“Our new car, Francis,” his mother corrected from upstairs.
“The important thing is that I wasn’t hurt,” Blondie repeated.
“Not yet,” his dad answered venomously.
“There was no way to avoid it.”
“Someone hit you?”
For a moment, Blondie detected concern in his eyes.
“To be honest, it was a tree.”
“You couldn’t avoid a tree? What are you saying? Did it jump out in the road in front of you?”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Dad.”
His dad’s fury subsided and he said, “Well, I suppose it is a bit treacherous on that road after dark.”
“It wasn’t dark,” Blondie let slip before he thought of what he was saying.
“It happened on the way up.”
“Tell me I didn’t hear what you just said. Are you telling me you played golf AFTER YOU WRECKED OUR CAR?”
His dad became incoherent after that. All things considered, Blondie thought as he lay in bed later, it had been his dad’s worst scene.
Grouper found Blondie’s tale of woe amusing, as did the rest of the guys. Blondie had expected more sympathy from Grouper, since he’d wrecked his father’s car.
“There must be a law to fit this happenstance,” Feller said to Grouper.
“Yes. A rather obvious one. Blondie’s little incident can be seen as a metaphor for life …. “
Blondie resented Grouper terming his crash a “little incident.”
“Never assume the road ahead is straight,” Grouper finished.
“Oh, fuck your laws,” Blondie said.
Blondie’s dad calmed down some after his insurance agent told him most of the damage was covered. But Blondie knew he wouldn’t be driving the Pontiac again soon. Of more immediate concern was how to get back and forth to the Fentonian staff meetings. There was a possible way out. He could ask Phyllis to the prom. It was an awful prospect, but Blondie figured he could always back out later. By then, the school year would be near its end.
There were only three drawbacks to the plan. First, Phyllis might turn him down. Second, the thought of asking Phyllis to the prom made his stomach turn. Finally, if Flossie found out, she’d be hurt.
In the end — on Tuesday night and still without a ride home from the layout session — Blondie called her.
“What do you want?” Phyllis asked. Blondie could almost feel frost forming on the receiver.
“I was thinking about what you said the other day and I realized that you probably like me …. “
“Are you crazy? What a conceited statement.”
It wasn’t going right.
“I was calling about the prom …. “Blondie’s voice trailed off.
“What about the prom?” Her voice was much softer.
“Well, I thought that if no one had asked you yet …. “
“Yes?”
” …. that maybe you’d go with me.”
The other end of the line was silent for several seconds.
“What about Flossie Wilder?”
Why was she making this so difficult?
“We’re just friends.”
“I can imagine what kind of friends you are.”
“Anyway, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her much more.”
Why had he said that?
“Really?”
Blondie sucked in his breath. Once a liar ….
“Really.”
“Well, okay.”
“You’ll go with me, then?” Blondie asked.
“I guess.”
Blondie waited for Phyllis to offer him a ride home the next day. She didn’t.
“Was there something else?” Phyllis asked.
Blondie cleared his throat.
“I just wondered if maybe you could … uh … give me a ride home tomorrow after the staff meeting.”
“I think I get the picture.” Her voice was tight. Then she sighed. “Oh, why not?”
“Hey thanks.”
After he hung up, Blondie wiped his forehead. He was surprised at how moist it was. He felt like a Judas. He’d sold Flossie out for a ride home from the school paper.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The sun blazed like a new rivet. In the distance, the tents of ten thousand Turks dotted the endless sand. At the top of a rise, Thomas Edward Lawrence sat poised on his white stallion, long rows of mounted cavalry to his right and left. He raised his arm and a restless murmuring issued from the assemblage. When he let it fall, a mighty shout ripped the silence and an army of Bedouins descended upon the barren plain, caftans billowing. A swarm of dark and deadly moths.
In the darkness of the theater, Blondie’s soul fused with that of the celebrated Lawrence of Arabia.
He was at the head of that pack, his courage a mountain, his resolve granite. He’d been born to lead, to dare the heroic, to change the world. He knew it.
The movie ended and the lights came on.
“That was neat,” Flossie gushed.
Her comment annoyed him. What Lawrence had accomplished wasn’t neat. It was colossal. She hadn’t understood. For her, the movie was entertainment. For him, it was destiny. Blondie was sure a girl like Tammy would understand the fever in his brain, his great need to elevate himself above the crowd. He was just as sure Flossie never would.
He’d driven most of the way to Baltimore not just because Lawrence of Arabia was too new to be showing at the Marylander, but because he didn’t want to be seen with her. Whenever anyone asked him about Flossie, he told them he “dated her sometimes” and let on he was “playing the field.” His desire to keep his love life hidden had become even more imperative since he’d asked Phyllis to the prom, a piece of news he’d yet to share with Flossie.
He couldn’t deny it — he was using her. He told himself the kind thing to do would be to let Flossie go. Their lives were headed in different directions. They had different dreams. But he couldn’t cut the cord. He’d become a sex junkie.
Ever since his first night with Flossie at the quarry, he’d been infected with a virulent case of lust. He couldn’t get enough sex. The best explanation he could reach was that his body was trying to recover from years and years of virginity.
