Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  Steve walked to the bedroom door in his shorts, admiring her naked body as she frantically arranged pillows on the bed.

  “I wish I could get this kind of room service,” he said. “How do I make coffee?”

  She turned to him. ”You could help.”

  He moved toward the bed.

  “Never mind, make the coffee. It’s only instant. And get dressed. Look like you just arrived, not just got out of bed.” Her panic was beginning to subside as she adjusted the shams and piled the pillows on top of the bedspread. “Perfect. Now I’ll take a shower. Close the window and get rid of the roach and clean the saucer from last night.”

  Steve put on his t-shirt, shorts, and his tan moccasins. He put two spoons of Folger’s into each cup and poured the boiling water. Roxy returned from the bathroom looking more freshly scrubbed, with a light blue top over white shorts. She brushed her hair, throwing it from side to side as she stood by the table, sipping the coffee. “Looks like you were never here.”

  Hearing the key in the door, Roxy put down the brush and quickly sat at the small wooden dining room table. Mrs. Fisher entered with her small blue suitcase.

  “How was it, Mother?” Roxy asked cheerily.

  “Inspiring. Uplifting. It makes you believe in the righteousness of the Lord.” She turned and saw Steve sitting at the table. She gave him a forced smile and looked at Roxy, who was bright and cheerful. She carried her suitcase into her bedroom but quickly returned with dark thunderclouds in her eyes.

  “How dare you! In my own house. In my own bed . . .” She moved toward Roxy. “What kind of child are you? A child of the devil himself?”

  “Mother, what do you mean? ‘How dare I’?”

  “What happened to my bed? I never put the pillows like that. What have you done?” She looked at Roxy and then at Steve, who quickly looked away from her gaze, feeling guilty like getting caught lying in grade school.

  “Harlot. Fornicator!” she shouted at Roxy. “Daughter of the devil. Get out of my house. And get that evil serpent out of my house.” She pointed to Steve and raised her hand at Roxy, who backed into the small bedroom.

  “Mother, nothing happened. We were watching television,” she said

  “Out of my sight, harlot,” she screamed again. Roxy slammed her coffee cup on the table. In her room, she quickly threw her clothes into two bags without looking at her mother. She kicked a box of books into the hallway. Steve got up to help, but Mrs. Fisher intercepted him.

  “Out of my house, Satan. Out, you corrupting evil sinner.”

  Steve wanted to step between Roxy and her mother and be a shield to take the arrows of scorn. He was shocked at the intensity of the anger. His parents never screamed—their fights were long periods of silence. Was it about the sex? That was still the hang-up of her mother’s generation . . . Roxy’s face was white, and her lips were tightly drawn, holding back tears. He would protect her and give her love. Roxy handed the bags to him.

  “You’re right, Mother. This is your house. It was never my home. I’m going, Mother, and I’m never coming back.”

  “Out, evil. You are not my daughter.”

  “You don’t even know who I am.” Roxy was crying. “I’m not Audrey. I’m your other daughter. The one you never wanted.” She turned, sobbing. Steve led her by the arm to the car and packed it while Roxy sat in the passenger seat, crying. He put his arm around her, and she turned her head into his shoulder, her tears on his shirt. He started the car but didn’t put it in gear. How could Mrs. Fisher do this to her only daughter? He wanted to go back inside and tell her mother how wrong she was about her daughter. How much he loved her and would always take care of her. He ran his hand over her hair. He would make it better. They could go back to the fraternity house, but she couldn’t stay there. What could he do?

  “I’m serious—I’m never going back there. Done. Never. Never.” She straightened and looked out the window, taking deep breaths to control her sobbing.

  “Let’s go home—back to Providence. You’re all I have now,” she said, throwing her arms around him. He held back tears as he put his arm around her. She was so hurt, so vulnerable. He would never hurt her. He would stay in Providence. On the radio, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young sang “Teach your parents well . . .”

