Sparta

by Roxana Robinson

  He’d read that women thought about sex two or three times a day; men, two or three times a minute. That sounded about right. Even in a combat zone. At Haditha, up the dam, it had been a lot quieter than at Sparta. The guys there mostly just stood guard duty, and it was boring. Two of them sent away for penis enlargement pills. They had a competition, measuring themselves every day, and then decided to take all the rest of the pills at once. They ended up with dicks so swollen they couldn’t walk. What amazed everyone was not that they’d done it, but that the pills worked. The guys were actually in pain, but of course no one felt sorry for them. There were a lot of nicknames.

  There he was again, thinking about sex.

  “How’s your brother doing?” Conrad asked.

  “Howdy’s fine,” Claire said. “He’s at Swarthmore.”

  “He always was a brain,” Conrad said.

  “He’s an idealist,” said Claire. “Wants to save the world.”

  “What do your parents think about that?”

  “They support him.” She looked at him. “Like your parents.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t exactly think of himself as an idealist now.

  “How are your parents?” she asked.

  “Good,” he said. “I’m going out to see them this weekend.”

  At the corner, Conrad stuffed the empty bags into a trash can and stepped off the curb, raising his hand. He looked at Claire. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” she said, and gave him a little smile.

  Now he got it: she was making such a point of leaving on purpose so that he wouldn’t have to worry about sex. She wanted him to know that she liked his company, she’d come over just for that. It was a gift she was giving him, and when he realized it, he felt again the lift of his heart.

  A cab swerved toward them, sliding across the lanes and cutting off a delivery van and a small red sedan before jerking to a stop not quite in front of them. The chassis rocked, and the driver stared at them.

  “Do you want this one?” Conrad asked. “Will you survive?”

  Claire nodded, and he opened the door.

  “I’m paying for the cab,” he said, and pulled out his wallet again.

  Claire slid past him, onto the back seat. Settled, she turned and smiled at him through the open door.

  “No,” she said. “You’re not paying. That would make me feel like a hooker.” She raised her hand and gave an odd wave, palm flat, her fingers opening and closing like a starfish. She waited for him to close the door, but he leaned in toward her.

  “Thanks for coming.” He meant for all of it, for thinking of it in the first place and bringing over those aromatic white bags of food, and for running up the stairs and turning her face up to him, smiling, and for the way her earrings made little whispery sounds against her beautiful smooth jaw, and the way her skin looked, supple and gleaming, and for the way she had put her hand on his arm, which had felt like a kind of forgiveness. He wanted to say he was sorry for not being able to get it up, sorry not to ask her to stay the night.

  She smiled again and shook her head, and he kissed her briefly, just a child’s kiss on her soft, sweet mouth, he couldn’t risk anything else. Then he drew back and closed the door. She leaned forward to tell the driver where to go, her dark hair falling over the blue jacket, and he wondered again if she was going home or somewhere else. The driver pulled out right in front of a black town car that honked furiously and slammed on its brakes, and then the cab sped up and was lost in the weaving lanes of traffic.

  Conrad turned and walked back down the street. When he reached Jenny’s block, he saw the woman from next door standing on the sidewalk. The first time Conrad had seen her, he’d thought she was homeless, or maybe crazy. She had short whitish hair and she’d worn a raincoat over her nightgown, the folds showing below the hem. She’d stood motionless, staring down with a fixed psychotic gaze. It wasn’t until Conrad was nearly past her that he’d seen the leash leading from her hand to the small, shaggy terrier straining at the end of it, nose pressed intently against a tree.

  Now she was wearing her trench coat and her nightgown, flip-flops on her feet. He wondered if she owned any daytime clothes. The light from the streetlamp gave her a halo, irradiating her wild pale hair. One hand was sunk deep in her pocket, the other held the leash. The terrier was parked meditatively next to the streetlight, staring straight ahead, his ears pricked, his hind leg lifted.

  Conrad nodded to the woman as he passed; she nodded back.

