Going All the Way

by Dan Wakefield

  “That’s something else I used to crap around with,” Gunner said. “I did some sketches for the paper at DePauw and drew some cartoons for the humor magazine. Shit like that. But I really got a charge out of it.”

  “I could never draw a straight line,” Sonny admitted.

  “It’s easy,” Gunner said. He whipped a pencil out of his pocket and began to sketch the woman’s head on a cocktail napkin. When he finished he handed it over to Sonny.

  “Hey, that’s just like it. You oughta send it in.”

  Gunner shrugged and put the napkin in his pocket. “Maybe I will.”

  “Maybe you could study that on the GI Bill,” Sonny said. “Art.”

  “Could be. I dunno. I’m still thinking more of philosophy or something. I’d like to figure things out more.”

  “Maybe you could do both. Philosophy and art.”

  “Maybe. What I have to do is, I have to send in for some catalogs.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Colleges, universities. I think some of the big universities. Northwestern, Columbia, maybe even Harvard. See what they have.”

  “They probably have about everything.”

  “Yeh.”

  “You thought about the ones around here? I.U., Purdue?”

  “I dunno. I’d like to get away, see something different. Live in a real city. What about you?”

  “I haven’t really thought, too much. I’d sort of thought of going to work at the Star. But the GI Bill—”

  “Hell, yes, if the government’ll pay you to go any place and study, why not take advantage? Go someplace new?”

  “Hell, yes,” Sonny said, feeling confident and casual. “Why not?”

  “I can’t see settling down in Naptown forever. That’s for damn sure.”

  Sonny, who had never seriously thought of anything else, said, “Well, I guess it depends on the person.”

  Sonny realized, uncomfortably, that he didn’t even know which kind of person he was—the kind who stays home or the kind who goes away. He was twenty-three years old and didn’t even know that yet. He ordered another boilermaker and tried not to think about who he was. If anyone.

  6

  On the afternoon of the welcome-home dinner for Sonny, he took a long hot shower and put on his summer cord suit with a white shirt and tie.

  “You didn’t have to get dressed up,” his mother said. “You’re the guest of honor, you ought to be comfortable.”

  “I am,” he said.

  “You could take off the coat and tie, if you want.”

  “I don’t want.”

  Actually the suit and tie made Sonny feel more protected; it was as if the more formal he appeared, the less chance the MRA bastards had of getting to him with their personal shit. He even wished he had a vest. He sat down in one of the big leather chairs in the den and lit a cigarette.

  “Son?” His father was standing in the doorway, blushing a little and rubbing his thumbs across the tips of his fingers, the way he did when he had something personal to say. He cleared his throat. “I thought I’d fix a highball,” he said softly.

  “Oh, good. Thanks, yes.”

  Sonny looked away, not knowing how to show his appreciation without embarrassment, knowing his father was trying to help. Mrs. Burns didn’t drink at all, and Mr. Burns got terrible temper fits if he drank too much, but occasionally he had a highball of bourbon and soda or bourbon and ginger ale, and since Sonny started drinking in the open from the time of his sophomore year in college, Mr. Burns always offered a highball for him, too, on the rare occasions when he had one himself.

  There had never been anything like a “cocktail hour” at the Burnses, or in fact much drinking of any kind at all. When Sonny was a kid growing up, the only drinking he ever saw in the house was at the family Christmas party with his father’s few relatives who had come up north to live from Kentucky. On these occasions, at some given signal, the men would leave the ladies alone in the living room and stealthily gather in the kitchen. Mr. Burns would take a pint bottle of whiskey out from its hiding place among the rags and cleaning-fluid cans in the broom closet, and the bottle would be passed from man to man, each one taking a swig from it and then breathing out a warm sigh of pleasure. During this ritual the men would never mention the liquor directly, though sometimes they referred to it by saying, “That’s real good Christmas cheer.” Mostly they would talk about hunting and fishing and business, manly subjects that the women didn’t understand. After the bottle was passed around a couple times to each man, Mr. Burns would replace the cap and slip it back to its hiding place in the broom closet. When the men returned to the living room, the women would giggle and one of them would say what have you boys been up to. The men would look flushed and pleased and pleasantly guilty, and the women would click their tongues and shake their heads in mock dismay.

