by Greg Fields
During those sweltering weeks Tom McIlweath was no more than a foil for Anne Newbury’s moods. She acted, and he could only react. The intensive training for the nationals and the implied lure of the World University Games made her sensitive, demanding, withdrawn, at time vitriolic. McIlweath could not perceive any other sources of frustration beyond her swimming. Of perhaps he could, but fearing they might center at least partly on him, chose to ignore them. ’It was the swimming that makes her this way,’ he thought. ’Only that. And I can wait until all this passes.’
Why Anne should be so obsessive about these games puzzled him in the first place. She was, to be sure, a fine swimmer, one of the best in the state at her age and in her event. But competition for these games was bound to be fierce. Anne would have to improve her best times considerably to have a realistic chance. She would have to pull a monumental upset at the nationals. Of course, the rewards stood to be rich. If she should make the team, then she would be well-positioned for the Olympics two years away. In the end McIlweath concluded that this was another goal for Anne, self-set, and because she looked at the payoff as something desirable, she had to work for it, push herself toward it relentlessly. Point A to Point B in the straightest of lines.
McIlweath himself was also an accomplished swimmer, of course. He had captained the Rutgers team and his rankings for two events placed him among the top five in the East. McIlweath took it all very seriously. Competitive swimming made him hard. He recalled how, in his earlier years, it had defined him and helped him craft a respectable self-image.
He enjoyed it still. He enjoyed being very good. The realization that, of all those who swam his events, he, Tom McIlweath, was among the top handful sometimes made him giddy. He hated to lose, and did so rarely. He had his ambitions, too. The Olympics would be a glorious thing, if he could make it.
Yet, after all considerations, swimming was only a pastime. Tom would define himself now, determine his worth, through other means. He could do that only now after the dissolution of his earlier uncertainties. He might embrace his swimming enthusiastically for a few months, but in the summer he had to walk away from it. He needed time away from the workouts, away from the fatigue, away from the adrenalin-charged thunder of the race itself if he were to renew the excitement of it all come autumn. The thought of intensifying his workouts over the summer repulsed him.
And so, even as Tom McIlweath could understand the motivation behind Anne Newbury’s summer regimen, he could never have accepted it for himself. Let Anne train, let her abandon her free time to a strict, painful, exhausting routine, let her dismiss all serenity and shatter all peace, let her fatigued mind draw sketchy conclusions about the other more human elements of her life, let her build herself up for a crushing disappointment which, if it comes, invalidates all her previous effort. Let her do all this in pursuit of a self-imposed goal—Tom would support her any and every way he could, even to the subjugation of his own personality.
There are, sadly, different methods of suffocation.
And so, one Sunday evening with nothing to do and Anne out of bounds, Tom McIlweath took a walk. He had been restless all day. He had not had to work, but he had not known what to do with his free time. The day was hazy and humid with a light breeze. For a while McIlweath sat in a corner of the living room where windows on two walls created a crosswind. He read there, working on some obscure works by Ovid in which might be hidden a reference to the romance he was translating. Yet reading Latin on a summer’s morning seemed completely out of place. Latin was to be read in dusty, musty libraries in the autumn when the leaves fell. Latin itself was dusty and musty and gray, an old hoary dowager. To read it during the sultry, fertile days of summer seemed incongruous.
After a few pages McIlweath went to the store for bagels and the Sunday Times. He turned on some music and read the paper leisurely. By the time he finished it was early afternoon. To kill a few more minutes he tried the crossword puzzle in the magazine. It took nearly an hour and he could not complete it. For the most difficult clues he tried to piece together answers using his linguistic and etymological knowledge, but some clues ran past language to remote topics such as baseball—“N.L. Home Run King”—or geography—“River in Spain.” After a while frustration becomes boring. McIlweath put down the magazine and went to the pool for a swim. In late afternoon he wrote a letter to his parents.
