by Gore Vidal
Twilight and the day ended. Chattering birds circled among the trees, preparing for night.
“It’s getting late.” Bob sat up, brushing away the twigs and leaves that had stuck to his back.
“It’s still light.” Jim did not want to go.
“I hate to leave, too.” Bob looked about, again the mysterious sadness.
“What’re you talking about? You been hinting around all day. What’re you up to?” Then Jim understood. “You’re not going to ship out on a boat, are you? Like you said last year?”
Bob grinned. “Curiosity killed the cat.”
“OK.” Jim was hurt.
Bob was contrite. “Look, I can’t say anything just now. Whatever it is, I’ll tell you before Monday. That’s a promise.”
Jim shrugged. “It’s your business.”
“I got to get dressed.” Bob stood up. “I’m taking old Sally Mergendahl to the dance tonight.” He winked. “And tonight I mean to do myself some good.”
“Why not? Everybody else has.” Jim disliked Sally, a dark aggressive girl who had been after Bob all year. But then it was none of his business what Bob did.
As they walked through the blue twilight to the school, Bob suddenly asked, “What’re you doing this weekend?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Why don’t we spend it down at the cabin?”
“Well, sure. Why not?” Jim was careful not to show too much pleasure; it was bad luck. The cabin had been the home of a onetime slave, recently dead. It stood deserted now, in thick woods close to the Potomac. Once they had spent a night there; more than once Bob had brought girls to the cabin. Jim was never certain exactly what happened because Bob’s stories varied with each telling.
“OK,” said Bob. “Meet you at your house, tomorrow morning.”
An irritable janitor let them into the locker room.
II
BREAKFAST WAS INVARIABLY UNPLEASANT, possibly because it was the only meal the Willard family always had together.
Mr. Willard was already at the head of the table when Jim came into the dining room. Small, thin, gray, Mr. Willard tried to appear tall and commanding. It was the family’s opinion that he would have had no trouble at all being elected governor, but for one reason or another he had been forced to allow lesser men to go to Richmond while he remained at the courthouse, a bitter fate.
Mrs. Willard was also small and gray but inclined to fat; after twenty-three years of her husband’s stern regime, she had assumed the melting look of the conscious martyr. Now wearing a white frilled apron which did not become her, she cooked breakfast in the adjoining kitchen, looking from time to time into the dining room to see if her three children were down.
Jim, the firstborn son, was first to appear. Since this was a special day, he was cheerful, glad to be alive.
“Morning, Father.”
His father looked at him as though he could not quite place the face. Then he said, “Good morning,” and distantly started to read the paper. He discouraged conversation between himself and his sons, especially Jim, who had made the error of being tall and handsome and not at all the sort of small, potentially gray son Mr. Willard ought to have had.
“You’re down early.” Mrs. Willard brought him his breakfast.
“Beautiful day, that’s why.”
“I don’t think a quarter to eight is such an early hour,” said his father from behind the Richmond Times. Mr. Willard had been brought up on a farm and one of the reasons for his life’s success had been rising “at the crack of dawn.”
“Jim, you didn’t hear any funny noises around the house last night, did you?” Like Joan of Arc, his mother was always hearing funny noises.
“No, ma’am.”
“Funny, I could’ve sworn someone was trying to get in the window; there was this tapping….”
“I should like some more coffee, if I may.” Mr. Willard lowered his newspaper and raised his chin.
“Of course, dear.”
Jim ate his cereal. Mr. Willard rearranged his newspaper.
“Good morning.” Carrie came into the room. A year older than Jim, she was pretty but pale, and disliking paleness, painted her face with a bold and imaginative hand, which sometimes made her look whorish and infuriated her father. She had graduated from high school the year before, at seventeen, a fact which the family impressed on Jim. Since then, she helped her mother in the house while encouraging the attentive courtship of a young realtor whom she expected to marry just as soon as he had “put something by.”
