Going All the Way

by Dan Wakefield

  Hap looked annoyed, but turned to Buck with a smile of forced interest. “Is that so?”

  “Day in and day out,” Buck affirmed. “I go into homes, I see the faces. They’re starving for something. Sometimes I try to help. I mean, I don’t sell for a living. You have to have a real interest in people. I’m no minister, but I do know a little of the Bible, and I do know some of the pitfalls. At first hand.” He gave a short, maniacal laugh, then cleared his throat, and said in his deep, meaningful tone, “But seriously, let me say this—”

  Mr. Burns took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sonny couldn’t look at anyone. He knew that Uncle Buck, as usual, had got the gist of the visitors’ concerns and was about to outplay them at their own game. He always did that. Once, when Sonny had a couple Army buddies come and visit, Buck came and took over the whole show telling stories of his combat experience in World War II. Sonny had heard Uncle Buck tell his war stories many times, but they always were fascinating and never the same. If you tried to point out an inconsistency, Buck would get mad and ask if you were accusing him of being a goddam liar. You had to say no, or he might beat the shit out of you.

  “We all observe these things,” Hap Merriman broke in, trying to get back the lead of the conversation, “and that’s why Moral Re-Armament is so keyed to the crisis of our own time, right here and now.”

  “I believe it,” Uncle Buck said. “Did you know this country spends more on liquor than it does on education?” he asked indignantly, not mentioning his own contribution to that statistic. “The pendulum has to swing. It’s like Newton’s law, whatever goes up must come down.”

  “Buck, may I speak to you just a minute?” Mrs. Burns asked. She stood up and was glancing nervously around the room, wanting to put it back in the balance it was meant to have.

  “Huh? Sure.”

  Buck got up and followed her into the kitchen, saying to the others, “’Scuse me, good citizens,” and laughing wildly as he disappeared. Hap took charge of the conversation again, and in a few minutes Mrs. Burns tiptoed back in the room, alone, having disposed of Buck in what presumably was a nonfatal method.

  Hap was getting to the part about how it was good for the soul to relieve yourself of the sinful things you had thought and done, how it helped to get them off your chest. Often, he explained, folks felt they were the only ones who were dirty and sinful, and that’s why in some of these friendly little sessions it was best to have someone begin who had already had the experience of getting these things off their chest in the company of others. That way, the people who had never unburdened themselves in public would feel easier about doing it. Sonny got out a cigarette, and Buddie, who hardly ever smoked, whispered that she’d like one too.

  “Take the Reverend and Mrs. Darney,” Hap said. “Not only are they good Christians, but their regular work is in the service of the Lord. Yet, when they came to Mackinac, they found in MRA something new and wonderful. They got some things off their chest that they had kept locked up and festering inside for many years.”

  Sonny had the awful realization that the Darneys were about to speak of those unspeakable matters right now, in this very living room. Hap turned to the drab little couple with a hearty grin. The Reverend Darney crossed one leg over the other and clasped the knee, as if to have something to hold on to. His wife, pale as margarine, fixed her blank gaze on some figure in the rug.

  “Even though I am a minister of the Lord,” the Reverend Darney began, “I have sinned with the flesh.”

  Oh God make him stop, Sonny prayed. Make him save it for You.

  “Before Alberta and I were joined in holy wedlock, we—we knew each other’s flesh.”

  The little woman sat paralyzed. The only thing that moved was a throbbing blue vein in her throat.

  “Knowing full well it was sinful,” Ludlow continued, “I nevertheless—” There was an awful pause, and then he got out the horrible secret: “I manipulated my wife’s breasts.”

  Somehow the word “manipulated” was what most fascinated Sonny; it reminded him of a man sitting at some kind of control panel, pressing buttons and pulling switches.

  There was a shameful silence, and the Reverend Ludlow added, for emphasis, “Before marriage.”

  The thick, embarrassed silence choked the room, and Sonny felt like he couldn’t breathe.

