Fleischer was pretty straight looking with his short blond hair and olive-green fatigues with the patches removed. He stood very straight, looking—and talking—more like a drill instructor than a war protestor.
“We expect the Union will be pretty well cleared-out when we get there—if the administration plans to let us have it, that is; but we’ll get to that in a minute. If it’s open, we’ll proceed to the ballroom, then divide into smaller units and liberate the various areas—these will be the same units that’ll eventually move on to the classrooms, by the way, but I’ll let John Ascher tell you about that. We’ll set up a communications center in the ballroom and assign areas around the building for teach-ins, street theatre performances, draft counseling, food, and so on. We’ll also have sentries posted at key doors and windows, so the police can’t take us by surprise. The plan is to keep the place neat and clean—for a change, huh?—so nobody can complain we did any damage. We’ll have people patrolling the place constantly to prevent trashing.”
“Booooo!” said somebody near the window.
“Hey, we’re not animals,” said Fleischer hotly, his fair face reddening with dramatic swiftness. “If you wanna trash something, trash your own house. We want people to focus on the issues here, not our lack of hygiene.”
“So, what does happen if the pigs won’t let us into the Union?” asked the same guy who’d asked earlier about the police.
“We block it off,” said Fleischer. “We lay down in front of the doors and prevent anyone from entering. We only let people out.”
The questioner persisted.
“What if they start clubbing us and hauling us away? Do we help each other out or lie there like pussies and take it.”
“Hey, asshole,” said a voice from the back, which, it turned out, belonged to the Afro-haired redhead from my English class. “Keep your sexist comments to yourself. Having a vagina—and that’s vagina, pal, not pussy— doesn’t make me any less courageous than you. And while we’re talking about courage, it takes a lot more of it to sit still and take a beating and make a point than it does to fight back.”
“Bullshit,” said her antagonist.
“Okay, troops,” said Fleischer, cutting things off before they could get out of hand, “have your philosophical arguments somewhere else. We’re trying to get things organized here. The fact is, the committee has decided on a non-violent approach. We want to make friends, not create more enemies than we already have. If you’re not comfortable with that approach, you might as well leave, because we’ll be wasting your time.”
“Count me out,” said the heckler, shouldering his way through the crowd. “You’re all a bunch of pussies.” He paused and looked back toward the redhead. “And I do mean pussies, sweetheart,” he said.
He continued out the door, pursued by catcalls.
The rest of the evening was spent on the nitty-gritty of strike organization and techniques of non-violent protest, though occasionally someone burst into a political diatribe of one kind or another. It was as if each of these people had a personal agenda they couldn’t bear to put aside, even for one evening. To be more fair, perhaps it was the first time most of them had found an opportunity to speak their mind in public.
Whatever the reason, it made me less than sanguine about the rally. There were already half-a-dozen speakers on the docket. Add to those the spontaneous speakers sure to emerge, and we could lose our audience long before we were ready to move them toward the Union. I could only hope someone sensible like Carl or Bill would monitor the microphone and keep things under control.
I volunteered to lead a group to liberate the snack bar, though I was not entirely sure I could handle the job. The eating area there was an important space in the Union, with a sunken central section perfect for political performances by groups such as Theatre X. I believed that art and drama were important tools for winning people over to the cause, so I was motivated to secure a space for those activities. I was also committed to preventing the kind of abuses—theft and vandalism—bound to tempt some demonstrators in a place as familiar and fully of “booty” as the snack bar. I agreed completely with Fleischer it was important not to distract people from our purpose by acting like juvenile delinquents.
By the time the meeting broke up, it was two o’clock in the morning. I managed to get a lift back to the house on Downer. As we pulled up, I noticed a light burning in the living room window. I guessed Kolvacik was there, and I was not thrilled at the prospect of having to get by him to go to bed. He’d want me to play with him all night long, no doubt, and I was beat. I sighed, said goodnight to the others in the car, got out, and walked slowly toward the door. As I mounted the steps to the porch, I looked through the bay window into the living room and saw, not Kolvacik, but Claire sitting on the couch in a brief pink nightie, her long, slender legs crossed, her brows knitted in thought. My mouth went dry and my heart started to pound.
With shaky hands, I managed to unlock the front door and go in. I entered the living room. Bathed in the light of a pole lamp beside her, her blonde hair shimmering, Claire looked particularly angelic, but the pink nightie set off her flesh, too, its low-cut neckline emphasizing the swell of her breasts, its arrested hemline revealing the entire length of her thighs. Neither of us spoke. I stood in the archway, staring into her eyes, looking for a clue about what I was supposed to do. In reply, she uncrossed her legs and opened her arms. I went to her quickly and knelt down between her thighs. She took my face in her hands, studied it for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed me, a long, deep kiss whose message was perfectly clear.
The rational part of my brain was sending out panicky messages: You can’t do this with Claire—certainly not here, not now! What if Tony comes down? What if Jonathan walks in? What will happen afterward? But the rest of my body wasn’t listening. Claire and I made love—right then, right there on the sofa, not even bothering to turn out the light. My body felt as if it had come home.