“Morning, Carrie.” Mr. Willard looked at his daughter with wintry approbation. Of his children, she alone gave him pleasure; she saw him great.
“Carrie, will you come in here and help me with breakfast?”
“Yes, Mother. How was the graduation, Jim?”
“OK.”
“I wish I could have gone but I don’t know why it is, I’m so busy all the time, on the go….”
“Sure, sure.”
Carrie joined her mother in the kitchen and Jim could hear them arguing in low voices; they always argued. Finally, John entered. At fourteen, he was thin, nervous, potentially gray, except for black eyes.
“Hi.” He sat down with a crash.
“Glad to have you with us,” said his father, continuing the war.
“It’s Saturday.” John was a skilled domestic warrior, master of artillery. “Everybody sleeps late.”
“Naturally.” Mr. Willard looked at John and then, satisfied in some strange way with what he saw, returned to his paper.
Carrie brought her father more coffee and then sat down beside Jim. “When do you start work in the store, Jimmy?”
“Monday morning.” He wished she wouldn’t call him Jimmy.
“That’ll be nice. It’s sort of dull, I guess, but then I suppose you have to be qualified to do more skilled work, like in an office, typing.”
He didn’t answer her. Neither Carrie nor his father could irritate him today. He was meeting Bob. The world was perfect.
“Hey, they’re playing baseball today over at the school. You going to play?” John struck his fist against his palm with a satisfactory sound.
“No, I’m going down to the cabin. For the whole weekend.”
Mr. Willard struck again. “And who, if I’m not asking too much, are you going with?”
“Bob Ford. Mother said it was all right.”
“Is that so? It is amazing to me why you want to sleep away from your own home which we have tried at such expense to make comfortable….” His father slowly unfurled the domestic banner, and charged. Jim refused to defend himself, beyond promising himself that one day he would throw a plate at this bitter old man he was forced to live with. Meanwhile, he simply stared at his future weapon while his father explained to him how the family was a Unit and how he owed all of them a Debt and how difficult a time Mr. Willard had had making the Money to support them and though they were not rich, they were Respectable, and Jim’s going around with the son of the town drunk did them no good.
During her husband’s tirade Mrs. Willard joined them, a demurely pained expression on her face. When Mr. Willard had finished, she said, “Well, I think the Ford boy is nice and he does get good marks in school and his mother was a friend of ours no matter what we think of the father. So I don’t see anything wrong with Jim seeing him.”
“I don’t mind,” said Mr. Willard. “I just thought you would mind having your son exposed to that sort of a person. But if you don’t, I have nothing more to say.” Mr. Willard, having embarrassed his son and disagreed with his wife, ate fried eggs with unusual gusto.
Mrs. Willard murmured something soothing and Jim wished that his father were like Bob’s father, drunk and indifferent.
“When are you going to the cabin?” his mother asked, in a low voice, so as
not to disturb her husband.
“After breakfast.”
“And what are you doing about food?”
“Bob’s getting stuff from the store where he works.”
“That’s nice,” said Mrs. Willard, obviously thinking of something else; she had a difficult time concentrating for very long.
Carrie and her younger brother started arguing and soon breakfast was finished. Then Mr. Willard rose and announced that he had business at the courthouse, which was not true. The courthouse never did business on Saturday. But his wife did not question this and, with a reserved nod to his children, Mr. Willard put on his straw hat, opened the front door, and stepped out into the bright morning.
Mrs. Willard watched him a moment, expressionless; then she turned and said, “Carrie, come help me clean up. Boys, you better fix your room.”
The boys’ room was small and not very light. The two beds, close together between two bureaus, made the room crowded. Pictures of baseball and tennis players covered the walls, early idols of Jim’s.
John had no idols. He was intense and studious and he was going to be a Congressman, which pleased his father, who often gave him talks on how to be a success in politics. Jim had no plans beyond college. It all seemed a long way off.
Jim made his bed quickly; John took longer.