  “Which only goes to show,” Hap Merriman said cheerily, “that the very finest among us, even those in the Lord’s service, are not free from sin. I’m sure, for instance, that the wonderful, gracious people who are our hosts tonight, even though good Christians, have done things and thought things that deep in their heart have burdened them for a long time.”

  There were tears in Mrs. Burns’ eyes. Mr. Burns pressed mightily on the bridge of his nose. Sonny was shaking so hard he could barely stand up, and when he did, his head felt light and his knees were uncertain. He turned to the smiling, dumpling face of Hap Merriman and said in a voice so intense it was barely audible, “Get out of here, you lousy turd.”

  “Beg pardon?” said Hap.

  Buddie stood up beside Sonny and squeezed her hand on his elbow. “I think I’d better be going,” she said. “Sonny, take me home?”

  “I’m taking her home,” Sonny said, still gazing at Hap’s complacent mug.

  “God bless you,” Hap said.

  “Up yours with a rusty totem pole,” Sonny said, as Buddie pulled him to the door.

  The night air hit them like a clean bath, and Buddie drew a deep, relieved breath. Sonny was still trembling. Buddie got him into her car and drove north, past many houses, along open fields, not saying anything. Sonny held his head out the window, letting the wind wash him.

  Buddie pulled into a driveway at one of the deserted farms where they sometimes parked, and turned off the motor and the lights.

  “Do you want to stop?” she asked softly.

  “Sure.”

  He slumped back in the seat, his eyes shut, and Buddie lightly rubbed her fingers over his forehead.

  “That son of a bitch,” Sonny said. “I’d like to mash his fat face to a fucking pancake.”

  “Shhh,” Buddie whispered. “Don’t think about it.”

  “My goddam mother. Bringing those people home.”

  “She means well, Sonny. She wants to help.”

  “Goddam it, how come you always take her side?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just I know she loves you, really. So do I.”

  She leaned against him, smelling of sweet soap and toothpaste. He knew he could do what he wanted with her, which maybe was why he didn’t much want to do it anymore.

  “When did you get home?” she asked softly.

  “I dunno. Last week or something. Are you going to start on that, why I didn’t call?”

  “No.”

  “O.K. Thanks, ’cause I don’t know why myself. I don’t know anything.”

  “Don’t be angry. Please.”

  She pressed herself on top of him, pressed her mouth on him, hungry and wide open. Her tongue felt sticky.

  He moved away. “What do you want me to do, manipulate your breasts?” he said.

  “Please, Sonny. Don’t think about those people.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  He lit a cigarette, and Buddie scooted back in the driver’s seat. After a while she started the motor and Sonny didn’t say anything, so she turned on the lights and backed out onto the highway. They drove without speaking, and Buddie pulled up across the street from Sonny’s house. The other cars were gone.

  “Well, thanks,” Sonny said.

  “That’s O.K.”

  She leaned over and kissed him wet in the ear, and he drew away and pushed down the door handle.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’ll call you.”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes, yes, I just said I would.”

  “O.K. Good night.”

  He got out, slammed the door shut, and said, “Good night,” and she quietl
y drove away. Sonny stood for a while in the street, smelling the dark green night and wanting to die.

  His mother and father were sitting in the den, wearing their bathrobes. Only one dim light was on. It was like they were sitting up for a sick friend. In their bathrobes, they looked older and more vulnerable, defenseless and confused. Sonny felt sorry for them, but he didn’t want to sit around and talk. He stood at the door.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “We’re sorry,” Mrs. Burns said. “We didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “O.K.,” Sonny said. “It’s O.K. It wasn’t you. It was them.”

  Mr. Burns cleared his throat. “Even so,” he said in a weary, grim tone. “Even so, you can’t let yourself—fly off the handle. You can disagree without flying off the handle.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sonny said. “But I hate their lousy guts.”

  “They mean well,” Mrs. Burns said.

  “Lord, yes,” Mr. Burns said. “I don’t agree with all their methods, Lord knows, but they’re trying. They’re trying to help.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sonny said, trying hard not to fly off the handle again. “I just don’t want to see them again. Any of them. Ever.”