After making love, we lay in each other’s arms on the couch. We had yet to utter a sound, outside the mumbles and moans of lovers. Initially overwhelmed with passion, then confused and exhausted, neither of us had even said, “I love you.” I spoke first, moving strands of pale hair off her face as I did. “I want to be able to do this with you forever—you know that, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“What are we doing to do, babe?” I asked.
“We can do whatever we want to,” she said. “Tony’s moving upstairs.”
“What do you mean, upstairs?”
“The attic. He’s going to build himself a room up there.”
“Alone?”
“Let me get a cigarette, and I’ll tell you about it.”
I let her up. She picked up her panties and nightie from the floor and put them on. With her slow, languid, cat-like movements, it was as exciting to watch her put them back on as it had been to help her take them off. My penis began to swell again. She noticed and smiled.
“Put that thing away, will you. It’s too distracting.”
I pulled on my jeans but left my shirt off. Claire lit a cigarette. When I asked for one, she lit it off of her own and handed it to me. We sat on either end of the couch, our feet touching in the middle. She held the big green ashtray on her lap. I collected my ashes in the palm of my hand. A warm, gentle night breeze blew the sheer curtains in the bay window.
“Tony and I had it out this afternoon,” she said. “He came home from work in a foul mood, the way he always does lately. I just wouldn’t take it. We started arguing about something stupid, and it went downhill from there. Luckily, Jonah was over still over at Susie’s. When we were through, he drove off to the lumberyard. He came back with a load of two-by-fours sticking out the car window. He hauled them up to the attic and started pounding away. He wouldn’t even come down for supper. His sleeping bag’s up there. I assume he’s sleeping in that.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means we’r
e separated.”
“Living in the same house?”
“We can’t afford to do it any other way.”
The simple practicality of this answer left nothing more to say on that subject.
“How do you feel about it?” I asked.
She took a long drag on her cigarette, tilted her head back, and blew the smoke into the air. Then she shaped the ash on the edge of the ashtray. I leaned forward and dumped the ashes from my palm into the ashtray.
“Relieved, I guess,” she finally said. “I’m tired of trying to make it work with him. I don’t really believe it’s over, but it might be. This could be the beginning of the end.”
She took another drag of her cigarette, blew the smoke out and sniffed a few times. I wondered if she was going to cry, but I didn’t see any sign of tears in her eyes. Suddenly, a wave of concern and tenderness washed over me. I leaned forward and wrapped my free hand around her foot, which was calloused on the bottom from walking barefoot, but incredibly soft on top.
“Claire,” I said, to get her to focus on me.
Her eyes met mine, and once again I noticed how they seemed to glow like a cat’s. “I love you,” I said.
Her cat’s eyes became kittenish for a moment, but the wary glow quickly returned.
“I want to love you, John,” she said. “But I don’t know if I can love anyone. Relationships are so fucked up …”
My stomach dropped. I could have dealt with tears and anguish, but I was afraid of her confusion. I wanted it to be simple. I wanted her to want me, instead of Tony. I let the disappointment pass before I spoke, allowing a saner voice to prevail in my head. Still, I found myself having to subdue fearful feelings in order to speak what that voice said to me.
“Of you course you don’t know what you want,” I said, squeezing her foot. “It’s all brand new. It’ll take time. But I’m here for you. I really do love you.”
Claire searched my eyes. My throat was constricted with emotion as I tried to hide my fear she would reject me. She looked away without revealing anything, stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, and held it out to me, so I could put out mine. I was afraid to look in her eyes. I put out the cigarette. She set the ashtray down on the floor beside her. Then, to my surprise, she slid down onto the sofa, opened her thighs, and reached toward me.
“Make love to me again, John,” she said quietly.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I went to her.
After making love again, we fell asleep, but luckily I awoke in time to get upstairs before Tony came down to go to work. I wasn’t ready for that confrontation, yet. I left Claire sleeping on the couch, but not before putting a blanket over her and pausing a long moment to look at her. She was so beautiful! I felt privileged to be her lover. It was like a dream come true. But then I thought of Tony and realized that it could rapidly turn into a nightmare.
Up in my room, I fell onto the bed, exhausted, but my mind was full of thoughts about Claire and about the student strike, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I heard Tony clump downstairs to the kitchen in his work boots. Soon, I heard him go out the back door, start up his car, and drive away. I was thinking of going down to Claire again when sleep finally overwhelmed me.
8
IWAS AWAKENED BY THE SOUND of Jonah crying in the kitchen. It took a few minutes for reality to set in, to comprehend that I had really made love to Claire and committed myself to helping lead a student strike.
How could so much have happened in one night? It had seemed like a romantic drama by moonlight, but in the harsh clarity of sunlight, it was frightening. A knot of tension formed in my stomach.
I pulled on a red t-shirt over my jockey shorts and wandered downstairs, looking for reassurance from Claire. But I found her flying around the kitchen in her white uniform, which was rumpled from having sat in the dryer all night. She was trying to make herself a lunch while feeding Jonah breakfast.
