The Flex of the Thumb

by James Bennett

  Vano wasn’t sure what a timetable would mean, but he could tell that his father was ready to return to the subject of pitching baseball. “Timetable?”

  “That’s what I said. Timetable. When you might be able to start throwing, a little at a time to start with, then working on up. Are you with me on this?”

  The waitress returned to their table with the pot and painstakingly brought Vernon’s cup right up to the brim. “That’s more like it,” Vano’s father said to her. “That’s what I call a full cup. Thank you.”

  Vano was observing this exchange from deep in. His father and the waitress were now miniature figures on the far side of a vast and bland landscape. With no stress whatsoever, Vano wondered what his answer to the timetable question would turn out to be.

  As it happened, it was moot. Using both hands, Vano’s father lifted the brimming cup toward his lips with trembling fingers. When he burned his mouth, his hands began to shake. The scalding coffee washed down over both his hands. The cup fell clattering to the saucer while the old man screeched in pain. Beads of sweat formed quickly on his scarlet scalp. Vano watched his father flap his hands to shed some of the pain while the coffee soaked deep into the tablecloth.

  Vano spent the bigger part of August in a state of unattached tranquility, physically as well as psychically. The comfort zone of hooommm seemed to fit him like a glove. He enjoyed the lassitude of the condo deck, with its warm southern exposure and firm mountain view. He read a good many books, reflectively, books such as Kon-Tiki, by Thor Heyerdahl, The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiesen, and In My Own Way by Alan Watts.

  “What will you do if you’re not a baseball pitcher?” Sister Cecilia asked him one day.

  Vano looked up slowly from his reading, taking the necessary time to absorb the question. “I’m not sure,” he said.

  “Will you get a job?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you could.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “You’re so agreeable, Vano; do you know that?”

  Eventually Vano replied, “I never thought about it. Yes, I guess I am agreeable.”

  Sister found no discomfort in the long pauses which delayed his answers. She enjoyed the newer, gentler Vano. In fact, although she would never say so to his father, she felt relief in his apparent liberation from the reckless, aggressive male mode. She asked him about college.

  “It might be nice to go to college,” he replied.

  “Maybe you could go to Entrada. You visited there.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Letters keep coming from that baseball coach you talked to. But your grades in high school were low, Vano, and it seems late to be applying.”

  What Sister was saying was true. There was no reply which occurred to him. His hooommm was ultra firm.

  She continued, “Maybe you could still get in. Maybe it’s not too late to apply to junior college.”

  After another substantial delay Vano told her, “I think I would enjoy going to college.”

  None of this serenity registered on Vano’s father, however. Vernon was engaged in a desperate cycle of damage-control activities day and night. When he wasn’t on the phone with doctors and lawyers, he was stalling Oakland Athletics’ personnel or product endorsement opportunities. He acted as Vano’s press secretary, to field the ongoing but dwindling calls from press people and other media.

  The Oakland general manager visited Vano once on the deck to remind him about the signing bonus.

  “We already have a lot of money in this house,” Vano told him.

  “It wouldn’t take much,” countered Rakestraw. “I know you’re not in shape, but if you could demonstrate that you can still throw, there’s still a lot of money on the table.”

  Vano pointed out that he didn’t feel any desire to be a pitcher. Then he asked the GM if he’d ever had the pleasure of reading Kon-Tiki.

  This irrelevant question prompted Rakestraw to try a more manipulative approach: “I traded three guys to get you. Three proven major leaguers, I might add.”

  These remarks, meant to provoke in Vano a sense of guilt, fell short of their goal. Vano felt a serene indifference to anything Rakestraw might have to say. He finally answered, “Maybe the three players will be happy with their new team.”

  The frustrated Rakestraw knew when it was time to fold. On the way out he said to Vernon Lucas, “I see what you mean.”

  “You don’t have a clue,” was the dispirited father’s reply.

