Sparta

by Roxana Robinson

  Now he owed Jock something. Was that it? Jock had put Conrad in his debt.

  When he came in, he was no longer smiling. Jock and Jenny were already sitting at the table. Jenny waved her fork at him.

  “Your plate’s in the kitchen,” she said.

  Conrad filled his plate and sat down. He resented the fact that they had started eating.

  “All set,” he said to Jock. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Jock said. He looked down at his plate.

  Not looking at Conrad was also condescending.

  “So, you do this a lot?” Conrad asked him.

  Jock looked up.

  “Hand out prescriptions?” Conrad elaborated.

  Jock frowned. “No. What do you mean?”

  Conrad shook his head. “Nothing. Just wondered.”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s kind of difficult,” said Jock. “I may not be able to renew it. But Jenny said you were having trouble sleeping.”

  Conrad didn’t like the idea of Jenny talking to Jock about him. Telling him about his problems. He wondered if she knew about his nightmares. Had he told her? Had she told Jock? It was no one’s business.

  “Yeah, well, thanks,” he said.

  After that night, Jock began to piss Conrad off.

  He thought that Jock pressed his lips together when Conrad said something, and wouldn’t answer. He thought Jock acted supercilious, as though Conrad were a child. Conrad knew he might be overreacting. He couldn’t be sure, and that pissed him off, too.

  * * *

  A week later Conrad spent the afternoon at the library, studying for an econ test.

  The problem was that he couldn’t absorb the information. He read it over and over, and some of it stuck and some of it refused to. When he came to something he couldn’t get into his head, he underlined it and read it to himself in a whisper so that the words were formed and spoken. What he didn’t want to do was panic. He could feel the headache hovering, and he put his hand over his right eye. What he was afraid of was failure. What if he went ahead, step-by-step, but couldn’t make his mind work? What if he failed the class or had to drop out? He couldn’t fail. Even if he took the class over next semester, the failing grade would be on his record. He couldn’t fail. But what if he couldn’t succeed?

  The problem was making his mind work. The headache, and not being able to grasp ideas. But he couldn’t abandon the mission just because it wasn’t going well. You carried on. And in any case, what other option was there?

  Tools, process, opportunity.

  He was surrounded by a carnival of opportunity, a feast, a smorgasbord. And tools were everywhere, it was like a secret language. Once you understood it, you saw the message written everywhere. It was all around you. The distant star of the subway car bearing down on you through the darkness, rattling toward you, larger and larger, breathtakingly lethal. Jenny’s kitchen, with its rack of knives, each of them, even the smallest, fully effective. The vacuum cleaner hose. Tools were everywhere.

  * * *

  Jock came over that night. They had dinner at the table in the living room. Jenny had made lasagna, and the cheesy smell of it filled the apartment. Jock took a swig of beer and looked at Conrad.

  “So, how’s it going?”

  “Going okay,” Conrad said.

  “What are you taking, again?” Jock asked.

  “Just one class,” said Conrad. “Prerequisite for grad school. Macroeconomics.”

  Jock raised his eyebrows. “Serioso.”

  “Yeah,” said Conrad. “But it’ll be okay.”

  “Must be hard to get your brain back into school mode.” Jock took a big bite of lasagna. His Adam’s apple worked as he chewed.

  “Actually,” Conrad said, “in the Marines we’re always in school mode. Acquiring new information, using it to design strategy. We actually use our brains quite a lot. Contrary to public opinion.”

  Jock looked at him. His Adam’s apple stopped moving. “Hey,” he said. “I know that. I just meant that studying—” He didn’t finish.

  “Actually, there is a very strong intellectual streak in the Marines,” Conrad said. Fucking doctors.

  “Is there?” Jenny asked. She sounded serious and interested.

  “Yeah,” said Conrad. “A lot of smart jarheads. They read the Iliad. They read War and Peace. They read history. They come back here and they’re treated like idiots.”