“Oh, John, I’m so glad you’re up,” she said, sliding a banana into her lunch bag and folding over the top. “I was just going to come and get you. Susie will be here in five minutes to give me a ride to work and take Jonah to her house. I haven’t even brushed my hair. Would you feed him his pears?”
Before I could answer, she was on her way out the door and up the stairs to the bathroom. Jonah, who had been momentarily distracted by my entrance, realized I was the only source of food in the room and started squawking at me. I stared after Claire.
“Of course I’ll feed Jonah his pears,” I muttered under my breath as I sat down in front of him. “What else could I possibly have on my mind after last night? Huh, Jonah? All I did was make love to your mother. But that’s okay. No need for her to worry about my feelings. I’ll be just fine.”
Jonah’s only thought was for his food. He watched intently as I opened the little jar of strained pears. His eyes followed the spoon back and forth, each time I filled it and brought it to his mouth. Only when we reached the bottom and his appetite was sated did he pause to look into my eyes. He seemed to be looking for something in them. Perhaps he sensed that something had changed, that somehow I was connected to him in a way I hadn’t been before. I had no doubt children were capable of picking up such things, but, on that occasion, I could have been imagining it. I wanted some kind of affirmation of what had happened.
A car honked at the front of the house. I handed Jonah a piece of melba toast that was sitting on the edge of the table and went to the bay window in the living room. Susie saw me and waved. I waved back. Claire came flying down the stairs, trailing her purse and a diaper bag.
“Did you wipe Jonah’s mouth?” she said, dropping the bags at the bottom of the stairs.
“He’s still eating melba toast,” I replied coolly.
Claire had taken a step toward the kitchen, but my tone stopped her. She turned to me.
“Look, John, I’m sorry I can’t be more responsive, but this is my life. If you’re going to do a hurt dance every time things get hectic for me, we might as well forget it right now. I don’t need it.”
She continued on into the kitchen and returned, a moment later, with Jonah in her arms, still chewing on his now-slimy melba toast. I picked up her bags and started toward the door.
“Thanks,” she said, “but just put them over my shoulder. In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t have pants on. I don’t want to scandalize my sister.”
I looked down and laughed. She laughed too. Then Jonah joined us.
I hung the bags carefully over her shoulder, then leaned past Jonah and kissed her full on the mouth. She resisted for a second, then her lips melted into mine. When I pulled back, Jonah looked back and forth from me to Claire with a curious expression.
“Will you be home for supper?” Claire asked.
“Well … probably not, actually. I never got a chance to tell you, but I’m helping lead the student strike today. By suppertime, we’ll either be occupying the student union or a holding cell downtown.”
I smiled. Claire was not amused. Her sister honked again, this time more insistently.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “After everything I said to you yesterday morning? After what happened between us last night? I don’t have time to deal with this, now. Call me at work before you leave.”
She marched by me and yanked open the front door.
“And don’t forget!” she called over her shoulder.
After returning to my room to put on a pair of jeans, I went to the kitchen, poured myself a bowl of cornflakes, and cut up a banana on top of it. I went out onto the front porch steps to eat. It was unusually warm for early May. The sun on my face was summer-like. The sense-memory of making love to Claire lingered in my body, making it feel relaxed and languid. In the sun, even my mind began to relax. I had no idea what the day would bring, but instead of worrying about it, I let it go. By the same time the next day, I could be in jail, with Claire kissing me through the bars, or the strike could have failed entirely and Claire could be ba
ck with Tony. Who the hell know what was going to happen. As the song said, “Que sera, sera.”
The cereal barely made a dent in my appetite, and I didn’t know when I’d get a chance to eat again, so I made two pieces of toast, slathered them with peanut butter and jelly, poured a glass of milk, and returned to the porch. I was halfway through the second piece when the phone rang. I returned to the kitchen to use the wall phone.
“Okay,” said Claire, starting right in, “I only have a couple minutes. What’s this about you leading the strike?”
“I’m just going to help out. I think it’s important that colleges start paying attention to the war. The strike will let them know that they can’t go on as if nothing is happening.”
“Four people got killed at Kent State. Isn’t that important?”
“Think of all the guys our age getting killed in Vietnam! Not to mention all the Vietnamese they’re killing. It’s worth it if it helps stop that.”
“But it won’t!”
“How do you know? And even if it doesn’t, we still have to protest it. Do you believe the Germans should have protested their government’s oppression of Jews, even though they might not have been able to stop it?”
“Of course. But that’s different.”
“The point is, when you believe your government’s behavior is morally wrong, you have a responsibility to protest it. I think the war and the draft are morally wrong, so I have to protest them.”
“Oh, quit being so fucking logical, John. You don’t have to convince me. I’m just trying to tell you I’m worried about you.”
My heart skipped a beat. “No need. I’m not a hero. If anybody pulls a gun, I’ll head in the other direction.”
“It’s not funny, John. Not any more.”
“I know. Look, I’ll be careful. I promise. Will you and Jonah come and visit me at the Union, this afternoon, if it all works out?”
“We’ll see. Only if I’m sure it’s safe.”
She paused.
“About last night, John … I don’t want you to get your hopes up. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
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