“What’re you and Bob going to do down by the river?”
“I don’t know.” Jim straightened the patchwork quilt. “Fish. Loaf.”
“That sounds like a waste of time.” John echoed his father.
“Isn’t that too bad?” Jim mocked as he opened the closet and took down two blankets from the shelf, his contribution to the weekend.
John sat on the bed and watched. “Bob sees a lot of Sally Mergendahl, doesn’t he?”
“I suppose so. She sees a lot of people.”
“That’s what I mean.” John looked knowing and Jim laughed.
“You’re too young to be hearing such things.”
“Like hell I am.” John proved his virility with an oath.
“Sure, you’re a real lover and you keep track of all the girls.”
John was angry. “Well, that’s more than you do and you’re older than me. You don’t ever go out with girls. I heard Sally say once she thought you were the best-looking guy in school and she couldn’t understand why you didn’t go around more. She said she thought you were afraid of girls.”
Jim flushed. “She’s full of crap. I’m not afraid of her or anybody. Besides, I do my traveling on the other side of town.”
“Really?” John was interested and Jim was glad he had lied.
“Sure.” He was mysterious. “Bob and me go over there a lot of times. All the baseball team does, too. We don’t want to mess around with ‘nice’ girls.”
“I guess not.”
“Besides, Sally isn’t so fast.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“I’ll bet Bob Ford said that about her.”
Jim fixed the top of his bureau, ignoring his brother. He was ill at ease and he didn’t know why; it was seldom that John could irritate him.
Jim looked in the dusty mirror above his bureau and wondered if he needed his weekly shave. He decided that he could wait till he got back. Absently he ran his hand over his short blond hair, glad that it was summer, the season of short hair. Was he handsome? His features were perfectly ordinary, he thought; only his body pleased him, the result of much exercise.
“When’s Bob coming by?” John was sitting on his bed, balancing his brother’s tennis racket in his hand.
“Right now.”
“Must be nice down there. I was only to the cabin once. I guess anybody can go there.”
“Sure.”
“They say the guy who owns the land lives in New York and he never comes down here. I’m playing baseball this afternoon and then I’m going to a meeting of the Democratic Party in the back of the drugstore.” John’s mind was quick and unsettled.
“That must be a lot of fun.” Jim put his racket in the closet. Then he picked up the two blankets and went downstairs.
Carrie was in the sitting room, lazily dusting furniture.
“Oh, there you are, Jim.”
He stopped. “Anybody looking for me?”
“No, I just said there you were.” She put the duster down, glad of an excuse not to work. “Are you going to the high-school dance tonight?”
He shook his head.
“That’s right,” she said, “you and Bob are going to the cabin. I’ll bet Sally is jealous of you for keeping him from coming to the dance.”
Jim didn’t let his face change expression. “It was his idea,” he said evenly. “Maybe you’ll find out why later.” Mystery was clearly the order of the day.
Carrie nodded. “I think I know. I’ve been hearing stories about Bob’s going away. Sally said something about it not so long ago.”
“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t.” Jim was surprised that Carrie and Sally knew; he wondered how many other people Bob had told.
Carrie yawned and began to dust again. Blankets under his arm, Jim went to the kitchen. His mother was not yet finished cleaning.
“Now be sure you’re back by Sunday night. Your grandfather’s coming over and your father will want you to be here. Are those the good blankets you’re taking?”
“No, old.”
Through the kitchen window Jim saw Bob carrying a large paper bag.
“I’m on my way.”
“Look out for water moccasins!”
The morning sun was hot, yet the air was cool. The day was green and blue and very bright. Jim Willard was meeting Bob and the weekend was not yet lived. He was happy.
III
THEY STOOD ON THE edge of the cliff and looked down at the brown river, muddy from spring rains and loud where it broke up on the black rocks in midstream. Below them, the cliff dropped steeply to the river, a wall of stone, dark green with laurel and wild grapevines.
