A Hundred Summers (5 page)

I turn my head, and there stands Nick Greenwald at the entrance to the dining room, his left leg wrapped almost to the knee in a thick white plaster cast and his arms slung over a pair of crutches. I want to see his face, to see if it matches the impossible image in my head, but he’s standing in a gap between the lights overhead, and he’s looking to the side, inspecting the room. The angled light carves a deep shadow beneath his cheekbone.

His face turns. He spots Graham and hops forward on his crutches into the glow of a chandelier. I have only an instant to take him in. He’s smiling now, and the smile transforms him, softens all the edges, making him less formidable than I thought he would be.

Budgie leans in to my ear. “Now’s your chance, Lily. Remember to ask him about himself. They love that. And for God
sake
don’t talk about books.”

“Nick! It’s about time. What did you do, hobble all the way here from the hospital? Or did you meet a pretty nurse there?” Graham yanks out a chair for him. “You remember Budgie, don’t you, Nick? Budgie Byrne.”

“Hello, Nick. I’m sorry about your leg.” Budgie holds out her hand.

Nick props his crutch under his arm and grasps her fingers. “Budgie. How are you?”

“And this is her friend Miss Dane. Lily Dane. Drove up with Budgie all the way from Smith this morning, just to meet you.”

Graham’s voice is jovial, joking, making it plain he’s just filling the introduction with nonsense to lighten the mood, with Nick’s cast and crutches weighing everything down. The trouble is, he’s too close to the truth.

Nick turns to me and takes in my burning cheeks. He smiles politely. Under the electric lights, his skin is smooth and even, suggesting olive, and his eyes are a kind of hazel, hovering somewhere between brown and green. Washed and dried, his hair shows itself a few shades darker than Graham’s, a rich medium brown, curling back in rebellion from a thorough brushing. He is not glossy, like Graham, not painted with elegant strokes. But when he speaks, his eyes crinkle expressively. “Miss Dane. Nick Greenwald. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better show, after that long drive from Massachusetts.”

“With Budgie driving,” Graham says. “Her nerves must be shredded.”

“Oh, you were terrific,” I warble to Nick. “It’s a shame about your leg, though. Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine. Fibula. It’ll heal by Thanksgiving. At least the cast is below the knee, so I can get around all right.” Nick sinks his body into the chair next to mine, and because he is not burly, not muscle-bound, I become aware only then of his utter largeness, his rangy long frame and the layers of sinew and skin that cover it. His dark jacket stretches endlessly across his shoulders. Next to him, Graham—who a moment ago filled the chair and the room—seems diminished. “Thanks for your concern, though.”

I must have sounded like an idiot. He must think I’m some brainless boy-crazy girl, one of dozens sighing after him because he’s tall and handsome and plays football. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m no different from those boy-crazy girls, enslaved to the mating instinct. What do I know of him, really, other than that he’s tall and handsome and plays football, that he has unyielding eyes and moves like a leopard?

Graham calls for a menu, and Nick studies it briefly, while the waiter stands just behind his shoulder. Everyone is staring at us again, staring at Nick and his set shoulders and his plaster-wrapped leg.

“I’ll have the steak, I guess. Medium rare. Thank you.” He hands the menu to the waiter and reaches for his water.

Your move, Lily. Think of something. What would Budgie say?

“So, tell me, Mr. Greenwald. What are you studying?” I ask.

“It’s Nick. History,” he says. “And you?”

“English.”

We drink our water in tandem.

“That’s not the whole story, though. Is it, Nick?” Graham nudges him with his elbow. When Nick says nothing, he continues: “Greenwald’s been taking architecture as well, except his father doesn’t approve.”

“Why is that?” asks Budgie.

“Oh, he wants him to join the firm . . .”

“I don’t mean his father. I mean Nick. Why is he studying architecture at all?” She is genuinely curious. An architect, in Budgie’s eyes, is more a tradesman than a professional, covered with plaster and sawdust and blueprints, someone to be ordered about, someone whose bill can be conveniently ignored until the next time he’s needed.

“Because I like it,” said Nick.

Budgie is horrified. “But you don’t actually mean to be an architect!”