When he had eaten his dinner, he felt agitated, more so than any other time during the dead day. He went from room to room, looking for something that might hold his attention. He flipped through Dan Rosselli’s car magazines, he reviewed several months of telephone bills in a file on Lanny O’Hanlon’s desk. He stood in front of Conor Finnegan’s bookshelf and regarded the titles, reflecting history, political science and literature. Perhaps there might be something there to read . . . but, no, he couldn’t.
McIlweath walked to the front window and looked out. He could not relax. The muscles in his back and legs flickered and twitched, his arms swung impulsively back and forth. His body did not want to rest.
Nor did his thoughts. He found he could focus on nothing for more than a few seconds before it passed on. His mind had taken down its walls—thoughts, memories and impressions raced across it from side to side, unrestrained, staying only so long as it took for another to shoot in and bump its predecessor to an empty corner.
The evening was warm, and a breeze blew. The sun was outlined through high, slaty summer clouds. A Sunday evening can inspire peace and serenity, or the most honest introspection. Tom McIlweath knew there was to be no serenity, yet he was not at all certain than he wanted to embark on self-examination. And so he took his walk to allow one of the other to come forward against his reluctance.
Queen’s Mall drew him as the logical end. There was something reassuring there in the cluster of brick and stone buildings on the edges of the rectangle, and the ivy that grew along those stolid buildings. He felt the mall to be the nexus of all the life, all the passion, all the vain and ignorant strivings he saw around him.
The mall itself was empty. Classroom and administration buildings were just shells, darkened and strangled mute by the ivy. The only sign of life was in the seminary across the street at the campus-end of the mall. Several people walked up the rise to the cylindrical chapel there. Obviously a mass was about to take place, but it did not appear to be well attended. Few people were about.
McIlweath did not sit on one of the cold stone benches that dotted the mall. Instead he walked to a great elm tree that stood nearly in the middle, and sat at its base, nestling his legs between two thick roots. He leaned back against the solid tree. Knots and clumps of bark poked into his skin so that he had to adjust his position several times before he was comfortable. The emptiness of the buildings around him deepened his solitude. They stood blankly, as gaunt and as lifeless as the statue of William of Orange, frozen forever with one green hand lifted near his chin, standing watch near the seminary-end of the mall.
The humidity had thickened into clouds which hung now in a low canopy. The day had cooled noticeably. It was growing dark; the clouds extinguished the light more quickly and more thoroughly than on most days. There were no shadows. Tonight, ghosts would walk the mall, would empty out of the old classrooms, would sit and sob on the old benches. McIlweath knew they would; he could feel them, and knew they would come.
McIlweath sat against his tree and watched the thick end of a wasted day dangle down to nothing. He became conscious of Time—not the simply charted markings of the days, but Time as a material substance. He must be more than merely a point on a line.
And here in this ancient mall, where so many lives such as his had been determined and defined, where every possible human emotion had been played out, where young men had sampled for the first time the sweet narcotic of human pleasures, the bitter draught of frustrated heartbreak, the stark brutality of man in his spiritual loneliness, where these same young men had honed themselves to go forth from here to mee
t their common mortal destinies, here in this place, Time the material substance drew all fates together.
Tom McIlweath might have languished where he was, but instead he had come east out of a determined resolution not to be shaped by circumstance, but to shape circumstance to his own preference. Here, in the relative freedom of anonymity, in the relative absence of expectation, he had pursued the things that attracted him. He had studied the classics and become an honor student. He had continued to swim competitively. He had met and developed friendships on his own terms without succumbing to the pressures of their preconceived notions. He had accomplished what he set out to do: he had resisted the compelling forces of conformity and molded a character, previously suppressed beneath a soft, pliant exterior, which invigorated him by its singularity. Time the material substance.
Yet, even in his temporary fulfillment, McIlweath felt uncontrollably restless. He could not explain it, or perhaps he dared not. There should be more than this. More than the mind’s pursuits, more than the product of the body, more even than his rather proud self-image. What lay at the core of his discontent?
