The Gathering

by William X. Kienzle

  In time, competition gave way to an acknowledgment that it wasn’t so much a case of gender as it was that some—be they girls or boys—were better students, were naturally gifted, and/or worked harder.

  Mixing boys and girls in classes throughout the school still triggered differences of opinion. Some thought it was a healthy sort of phemomenon that would, in time, lead more gradually into the marital state. Which would be the destiny of almost all these young men and women.

  Others agreed with one educator who warned that this physical proximity would lead to “the premature and unhealthy pursuit of girls.”

  Even though Rose—and Alice—no longer attended Redeemer, both girls continued to attend school programs, parties, and other social events.

  According to those who dabbled in such ratings, Rose was among the prettiest girls in both Immaculata and Redeemer. She was also among the most aloof.

  Making out with Rose would have been a dream come true for those who competed in that sort of thing. As yet, no one had even tried to bluff such achievement, although Rose was the object of many a pubescent male fantasy.

  Eric Jorgenson, captain of the varsity basketball team, decided to give it a try. He was not averse to having Rose’s scalp on his trophy wall. This in the face of dire warnings, from priests, and especially nuns, that premarital sex was sinful, harmful, and not all that much fun. It did not escape the attention of some students that these admonitions came from chaste celibates who really never should have had such knowledge.

  Almost every school—in some instances, almost every classroom—had a boy who bore the distinction of being a filth fiend. This was true not only in public schools but even—gasp—in parochial schools.

  In the parochial setting, the role of filth fiend was outstanding mostly because few could qualify. The opposition—those priests and nuns, not to mention Monsignor Fulton J. Sheen, and of course the Pope—had all the howitzers.

  It helped that Eric was a jock. Not only was he captain of the basketball varsity; he was oustanding in football and baseball. The advantage of being, arguably, the top jock in school was that he was awfully good at physical activity. And his approach to romance was nothing less than physical.

  Eric the Vike (for Viking) Jorgenson did not fish for perch. Girls with round heels were not worth his time and trouble, not to mention his reputation. So, one fine day, when the boys were feeling jocular in the locker room, the gauntlet was thrown. Would Eric the Vike accept the challenge?

  Of course.

  Eric was not a moron. Nor was he, like Streetcar’s Stanley Kowalski, more brutish than human. Although the term “delayed gratification” had not yet raised its sociological head, Eric was, all unknowingly, a proponent in that he was not unable to contain himself if the eventual reward was worth the wait. And in Eric’s book, Rose Smith was close to priceless.

  As added incentive, it was common knowledge that Rose was headed for the convent. That sort of feather had not yet found a home in the Vike’s cap. Since Rose went to Immaculata and Eric went to Redeemer, his chances were few and far between.

  But Eric had a plan. One constant in Rose’s life was her attendance at Redeemer’s cheerleading practice. Not because Rose was a cheerleader, or was even interested in becoming one. It was because Alice was a cheerleader … rather she had been a cheerleader. And as such, when the Redeemer girls asked her to coach them in cheerleading, she said yes. And since Alice went, Rose went along with her.

  Often, the cheerleaders practiced at the same time as the boys’ varsity team. The bleachers in the gym were moved back against the wall, creating room for the cheering group to go through their paces. Rose would sit on a folding chair and alternate between studying and watching her pal coach Redeemer’s up-and-coming cheerleaders in their routines.

  On this Wednesday, Alice was busy at her cheerleading chores. Rose kept her eyes on Alice, but her mind was on Herman Melville’s Moby Dick. She had been assigned to make a report on the classic next week.

  Rose’s nose told her that someone had approached. The odor of perspiration—musky perspiration—was not unpleasant, just something that could take some getting used to.

  She glanced to her left. It was Eric the Vike. His long brush cut stuck together like spikes. Sweat coursed from his hairline and ran off his nose and chin. He had plunked himself down next to her on a folding chair. “Rosie,” he said, in as deep a voice as he could muster, “how’s it going?”