  “Sonny, I promise you,” Mrs. Burns said, teary-eyed, “I will never invite them here again.”

  Sonny didn’t mention she had promised that once before. He just wanted to go to bed and not think about anything. He wished he could lift the aura of gloom, the religious hangover. He could see his parents were suffering from it too.

  “Hey, what happened to Uncle Buck?” he asked. “Did you send him to the movies or something?”

  “I asked him to do an errand,” Mrs. Burns said. “And he was glad to,” she added with defensive pride.

  “An errand?”

  “I got some leftovers together and had him take them over to a new family that just moved into the parish neighborhood. They haven’t got settled yet.”

  “Huh,” Mr. Burns snorted. “Buck probably ate it himself.”

  “Oh, Elton.”

  “Maybe he shared it with them,” Sonny said.

  His mother sighed. “Buck means well,” she said.

  “I guess we all do,” said Sonny.

  “Lord, yes,” Mr. Burns agreed.

  While they all were in general agreement on something, Sonny hurriedly said good night. He wanted to get safely to bed before anything could spoil the temporary harmony.

  7

  The day after his welcome-home party, Sonny woke up around eleven, but he didn’t get out of bed. He was sorry he woke up at all. You could tell it was one of those steamy hot days outside, and he didn’t want to do anything. His hand was gently fondling his prick. It had been about half-erect when he woke, the sort of condition that the guys at Boy Scout camp used to call “a semi.” He wanted to beat off, but he couldn’t think of anything that got him charged up. He tried to remember the blonde on the train coming home, but she had already faded from his mind. He closed his eyes and tried to squint her back into focus, but the memory of how she really looked ran together, like a photograph left in the rain. He tried thinking of stuff he had done in the past with Buddie, when he still was hot for her, but it just didn’t get him going.

  There was a soft rap on the door, and he quickly drew his hand off his cock.

  “Sonny?” his mother said.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you up?”

  “No.”

  “I have to go the office now.”

  “O.K.”

  “I left you a tray. Outside your door.”

  “O.K.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be back around two.”

  “O.K.”

  “You don’t have to get up if you don’t want.”

  “I will. In a minute.”

  “If anyone calls, I’ll be at the office.”

  “I know.”

  There was a pause. He could still hear his mother’s breathing, and he lay motionless, both hands innocently lying under his head on the pillow.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Me too,” he answered.

  He couldn’t make himself say, “I love you,” to his mother anymore, and when she said it to him and waited for reply, he said, “Me too,” which he realized was ambiguous. It might either mean he loved her too, or it might mean he loved himself, too. That was probably closer to the truth. He heard her tiptoe away, down the stairs. Then the car boomed and skrcaked from the drive. His prick was limp; he had even lost the semi. He got up and opened the door, and took the tray in and set it on his desk. There was a white-meat chicken sandwich with the crusts cut off, a big glass of Pepsi with ice, a piece of lemon chiffon pie, two brownies, and the morning Star. He took a sip of the Pepsi, and then went back to bed with the sports section. He might have never got up at all if Gunner hadn’t called.

  “How ’bout that film we shot?” Gunner asked. “I thought we were going to have a big developing bash.”

  “Oh, yeh. Right. We ought to do it,” Sonny said.

  “How’s about right now?”

  “Sure, I mean, like an hour or so would be O.K. I have to finish something up first.”

  What he had to do was get dressed and get himself together, but he wouldn’t have dreamed of admitting to Gunner he was still lying around the house just vegetating, halfway through the damn day.

  Sonny got a real lift from just being in the darkroom, and having Gunner there to watch and to learn made it even better. Him, Sonny, able to teach something to a guy like Gunner, able to give him some bit of knowledge he sought, that was really something. It was like being able to bestow a gift on someone you liked, and it was really the best kind of gift, much better than the kind you could wrap in a package.

  Gunner was really absorbed and eager to know. Like everything he did, he wanted to dive right into it and find out everything he could about it, and his questions and admiring comments at Sonny’s knowledge of the developing process made Sonny actually feel like Somebody.