  There you go, he thought. I’m a member of the community.

  * * *

  On the morning of his first class, Conrad woke early.

  It wasn’t quite light. It was September, and the days were growing shorter. In the dimness, Conrad pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, then sat down to put on his running shoes. He remembered putting on his boots at Sparta. In the dark, his hand knew exactly where they stood beside his bed. He knew the feel of the leather: smooth side in, rough side out. He thought of Carleton’s boots at his memorial service, side by side on the gritty floor, helmet and rifle beside them. The roll call, and Carleton’s name called out in the silence. By then Anderson was at Landstuhl.

  The past, Conrad told himself, standing up. That was the past.

  The thing was to stop letting these things into his mind. Unless he could just let them flow through until they ran out, dried up. Would they stop, eventually? Would he find himself living wholly in the present, getting dressed like this in the early dimness and finding this moment the real one, even though the past was so much more vivid? Even though the past was painted in those unbearable colors and the present was shadowy and colorless? Even though the past carried so much more weight and meaning?

  But if the past was not so important, if he was meant to forget it and close himself off from it forever, then what had been the point? What was the point of what he’d done there? Olivera, Carleton, all of them?

  Okay, though. That was the past. He was putting it behind him, he was pushing on.

  He moved quietly to the front door, holding the knob so it wouldn’t snap noisily shut. He jogged down the creaking stairs and landings. In the front hall, the light from the transom made a wide stripe on the stained marble floor. The hall was high-ceilinged, shadowy and secret. He opened the heavy door and stepped outside. It was a good moment: The cool air, the run waiting for him. The moment before the plunge.

  He headed up the block. The street was quiet now. There was no traffic and only one or two people on the sidewalk, footsteps tock-tocking sharply in the crisp air. The woman from next door was standing outside. They nodded to each other and Conrad jogged up the block toward Broadway. He was heading east, toward Central Park, and the sun was still down near the horizon, its rays slanting low across the city. He ran toward the light. The streets were quiet, and once he passed inside the big red stone gates of the park, the air changed. It became soft and rich with the scents of autumn: damp earth, the deep, complicated smells of mold. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

  He reached the reservoir at its northwestern corner. A path led up the bank and onto the raised track that circled the water. On the track, he slid into the stream of runners.

  A lot of people ran the reservoir in the early morning. They were mostly men, many in serious running gear: fancy shoes, crisp shorts, bright shirts with bold logos. Techie stuff: stopwatches and little strapped-on contraptions to measure distance and monitor heartbeats and cholesterol and every other thing.

  There were women, too, most of them lean and taut-limbed, looking great in their running gear. Their clothes were more varied, regular loose shorts or black spandex shorts or knee-length tights. Tank tops or T-shirts, or those stretchy running bra–shirts with crossed straps that went halfway down the torso, flattening but revealing their breasts.

  Girls always looked great, that was the thing. They always looked great, with their supple bodies and their flying hair. Even if they didn’t know you and
didn’t want you and didn’t want to know you, they still had those bodies and their unknowable interior selves, and unbelievably, they didn’t mind showing you their wonderful bodies. They ignored you absolutely as you passed them or they passed you, headsets on, some private music or audiobook driving secretly into their brains, not giving you the time of day, but giving you, amazingly, complete privileges for looking at their entire bodies, top to bottom—tight, rounded asses; flat mounds of breasts; long, clean legs and pumping arms; smooth, supple backs. They jazzed up the whole world just by running around the reservoir in those tight, stretchy things, not looking at you, their expressions concentrated, their faces and necks slick with sweat, their arms and legs moving fast, their feet pounding on the soft track.

  There was one woman he watched for. She had short blond hair and wore a pale green headband. She had long legs and wore loose, silky, colorful shorts or long spandex ones, usually one of those crossover tops. Conrad watched for the green headband among the bobbing heads. The crowd was loose, everyone bobbing along at their own pace. But when Conrad saw the green headband ahead, he began slowly to increase his stride until he caught up with it.