  Sonny figured his father needed a drink tonight almost as much as he did, what with the “MRA bunch” coming to dinner. Mr. Burns bore their presence as he did that of all the strangers who came under Alma’s wing for a while and were brought into the house like long-lost relatives—the alcoholics, the divorcees, the lonely newcomers to the city, the faith-seekers and faith-propagators, the bankrupt and the suicidal, even the two young homosexual hairdressers who held hands after dinner and said how wonderful it was to be taken into someone’s home and treated like people. Mr. Burns sat politely through it all, removing his glasses and pressing his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose until Sonny sometimes thought he would press clear through it.

  Mr. Burns came in with the drinks, and after he gave one to Sonny he held up his own glass, coughed nervously, and said, “Well, son, here’s more power to you.”

  “Mmmm,” Sonny said, and took a long swallow of his drink. Thankfully, his father sat down.

  “Well, you’ve finished your service,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. It’s nice to have it done.”

  “Lord, yes.”

  They both took another drink. The walls seemed to buzz with silence. Sonny figured at least he was lucky that his father didn’t try to make him go into his own line of work like a lot of guys’ fathers did. Any idea of Sonny becoming an accountant and joining in some kind of business partnership with his father was settled long ago, back in grade school, when it turned out the one subject Sonny could hardly do at all was mathematics. He even flunked freshman algebra in high school, and it didn’t work out at all when his father tried to help him with homework. Mr. Burns would get angry when Sonny didn’t catch on; he seemed to take it as an insult that his son couldn’t understand the field that he made his own living in, the numbers and ledgers and calculations, the very tools of accounting, and yet the fact was the very sight of figures and equations made Sonny headachy and depressed. After the abortive homework sessions, Sonny and his father never discussed the subject. Mr. Burns seemed to regard photography as more of a hobby than a possible career, but he didn’t make any real complaints about Sonny’s talk of going into it.

  “Well,” Mr. Burns said, “your future’s ahead of you.”

  Sonny twisted in his chair, as if he had some kind of itch. “I guess it is,” he said.

  He couldn’t think of anything to say. That’s the way it was when he and his father were alone together. It was as if both of them were in a stage play as Father and Son, but neither one knew his lines and neither was good at improvising. They were simply miscast in those roles, and yet they had to go on pretending to play them.

  Sonny wasn’t really afraid of his father anymore, like he was as a kid when Mr. Burns had terrible fits of temper sometimes, turned an angry scarlet, and cursed and threw things. Yet it seemed that as Mr. Burns’ anger had subsided and he sought for truces with Alma rather than victories on any issue, his interest and his pleasure in things subsided too. Sonny had always sided with his mother as a kid, fearing the angry man who ruled their lives, but he had come more and more to feel sympathy and even sorrow for his father, glim
psing “his side of things.” The first such glimpse had come by accident, when Sonny was home from college one Christmas vacation and found in the basement, among dust-layered relics of his parents’ past, a thin black case that contained a rusty flute. When he took it upstairs and asked his parents where it had come from, his father turned pink with embarrassment and said, “Oh, I used to fool around with it, a long time ago.” Mrs. Burns laughed and said, “He used to practice on it when we first were married, but it gave me the heebie-jeebies. Ooof. All that high, trilly stuff. It hurt my head.” So his father had once been a music lover. Sonny also remembered his father getting books from the library long ago; he liked biography mostly, lives of great men like Theodore Roosevelt, Billy Sunday, and General John J. Pershing. When Sonny was in grade school the family listened to Dr. I. Q. on the radio every week, and Mr. Burns was very good at the biographical question, where they gave you hints about the life of a famous person and the contestant tried to guess who it was. Sonny was sure that Mr. Burns would have won a lot of silver dollars if he had ever got on the program. Though he didn’t get books from the library anymore, nor did he seem to care much about having a garden. He used to raise zinnias, hoeing the beds along the side of the small house where Sonny was a kid, cutting them sometimes for fresh bouquets. Now when he came home he usually sat in the den and watched television, and on weekends he slept late and then sat out on the breezeway, leafing through newspapers and dozing off into fitful dreams that would end with a sudden snort that shocked him awake, blinking like a frightened cat.