  CHAPTER 4

  IT’S A WILD WORLD

  Roxy was moving several heavy biology books from the bed to the small desk against the window. They had been back a month, and she was getting ready for the fall semester. A small brown tensor lamp was next to Steve’s manual Smith Corona typewriter on the desk. She was ready to sit when Steve took her hand.

  “We need to talk.”

  She looked quizzical. “We do?”

  “Yes.” He was a little sheepish, looking down at the floor, a little boy asking for permission. He handed her the ad for the Providence police. Roxy read it, looked up at him, and read it again.

  “Are you serious? Is this a joke?” She looked at him as if she were trying to see into his head.

  “We talked about doing . . . When I saw the ad, I thought . . . What do you think?”

  “I know we did, but this . . . It’s too crazy.”

  “Really? I just can’t watch the country be torn apart. It’s our country, too.” He had thought hard about it on the drive back to Providence, the memory of the bayonet point at his neck very clear. Land of the free, home of the brave. It was bullshit if he didn’t do something. Kent State had proved protesting could be deadly. He had to move forward, go for the goal.

  “What do you know about doing police stuff?”

  “Not much; got a ticket once. I’ll be in Providence, so we can be together. The money is good. And Durk said, ‘Law is what separates us from the savages. And you’ve got to be part of the system to change it.’” He leaned in closer to her and realized he had deepened his voice. Who was he trying to convince?

  “I heard him, but what do you think you are really going to do?” She tilted her head to the side.

  “I’m not really sure.” He’d examined the options in his mind on the ride back from Ohio. It might be dangerous, but courage was walking to the edge of the cliff and looking over. He could handle it, but he knew that it was the unknown.

  “Maybe I can be that conscience that Durk talked about. I might elevate the level of policing in Providence. And I would know more for law school.” He wasn’t going to leave her. And the idea, the thought to be like Durk and . . . He wasn’t sure of the and, but it would be an education. Durk was so passionate about what he was doing.

  “Did you talk to your dad? To anyone?”

  “I know what his answer will be. Andy and I talked, but you’re the one . . .”

  “Yeah, but.” She looked at him. “I didn’t think . . . You mean . . . you. Here. Now. You will have to wear a gun and those stupid brown uniforms?”

  “Yes,” he said. Turning the idea over in his mind disconnected it from the reality. “It may be crazy, but I can’t stop thinking about what Durk’s doing. I want to get outside this Ivy League bubble. It’s about right and wrong. I want to travel and see other places, but I want to stay in Providence with you. This would do both. And yeah, who knows? Maybe I could do some good while I’m at it.”

  She paused, turning her head to the window before looking at him. “You would do this for me?” She took his hands. “It might work. You could do things. You could be the conscience. You could really shake things up.” Her voice became more animated as she bounced slightly. Her face was slightly flushed. “The whole system needs to be overthrown, from Nixon on down. And you could begin here and be my gallant knight, slaying dragons and rescuing damsels in distress. Right makes might.” She made a fainting motion. “But you in a uniform that doesn’t have a number on it?” She made a face, and they laughed.

  “Maybe they’ll make me chief right away so I don’t have to waste time learning anything and can change things from the top.” He could feel his heart beating faster. He would stay h
ere with her. He would step over the line Colonel Travis drew in the sand at the Alamo. He would stay to fight. “And you’ll be here with me.” She sighed, moving her face close to his. “You’re crazy, you know that. Like when you went to Alaska and fought forest fires. Crazy good—that’s what I love about you. You don’t just talk.”

  “Only crazy for you.”

  “And we could go to the Policeman’s Ball. Do policemen have balls?” She tittered and planted a wet kiss on his lips. They became more passionate, and the clothes came off. They did not close the door. The cat, which had stayed with Andy for the month, looked at them from the top of the dresser as they fell to the bed among the flying clothes.