  “Rose,” she corrected him pointedly.

  He shrugged. “Rose. What’s in a name? Somebody wrote that. Whatever. A rose by any other name …”

  It didn’t matter to him how important a name might be to a girl, as long as she had all the right equipment. And, judging from the curves stretching her sweater, Rose was endowed.

  Basketball practice continued. Eric had decided he’d had enough limbering up. So where better to sit it out for a while than next to Rose? There was little that the coach or Eric’s teammates could do about his dropping out. Their task with regard to Eric was to humor him. More than likely he would win the game for them with or without having participated in practice.

  Rose shifted in her chair and moved slightly away from Eric.

  He didn’t crowd her; he stayed in his place. “I’ve been wondering,” he said, “how come you show up at practice but you’re nowhere in sight when we play a league game?”

  She turned to look at him. “How in the world could you know that with all those people … ?”

  “It just goes to show you, how pretty I think you are.” He smiled.

  She was thoughtful. The gym could hold two to three hundred screaming fans. When it was Standing Room Only, three to four hundred. In such a crowd, how could anyone tell there was one missing girl?

  And the reason? Because he thinks she is so pretty that she is outstanding in a field of hundreds!

  Outrageous! Juvenile! Provocative! Inordinate! Preposterous!

  But, somehow, sweet and touching.

  Why would she fall for a line like that? Did God really make women that gullible? Even a young lady with both feet solidly on the ground? Even a young lady headed for the convent? Was this one of God’s plans for procreation?

  Whatever, it had softened Rose. She felt herself blushing.

  Not far away, Alice stood motionless as the cheerleaders continued their practice. She shot Rose a disapproving glance that was close to a glare.

  Well, who does Alice think she is!

  Little Alice, who was almost groped in a darkened movie house. It was all well and good for Alice to feel warm and wanted and … female. At least she’d experienced the feelings that probably were part of foreplay. Alice could go off to the convent never to feel this warmth again, but at least she had the memory. While Rose would enter the convent totally virginal in every sense and wondering for the rest of her life what it might be like.

  When Rose did not respond, Eric shrugged. “Well,” he said, “who cares why you’re never there for a game?”

  He wasn’t angry, was he? That set Rose to wondering. Eric was the jock supreme. He must have cared that she didn’t attend the games. After all, it was his starring moment. He was the center of attention. Except that he didn’t have her attention. Maybe there was something to this Viking after all. Maybe he wasn’t all horns.

  A basketball went whizzing through the air, a seemingly errant pass headed straight at Rose.

  “Watch i—” An aborted warning from the player who’d thrown the pass. That warning was all there was time for. Peripherally, Rose saw the ball headed directly at her. In that split second, she was aware only that she was going to be badly hurt.

  A split second later, Eric raised his hand and caught the ball. Not just knocked it away; he caught it. One of his hamlike hands shot up and caught the ball turned projectile. He grinned as he tossed it back onto the court. “Watch where you’re throwing the damn thing! There are pretty girls here.”

  Rose blushed again.


  She would have to rethink her opinion of jocks. Suppose she’d been sitting here with her brother … or with Bob Koesler. She would have been knocked senseless before either of them could have raised a hand to deflect, let alone actually catch the ball.

  She had to leave Manny Tocco out of this scenario; Manny was undoubtedly able to perform athletically almost as well as Eric the Vike.

  The boys on the court laughed. They had reason. This was number 12-B in Eric’s playbook to set up girls for dates. And all it took was the collaboration of one of his teammates.

  However, the feat of catching a screaming pass one-handed was all Eric’s. He grinned at her. “I guess you owe me your life.”

  Rose bristled. “I doubt it would’ve killed me. But thanks anyway.”

  “‘Thanks’! That’s it?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Tell you ‘what.’ We play St. Theresa Saturday afternoon. Come to the game. Wait for me afterward and we’ll take in a movie. Then, maybe a burger and a shake. How ’bout it?”