  Vernon paid Gomez and Ann-Marie five hundred dollars apiece to see what they could do, but Gomez could offer only baseball, and Ann-Marie, sex. Vano obliged Ann-Marie, and he played catch with Gomez, both without engagement. He was firm in his understanding that sex and baseball were activities of the ego connection, and not capable of providing any lasting satisfaction.

  At the end of the month Vernon Lucas threw up his hands in disgust and permitted Vano to enroll at Entrada College. “At least it’ll get him away from home,” he muttered to Sister. Entrada was an institution in need of students, as it happened, so Vano’s substandard high school record was no obstacle. As long as he could pay the cost, the school would be happy to admit Vano, and of course, his father had plenty of money.

  The night before he was to leave for college, Vano was alone in the den watching the TV news when Sister Cecilia came home from Salvation Army band practice. She fussed around in the kitchen for half an hour or so. By the time the late news was over, she came into the den and sat next to Vano on the couch. “I can’t get used to the idea that you’re going away to college. You’re going to be gone for a long time, Vano; I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Sister Cecilia.”

  “It’s going to be pretty lonely around here.”

  After a delay of a few seconds Vano said, “Sister, I thought you were Catholic.”

  “Of course I’m Catolico; the Salvation Army band is just an outside activity I enjoy.” She couldn’t help but like him this way, though. “It’s a very thoughtful observation for you to make, Vano.”

  He waited again before speaking, “Maybe you could come to Entrada for a visit sometime. It might help to alleviate the loneliness.”

  “It’s getting late, Vano, and I’m awfully tired. How would you like to tuck me into bed?”

  Sister had never asked him a question like this before. “I never thought about it,” he said.

  In her eyes were unfamiliar pinpoints of light as she told him, “I think it would be awfully nice if you would.”

  Vano felt a flickering like a train passing rapidly through a station, but the moment passed. When he found his tongue he said, “Okay then, I guess.”

  They went up to Sister Cecilia’s bedroom. After she seated Vano on the edge of the bed, she got a pink nylon nightgown from her dresser and laid it beside him. Then, facing him, she said, “I’m ready now.”

  Vano felt more of the flickering in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact he was getting aroused. After a few moments he asked, “How do we go about this?”

  “Well, I can’t very well put my nightgown on if I’m still wearing my clothes, can I?”

  Vano started some heavy breathing. It was hard to determine where the anomaly was more peculiar in this intimate encounter—Sister’s determination or his reluctance. Eventually, he found his fingers on the top brass button of Sister’s navy blue wool Salvation Army jacket. Slowly, he unbuttoned them one after the other until he was able to help her slip the jacket off.

  She closed her eyes as he removed her white blouse and her white bra; her large breasts tumbled free. Sister Cecilia was slightly overweight, but voluptuous. She tilted her head back and began combing her fingers through her long, black hair.

  Vano removed her Salvation Army skirt and then, after some substantial hesitation, he slid her nylon underpants all the way down to her ankles. Sister stepped out, took hold of the back of his head, then pulled his face in against her
stomach.

  Vano smelled Sister’s flesh mingled with the sweet fragrance of baby powder. He put his arms around her and let his hands travel the slick contours of her generous hips. Aroused though he was, he found there was still a tenuous location in a flickering hooommm. He asked Sister Cecilia if he was supposed to put her nightgown on now.

  But she answered, “I can’t help myself, Vano; I have to have you.”

  They made love on her bed. The lovemaking gave him so much pleasure it separated him from the comfort zone. He wondered if he might be better off to stay at home instead of going off to college.

  About five minutes after her convulsive orgasm, Sister sat up so she could begin squirming into her nightgown. “We must never do this again, Vano,” she declared. “It’s evil.”

  Vano could feel himself receding deeper, deeper down. He didn’t reply.

  “It’s terribly, terribly evil,” said Sister again.

  “I see.”

  “This whole month I’ve wanted you, but the Lord has made His will known to me. And now I’ve gone right ahead and disobeyed.”

  Hooommm it was, deep and firm.

