by Greg Fields
“Have you finally shed your ideals this summer? Has Conor Finnegan been beaten into submission of reality by ruthless political operatives? Has he in fact become Machiavellian? Tell me the truth.”
“The truth?” Finnegan smiled broadly. “Not a chance. I have come of age, but I’m still as naively idealistic as I ever was. I’ll have no part of Machiavelli. Give me Burke instead. Because I’ve seen the ways of the world doesn’t mean I’ve adopted them.”
“Shall I go saddle your horse, Don Quixote? What windmills shall we attack today?”
“None, Sancho. We’re just going to relax for a while.”
Heavy thumping on the stairs in two sets; four feet clomping upward and two voices making indistinguishable sounds. The door popped open again and Dan Rosselli stood at the head of the hallway, his face a great, toothsome grin. He was holding two cases of beer. Behind him, peeking around the edge of the doorway into the living room, poked the smiling head of Lanny O’Hanlon.
“Conor, you son of a bitch! Great to see you. Let me put this down.”
“Then you can give me a great big sloppy kiss. Lanny, how the hell are you?”
“Super, roommate. Been keeping the nation’s affairs in order, I see.”
They shook hands. “It all starts at the state level, as you know. What’s in the bag?”
“The selfless offering of some poor steer and a few ears of corn.”
“Christ, you’re not going to cook that, are you? You have yet to prepare anything that I’d even remotely want to pass through my lips.”
“No way. You and Chubby are going to do the honors. The paisan volunteered your services.” O’Hanlon thrust the grocery bag to Finnegan. “And get going, huh? I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
“Come on. We can talk in the kitchen.”
Rosselli was emerging from the kitchen as the other three walked down the hall. He threw a beer to Finnegan. “You’re thirsty after your drive. I can tell.”
“Thanks, brother. I understand we’re cooking tonight.” All four entered the small kitchen. Finnegan put the bag on the counter while McIlweath and O’Hanlon took seats around the table.
“So how the hell are you?” asked Rosselli.
And Finnegan told them. He told them everything he could think of, beginning with his awe during his first days there, moving through the elegance of where he lived, to the excitement of his duties, to the character of those with whom he discharged them. They listened between interjections and crude observations. Finnegan told them everything, with the exception of Glynnis.
O’Hanlon, too, recounted his summer at the state capitol, and Rosselli told of his experiences in the hospital at the beach. Unlike Finnegan’s, their tales were well embellished with females, numbers of them, virtually all admiring of the young men’s attributes and hopeful of pleasing them. Finnegan listened to the descriptions of conquests and gratifications, certain that they were grounded in truth but equally certain that somewhere in these narratives that some truth had been jettisoned as excess baggage. It was so typical of the two of them. He was happy to be back.
Finnegan prepared the steaks, Rosselli boiled the corn. They sat at the table’s four corners and ate hungrily, noisily and sloppily, bursting out words between bites, spraying tiny bits of food on the table. They drank, too, several beers each, and it all made their hearts full and warm. It was good to be together once more. It was good to be home.
After dinner they pitched their dishes into the sink and returned to the living room. There they sprawled over every free inch of chair or couch, taking the space now to relax thoroughly. Summer’s disorientations lay behind them now. What was at hand was the comfortable regularity of a place the four of them had adopted as their own. This was home, and nowhere else. And in their coming together here, they had adopted one another as well. The four, separate in fate and distinct in character, had united through the accident of circumstance. After several months apart, the thread running through each of them had been pulled taut again, and they rejoined each other in the common life. To a man, they took immeasurable comfort in that.
The sun had gone down and the night blew in coolly on the rumor of distant sea air. The stories swapped grew more remote. ’In the end,’ thought Finnegan, ’the stories we tell are unnecessary. We know each other’s characters, we know each other’s lives, what’s important and how we think. The four of us, in our disparate locations and with our disparate adventures . . . they do not tell us anything that we do not already know.”