  It sounded innocent enough … perhaps too innocent. But she did not in any way intend anything more than an innocent acquiescence. “Sounds good.”

  “Terrific! The game, a show, and a snack.”

  “Okay.”

  Eric returned to the court and immediately sank four sensationally tricky shots. He was showing off for Rose and everybody knew it. The cheerleaders, impressed by the athleticism of Eric the Vike, looked at Rose with envy.

  But not Alice. And she would have her say before the day was over.

  EIGHTEEN

  THEY MET AT ALICE’S HOUSE. Rose arrived first; Alice had stayed behind to shower after her stint as cheerleading instructor.

  By almost every breath they took, the McManns revealed that they lived in the shadow of the Smiths. The McMann house was a tad smaller, more “lived in” and older. The appliances that were new, or close to it, in the Smith home were on their last legs at the McManns’.

  And of course Nat McMann worked for Henry Smith.

  Alice arrived about half an hour after Rose. She went directly to her bedroom, where Rose sat with her nose buried in Moby Dick.

  “Sorry I don’t have a suitable brush,” Alice said.

  “What? Oh, it doesn’t matter; I’ll brush at home.”

  Alice did have a hairbrush, but it was a bit uneven. Her verbal swipe rolled unnoticed off Rose’s back.

  The point Alice strove to make was that she was poor—or thought herself such. And Rose was rich—or relatively so. “So did you enjoy yourself at the gym today?” Alice asked.

  “About the same as always, I guess. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just that you seemed to really be having a good time—at least that’s what it looked like.”

  “Is there something I’m missing here? What are you getting at?”

  “I’m talking about the Vike—”

  “What about him?”

  “You didn’t exactly move away when he came over and sat next to you.”

  “Al!”

  “You didn’t move an inch all the time he was with you.”

  “Al, you make it sound as if I was seducing him.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is the point?”

  “You were letting him seduce you.”

  “Oh, Al, that’s ridiculous. For one thing, I did move away—right after he first sat down. And anyway”—she tossed her head—“all I was doing was talking to him. Just talking, that’s all.”

  Alice plunked herself down on the bed. Her countenance was knowing. “Did he have something to say about how you never go to a game?”

  Rose felt butterflies. Had she been taken in? She didn’t want to believe that. “He said,” she protested, “that he knew I never went to a game. But he certainly didn’t seem terribly put out about it.”

  “And then you asked him how he knew that. And he said you were so beautiful that he would have picked you out of the crowd … even if there were hundreds in the stands.”

  “Some … something like that.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  Alice shook her head. “I never thought you’d fall for that kind of line.”

  Rose, the butterflies turning into worms, grew belligerent. “Okay, smart guy, if it was empty flattery, how come he knew that I never attended a game?”

  “It’s part of his routine. Two of the cheerleaders are in his harem. They’re always talking about Eric. ‘Eric this,’ ‘Eric that’—his pickup lines, his swagger, what a neat dancer he is, how they melt when he grins … blah, blah, blah.”

  Rose looked dubious, but inside the worms were turning to blocks of ice.

  “Think, Rose: Has anybody—either a boy or a girl—asked you recently if you ever attend basketball games?”

  She thought back. And the ice turned to an icicle. She didn’t know why she remembered it, but it was suddenly quite clear in her mind. One of the cheerleaders had asked her that exact question. And Rose had replied that no, she never went to the games.

  Wordlessly, she nodded. Then: “Why didn’t you tell me?” It was almost a moan.

  “How did I know you’d been questioned? And that bit about saving you from the ball? That’s part of the routine too. It all fits. And don’t tell me; let me guess: He’s invited you to go out after the next game, hasn’t he?”

  Rose, now zombielike, nodded. “This Saturday,” she said in a small voice. “The game. A movie. And a snack afterward.”

  “Watch the snack. That’s when it happens.”

  “What?”