  Steve stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking at Providence Police headquarters, which was an old grey granite building with stone gargoyles. Police cruisers were parked haphazardly in front of the station. Two police officers came down the stairs and got into a cruiser. Another car arrived. One officer exited and brought a handcuffed young man, his head hung down, up the steps and disappeared through the doors. Steve breathed deeply, forcing the air into his diaphragm to push back the nervous adrenaline. His hair was now shorter—not a crew cut but a neater business style, cleanly parted; a regular cut, the barber said.

  He was wearing grey slacks, a white shirt, striped tie, and the camel hair tan blazer that his father had bought him before he left for school. It was the only dress jacket he had ever owned, and it had stayed in the closet for four years. His palms were moist, and his heart was racing. He felt odd looking a little preppy. Filling out the employment paperwork and taking the entrance test had been about as difficult as the driver’s license exam. How did anyone not get one hundred percent on it? The department had called to set up this final interview.

  Ascending the five stairs to the double front door, he held the door open for two cops before entering. Wooden high-back benches lined both sides of the room, with various people sitting on them, filling out forms. One woman was asking for information about a relative to an officer by the side door.

  The raised desk in the rear of the room towered over the foyer by several feet. The policeman behind the desk looked down at Steve but didn’t acknowledge him, returning to some document and keeping Steve waiting.

  “Can I help you?” the desk sergeant finally asked.

  “I have an appointment with Colonel McGuire. Stephen Logan.”

  “V or Ph?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “V or Ph?”

  “I’m not following . . .”

  “Your name—V or Ph?”

  “Oh, sorry. Ph.”

  “Take a seat.” The officer picked up the phone.

  Sergeant Lyons put down the black handset and signaled Steve past the desk. “Turn left and up the stairs. Second door on the right.” The sergeant gave him a long look.

  Steve went through the door. Rows of dented grey metal desks were in the main squad room. One officer was sitting at a desk, hunting and pecking on a manual typewriter. Steve took in the room; it was a place where work happened, like the factory floor of the steel mill—cardboard coffee cups, cigarettes, and piles of folders. Walking to the stairs in this alien world with little color, he noticed that even the walls were institutional grey. The fluorescent light fixtures had cracked lenses or lacked them totally, and the handrails were worn brass with a shiny surface from years of hands gripping them.

  Standing at the bottom of the stairs, he put one foot on the first step and again hesitated. He did not want to overanalyze; doing came more naturally to him. But he knew he was entering into an unknown world, one that would change his life. Was this what he wanted? Why was he here? Did he really believe he could make an impact? Did Roxy? While the thoughts tangled in his mind, he placed his next foot on the landing, then one foot after another, moving forward despite any doubts. At the top of the stairs, the detective offices faced him. At the end of the corridor were double wooden doors with lettering reading Colonel McGuire, Chief of Police.

  When Steve received the call for the interview, he did his research on the chief. McGuire was appointed two years ago by the mayor after having started as a patrolman, then moving to the State Police. One of McGuire’s first acts was to change the color of the uniforms from blue to brown because he liked the look—more professional.

  Steve stood in the corridor, thinking about turning around and going back home. Was this as crazy an idea as all his friends thought it was? Was this about him or Roxy? Was he doing it to stay near her? To impress her? He knew he needed to prove something to himself. It was about courage and doing the right thing. Maybe the nuns really got through to him with the idea of good and evil, right and wrong. He was always attentive, but not pious. The dead students at Kent State bothered him. Bruce Miller was from the next town on Long Island. Did he ever think he’d die at some nowhere school in Ohio? This was the right step for now.

  He entered the office and faced a middle-aged woman who looked him over but didn’t greet him. She was formal and primly dressed, with a high-collared blouse and cameo pin, her hair lacquered in place. She motioned him to sit in the armchair while she picked up the black phone and spoke quietly into it.

  “You may go in,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

  When he entered the office, the colonel was behind his desk, his shoulders squared. His face was tanned, with a news anchor’s hairstyle. Slouched in a chair to one side, with a cigar in hand, was the overweight Captain Lynch, who Steve recognized from the anti-war march. Standing to the rear was an earnest forty-year-old lieutenant with light curly hair and the name badge “Krieger.”

