Hare in March

by Packer, Vin

  But that would hardly undo the damage, would it? She had made a fool of him in the eyes of his fraternity; what was there to say to make that less humiliating?

  Clinton Shepley took a last drag on his cigarette, ground out the stub in the ash tray, and waited for his son without the slightest notion of how to handle the situation.

  • • •

  But the situation was not the one he was expecting.

  Charles Shepley had also had time to reflect on the past, on the hours he had spent with his father at the institute, their walks along the promenade, the way it used to be; he had thought of little else during his ride up from Fifty-seventh Street on the Third Avenue bus, and his leisurely walk across to East End Avenue.

  Suddenly, he had come to. It was 1966, and he was nineteen years old, and the past five years were at an end, and this was the beginning of where he had left off. And he did care that Lois Faye had chosen to stay at Terry’s; he did and would maybe for a long time want that girl so badly that he could conjure up the sensation of having her, and feel the sensation prick the flesh of his fingertips, and feel his insides do a loop, but he did not care, not any longer, enough to exist for that and that alone. Nor was he as he had been before he met her, the only non-astronaut who could hang in space weightless, floating around like a gas balloon with an endless supply of helium.

  “I hope I didn’t interrupt something important, Dad.”

  “You didn’t. It’s good to see you, Charles.”

  They shook hands, and Charles removed his overcoat. While his father was hanging it up in the lab closet, Charles snapped on the light in the mantes’ breeding case.

  “Is this Lolita? I remember you writing me about her.”

  “No, that’s Lynda Bird. She just destroyed George Hamilton; he was her sixth suitor.”

  “Poor George. Lost his head, hmmm?”

  “All seven did.”

  “Does decapitation actually make the male mantis more potent? I read that somewhere.”

  “That’s the theory. Of course, science is always turning up evidence that the male in lower organisms is superfluous.”

  “The other night I was thinking about those lizards that reproduce themselves by parthenogenesis. Cnemidophorus tessellatus, isn’t that the name?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know you were still interested in all this.”

  “I haven’t been for awhile, but I’d like to get back to it.”

  “Would you, Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it!”

  “Of course, Far Point isn’t the best college for what I want.”

  His father pulled up a lab stool and sat beside him; he said, “And you’re thinking of leaving, is that it?” “No.”

  Charles’s father looked surprised. Charles said, “A quitter never wins, and a winner never quits; isn’t that what you always used to say?” He grinned at his father. “You were a real corn ball, weren’t you?”

  “What do you mean I was? I still am.”

  “I remember a lot of your old platitudes: keep on keeping on; if someone hands you a lemon, squeeze it and start a lemonade stand: a year from now, what will I regret not having done today?; when you’re through learning, you’re through; you have two duties — to worry, and not to worry; happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length. … You were full of them. But I only remember Mom saying one.”

  “What was that?”

  “Money is honey, my little sonny, and a rich man’s joke is always funny. Remember?” They both laughed.

  “She still says it, all the time,” said Charles’s father. “I think it made a dent,” Charles said, “I think I took a ride on it for a while.”

  “What do you mean, Charles?”

  “Well, I figured if I couldn’t have the best, I didn’t want second best.”

  “You mean Princeton? You could have gone to Princeton, Charles. Your grades kept you out of Princeton.”

  “I know it. But all her talk about money got to me, I think. I think I felt she’d resent it if I went to such an expensive school. Or maybe ‘I just used that for an excuse to just give up … I don’t know.”

  His father lit a cigarette. He said, “I never understood why you lost your interest in school after Billy’s accident.”

  “I guess I felt sorry for myself. I thought I was going to have my own car, like Billy did, and go to Princeton — “

  His father interrupted, “Where students can’t have their own cars.”

  Charles snickered. “Is that a fact?”

  “They get around on bicycles.”

  Charles hit his forehead with his palm, “Well, that’s what I mean. I didn’t think … Anyway, the wheels are beginning to turn again. They aren’t going full speed yet, but they’re starting. I’d like to talk about it with you, Dad.”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  “Do you suppose Mom can afford to feed another mouth tonight?”