“Hey fellas,” said Rosselli, “let’s take a walk. Through the park. It’s a nice night, and the air’ll do us some good.”
“Yeah,” joined O’Hanlon, “there won’t be anybody over there now. Grab a beer and let’s go.”
The four of them, beers in hand, tromped heavily back down the steps in a line and out into the night’s freshness. They walked four abreast across the street and into the wide, empty, flat park.
“This feels icy,” said Finnegan. “It was never cool in D.C. Except last week.”
“It probably felt hotter than it was,” said O’Hanlon, “with that woman of yours wrapped around you every night.”
Finnegan scoffed, “Hardly every night, Lanny. Besides, that’s privileged information.”
“Well, how often then? I think Brother Finnegan has been holding out on us. You haven’t told us much of anything about this babe. We need details.”
“Why? To feed your own perverse little fantasies? I’ll play no part in that, and neither will my woman. Besides, from what you and Dan tell me, you have no need for any of my fantasies. You’re doing fine with your own lusty realities.”
“Always room for vicarious entertainment,” said O’Hanlon. “Even McIlweath here speaks occasionally of the Ice Maiden. You’re obliged to do your part. We haven’t even met her yet.”
“All things in time, fellas. And anyway, what makes you think she’s the only woman I had anything to do with this summer? Washington’s loaded with young lovelies.”
“It’s all over you, Mick,” said Rosselli. “You’re caught like a fly in hot tar. We could see that last spring, and judging by that stupid romantic glow of yours it looks all the worse for you now.”
“Maybe you’re seeing things that aren’t really there.”
“No way,” replied O’Hanlon. “You’re about as subtle with your emotions as a runaway bus. I can read you like a map, and all roads lead to one intersection. I fear you’re in love, roomie. All the signs are there, from the tone of your voice to your newfound reluctance to mention the young lady’s name. Obviously you’re been up to some pretty heavy breathing.”
“Well, draw your own conclusions. I’m not going to give you any information you can use to skewer me.”
“Your option. Now, young Tom here is another matter. Not only have we met his lass and gotten to know her as far as time allowed, we can see his actions toward her on a daily basis. It makes me look forward to the coming year.”
“Yes, and we know,” said Rosselli, “that Tom’s habitual reluctance to discuss fair Anne masks passions running dark and deep. ’Tis a fearsome thing, this silence. It hides our soul’s most thunderous rumblings. A calm we perpetuate before the coming tempest.”
“Christ, Dan, you’re talking like Finnegan,” said McIlweath. “What have you been reading this summer?”
“Sex manuals and pornographic novels.”
“My sons, my sons,” O’Hanlon said, “I do have my fears. Women at this stage of your lives will only mess you up. You’re too fresh, both of you. You haven’t set yet. You haven’t gelled. Everything about you is still tentative. Don’t try to anchor yourselves to things that are just as tentative. Then everything falls apart—you, her, and the bond that’s linked your pathetic fates. Wait until you’re certain of your own substance, about which you still don’t have the first clue. Wait until you’re not still pulpy at the core and can take some knocks without being punctured.”
; “Feeling priestly tonight, Fr. O’Hanlon?” asked Finnegan.
But O’Hanlon ignored him. Alcohol loosened his thoughts and put them into a clear order, and, feeling nothing less than brilliant, he went on. “Whatever conceivable reason you might have for entering anything deep, I contend it’s invalid.
“You might say that this woman’s the only one who can make you happy, or the only one you feel capable of loving. You might say she’s the greatest thing you’ve ever met. And I’d say that you haven’t seen enough to judge. There are a hundred million women in this country, and, if you’re lucky, you’ll have the chance to meet thousands of them. Why shut yourself off to that incredible variety? And of the thousands you might encounter, there’ll be hundreds who are going to appeal to you in various ways. The ’one woman’ theory is bullshit, particularly at this stage of your life.