  Jock stared at him. He picked up his beer and drank again. Conrad could hear him swallowing, could see the gulps going down his gingery speckled throat.

  “Okay, so, Con,” Jenny said carefully, “you make it sound like it’s our fault.”

  Conrad squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. “Okay, sorry,” he said. “Not your fault. Okay? Sorry. I’m a little on edge tonight.”

  They ate in silence. Jock finished his meal and set his fork on his plate. He leaned back in his chair and looked around the living room. It was a mess.

  Conrad’s clothes lay draped on the chairs and the arms of the sofa. There was nowhere else for him to put them: no closet, no bureau. His books and papers were stacked on the coffee table; there were more on the floor.

  “So, what’s the deal?” Jock asked Jenny. “Are we ever going to move?”

  Jenny frowned at her plate. “I don’t have time to look for another place right now.”

  “Yeah, but when will you?” Jock asked. “When will you not have a job? When are you going to call a broker or look at the ads in the Times and then actually go out and look at the places? Or do you want me to look? Because I’ll be happy to. On my day off every two weeks.”

  “I know, I know,” she said.

  “Jen, come on. We’ve been having this conversation for months,” Jock said. “What’s your point?”

  Jenny shrugged. “It’s just I hate to leave. I don’t know. It’s so awful, moving. This place seems safe to me, I know it.”

  “Safe!” Jock said. “Come on. I’m not suggesting we move someplace dangerous.”

  “No, I just mean I’m here, I know it,” said Jenny. “This is like my burrow, it’s mine.”

  “So you’ll never move?” Jock asked. “This is it? Is that your message?”

  “Maybe that is her message,” said Conrad. “Maybe you’ve got your answer. She doesn’t want to move. If she wanted to move, she’d move.”

  “Is that her message?” Jock said, looking at him.

  “Yeah,” said Conrad. “Why don’t you get it?”

  Jock raised his eyebrows. “Why don’t I.” He nodded, looking across the room. He looked back at Conrad. “Why don’t you mind your own business? In fact, why don’t you get your own fucking apartment?”

  Conrad stood up quickly, knocking his chair over behind him. He looked down at Jock, elated.

  “Great,” he said.

  “Con.” Jenny grabbed hold of his arm with both hands. Conrad pulled slowly away from her, looking at Jock.

  “Stop it,” Jenny said. “Sit down.” She put her hands over her face. “You are total jerks. Both of you.”

  Conrad stood waiting.

  Jock stared up at him. “I’m not going to fight with you,” he said. “You know that, don’t you.”

  After a moment Conrad said, “I do know that. Yeah.”

  Jenny stood up. “Both of you shut up.” Her voice was raised. “Shut up! I can’t believe you’re doing this. What is the matter with you?”

  Conrad said nothing. He folded his arms, breathing hard.

  He was fucking sick of Jock. Jock acted like he was in the trenches just because he was working at a hospital. He thought he should be treated like a fucking hero just because he was tired and working hard, but the truth was that he slept in clean sheets every night and no one was shooting at him or trying to blow up his car.

  That night, Jenny and Jock went to his place for the night. Conrad drank beer and watched TV until midnight, then took a pill to get to sleep.

  When he came home from class the
next day, he heard Jenny on the phone in her room. He put down his books and went into the kitchen for a beer. The bedroom door opened and Jenny came out. Conrad brought his beer into the living room.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “We have to talk,” she said.

  “Okay.” Conrad sat down on the sofa. He took a swig and looked up at Jenny as though he had no idea what was coming. But okay, he felt like an asshole: It was her apartment, after all. Her boyfriend. Still, Jock himself had done pretty well on the asshole front, swanning around like a hero and doling out favors. The skinny little arms, the hollow chest. The fucking Adam’s apple and the skin like pink sandpaper.

  “Look,” Jenny said. She sat down on the arm of the sofa. She was still wearing her clothes from work, black pants and a wide-striped gondolier’s jersey. Today’s earrings were little red globes.