  • • •

  Natalie Shepley did not drink very much; when she did, she went the Cherry Heering, Tia Maria, crème de menthe, Grand Marnier route. She really did not like the taste of whiskey or gin or rum or vodka. But with ginger ale, whiskey went down very smoothly, and she did collect fancy whiskey containers. She had them in various shapes: a boat, a frog, a clock, an airplane, a dwarf, a Christmas tree, and now a bottle of Dickel whiskey in the shape of a powder horn.

  Clint had called from the institute around seven fifteen and said Charles was there and coming home with Clint for dinner, and they were going to stop for some liquor; what would she like?

  She said, “Does that mean Charles isn’t coming home for Easter, Clint?”

  “I don’t know, Natalie.”

  “I bet that’s what it means. I told Billy he was coming, too.”

  “Billy will forgive him, Natalie.”

  “You don’t believe that; you don’t even believe Billy hears what I tell him.”

  “Do you want some Cherry Heering?”

  “I haven’t had anything new for my collection for months, not since Ken Wendt was here for dinner.” “I was only thinking of you.” “I can drink whiskey.”

  “All right, Natalie. Now don’t mention the silverware thing.”

  “Do you think I would? You don’t think I have any feelings, do you, Clint?”

  “I know you have very strong feelings.”

  “The nuns say they don’t know how I hold up the way I do.”

  “We’ll see you soon, dear.”

  • • •

  It was ten o’clock now; the dishes were rinsed off and put into the dishwasher, and Charles and his father were still sitting at the dinner table over coffee.

  Natalie Shepley went into the dining room, carrying a mason jar. She took the powder horn from the center of the table, and began pouring the whiskey into the jar.

  “Natalie, what are you doing?”

  “I’m going to rinse out my powder horn and put it with my collection.”

  “Can’t you wait until we’re finished?”

  “You have a lot to talk about, and I can’t even start the dishwasher because you complain about the noise. That’s what I hate about having an apartment where the dining room is right on top of the kitchen … I’m not bothering you, am I?”

  Clinton Shepley sighed. He said, “It isn’t very gracious pouring a drink from a mason jar, but go ahead; you’ve done it now.”

  “This has been such a gracious evening, too.”

  Charles said, “What’s the matter, Mom?” and those four little words opened the floodgates.

  “Oh no!” Clinton Shepley groaned. “Not tonight, Natalie.”

  But tonight was no different from any other night when Natalie Shepley drank whiskey, for a bottle of whiskey, whether it was in the shape of a winter flounder or a surrey, was really a Pandora’s box, out of which flew their balance at Bankers Trust, Billy, the nightmare of her teeth falling out at Le Provençal, all the Carter Burde
n parties they would never attend, a neighborhood housing dope addicts who tied girls together and committed obscene acts upon them, and no one but nuns to appreciate her.

  Natalie Shepley ran down the hall and into the bathroom, where she grabbed a wad of Kleenex and wailed.

  Then she opened the door a crack, and she heard Clint saying, “… wrong with her but one too many.”

  Charles said, “I guess it’s rough on her, though.”

  Which set her off again, for ten seconds more, during which she also blew her nose and ran a comb through her hair. Then she went into the bedroom and sat down in the noises-less swivel rocker, and put her hands across her face in a gesture of despair, and waited for Charles to come.

  Charles took his time about it, but that was Clint’s doing, because she could hear Clint saying, “She’ll get over it,” and “She’s all right.”

  She was not all right, and she was tired of putting on a good face and pretending that she was all right, and it was high time someone besides the sisters at Holy Child realized it, so she told Charles about it when he finally appeared, pulling up a footstool and trying to jolly her.

  “I know it’s rough, Mom. I know,” he said.

  “I tried to make everything nice, and you didn’t even notice. You didn’t even notice the hollandaise. It wasn’t out of a jar, if you think it was.”