  The most exciting part was when you put the blank paper in the chemical bath that would bring the picture to life; the forms taking shape, the gathering of the darks and shadows and outlines until the actual picture came forth in its full detail. That was a kind of creation, a kind of magic. It always gave Sonny goose pimples, and he had the feeling Gunner felt the same way about it.

  Sonny had got some good action stuff, but most of Gunner’s was fuzzy and blurred. Sonny told him about how you corrected that with shutter speed and all, and assured him he’d get the hang of it soon. He figured he really would, too, but it was nice to be able to reassure him.

  Afterward they had a couple cool brews, and Sonny felt clean and strong.

  “You really got it down cold, all that stuff,” Gunner said admiringly.

  Sonny smiled and looked down at his brew. “Shee-it,” he said. With appropriate modesty.

  They planned to go out and shoot some more film real soon. But when Gunner called the next day, he had plans of a more exotic nature.

  “We’re choppin’ in tall cotton,” he announced.

  “Yeh?”

  “No shit. Nina’s got a date to go to Churchill Downs for the races. She’ll be in Louisville overnight and the place’ll be ours.”

  “Hot damn.”

  “Can you line up something for Saturday night?”

  “Sure, I think so.”

  “One of us can have the bedroom and the other the couch.”

  “Great.”

  “Remember DeeDee Armbrewster? Shortley girl I used to be pinned to and all that crap. She just got home from I.U. graduation and gave me a buzz. Sounds like she’s hot to trot.”

  “Great.”

  “Yeh. I’m a little on the horny side.”

  Gunner was used to getting it regular. Sonny said very casually he’d line up something for himself and be ready for action. When he hung up, he felt a little panicky, and he went t
o his room and bolted down the lunch his mother had left. Then he put on a pair of undershorts and lit a cigarette. He didn’t like to smoke in the nude, for fear a hot ash might fall on his dick and damage it beyond repair. He was always thinking of things like that.

  The problem now was who to get for Saturday night. If only this was happening back in Shortley or maybe even in college, he could get a lot of girls who’d just want to go on a date if they were going to be doubling with the great Gunner Casselman. Maybe some still even felt that way. Maybe that sexy Phyllis who Sonny saw at the Riviera. She used to go to Northwood Methodist, but now she was at nursing school, which probably meant she went all the way. Nurses were supposed to do everything. Sonny had meant to call her but for some reason he had put it off, and now it was too late. If he wasn’t absolutely sure she did the big trick, he didn’t want to take her to Gunner’s and feel like a greenass, just sitting out in the living room playing records while Gunner was humping away on DeeDee Armbrewster right in the next room. The only girl he was sure of was Buddie, and so, even though he didn’t really want to screw her anymore very much, he knew he had better take her. What the hell would Gunner think of him if he couldn’t produce a girl he could lay?

  Gunner had been getting his ever since high school, everyone knew that, even Sonny. Even if you weren’t on the inside, the word got down to you somehow. Gunner did it right in the school building. He did it with Patty Mandrake on a table in the biology lab, he did it with Sissy Glisson down in the boiler room, he did it with DeeDee Armbrewster in the bushes by the side entrance of the building between the acts of the Annual Shortley Variety Show. He even did it in the back of the auditorium when they showed free movies at lunchtime. There were teachers snooping around sometimes but Gunner had Blow Mahoney for a lookout. Blow got his name because the thing he liked most in life was getting blown, and he talked about it all the time and greeted people by saying, “Hey, blow!” Sometimes he used to drive around the block at lunchtime in his old Model T, and when he first went around, you’d see Sandy Masterson sitting next to him, but then by the second time around you wouldn’t see Sandy at all, you’d just see Blow himself, driving along with a look of incredible ecstasy. When he didn’t drive to school he and Sandy would go to the lunchtime movies and do it there in the darkened back of the auditorium; and since Blow always sat upright in his seat while Sandy was giving it to him, he was happy to keep a lookout for Gunner at the same time, while Gunner was making it with DeeDee behind the last row of seats. Blow was happy to help out a friend, as long as it didn’t interfere with his own pastime.