  “Okay,” he said, waving his hand. He didn’t want to hear this.

  “No,” Jenny said. “I have to tell you. You can’t yell at my boyfriend.” She crossed her arms on her chest and looked straight at him. Now he saw that the earrings were little plastic tomatoes, cut in half, showing the sections.

  Conrad waited for a moment. He wanted to say that Jock couldn’t be an asshole to him, but that might start them down a road he didn’t want to travel. He nodded.

  “Got it,” he said.

  She sat still, waiting. He knew she wanted an apology. But he wasn’t going to apologize for identifying an asshole.

  “I didn’t walk in and call him an abortionist,” he said.

  “What?” Jenny screwed up her face as if he were speaking Martian. “What are you talking about?”

  “When I came in, he called me a student,” Conrad said.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Jenny asked. She sounded outraged. “What is wrong with calling you a student? Isn’t that what you are at the moment?”

  Who he was, was a Marine. Okay, he was a former, but he was still a Marine, he wasn’t a fucking Continuing Ed student. What he didn’t want to go near was the fact that he was not only a student but very possibly a failing student, a student who was fucking up so badly he’d be fucked for life.

  “Let’s say I didn’t like his tone of voice,” Conrad said. “You can make anything into an insult with your tone of voice.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t,” Jenny said. “I was here. I heard him. Con, he didn’t insult you.”

  “Jock thinks he’s a master of the universe because he’s in medical school,” Conrad said. “But he’s not. That doesn’t make him master of anything.” The headache was starting to close in. It gathered itself somewhere overhead like a kind of miasma, and now it was beginning to descend.

  Jenny shook her head. “You’re being an idiot.” She stared at him. “You are welcome to stay here, Con. I love you. But you can’t stay if you’re going to start fights with my boyfriend.”

  Conrad raised his hand, but he didn’t want to cover his eye in front of her. “I didn’t start anything,” he said. He could feel the thumping throb settling into his skull.

  “You did, too,” Jenny said. “You completely and totally started it. What is the matter with you?”

  Conrad put his hand over his eye and closed it.

  Jenny stared at him, waiting. After a moment her voice changed. “Are you okay, Con? Is something wrong?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Conrad said, because how could you tell someone—your sister—you were failing? And where could he go?

  22

  This time he filled out all the forms.

  He was sent to the same waiting room, but this time a different woman sat behind the desk. This one was young and fat and white. She was wearing a red-and-white candy-striped blouse. Her greasy blond hair was strained into a tiny curved ponytail.

  Conrad handed her the clipboard when he was done.

  “Thank you.” She didn’t look up.

  “So, now what?” Conrad asked.

  “Now what?” She looked up.

  “Could you tell me what happens next?” he asked.

  “First you need a medical assessment. We’ll contact you for an appointment. Then, if you need further treatment, we contact you for that,” the fat girl said. Her wide cheeks rose up against her eyes like little hillocks, making them squint.

  He waited, but she said nothing more.

  “Could you tell me when I’ll hear?” he asked.

  “When the paperwork has gone through,” she said.

  Looking down over the high counter, he could see that she had a little private nest back there. Her computer was on a ledge. Beside it was a big plastic mug, a couple of framed photographs. A little basket with a ribbon tied to it was full of miniature-sized chocolate bars. She had everything she needed.

  “I mean, can you give me an idea of how long it will be?”

  She shook her head. “Could be months.”

  Behind Conrad someone said, “It’ll be three months. It’s always three months.”

  Conrad turned to look. It was a Vietnam vet, thin and grizzled, wearing faded jeans and a baseball cap. He raised a hand, nodding. He closed his eyes politely. Conrad nodded back.

  “Thanks.” Conrad turned to the striped woman. “So it’ll be three months before I can get an appointment to see someone?”

