an hour, finishing with a series of five 100-meter sprints. McIlweath beat her in each, but that was nothing. He was supposed to beat her. He could not deny to himself that he enjoyed the sensation of grabbing the wall seconds before Anne.
As he finished his last sprint he turned completely around and spread his arms along the lip of the pool, his back feeling the hard tile in its square ridges. In the next lane churning foam hit the wall, and Anne poked her head up, breathing hard.
“Good swim, Anne.”
She panted four or five times before she was able to respond. “I stunk.”
“No you didn’t. Come on, you did okay.”
“I felt,” she panted, “so slow. I’m not in very good shape.”
“You shouldn’t be. Not yet. You don’t want to peak until July.”
“Yeah, but I still don’t like the way I feel.”
McIlweath vaulted himself out of the pool. He walked the length and back, swinging his arms to throw away their tightness. Anne slowly swam two more laps, then joined him poolside. McIlweath wrapped himself in a towel, then placed one around Anne’s shoulders. “I’m going to shower. I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes. Take your time.”
After a while McIlweath reemerged, dressed and warm, his hair wetly slicked back. He sat on a wooden bench and waited for Anne. It was a long while, nearly forty-five minutes, before she came back out of the women’s locker room.
“Mom asked if you wanted to have dinner with us tonight, Tom. What do you think?”
“I think three nights this week is an imposition.”
“I eat there every night,” replied Anne with a smile.
“But I’m not their daughter. I was going to ask if you wanted to turn things around a little and eat at the apartment with us. On Sundays we usually fix something pretty decent. Conor even prepares a vegetable. It’s the only day of the week he eats anything green, except for the stuff that spoils.”
“I don’t think so, Tom. I’ll just go home.”
“Come on, Anne. You haven’t been to the apartment in a long time. You’ve never eaten dinner with us.”
“No, Tom. Not tonight.”
“But what’s the problem?”
Anne looked away, frowning. She did not enjoy being pressed for any reason, and felt very, very uncomfortable.
“Why don’t you ever spend any time with me at my place?”
“Tom, you’ll get upset if I tell you.”
“You know me better than that. I want to know. Maybe I can fix whatever it is you don’t like.”
“You can’t. You know I can’t.”
“Like I said, I want to know.”
“It’s your friends, Tom,” she said with a deep sigh. “I am just so uncomfortable around them. I don’t think they care for me much, and I’m not terribly fond of them.”
“Anne, that’s ridiculous. They’ve never said anything against you. They don’t get to see you very often.”
“That’s just the way I feel. I’m sorry, Tom.”
“How do you feel about them, Anne?”
She turned to look him directly in the eye. Her frown had hardened into a look of the firmest resolve. Her grim mouth set in a straight line, her eyes two flared spears of blue fire. She had her chance to score a crippling hit, and she took it.
“I don’t like them, Tom. I guess the truth is that I don’t know how they really feel about me, nor do I particularly care, but I can tell you that I don’t like them. At all. I don’t like being around them even for a bit.”
“Anne, you know these are the closest friends I’ve ever had. Be careful what you say.”
“You asked me. You had to know.”
“Why do you dislike them?”
“A lot of reasons. They’re crude and base. Both in the way they dress and in their language. I think they’re lazy. They’re dirty and sloppy—you know that your apartment is a total mess. And I’m not sure they’re especially bright. They’ve never said one thing between the three of them that wasn’t obvious, or profane, or silly. There you have it, Tom, and I’m sorry if it hurt you.”
It hurt indeed. Tom McIlweath saw a very clear line being drawn. As with everything else, compromise would be out of the question. And he sensed that this line was emblematic of a wider division between Anne’s rigid standard and the entirety of Tom McIlweath—not just friends, but thought and environment as well. Yes, to be sure, it hurt.
“You’re wrong, Anne. You don’t know them at all. These are three of the brightest, most well rounded people I’ve ever known. And as for them being lazy, that’s laughable. Maybe they just make things look too easy.”
“Tom, you know you’re not going to change my mind.”
“I’ve known Conor for years, Anne. In some ways he’s closer to me than you are. I know he’s none of the things you said he was. And Dan might be a little crude, but he’s also intelligent and witty. He’s got a lot of heart. So does Lanny.”
“He’s an operator, Tom. I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t have to trust him. Just enjoy his good qualities. Enjoy all of them. It’s not hard, Anne, if you don’t pass judgment. They’re human beings, and they’re all different—from each other and from you. Maybe you just don’t appreciate things in variety.”
“That’s a pretty rotten statement.”
“Well, maybe you don’t. Anne, you still live the way you did when you were twelve. Things are different now. People are different, and you’ve got to deal with them.”
“Why? I can still pick who I want to associate with. And you have to respect my preferences.”
“But look at this. You’re drumming three people of diverse character and considerable talents right out of your life, three people who are important to me, because your first impressions don’t measure up to what you expected or what you thought they should be. And these three people have unique personalities, and unique intelligences, and unique ambitions that they’d be perfectly willing to share with you. You’d be better for it, but you’re unwilling to bend. You’re unwilling to relax your judgments. You’re nipping them off in the bud not because the stem is crooked or broken but because the color isn’t your favorite. You don’t want any variety in your life, Anne. You want everything to be the same flavor.”
“And you don’t discriminate about anything,” she shot back. “Everyone and everything is fine with you. You have no standards. You’re too willing to conform yourself to anyone who’ll have you.”
“Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing with you, then.”
“Maybe it is. But I’m a hell of a lo
t better for you than any of those guys you’re living with. If you think my standards are too high, then maybe you don’t care that you’ve met every one I’ve set for you. But you want to waste your time with people who’ll just drag you down to what they are. And you want to drag me along with you. But I’m telling you, I won’t go.”
“Wait, Anne,” McIlweath’s voice lowered its intensity. He paused, confused. Anne had never displayed such conviction, and it frightened him a bit that she did so now. He imagined himself, briefly, in a passing second, alone. Alone. She had become part of his core, he knew that, and he felt that core move, ever so slightly. He did not like the feeling. It rent a part of him and weakened his suddenly wobbly loyalties.
“Anne,” he continued softly. “I don’t want to argue about this. You are good for me, I know that. If my friends upset you, then we don’t have to spend any time with them. But I think you’re being too harsh with them.”
“Tom, I told you— ”
“No, stop. It’s your prerogative to be as harsh as you see fit. I just want you to understand that they’re important to me, and I’d like you to respect that if you can. I’m glad to know how you feel, because you’re important to me, too. I don’t want all this to jeopardize what we have. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, but she had not softened. Her face still set like a mask and her voice still carried its tone of indignation. She did not like being challenged, not at all.
“We don’t have to deal with my friends if you don’t want to. And maybe in due course I’ll see things more closely to what you perceive.”
“I think you should. Let’s not talk about this again.”
“As long as we understand each other.”
“All right, then. Do you want to have dinner at my house?”
“I’d love to. Should I change?”
“No, you look fine. Let’s go. We like to eat early on Sunday.”
McIlweath reached for Anne’s elbow as they started to walk, but she stepped ahead of him. “I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said.