  Steve noticed that the dark wood paneling was picture-frame molding over stained plywood. There were photographs on the wall of a uniformed McGuire over the years with J. Edgar Hoover, various politicians from Rhode Island and Massachusetts, and even one with Richard Nixon.

  “Why do you want to be a police officer?” McGuire asked, looking Steve over as if he were a suspect. He didn’t ask Steve to sit.

  “I want to contribute to society.” Steve stood tall, balancing on the balls of his feet rather than a military stance. If he said he wanted to try to change things, to make the department better, he knew it was not the answer they were looking for.

  “This is about keeping society safe,” the chief replied, turning his eyes toward the captain.

  “I realize that, sir.”

  “Do you?” He paused as he examined Steve. “You did well on the test and passed the physical. You graduated college?”

  “Yes sir, from Brown in June.”

  “Do we have any college graduates?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Aside from me, sir, I don’t think so. But I can check if you want,” Kreiger answered crisply.

  The chief waved him off. “What did you major in?”

  “Anthropology, sir.”

  “This isn’t social work.

  “Fucking college kids, they did us a favor in Ohio, shooting those commie-loving kids. My men stood up and cheered. Love it or leave it.” The captain lit his cigar and asked roughly, “Ever get your hands dirty, kid?”

  “Sir?”

  “Ever hold a real job?”

  “I’ve always worked, sir. Worked in a steel mill.” He thought that type of a real job would impress the captain.

  “Sir, we may be the only police force to have an Ivy graduate on it. We could create some positive stories for how you are upgrading the professionalism of the department,” Krieger said.

  Steve could see the colonel take in the information as he rolled his jaw. He looked down at the folder in front of him and tapped his pen.

  “Let’s wait until he gets out of the academy before you start with your PR bullshit,” Lynch said, pointing his cigar aggressively at Krieger The colonel turned his attention back to Steve. “Your application is in order. You begin the academy in two weeks. That will be all.”

  He stood up but did not offer his hand.

  “T
hank you, sir,” Steve said, waiting for the next sentence. McGuire drew his lips together and arched his eyebrows. Steve knew the interview was over. He turned, and, as he was leaving the room, he heard Lynch say, “I don’t like it.”

  As Steve entered the living room back in Providence, Roxy greeted him with a hug. In the maroon chair sat a tall blond girl with straight hair. She was wearing a loose-fitting peasant dress. Big boned with wide hips, very pale blue eyes, and flaxen skin, she looked like a woman who would have been coveted for her childbearing potential in the previous century. Her unshaven legs were covered in the same light-colored blond hair. She wore no makeup, and Steve could see her hands were callused from working with a rough material, like factory work.

  “Steve, this is Heather. She’s going to take over Andy’s room. She’s going to RISD.”

  Heather put out her strong, muscular arm and shook his hand with a solid grip.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. Her slight down east Maine accent made her seem to be a true flower child straight from the country commune.

  “I guess you are going for equality of the sexes in renting Andy’s room.” He laughed and caught Heather’s eyes: unafraid and direct.

  “Yes, someone who sits on the toilet when they pee,” Roxy added, grimacing at Heather.

  “What brings you to Providence? Rhode Island School of Design?”

  “I went to the Summerhill School in England and do a lot of pottery, and I work with other materials as well. Guess I’m a sculptor with many materials. RISD will help me reach my innerness.”

  “We met over at the Blue Room, where she was looking at the bulletin board for roommates,” Roxy said.

  “What’s Summerhill?” Steve asked.

  “Progressive school—no classes like traditional schools. We chose the subjects that interested us. The emphasis was on learning, not tests.” Her smile seemed a practiced patience.

  “You just showed up in Providence looking for a place to stay? You didn’t have anything arranged?” Steve was impressed with her.