  “Are you suicidal?” The woman’s voice was loud and indifferent. He felt it in his chest like a blow. “If you’re suicidal, if you’re a danger to yourself or others, put it down on the form. Then we’ll be in touch sooner.”

  She was in charge, and the space around her was filled with power. Her body, spilling out over the edges of the chair, weighing down the rolling wheels: all this was set up in opposition to him. She was the obstacle to what lay beyond, something that was waiting for him somewhere in the long corridors, open doorways, lighted rooms. Whatever he wanted was beyond her. Without looking down, she slid open a drawer at her waist. She reached inside. Still holding his gaze, she took out her hand and secretively popped something into her mouth. She began chewing. Her teeth made a crunching noise.

  “Okay,” Conrad said. “I’ll wait to hear, then.”

  Three months would be late January. He turned to leave.

  The Vietnam vet was watching him. He’d leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His flat face was raddled and red. His faded blue eyes were watery, his cheeks covered with gray stubble. The flesh beneath his chin had collapsed down his neck in accordion folds. Thirty years, Conrad thought. He’s been coming here for thirty fucking years and he’s still no better.

  “Thanks, bro,” Conrad said.

  The vet nodded, solemnly holding Conrad’s gaze, as if it were a way to help him.

  * * *

  He was in the back row of the classroom. It was nearly dark; Professor Titchmarsh had dimmed the lights. A little glow came up from the podium, lighting her face from below. All three screens showed graphs. She was talking about international trade, and the way countries used political methods to limit one another’s economic activities. She used a small laser as a pointer. The point of light rose uncertainly on the nearest graph, wobbling up and down the jagged line to show the intersections, the crossovers, the rises and falls.

  “Take international airline routes, for example,” Professor Titchmarsh said. The point of light vanished, then reappeared on the next screen. In the dimness, Conrad could see the ranks of students, the rows of their backs stretching out in front of him. He didn’t like taking notes in semidarkness. He couldn’t really see the paper; it felt like writing on water.

  “Countries use these for negotiation. They offer permission to land in their airports in exchange for something else—political or economic status. Not all international airlines are permitted to land at JFK—this is actually a ‘most favored nation’ situation.”

  The three screens were troubling. She was pointing at the one on the far right. He tried to focus on the jagged line, where it climbed and plunged. He should have his NVGs. He thought of slipping them on,
pulling them down from the top of his helmet over his eyes, and the landscape turning dim and greenish. In-country they owned the night. Though he wasn’t wearing a helmet. It was like double vision: he was here, in khakis and moccasins and a sweater, his parka at his back, but at moments he was also still in his cammies and boots, Kevlar. There was something troubling about the three screens, about having to shift back and forth. When he looked at one, he was aware of the other two. It made him uneasy. The headache hovered just over his right eye.

  “Here you can see the intersections,” Professor Titchmarsh said. The point of light began to flicker. There was something sickening about the way the tiny brightness moved up and down, silent and loose, on the light screen, and there was something unsettling about the three screens side by side, glowing against the darkness, and as he tried to take all three of them in, the headache descended like night and he had to put his hand over his right eye. But covering his eye made it hard for him to hear. What she was saying was now dim and confused because of his clouded eye. Or there was something else wrong, something was going wrong, he was having trouble concentrating on her words. He was writing everything down, but something was wrong with the way he was hearing it.

  Professor Titchmarsh changed the right-hand image to a new chart showing a varied pattern of response. A series of bright red circles glowed against a pale background, and in the darkness Conrad saw the pattern on the wall. The spatters high on the wall of the house in Haditha. That room flooded over him again, the smell of the bodies on the floor, and the blood. The awful way they lay, so heavy, so final. The woman, still climbing onto the sofa. His heart rose up in his chest as though some kind of alarm were going off. It was like an echo chamber, because there was the pattern on the wall again, and his whole body was reverberating as though he were right there in that room, and he put his hand over both eyes and closed them and tried to let blackness come over him and not to think and not to move and he willed for that room to be over. Three more months.