  He’d been nearly through his first lap, up on the straight northern stretch, heading west for the stone pumping station, when he saw the bright flash of green. In front of him was a loose configuration, two women running side by side (women often ran together, men almost never), then several people alone. It was a slalom course. Conrad lengthened his stride and moved on the inside past the first two, then pushed on until he was parallel with the next runner. This was a short guy in glasses, wearing a white handkerchief tied around his forehead and an expression of desperation.

  “Sorry,” Conrad said, and the guy moved over. His mouth was open, as though he were being tortured. Conrad wondered if this was his first run ever.

  Conrad moved past Desperate, then slid around the next runner, a plump woman with thick, dry hair and bright red matching shorts and jacket. She was barely running at all, just moving at a lively shuffle along the dirt track.

  “On your left,” Conrad said, and she gave him a heroic smile without moving her head. He ran past, then around the next runner. He kept moving through the fluid crowd until he was behind Pale Green. He liked watching her run. She had smooth tan legs, a floating stride, and a fast pace. She looked focused and committed. Most people looked as though they were in agony. Conrad had never spoken to her; he’d hardly ever looked her directly in the face. You didn’t, running, you were always facing forward.

  He ran behind her. They were following the long curve of the water’s edge as the sun rose, sending bright shafts across the water. The massed trees along the western shore were suddenly illuminated, the sun striking them into green clouds of glory. Ahead of him, the girl ran without slowing, her brown arms bent loosely, pumping hard, her stride long and tireless. Her back was brown, and gleamed moistly. She never slackened. Her face, when he’d glimpsed it, was sober and expressionless. She didn’t wear a headset, either. She was just there, pounding along fast, carrying out a goal. Right in the thick of it, running fast, pushing herself. He loved that.

  Conrad followed her for five laps. When he approached the pumping station again, he swerved right, swooping down off the raised track that stretched around the water. He ran down the little bank and onto the grass. He felt good.

  He liked pushing himself. At OCS, being pushed felt at first like harassment, but as they’d grown stronger, it became a matter of pride. And pushing yourself, striving, was part of something larger. Conrad, alone, just doing this, just running the New York City reservoir, was part of a long history of Marines pushing themselves, sweating on the PT deck, climbing the ropes, storming the heights. It was the challenge. Conrad liked this, his body sweaty and hot and loose, heart pounding, lungs pumping, everything working.

  He ran back across the park, through the stone gateway, and onto the sidewalk. He kept running. When he reached a red light, he jogged in place, waiting for it to change, unwilling to give up the thrumming beat throughout his body. Once, he’d seen a runner in the park meet a pair of friends who were walking. The runner stopped to greet them, but he wouldn’t stop running, and he jogged in place as they talked. The walker introduced the runner to his girlfriend. The bobbing jogger put out his hand to shake hers, and the woman took it and out of courtesy began to jog in place, too. For a moment the two of them faced each other, hands clasped, bobbing up and down. Then he released her, she stopped jogging, he went on with his run, and the couple went on with their walk.

  When Conrad reached Jenny’s block, the day had begun. The sounds were louder and brasher: the roar and clank of trucks and buses, the honks and panting of traffic. The city was awake and at work. Conrad let himself into the dark front hall and took the stairs two at a time.

  Jenny was in the kitchen. She was wearing oversize pink flannel pajamas, standing at the table and holding a bowl of granola close to her chest. She raised her spoon at him.

  “Hola,” she said.

  “Hi there.” Conrad sat down to take off his shoes.

  “How was it?” Jenny asked.

  “Good,” Conrad said. “I like running the reservoir. Half of New York is out there. It’s cool.”

  Jenny nodded.

  “Are you about to use the shower?” Conrad asked. “I can wait.”

  “I’m about to jump in,” Jenny said. “If that’s okay.”

  “No problemo,” Conrad said. “I’ll wait.”

  “Today’s your first class?”

  He nodded. “Four-ten. Mathematics Hall.”