  “The seduction. He’ll probably take you to a little restaurant on Clark. It’s a dark, backstreet place. There’s a booth in the rear that, for all practical purposes, is his …”

  “I’m an idiot.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You are definitely not the first … just the most beautiful and intelligent.”

  The two fell silent. Now that Eric’s little game had been revealed, Rose was thoroughly embarrassed and ashamed.

  How could he have known she didn’t attend the games? It was one thing to spot someone in the stands, quite another to know that in all those packed hundreds one person was not there.

  And Eric’s reaction to the seemingly wayward pass? Well, when you thought about it, it was somewhat incredible. Given the fact he could catch one like that, he’d almost have to know it was coming.

  She had been a fool.

  “How ’bout it, Rose? Want me to call it off for you?”

  Rose pondered. Then: “No. Let me think about it for a while.”

  “You’re not going to—”

  “Let me think about it,” Rose repeated firmly.

  “Okay. You should be able to take care of yourself. You’re nearly out of high school and almost into the convent. And I know you: If you say you’ll think it over, that’s what you’ll do. So, we won’t discuss it any more. You’re a big girl now; you can take care of yourself.”

  Saturday afternoon. The gym was like church on Christmas or Easter: packed to the doors. Not even any standing room available.

  Rose smiled as she stood, back to the wall, shifting from one foot to the other. Sure, in a crowd like this Eric easily could have been aware of the absence of one girl. Yeah, and if you want to buy the Ambassador Bridge, I’ll give you change.

  St. Theresa’s team was out on the floor warming up. Then came the purple-and-gold-clad Redeemer Lions, led by Eric the Vike, dribbling the ball and leaving the ground gracefully for an effortless dunk shot. The crowd went wild. The outcry deafened Rose. She pressed her hands over her ears.

  The din continued unabated, as Redeemer proceeded to first avalanche, then bury its archenemy.

  Actually, the contest was between the entire St. Theresa’s team and Eric the Vike. In the middle of the fourth quarter, Eric was benched. By that time the game was on ice. Redeemer’s coach would save his superstar for future conte
sts. Why take the chance that Eric could be injured and out for the season?

  As the Vike left the court, the fans leaped to their feet in raucous ovation.

  Eric sat on the bench, a towel draped over his head and shoulders. He seemed to be looking for someone in the stands. But he gave no indication that he had located the object of his search.

  Sure, sure, thought Rose. He could tell that I either was or was not at those games. Ha!

  The crowd filed out of the stands. The Redeemerites were ecstatic.

  Rose took one of the now empty seats. She wondered why she hadn’t delegated Alice to break the date. Oddly enough, Rose was keeping this date in reaction to Alice’s last remark on the subject: Rose was a big girl who could take care of herself.

  In time—in his good old time—Eric appeared. A mixed group of adults, high school and grade school kids ringed around, asking for his autograph. He was the soul of graciousness, signing each and every surface presented, including one young woman’s arm. She vowed she would never again wash that arm. “I’ll count on that,” the Vike cooed.

  Finally, aside from the janitor, who had begun cleaning-up operations, Eric and Rose were alone.

  Eric, completely relaxed, walked over to Rose and extended his hand. Wondering where this was going to go from an innocent handshake, she shook his hand.

  “How ’bout the Stratford?” The theater was only a couple of blocks away.

  Rose beamed. “That’d be great. They’re showing National Velvet. I’d really like to see that.”

  “Perfect! We’ll get there just about showtime.”

  There was a fair crowd for a Saturday early show.

  Rose was captivated by terrific performances by twelve-year-old Elizabeth Taylor, and Mickey Rooney in a strong supporting role.

  Meanwhile, Rose waited, wondering when the assault would begin. She would tolerate a certain amount of hanky-panky … just until she had experienced what it was like … just until she felt what Alice had felt.

  Truth be told, Rose was jealous. Alice shouldn’t be allowed to experience one of life’s more intimate relationships unless Rose could do the same.