This was, he knew, a launching point. It had to be. But in what direction, and how fast? Where does a restless man make his bed, and with whom does he share it? And when the day’s satisfactions grow stale, when the end of his strivings proves bland and sickens his tongue, where shall he go?
Change is the nature of man, and change is what makes him strong. Time the material substance, to be kneaded and slapped, gouged and twisted . . . into what? And how fast? Build something, and build again. Never stop, never rest, just build, build and brood. Turn it over, look at it through the sharpest lens, hold it to the brightest light. There will always be rises and small holes and cracks where the weeds grow through. It is what we are. Change is the nature of man.
Tom McIlweath leaned against his tree and the night sank down from the low clouds. There were no sounds—no cars, no birds, no breeze rustling the trees. A still, slow, low, dead night. He thought:
’I have come here to remake myself. And I have done so, better and more completely than I had ever imagined. But what is this gnawing in my stomach and down my legs? What is this echo deep inside me that I hear only on nights such as this? This is not what I thought it would be. This is not it at all. And so where do I go now? And with whom? Now that I have determined myself as I want to be, what do I do if I find it still hollow? Where do I go?
’Must I be redeemed again, and if so, where lies redemption, and by whose hand? What is this deep rat-like gnawing, what is this echo? Why do restlessness and discontent rise within me like the surf, gentle and small at first but ever more powerful as it rides in?’
I am thy father’s spirit,
Doomed for a certain term to walk the night. . .
—Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene 1
Ghosts stirred in the buildings and the trees, the ancient ghosts of two hundred years of young men consigned to burn in the devouring flames of youth itself. Through the mall they paced, lending their shadows to the grass and walls, brooding in sullen formlessness. They had come out at dusk to walk for a while, and there were thousands of them. They dwelt here now, at the root of their eternal discontent, at the place where all doors had been thrown open to them and, by entering one, all had been closed.
They came upon Tom McIlweath and formed a circle around his tree, although he could not see them. They stood there then in the gathering darkness and regarded him with the blank, expressionless, masklike faces of those from whom all life, all promise, all expectation had been drained.
Brother, you shall not die. You shall never die. But Brother, neither shall you live. Poor haunted soul of man.
Tom McIlweath rose from his spot, the back of his jeans damp from the soggy ground. He walked slowly out of the mall toward College Avenue. Lights from the fraternity houses across the street broke the darkness while adding to the gloom. Seeking either serenity or self-conclusion, he had found neither. Whatever it was that lay within him was still there, and his acknowledgement of it only made it stronger. There was nothing he could do.
***
Anne Newbury continued to train hard, aiming for the weekend in late July when the nationals would determine her selection. She seldom saw McIlweath, who grew reconciled to his subsidiary role. He looked forward to when it would all be over, and counted the days.
The nationals were to be held in Philadelphia, at the University of Pennsylvania, close enough for McIlweath to accompany Anne and her family on the drive down. Three days before the meet, though, Anne said, “I don’t want you to come with me, Tom. I don’t want you to watch me.”
“But Anne, why not?”
“I don’t need that pressure, too. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with you watching me, and judging me.”
“I won’t drive down with you, then. I can drive down separately and see you after the meet. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“I’ll know, Tom. Don’t go.”
And so he didn’t. He did, though, exact a promise from Anne that she call him as soon as she could after her heats. The preliminaries were scheduled for Friday night, the finals for Saturday.
The Newburys drove to Philadelphia Thursday morning. McIlweath wished he had some token of luck to give Anne before she left, but he could think of nothing. He rarely put any stock in such trinkets, although now he wanted her to have some physical reminder of him. He had driven to the Newbury house to see them off. While Dr. Newbury loaded the car, Tom pulled Anne to the side.
“You’ll do fine, Anne. You’ve worked too hard not to.”
“I hope so, Tom. I hope I’ve worked hard enough. You’ve been good not to be too demanding. I want you to know I appreciate it.”