  Sonny wished he could think of something to say to his father, something to indicate he wished him well, and yet he didn’t know how to do it. He lit a cigarette. His father sighed. They were saved by the double-dime chime of the doorbell, a muffled sort of ping-pong sound. Sonny jumped to answer it.

  “Greetings and salutations!”

  It was Uncle Buck, Mrs. Burns’ half-brother. He was eight years older than Sonny and had been one of his childhood tormentors, yet Sonny really got a kick out of the guy. He liked his tall stories and his wild reputation with women, which Sonny secretly envied whenever he heard the family tongues clucking on the subject. He would gladly take the clucking if only he could get as much tail as Uncle Buck.

  “Hey, Unc,” Sonny said, knowing it galled him a little to be thought of as anyone’s uncle, because it made him seem old.

  “Prepare to defend yourself!” Uncle Buck said, putting up his dukes as he had done with Sonny ever since they were kids, doing a little fancy footwork, as he called out, “Look to your God!,” and jabbed a quick left into Sonny’s gut. It was just hard enough to make Sonny start to double over, at which time Uncle Buck, as always, said, “Sorry, old buddy,” gave him a friendly slap on the back, and whispered confidentially, “How they hangin’?,” then gave a great gin-aroma laugh and sailed his hat across the room. Mrs. Burns worried herself sick over Buck’s drinking and carousing, but she couldn’t resist him. Mr. Burns could resist him quite well, especially when he wanted to borrow a little money. Buck was a natural salesman, but he was prone to going off on a toot and having to start from scratch with another company. Right now he was with Federated Siding, which sold brick stuff to put on frame houses.

  “Hello, Buck,” Mr. Burns said.

  “Greetings and salutations, good sir! I trust the world goes well with thee?”

  “Fine.” Mr. Burns sighed. He stood up and asked Buck, “Would you like to have a drink—or have you already had one too many?”

  Buck raised his finger like a schoolmaster and said, “Good sir, there is no such thing as one too many. There is only one too few.” Buck roared and then, changing his voice to a quieter, almost sacred tone, said, “Seriously, I’d appreciate one.”

  Mr. Burns shook his head and left the room.

  “So,” Buck said to Sonny, “Ya gettin’ much?”

  Sonny blushed and said, “Sure.”

  “Way to go,” said Buck. “Remember my motto—always choose fast women and pretty horses.”

  He whooped appreciation of his well-worn line and lit himself a cigarette. The chime ponged again, and Sonny went to answer. He opened the door, and just stood for a moment, staring at the girl. It was Buddie Porter, who had sort of been his girl friend ever since high school. When he hadn’t called her on his last leave home, his mother had questioned him about it until he got mad and said it was nobody’s business. Buddie was just standing there on the porch, sheepishly, and finally she said, “Sonny? I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your mother called and said it was a surprise party for you, and I told her I didn’t know if you’d want to be surprised—by me, I mean. She sort of insisted. You know how your mother is.”

  “Yes,” Sonny said, “I do.”

  “Well—”

  “No, I mean, it’s O.K. I was just surprised.”

  Buddie was still standing on the porch, looking nervous and apologetic. She was holding a straw-basket kind of purse with imitation flowers on it, and she had on a blue summer dress with white flowers, and white flat shoes with a yellow plastic flower on each toe.

  “You look like a regular garden,” said Sonny.

  Buddie seemed puzzled for a moment and then she looked down at her dress, and her purse, and her shoes, and she laughed and said, “Oh,” like she might have known he wouldn’t like the outfit. Somehow she could never seem to dress in a way that pleased him. He was always pointing out other girls to her when he liked the way they were dressed, but even though Buddie would get the same kind of thing, he wouldn’t seem to like it. The more she tried to please him, the more he got annoyed and impatient with her.