“Or you might tell me that you just want companionship. But there are lots of different forms that companionship can take. You don’t have to fall in love or make some absurd commitment to spend time with her. Most of the women I know wouldn’t want that either.
“Or you might try to say that she makes you feel secure. Well, brothers, we’ve all got our insecurities. It’s a drastic step to tie yourself down just to feel worthy. There’s nothing wrong with rejection, anyway. It’s a normal aspect of growing older. Wrapping yourself around one woman and saying you’re hers and she’s yours doesn’t mean you’re secure. It doesn’t mean you’re attractive or charming or witty or any of those things we’re so afraid we’re not. All it means is that you’ve given one person, out of the hundreds of people in your life, the ability to blow you apart.
“You could try to tell me that she brings out a side of you that you never knew existed. Well, if there are sides to your character that are ever going to do you any good, they’re going to have to come out of their own accord. They’re either a part of you or they’re not. No woman can create something in you that you don’t already have. Besides, there are flip sides to all those arguments. The disagreements, the pettiness, the jealousies, all that. A woman can be a terrible inconvenience.
“It’s all too risky, gentlemen. Any commitment, any emotional involvement, no matter how small, is fraught with danger. You’re bound for far more harm than any good this type of relationship could ever produce.” O’Hanlon stopped to take a long swallow of his beer. “Any questions?” he asked with a smile.
“Thus endeth the lesson,” chirped McIlweath. “Praise be to God.”
“Yeah,” said Finnegan. “When does the time come clear to make a commitment? And how the hell do we control it? Emotions tend to have a will of their own. I contend that emotional involvement is a basic part of one’s coming of age. Sure, it’s loaded with risks, but you can’t dwell on them. You can’t be timid. There are rewards, too, that I think counterbalance the risks. It’s a step you’ll eventually take, and there’s absolutely no way of knowing when it’s right and when it isn’t. You go on instinct and you take your chances.”
“But Conor,” replied O’Hanlon, “you can minimize the risks by evaluating where the hell you are. You don’t even know what you want for yourself at this stage. It’s ridiculous to incorporate another body into the planning. Hell, it’s not even planning. We’re scrambling, not planning, and we’re desperate to find something, anything, that might be right for us. Why complicate it? Minimize your God damn risks. If you’re behind the wheel of your car, you know you can take it up to sixty-five or seventy. But you don’t do it around a mountain curve, because that would be suicide. You have to travel that road, but slow down and enjoy the view. You wait until you’re on flat land before you start to speed.”
“Unless you’re Dan Rosselli,” answered Finnegan, all of a sudden too light-headed for any serious discussion. “Then you’ll floor it from the top of the mountain to the bottom, burning rubber on every turn.”
“Did I tell you I drove a Jaguar this summer?” said Rosselli, lighting now on a topic that thrilled his blood. “My uncle’s friend is a dealer and he let me take one out for a drive one Saturday.”
“How fast?”
“One forty, and I was nowhere near the red line. And that thing handled so smooth it was like I was only going fifty. I told myself then and there that I was going to own one someday.”
“How could you justify spending that much money on something like that?” asked McIlweath.
“It’s a toy, I admit. But I think I’ll be able to afford it once I’m out of med school and have my practice. Besides, there’s the status of it. How many people do you know who actually own one?”
“Fast cars and faster women, eh, Dr. Rosselli?”
Rosselli smiled broadly. “Exactly, my friend. I want the best of everything. The fastest car, the biggest house, the most beautiful woman, the swankest country club. The rest of you can go work out your moral dilemmas. I’ll be comfortable where I land.”
“A creature of the flesh, Dan,” said McIlweath. “A sad spectacle. What makes you think all that will be enough?”
“What makes you think it won’t? They’re not the pathway to happiness, but they’re a hell of a start. You can be a hell of a lot happier living in comfort than you can living from hand to mouth. I’ll find a woman eventually, I’ll start a family and I’ll make money providing a service that people are willing to pay for. Whatever philosophizing I do, I’ll do from the lap of a thick, leather recliner. You’ve got to take care of yourself first, and then if there’s time left, see what else you can do.” “Is that why you want to be a doctor?”