“Will you make it up to me?” he asked with a smile.
“No,” answered Anne, unsmiling. “I did this for me. You did what you did and I’m grateful, that’s all.”
Anne’s father threw the last suitcase into the trunk. “Anytime you’re ready we can get going,” he called.
“In a minute, Daddy,” she responded, then turned back to McIlweath. “I’ve got to go, Tom. Thank you for seeing me off.”
“I wish I could see you swim.”
“You know how I feel, Tom.”
“I know. Call me, then.”
“Tomorrow night, after my heat.”
“And Saturday after the finals.”
“If I make it.”
“You’ll make it, Anne. I have every confidence.” He kissed her cheek. “Good luck.”
“I’ll see you Sunday,” and she was gone.
McIlweath stayed in Friday night waiting for Anne’s call. Her heat was slated for 7:45 or so. The other heats in her event were immediately before and after. He figured that Anne would know whether she qualified for the finals by 8:15 at the latest. He expected her call by 8:30. Lanny O’Hanlon had stayed in Trenton for dinner and drinks that night, so McIlweath was forced to wait alone. He preferred it that way. He turned on an old movie on the television, sat down in his chair by the window and watched the clock.
7:30 . . . She’d be in the locker room now, and her parents would be flipping through their programs and nervously watching for Anne to come out. 7:37 . . . Anne would probably be in the warm-up pool loosening her muscles and watering her skin. She might catch a glimpse of the finishing heat. That was good; she’d know what she had to beat. 7:42 . . . She’d be pacing in the bench area, or perhaps sitting down, staring at the tile, trying to compose herself. 7:44 . . . Called to the pool, her lane assignment confirmed, she would snap her arms to keep them loose and take deep breaths to fill her lungs. 7:45 . . . Up top now—’Take your marks’—then the slapping bolt of the gun, and arching herself into the water. Stroking, kicking, breathing, pulling. McIlweath tensed vicariously at the appointed moment; he clenched his fists. God, why couldn’t he be there? The culmination of everything she had sacrificed, and he, too. Right now, sitting in this hot, steamy room, far re
moved from it all, made no sense. If he had had the power, McIlweath would have lent Anne every ounce of his own strength to see her through.
But she would not need it, he reasoned. Anne had never been denied her goals. She wanted this as much as anything she had ever sought, and she had the peculiar talent to drive herself absolutely as hard as she needed to achieve what she wanted. The very force of Anne’s character would pull her through this race faster than she had ever gone before. McIlweath was sure of it. To imagine Anne failing at something she truly and deeply desired was to imagine a grotesquery, as if she had lost an eye or suddenly developed a humped back. Still, he wanted to be there, to see these lost weeks finally bear fruit worth tasting.
7:48 . . . The race would be over now, if indeed it had gone off on schedule. Anne’s fate, whether she would make the finals, the results of her training, all of it now coming to decision. All he could do was wait to learn how it had been put together.
And McIlweath did wait, twisting in his chair, watching first the movie, then the park across the street, then the movie once again. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists. At 8:15 he walked to the kitchen and, resting his hands against the counter, looked out the back window for a few minutes. At 8:20 he walked back to the living room. The call, he reasoned, would be any second. His ears anticipated the ringing. He stared at the phone.
By 8:30 his agitation heightened to all new levels. He paced the length of the hallway, back and forth. At one point he even stood at the corner where the hallway met the living room and put his hand on the phone as if to draw energy from it, or perhaps to feel its presence, feel its reality.
He paced, then paced some more. “Come on, Anne.” He said aloud more than once. Each time he passed the phone he grew more urgent. “Damn it, come on.”
But no call came. By 9:00 he started to wonder about his imagined timetable. Perhaps she had not had the opportunity to get to a phone as quickly as he thought she would. Or perhaps her heat had been delayed. That sometimes happened. Perhaps she had not even swum yet, and here he was getting all upset. He would sit down and try to relax. There must be a good reason for her not calling.