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  When she came back out, she was dressed for the day: black T-shirt, bright blue tights, and a striped miniskirt. The big earrings were neon-blue concentric circles.

  “I’m heading out,” she said. “I’ll see you later. Good luck with the class.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She was gone, clattering down the stairs.

  Conrad showered and shaved. In his underwear, he fixed cereal and sat down to read his email. Answering the men was still the main event of his day, though from now on it would be different.

  There was a message from Anderson.

  Hey LT. I’m still on the job. Glad to have it, cuz I hear a lot of vets are having trouble getting work. It’s ok. I don’t have to see many people or talk to them, most of the day I’m alone. Kind of weird being out on the roads alone, can’t imagine doing that back in-country but its ok. I tried the volunteer thing but it didn’t work out. I had to be certified in some way or other, if I was going to actually talk to the kids. They asked me to come and give a speech about being in Iraq at the high school, but I didn’t want to. I don’t know what to say about it, any of it, is the fact. Do you ever talk about it? It’s like a giant country, like a whole fucking continent, that I’m carrying around on my back and don’t know what to do with. Let me know what’s happening in New York. I miss everyone, weird but true. Anderson.

  Conrad answered everyone right away. He still felt connected. He was no longer planning duty rotations and missions, but he still felt responsible and he liked hearing from them.

  He was puzzled by what he was hearing from Anderson, who was not a complainer; Conrad couldn’t tell if he was in trouble or not. He wrote back.

  Anderson. Hey, it’s good to hear from you. Glad you’re still on the job. Driving a truck without worrying about IEDs and the muj must be hard to imagine. Actually I find myself doing evasive action without realizing it. I scared my mom, driving out on the highway. A white sedan came up on one side and I started swerving like a madman at 70 mph. She nearly jumped out of the car. I felt bad for scaring her, but that still feels like normal driving. I have to keep reminding myself it’s not. It’s an effort. And I know what you mean about finding it hard to talk about. I hardly talk about it at all. It’s hard being back and trying to think like a civilian. I hope you’re having an ok time with it. I know some guys are
struggling. Keep in touch. Farrell.

  There was a brief message from Ollie:

  Yo, bro, wassup? This semester is way better, way. Like my profs, like my classes. Have you heard the Blood Lambs? Vry cool I think. Why don’[t you come up? Yah, O.

  Conrad had no idea who the Blood Lambs were.

  Yo, O. Cant keep up w/ yr music. Don’t know the Blood Lambs. Glad to hear the semester is better. Are you in Mandarin II? Better housing? What? All quiet here. My class begins today. Glad to get started. Yah, C.

  When he was finished with the emails, Conrad officially started the day. He got dressed, made the bed, and sat down in one of the giant upholstered chairs with the GMAT review book. It was a big fat heavy paperback with a blue cover and ocher-colored lettering. A red starburst announced that it was The Official Guide. Conrad planned to study two hours a day with it, more if necessary. He began flipping through the pages.

  If ∧ represents one of the operations +, –, and ×, is k ∧ (l + m) = (k ∧ l) for all numbers k, l, and m?

  1) k ∧ 1 is not equal to 1 ∧ k for some numbers k.

  2) ∧ represents subtraction.

  Okay, he’d need to brush up on math.

  He’d start off with the Diagnostic Test—that would let him know which areas he should focus on. Quantitative: money being spent over a period of months, water flowing into a reservoir, integers and prime numbers. The way that mathematics turned the world into a magic realm of quantities, a huge turning face made up of millions of tiny tiles that clicked into place. He could hear that infinitesimal sound as the right answer revealed itself, set perfectly in the vast mosaic of logic. It was logic that drove all of this, a perfect celestial chorus of logic, calm and absolute. There was no margin. There was only one right answer to any of these. You were with the system or you were against it. He felt as though he’d gotten inside the mechanism of a clock, tiny thrumming wires strung taut all around him. He needed to take a breath, get outside this. Make the logic his own.