  “Well,” he said, “come on in.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, Buddie-O, old Buddie,” Uncle Buck called out when she came in the room. Mr. Burns came in with the drink for Buck, and he asked Buddie if she wanted one too but just then the MRA people came, and there wasn’t any more liquor dispensed.

  There were four of them, and Sonny only knew one of them. That was Leona Scholz, a local Jewish lady who had forsaken her faith and her husband of that faith for the Presbyterians and MRA. She offered her lavish home as a sort of hostel for the movement’s representatives who were passing through town on their many missions. Sonny had vaguely known one of Mr. Scholz’ daughters at Shortley, a dark, sexy thing like her mother had been before she got into MRA and took to pulling her glistening black hair back to a hard bun, eliminating all makeup, and wearing baggy tweed suits and English oxfords with leather tongues. She also wore a permanent expression of satisfaction that seemed to indicate that she either had seen a vision that brought her inner peace or had been struck on the head by a blow that rendered her senseless.

  She took Sonny’s hand and made the expression at him.

  “Hello, Mrs. Scholz,” he said.

  Mrs. Scholz was able to speak through her serene expression without changing it, and in that manner she introduced the visiting MRA bunch. There was a husband-wife pastoral team from Nebraska, the Reverend and Mrs. Ludlow Darney, and a regular MRA full-time traveling “team” member stationed in Mackinac, Hap Merriman. From what Sonny had seen of MRA people, the Darneys were not typical, lacking as they did the robust good-fellowship aura that exuded from most. The Darneys, in fact, seemed to have been the victims of a vampire attack or perhaps had donated their blood to the YMCA. Hap Merriman was much more the MRA type that Sonny had met on the island, and in fact, he had a horrible suspicion that Hap might have been one of the clean-cut fellows who asked Sonny to “confess’ about jacking off and thinking dirty stuff. Merriman was a big, broad-shouldered guy with a receding hairline who must have been in his early thirties, but he still wore an old varsity letter sweater over a white button-down shirt, along with a pair of summer slacks and sneakers with white sweat socks. He rubbed his hands together a lot, as if he were always about to propose some absolutely madcap
scheme, such as everyone going out to the kitchen and cooking up a batch of taffy to pull.

  Mrs. Burns came out of the kitchen, where she had been laboring all day long, and said supper was just about ready, they might as well all come in and sit down right now. The kitchen was the largest room in the house, and there was a huge oval table that everyone could fit around. There was, as usual, about three times as much food as anyone could eat, even though there were all those people. Since Sonny had not made a choice between which kind of potatoes he wanted, Mrs. Burns had made both his favorites, the sweet with marshmallow topping and the Idaho baked with melted cheese on top. There was a mammoth roast, done to a brown, bloodless turn (Mrs. Burns couldn’t stand “raw meat” the way they ate it in the East, and at fancy restaurants unless you told them different, and then they got snotty about it). There was corn pudding, lima beans, stewed tomatoes, hot rolls, and four kinds of homemade preserves. For dessert you could have your choice of fresh cherry pie with ice cream, or devil’s food cake with caramel icing, or both. Most everyone was stuffed by then, and only Hap Merriman had both.

  Sonny sat next to Buddie during the meal, and neither of them said anything. They just stared down at their food and tried to eat as much as they could, though neither of them seemed very hungry. There was mostly just small talk, and Uncle Buck told a lot of jokes and amusing anecdotes, so the conversation didn’t have a chance to turn to Moral Re-Armament until afterward, when everyone was laid out groaning in the living room. Hap Merriman said how wonderful it was to travel throughout this great land and find wonderful homes and wonderful people like this (and presumably wonderful free meals). What saddened him, though, was seeing how even in the midst of such plenty and among such good people, even church-going people, there seemed to be something lacking.

  “So true, so true,” Mrs. Scholz agreed in a tone of ultimate calm.

  “Hell, yes,” Uncle Buck said, “I see it all the time in my own work.”