  “It was very good. It was very selfish of me not to mention it.”

  “You don’t mean to be selfish, but you’re like your father.”

  “Mom, we both loved the dinner. Did we leave anything on our plates? Didn’t we have second helpings?”

  “It isn’t just the dinner. It’s everything. I’m running myself ragged, Charles.”

  “Well, take it easy, Mom.”

  “How can I? We can’t afford a full-time maid, and if I didn’t go to see Billy every day, he’d just waste away there like a vegetable.”

  “Mom, maybe you should go every other day, instead of every day. Really, Mom.”

  “He’s my responsibility. You don’t understand responsibility. Neither does your father. Your father could have been the director of Richmond Institute; he had the seniority and everything, but he didn’t want the responsibility and he doesn’t understand what it is, and you don’t run for office either, do you?”

  “Mom, I’m a pledge. Pledges don’t run for office.”

  “Will you run for office, when you’re an active? You won’t.”

  “Mom, that’s not something I have to worry about right now.”

  “I bet Mr. Blouter worried about it when he was a pledge.” “Maybe he did.”

  “It isn’t much, but it’s something; it’s better than nothing to be the president of a fraternity. Your father wasn’t anything in his chapter either, but your father had money, and that makes a difference.”

  “Mother? How did you know Mike Blouter is our president?”

  “Your letters. Your letters, Charles.” “I never mentioned Mike. I didn’t.” “Then your father must have told me.” “How would Dad know?”

  “Oh, Charles, does the subject of the conversation always have to go back to you? There’s Billy over in Holy Child so very ill and you — “

  But Charles did not let her finish.

  He said, “Mother, did you write that letter? Did you? Did you promise the fraternity silverware if they’d pledge me?”

  “Your father does not want me to discuss this subject, Charles.”

  “He knew about it, too? Dad knew about it, too?”

  At a loss for words, Natalie Shepley decided to whimper and shiver until Charles left, which was not a long time to have to whimper and shiver, only a few seconds.

  He said flatlv. “Good night. Mom.”

  Nothing about Easter; nothing about the Pi Pi mother’s pin.

  Thirteen

  There was a maze of lights flashing different colors; huge sheets of chrome were suspended behind the bandstand, and the booths were upholstered in fake fur.

  The man with Lois Faye owned the Hi-Spray Car Wash — Coin Operated chain; he was a bachelor in his forties, and he wore a four-in-hand polka dot necktie five inches wide, with a matching pocket handkerchief, and a dark blue pin-striped suit. His name was Freddy, and he was not at all what Lois had expected, nor was Sam, Swanny’s date, who wore contact lenses, worked on Wall Street, and drove an Impala, which was in a parking lot a block away from the Cheetah.

  Sam kept saying they should have gone to Arthur, where they could get a drink; Cheetah served only soft drinks, wine, or beer.

  “I want to see this Baby Jane what’s-her-name,” said Freddy. “Did you ever see her?”

  Sam said, “She’s old hat.” He looked at Swanny and said, “Isn’t she old hat?”

  “Very old hat,” said Swanny, who was feeling the martinis they had downed at the Mayfair.

  Sam said, “He embarrasses me. He still thinks Bogey and Betty are married.”

  He laughed very hard at that; to be sure everyone heard it and got it, he said, “Freddy still thinks Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall are married.” Swanny said, “Play it again, Sam.”

  Sam guffawed and then pretended to be playing a piano.

  Swanny said, “I was at Arthur last week with this Englishman, and when I asked him if he thought Prince Charlie was an alcoholic, he said the question was a little previous. Previous; how do you like that for openers?”

  Freddy said, “I was previous for a whole week, but I’m regular again now.”

  Sam and Freddy howled, and Swanny looked across at Lois and made her thumb and first finger into a gun and pointed it at her forehead. But she was laughing at the same time, and she grabbed Sam’s hand and said she wanted to dance, and they got up and left Lois and Freddy alone together.