“Must be a flood upstream. That old river looks mean,” said Bob.
“Maybe we’ll see a house come floating down.”
Bob chuckled. “Or a privy.” Jim sat on a rock and plucked a piece of long grass and chewed on the white sweet-tasting stem. Bob squatted beside him. Together they listened to the roar of the river and the noise of tree frogs and the rustle of bright new leaves in the wind.
“How was Sally?”
Bob growled. “Prick-teaser, like all the rest. Leads you on so you think, now I can lay her and then, just as you get all hot, she gets scared: Oh, what’re you doing to me? Oh, stop! You stop that now!” Bob sighed with disgust. “I tell you it makes a man so horny he could lay a mule, if it would just stand still.” Bob contemplated mules. Then: “Why didn’t you come to the dance last night? Lots of girls asked for you.”
“I don’t know. Don’t like dancing, I guess. I don’t know.”
“You’re too bashful.”
Bob rolled up a trouser leg and removed a large black ant, which was crawling up his calf. Jim noticed how white Bob’s skin was, like marble, even in the sun.
Then, to break the silence, they threw stones over the edge of the cliff. The sound of rock hitting rock was entirely satisfying. Finally Bob shouted, “Come on!” And they crawled over the edge of the cliff and cautiously worked their way downward, holding on to bushes, finding toeholds in the rock.
The hot sun shone in a pale sky. Hawks circled while small birds flashed between trees. Snakes, lizards, rabbits all scuttled for cover as the boys made their noisy descent. At last they reached the river’s muddy bank. Tall black rocks jutted from brown sand. Happily, they leapt from rock to rock, never once touching earth, stepping only on the relics of a glacier age.
Shortly after noon they came to the slave cabin,
a small house with a shingled roof much perforated by weather. The interior smelled of rotted plaster and age. Yellow newspapers and rusty tin cans were scattered over the rough wood floor. On the stone hearth there were new ashes: tramps as well as lovers stayed here.
Bob set down the paper bag he had been carrying while Jim put the blankets on the cleanest part of the floor.
“Hasn’t changed much.” Bob looked up at the roof. The sky shone through holes. “Let’s hope it don’t rain.”
Close to the cabin there was a large pond, bordered by willows and choked with lilies. Jim sat on the moss-covered bank while Bob undressed, throwing his clothes into a nearby tree, the trousers draped like a flag on one branch while his socks hung like pennants from another. Then he stretched happily, flexing his long muscles and admiring himself in the green smooth water. Though slim, he was strongly built and Jim admired him without envy. When Bob talked of someone who had a good build, he invariably sounded envious; yet when Jim looked at Bob’s body, he felt as if he were looking at an ideal brother, a twin, and he was content. That something was lacking did not occur to him. It seemed enough that they played tennis together and Bob spoke to him endlessly of the girls he liked.
Cautiously Bob put one long foot in the water. “It’s warm,” he said. “Real warm. Come on in.” Then, hands on knees, he leaned over and studied his own reflection. As Jim undressed, he tried to fix the image of Bob permanently in his mind, as if this might be the last time they would ever see one another. Point by point, he memorized him: wide shoulders, narrow buttocks, slim legs, curved sex.
Naked, Jim joined Bob at the water’s edge. The warm breeze on his bare skin made him feel suddenly free and curiously powerful, like a dreamer who is aware that he is dreaming.
Bob looked at him thoughtfully. “You got a good tan. I sure look white. Hey!” He pointed at the water. Below the dark green surface, Jim could see the blunt slow-moving shape of a catfish. Then, suddenly, he was falling and there was a rush of water in his ears. Bob had pushed him in. Choking, he came to the surface. With a rapid movement, Jim grabbed Bob’s leg and pulled him in. Grappling, they turned and twisted in the water, making the pond foam. As they wrestled, Jim took pleasure in the physical contact. So, apparently, did Bob. Not until both were exhausted did they stop.