When Flossie invited him over to “watch television” the next weekend — letting slip that her parents would be gone — his fledgling inclination to do the right thing got trampled by his runaway libido.
“What’s this girl’s name again?” his mother asked when he told her his plans for the weekend. Blondie knew she knew. She was just irked that he’d never brought Flossie over to the house to meet her.
“Are you sure she’s a nice girl?”
“What’s the test?”
“Don’t be a smart aleck, Bernard. You know what I mean? Does she have nice parents?”
“I suppose.”
No way was he going to tell his mom he was spending the evening at a girl’s house with her five-year-old brother as chaperone.
Blondie’s next assignment for the school newspaper was Fenton’s first home baseball game. The Flyers were taking on Percy, his old school. Blondie had mixed emotions, but finally decided he’d pull for Fenton.
Blondie visited Mr. Kegley, the baseball coach, to gather some “background” on the game. He found him slumped in a chair in his office, a stout man with plastered-down hair and dandruff. He bit his fingernails while Blondie interviewed him.
“Do you think Fenton will have any problem with the Panthers, coach?” Blondie asked.
“We better not. They’re a bunch of turkeys.”
It wasn’t the quote he’d been looking for.
“Would you care to elaborate on that?”
“Not really.” Kegley picked at his nose, found something of interest and wiped it on his pants leg.
“Well, then, do you have any particular game strategy?”
“Yeah, beat the shi
t out of them,” Kegley answered expelling a fingernail from between his lips.
Blondie thanked the coach and went out to watch the players prepare for the game. A chill breeze blew across the diamond. Blondie stood by the edge of the field and shivered as boy-men in Fenton’s colors tossed balls at each other. Dust clouds nipped at their dancing feet.
Blondie saw Neil Golden wandering along the first base line, snapping shots of the team practicing. After a while, he loped over to Blondie.
“Covering the game?” he asked Blondie.
“Yeah.”
Blondie didn’t want to act like it was any big deal. After all, Neil was just a junior and he was too earnest, too talkative, and too approachable. He didn’t hold anything back like cool guys did.
Still, Blondie kinda liked him, especially since he’d learned Neil detested Mary Cherry. He’d told Blondie he considered her “a vacuous parrot with the intellectual depth of furniture wax.”
Blondie had been surprised at the strength of his emotion.
“Is that all?” he’d joshed.
Neil had explained that Mary had told his history class that her father told her the Holocaust “hadn’t been as bad as it’s been portrayed.”
Blondie had been shocked. This was the girl universally acclaimed the school genius?
“You gonna write about Bobby?” Neil asked him today.
“If he does anything.”
“He will. I’ll try and get a good shot for your story.”
Blondie headed for the stands. They were half empty. He chose a seat far from anyone. After he sat down, a man in a trench coat and a fedora clambered up the steps and seated himself next to him.
A fat man in a mask and chest protector came out and swept home plate. The Fenton cheerleaders raced onto the field. Blondie was amazed — he hadn’t known they performed at baseball games. He wasn’t complaining, though. As soon he caught sight of Tammy, he warmed to his task. Maybe she’d notice him in the stands and realize the important function he was performing. Blondie began scribbling in his notepad: “Tammy Hollander aroused dazzled the crowd with her enthusiasm and gymnastics, setting the stage for the arrival of the Flyer nine.” That would make a great lead.
The game wasn’t close, a real bore. By the end of the second inning, Fenton held a six-run lead. It grew inning by inning thereafter. But Blondie was fascinated by Bobby Clements. The athleticism he’d revealed sparingly as a golfer was fully manifest when playing a sport he knew. His movements were graceful and controlled — he never put more energy into a swing or throw than it required. And yet, he threw the ball straighter and hit it harder than anyone. He was a man among boys.
In the fifth inning, Bobby smashed a fastball, a line drive that had home run written all over it. Just as the ball began to sail over the fence, the Panther center fielder leaped high and speared it. Blondie resented him for that.
The man next to him wrote something on a piece of paper. The next inning, when Bobby made a good play in the outfield, the man made another notation.
“I’m a reporter for the Fentonian,” Blondie said to the man. “Are you a reporter, too?”
He laughed.
“I can’t write for beans. Nah, I’m an assistant baseball coach at Maryland. Just doing a little scouting.”
“Are you interested in Clements?”
“He’s got some talent,” the man said with no particular emotion.
Some? What was he talking about? Blondie figured the man was just keeping his cards to himself.
In the eighth inning, with the game well put away, Clements looped a ball between the right fielder and the center fielder. Blondie could tell by the way Bobby sped down the first base line that he was going for a double.
While Blondie watched the right fielder cut off the ball, something happened. He heard a gasp from the crowd, like air rushing from a flat. When he looked back toward first, Clements lay on the ground, grasping his knee, his face taut with pain.
“What happened?” Blondie asked the man in the hat.
“Caught a spike on the bag.”
Coach Kegley ran onto the field and felt Clements’ leg. Then he and one of the second stringers lifted Clements to his feet and hobbled him off the field. The cheerleaders never stopped cheering.