  Freddy said, “Last week I saw Orson Bean. At Shepheard’s.”

  Lois said, “You like celebrities, don’t you? You like them a lot.”

  “Well, sure, because in my line of business you don’t meet many … you don’t meet any.”

  Then he said, “I think it’s swell that you’re going to college.”

  “It is swell. It’s swell.”

  “Well, it is swell … Do you want to be something?” “What do you mean, Freddy?”

  “You know, a nurse or a teacher or something?” “I want to be a spy.” “No kidding?” “No kidding.”

  “I couldn’t see being a spy. I don’t like to travel. My stomach acts up. Even if I take the train.”

  “Are you successful and have an ulcer as a result of fighting your way to the top?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I don’t have an ulcer. I have colitis … You were just kidding me about studying to be a spy, weren’t you?” “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought you were … Do you want to trip the light fantastic?”

  “All right, we might as well.”

  He said, “I wasn’t saying that seriously; that’s just a camp way of asking someone to dance. Do you know about camp?” “Not a great deal.”

  “Well, it’s Big Little Books and everything. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Explain it when we sit down, okay?”

  “If I can. This whole place is camp, for example,” he said, as he led her onto the dance floor.

  There were girls in bell-bottom lamé pants suits, giraffe-patterned culottes, mid-thigh dresses, and vinyl suits; there were young men in flannel suits with long jackets and wide lapels, in leather suits, in checkered knickers with madras vests and ice-cream-color silk shirts and floppy ties, in caps, chaps, spats, and high-heeled boots.

  The music was live and loud, the lights were eerie, and everyone was gyrating and smiling, and across the room Lois saw Sam’s behind wagging frantically, and in front of her Lois watched Freddy do strange little steps he had made up himself, while the perspiration rolled down his face, and he snapped his fingers and told himself “Go, boy!” at ten-second intervals.

  For some reason, she
thought of that night in front of the Unmuzzled Ox, when she had stood in the crowd and watched the Kappas flushing like toilets on the sidewalk, and for the first time she realized that what she had felt was envy, and that right now she felt envious of all the girls who weren’t there with dates like Sam and Freddy. The racehorse owner and the shipping magnate hadn’t showed.

  She read very little, Lois Faye; she read the books assigned in ?-Lit, and a few years ago she had read a book called The Ski Bum, which she had liked a lot, and she had started to read one called The Adventurers last summer, but there was one book she had read before any of those, a book by Carson McCullers, The Member of the Wedding, and there was a part she had never forgotten. It was the part when the young girl, Frankie, was jealous of some girls who had a club and would not ask her to join, and when Frankie’s maid suggested she make herself president of her own club, Frankie had answered, “I don’t want to be president of a lot of left-over people.”

  She thought of that, thought that she wasn’t even president of them, just perpetually a part of them, whether at the dorm at F.P.C., or out for an evening in New York City, with Swanny who was suddenly not The One, but just another loser, no better than Freddy who cherished the memory of seeing Orson Bean at Shepheard’s. It was a dismal revelation.

  When she went back to the booth with Freddy and sat down, she was in a near-catatonic state. “Do you want a hot dog?” he said. She shrugged.

  “That’s the only food they sell here. That’s camp, too.” “We just ate.”

  “I know it, but I’m very oral, I guess. Were you ever analyzed?”

  She shook her head.

  “I was in for five years. It cost me eight thousand dollars! … I don’t know, maybe it was worth it … Five years ago I was a real jerk. I used to go to these dansants, you know? For discriminating young singles between twenty-two and thirty-eight. Places like Ondine, and Inner Circle and the Mirror Room at Longchamps. They have them on Friday nights and Sunday afternoons, and the fellows pay two dollars. It’s a good deal if you’re not making much money, and in those days I didn’t have Hi-Spray going for me, and a buck was a buck. Believe me! … So I went to these dansants, and I just stood around, like Marty or something. Did you see Marty, the movie?”