  “That’s what true wickedness is,” Sister continued, “Willful disobedience. We must never do this again.”

  Still, Vano didn’t speak. She was so distant, so way down the wrong end of the binoculars.

  The next thing she said was, “Please go to your room now, Vano.”

  Vano went to his room, trailing his blue jeans and underwear behind. When he went to sleep, he had the dream again. It was the pyramids, but not the pyramids exactly, because there were terraces. Whatever it was it was large, and streaked with gold from the dawn’s early light.

  When he woke up, he pondered the dream. Maybe it was a sign of some kind, or maybe it came from the particle people. But no, didn’t he have the dream the first time before there was ever an encounter with them?

  If the dream was about the pyramids, then the water could be the Nile, but how could the place be Egypt if there wasn’t any sand? Whenever he had the dream, it seemed to provoke the same questions. What was it the particle people said to him? Some day your understanding may be complete. Vano felt not a sliver of frustration owing to the uncertainty; he was lodged in the deepest, firmest hooommm he’d ever known.

  Sister Cecilia helped him pack his suitcases. She was uncomfortable, Vano could see it in her eyes. But for him there was no discomfort at all. The process of packing beside her was all neutral, about like counting boxcars on a passing freight train.

  Chapter Three

  A campus host showed Vano to his dorm when he moved in. One of his roommates, a bookish young man named Arnold Beeker, was already there. Arnold wore thick glasses with black frames reinforced by chunks of adhesive tape. His tapes and CDs were classical music. He was in the process of setting up his computer next to the reference books arranged neatly on his study desk. “You have a funny name,” he said to Vano.

  “Sure.” Vano smiled.

  “What does it mean?”

  “What does what mean?”

  “Your name,” answered Arnold Beeker. “What does it mean?”

  It never occurred to Vano that a person’s name was supposed to mean something. Besides, he was deep in. After a few moments he said, “I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

  “Since we’re going to be roommates,” said Arnold, “You’d probably like to know all about me.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “First of all,” Arnold began, “I’m one of those peoople that bad things happen to. My father says I’m a regular Joe Blitzflick. I don’t know who that is, but it’s probably a character from a comic strip. My father spends a lot of time reading the comics.”

  Vano didn’t say anything.

  Arnold went on, “Sometimes he even uses the highlighter on the comics. He always says he doesn’t want to be standing too close to me when the shooting starts, if you know what I mean.”

  Vano didn’t know what he meant, but decided not to reply. Arnold continued by disclosing some of his remarkable theories about the universe and its mysteries. He had run most of these through one program or another on his computer, and he kept the results on floppy disk, for purposes of privacy.

  For instance, Arnold Beeker believed that creatures from outer space observed most of North America from invisible space ships. These creatures were involved in cosmic research. He further believed that outer space was really a country in Eastern Europe with a different atmosphere. He further believed that the creatures who lived there had soft plastic instead of skin, and electric wires instead of bones.

  Arnold was free to admit that his espousal of these and other similar theories had exposed him to harsh ridicule over time.

  But Vano Lucas found no basis for objecting to any of the theories. When Arnold told him about the creatures in Eastern Europe with electric wires instead of bones, Vano said, “That sounds great, Arnold.”

  “You mean you really think it’s possible?”

  “Sure, Arnold. It sounds real possible to me.”

  Overjoyed at this acceptance and approval, Arnold said, “I can tell we’re going to be fast friends. All my life people have called me a nerd because of my beliefs and the way I look. Have you ever been called a nerd?”

  This was a hard one; Vano had to think. Finally he said, “I can’t remember that I ever was. No.”

  “You don’t look like a nerd, but you sort of act like one. Have you ever been called a geek?”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t remember for sure.”

  It didn’t seem to matter much to Arnold, who was wearing a wide grin. “We’ll be nerds of a feather,” he said earnestly. “I can tell we’re going to be fast friends.”