After the game, Blondie headed for the locker room. Clements was dressed and preparing to leave.
“How’s your leg?” Blondie asked him.
Clements shook his head.
“I don’t know. It’s my knee.”
Clements sounded worried.
“Serious?”
“It’s happened before. If my ankle gets twisted, my knee pops out.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“I’ve been avoiding it. Coach told me I have to now.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” Blondie encouraged him.
“I wish I was.”
The next day, Feller grabbed him in the hallway.
“I got a letter from Smith-Reid yesterday,” he told Blondie. “I’m in.” His excitement was palpable. “Have you heard yet?”
Blondie shook his head. Feller’s news made Blondie nervous. He thought he’d have heard first if he was going to be accepted. After all, he’d scored higher on his college boards than Feller, and his grades were about as good. What if Feller were accepted to Smith-Reid and he weren’t?
Blondie’s worrying was for naught. When he got home, a buff-colored envelope bearing the Smith-Reid logo was in the mailbox. Blondie ripped it open. The letter read: “Dear Mr. Reimer: As dean of students, I’m pleased to advise you that you’ve been accepted for admission to Smith-Reid College beginning the fall semester …. “
Hot dog! Smith-Reid had been his first choice all along. He’d checked it out and it had passed muster: well-regarded academically, a strong English department, several courses in creative writing, small, but not too small. Out of town, but not too far away for him to come home once in a while. And, most important, his buddy would be there with him.
“That’s great news!” his mom enthused when he told her. His dad agreed.
That evening in bed, he imagined how college would be: inspiring lectures by learned professors in ivy-walled classrooms, stimulating philosophical conversations in smoke-filled coffeehouses, and rousing sports victories in Romanesque gymnasiums and stadiums. He also envisioned rivers of beer, endless parties, and ravishing and willing co-eds.
He broke the news to Feller in Farber’s class the next day.
“Blood brothers forever!” Feller said.
Blondie’s spirits were high. They soared even higher when he passed Tammy on the way to English class and she smiled at him! His first thought was that she’d felt the vibes he was giving off, the confidence of a soon to be collegian. More likely, he thought a minute later, it was because he’d asked Phyllis to the prom. If so, maybe it was worth it.
For once, his optimism lasted the whole day. However, as he was passing the teachers’ lounge on his way out of school, he happened to glance into Miss Darlington’s homeroom and saw the Bear talking to her. Her eyes were red and wet. That night, Blondie wondered what it meant. Were they having an affair? Had they been their cars he’d seen at that motel last fall?
The thought disgusted him. Miss Darlington was young, fresh and sweet. The Bear was an old fart, probably in his forties. Besides, he was married. What could Miss Darlington see in him? He also remembered, with some agitation, what Feller had told him once — that the Bear “had trouble keeping it in his pants.” Jesus, what if it were true?
Blondie was relieved when Miss Darlington seemed her normal self in journalism class the next day. She was focused on the day’s lesson: the difference between news stories and features. She asked each of them to choose a news story from that day’s paper and write it as a feature story.
Blondie picked an article about the Cuban exiles who’d been caught in the Bay of Pigs invasion the year
before. They’d all been sentenced to 30-year prison terms. He began: “Roberto Morales sits alone on a rusty steel cot in a rotting prison in the jungle, repulsing hordes of giant cockroaches with his bare feet. He contemplates the irony that left him in this vermin-infested sty, while those who encouraged his brave act sip strawberry daiquiris on Miami beaches ….”
He made most of it up — including Roberto Morales — and thought it was pretty dreadful, but Miss Darlington selected his piece to read to the class anyway. Blondie felt flattered. But when he was leaving class, he detected on her face a wistfulness that bordered on despair. For an instant he felt an impulse to put his arm around her. He wondered if the Bear was causing her grief. He told himself it was none of his business.
Blondie knew he was bent on self-destruction when he found himself headed toward Miss Darlington’s home room after his last class was over — and after waiting an additional ten minutes for the halls to empty.
At first, he thought her classroom was deserted. All he saw when he peered through the slightly open door were vacant desks and the bank of windows opening to the field outside. As he was about to turn away, he heard a sound from within.
Blondie eased open the door. Miss Darlington was sitting on a wooden shield above the radiators in the rear of the room. Her back was turned toward him and she was curled into a ball. He heard her sigh and her shoulders rise and fall. Then, she began to shake and moan.
He crept toward her, with no idea what he was going to do, his heart thumping. When he reached her, he willed his hand toward her, but it stayed at his side. For long moments, he stood rooted in place, listening to her agony. Finally, he coughed to make himself known.
She started, twisting violently toward him, her eyes wide.
“Bernard, why on earth are you spying on me?”
Her skin was blotched and her eyes raw. She looked wild, desolate.
“I’m sorry … ” he began and could go no further.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
“I saw you crying yesterday, Miss Darlington …. ”
“It’s no concern of yours,” she snapped. Then she sighed. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And please call me Sandy.”
Grouper's Laws Page 20