“Partly, yeah, although I’m fascinated by medicine for its own sake. The human body is still our greatest mystery. What causes cancer, or birth defects? What makes the nervous system do what it does?”
“Why do fools fall in love?” O’Hanlon cut in.
“These are the highest challenges man will ever face,” continued Rosselli. “But at the same time, there aren’t too many other professions that provide as much financial reward. I’ll have the best of both worlds.”
“You’re drawn by money, then,” said Finnegan, “and Lanny here is no doubt drawn by power, right?”
“I like feeling some sense of control, yeah,” responded O’Hanlon. “There’s a certain satisfaction in being at the center of things.”
“You ever going to run for office?”
“Who knows? All I concede now is that I’m paying my dues with this menial position I have now in Trenton. There are better things on the way, but I don’t know what they’ll be. The people I’m meeting and the connections I’m making are going to be immensely useful, that’s all I know. One thing, though—you run for office and you’ve taken the first step to being out of a job, even if you win. But if you know how to work the system behind the scenes, somebody’ll always have a place for you.”
“So Dan is motivated by money and Lanny is motivated by power and, according to my cynical friend here, I’m motivated by romance,” said Finnegan. “That leaves you, Mac. What motivates you?”
McIlweath drew on his beer, then paused before answering. “I suppose you’d call it a sense of belonging. Knowing that where I am and what I’m doing is right for the time. Knowing that those people I’m closest to accept me without qualification or prejudgment. Knowing that I’m leading my life in harmony with what I know and believe, that I’m not doing anything for false reasons. Everything else will follow from that, whether it’s money or power or romance. I want to fit in with what’s around me, and be comfortable in my own character. I want to live a life without compromise or accommodation.”
“Jesus, Mac, that’s a huge challenge. Is it even attainable?” asked Finnegan.
“I don’t know. I know I’ve only felt it in bits and pieces, and most of that has been within the past two years or so. I don’t know if it’s ever completely attainable. Part of us might always be discontent, or even remorseful. We might always have to prostitute some part of ourselves. Maybe I just want to minimize the
compromises. And be accepted for whatever it is I’ve become.”
“That’s more ambitious than the rest of us,” said Finnegan. “We always tend to view each other in shorthand. ’He’s an accountant,’ or ’She’s an art teacher,’ not ’That’s John Jones, who’s honorable, intelligent, slightly compulsive, wears the color red too much and sometimes makes me laugh.’ We almost never see the whole person. We define each other through our compromises.”
“Well, I can’t set standards for the whole society, but I can set them for myself. I just want to be content with my own circumstances, and to feel accepted for what those circumstances dictate. I want to know that I’m the sole author of those circumstances, that these are the things I want and not the product of other people’s expectations.”
“In our own distinctive ways,” said O’Hanlon, “I would guess that’s what we’re all after.”
“But it’s easy to take that for granted,” replied McIlweath, “or to assume that that’s the way it will be when it’s really not. We bend ourselves to fit, wherever we are. We bend ourselves to fit into the molds formed for us. I’d like to fit without bending.”
“It feels like rain,” Rosselli broke in. They were at the far side of the park where the road curved behind the tennis courts. In the low night sky they could make out the bulky forms of thick rain clouds.
“You’re right,” said O’Hanlon. “It’s going to pour. Let’s head back.”
“Let’s just keep going,” said McIlweath. “It’s the same distance back no matter which way we go. Let’s finish the loop.”
They quickened their pace around the park, but within a few seconds they were caught. The rain came in slanting, windblown sheets, slapping their faces and stinging their eyes. Lightning flashed above and around them, illuminating the entire park by outline, and the houses beyond. Thunder crashed in their ears with the basso authority of heavenly fate pronounced by God Himself.