  Vano wondered if, in the interest of honesty, he should reveal to Arnold how recently he had been one of the arrogant bastards who treat nerds with contempt and relish making their lives miserable. It also occurred to him that Arnold might take some delight in hearing about the particle people encounter. He was in a relatively deep zone, though, and there would be the problem of sequencing the information.

  The arrival of the third roommate, Robin Snook, changed the agenda altogether. He was a football player. He was six feet, two inches, approximately the same height as Vano, but a great deal bulkier, at 230 pounds of muscle mass. Robin had a round, open face, and short-cropped hair.

  As soon as the introductions went around, Robin said, “You’re Vano Lucas? Are you serious?”

  When Vano amitted that he was, Robin turned to Arnold Beeker and declared, “I know this guy!”

  “You know him already?”

  “I mean I know who he is. He brings the high heat. Everybody knows who he is.”

  Arnold wondered why he didn’t know. He also wondered what was meant by high heat. It might be some kind of a thermal device, but he couldn’t say. Eventually, Vano told him quietly, “I used to be a baseball pitcher, Arnold. I think Robin is referring to that.”

  “He used to be a baseball pitcher,” laughed Robin Snook. “That’s like saying Joe Montana used to be a quarterback. What do you mean, used to? Aren’t you on the team?”

  The delay which preceded Vano’s answer was long and tedious. “I can’t imagine any pleasure in it.”

  “Shit, this guy almost signed with the A’s. Everybody wanted to sign him.”

  “I had no idea,” Arnold murmured.

  The conversation might have worked its way into Vano’s accident and recovery, but it turned out that Robin Snook was a sports celebrity in his own right. As a football star out of high school, he’d been recruited by UCLA, Southern Cal, San Diego State, Washington, and Colorado, to name but a few.

  “But you chose Entrada?” asked Arnold.

  “I wanted to play right away. I don’t want to waste my time redshirting or being somebody’s back-up. Know what I mean?”

  Arnold had no idea what redshirting might imply, but what he did know was that he was now rooming w
ith two famous jocks. Some of the attention and adulation which was certain to flow in their direction might flow on over and anoint him, too. Of the two, Robin was clearly the better interview. “What’s your position?” Arnold asked him.

  “Tailback,” answered Robin Snook.

  “But you look big enough to play the line.”

  “Who wants to be a grunt? There’s no glory in the line. I want to carry the ball and score touchdowns.”

  “I can see your point,” Arnold admitted.

  On the second day of rush week, Robin, Vano, and Arnold were headed for the afternoon mixer at the Chi house. Vano could generate no enthusiasm for fraternity life, but Arnold was smitten with the prestige which the Greek system seemed to offer.

  “I’d feel a lot better if you went with me,” he told Vano. “I’ve never had much luck in social situations.”

  Vano tried to imagine social skills inferior to those which he currently possessed. Nevertheless, he told Arnold, “I’d be happy to go with you.”

  “I’m sure it would give me more confidence.”

  “I’d be happy to go with you, Arnold.”

  En route, the three stopped at the curb to wait for a passing steamroller at an intersection which was being resurfaced. “I really and truly think I might get a bid,” said Arnold Beeker, thinking no such thing.

  Vano wondered if any fraternity would really want Arnold as part of its membership, but Robin Snook exclaimed, “That’s the stuff! Always think positive!” For emphasis, he gave Arnold a whack on the back. The impact knocked Arnold’s glasses onto the pavement, where the steamroller smashed them to smithereens. Picking up the powdery remains in disbelief, Arnold cupped them in his hands. “Now what am I going to do?”

  “Have no fear,” counseled Robin. “Just follow me.”

  But as soon as they reached the lawn of the Chi house, Robin was swallowed up by a crowd of active backslappers, who started feeding him barbecued chicken and large drafts of Bud Lite. He began devouring a hefty leg and thigh quarter.

  Vano and Arnold were left to stand by themselves. “They’re going to put me on the yoyo patrol,” Arnold lamented. “I just know they are.”