“Why shouldn’t he be an architect?” I snap. “Why shouldn’t he create beautiful things, instead of selling stocks and bonds or making lawsuits?”

Nobody speaks. Graham starts to smile, coughs, and reaches for his milk.

Nick squares the tip of his fork against the tablecloth, and does the same for his knife. “No, of course I’m not going to be an architect. Doesn’t mean I can’t study it.”

Budgie watches his movements. Her lips curl upward. “Of course not. Graham, what was that you were telling me about the other day on the telephone? Something about rocks?”

“The Grand Canyon,” Graham says affectionately, patting her hand. “I told you I thought we should take a trip there sometime. You can see how the layers of stone were laid down. Millions of years of geology.”

“Geology! You see? That’s what I mean. Studying something just because you find it interesting. It’s not as if Graham wants to
be
a geologist.” She makes a little laugh at the absurdity of it.

“And what if I do, honey? We could go out in the field, camping out in the canyons. It’d be grand.”

Budgie laughs again. “Isn’t he funny?”

Later, the boys escort us back to Budgie’s Ford and raise the top for the journey back to Smith. Budgie offers them a ride back to their dormitory. “I can’t let you walk back with
that
on your leg,” she says, nodding at Nick’s cast.

Nick looks at Graham. They shrug.

“Sure, why not?” says Graham. He climbs into the front passenger seat, and Nick manages to hold open the door while I creep in back. He throws in the crutches and then himself, folding that long body crosswise to fit inside.

“I’m sorry,” he says, easing his cast against my leg. We sit so close, in the back of Budgie’s little Ford, I can feel his breath on my cheek.

“No, it’s all right,” I say. “I’m small.”

He looks at me. In the yellow glow from the lamppost outside the hotel, his face is dusky and distorted, and his eyes are nearly invisible. “Yes, you are,” he says.

“Behave yourselves back there,” says Budgie, throwing the car into gear.

We rattle down the darkened roads, with Graham muttering directions to Budgie, sliding himself closer to her. His left shoulder moves next to hers. I can sense the flex of muscle in his neck, his back; I can see the playful tilt of her head. The contrast between the intimacy up front and the stilted silence between me and Nick is impossible to ignore. I glance at Nick, just as he glances at me. A pair of headlights flashes by, illuminating his face beneath his peaked wool cap, and he rolls his eyes and smiles.

“Right
here
, you silly female,” says Graham. “Don’t you recognize it?”

The Ford swerves to the side of the road, next to a large white clapboard house. “Well, it looks different by night,” says Budgie. She puts the car in neutral and drums her fingernails against the steering wheel.

No one moves.

“Here we are,” says Nick.

“Greenwald,” says Graham, “why don’t you take Lily for a little walk? Show her the campus a bit.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Nick mutters.

“Budgie?” I ask, in a small voice.

“Go ahead, honey,” she says. “I just need to talk to Graham for a minute.”

Graham gets out of the front seat, opens Nick’s door, and heaves him into the chilly night. I slide after, absorbing the warmth of Nick’s seat as I pass over.

“We’ll just be a minute,” Graham says to Nick.

“I’ll bet.” Nick looks at me. I can’t read his expression, not in this darkness, but I gather something like sympathy. “Come along, Lily. There’s a bench over this way.”

“Are you all right to walk like this?”

“Of course.” He brandishes one crutch. “It’s nothing.”

The air has chilled remarkably since the sun-filled noontime in the stadium. I cross my arms over my woolen cardigan and trudge along next to Nick Greenwald’s crutches as they swing and plant along the lawn. I wish I’d brought a coat. I hadn’t known we would be staying so late. “It really is awful of them, on a cold night like this,” I say. “Couldn’t they have saved it for the telephone tomorrow?”

“I guess not. Here’s the bench. Sorry, it’s probably frozen.” He swings himself down and props the crutches between us.

“I suppose Budgie is just too irresistible.”

He shakes his head.

“Don’t you think so?” I ask, surprised. Budgie seems to me, on a purely objective basis, to be the exact fleshly representation of male desire. The boys sure agree. I’ve seen it myself, time and again, the way they fall over her, offering Hershey bars and steak dinners, offering their arms to cross the street, offering to carry books, to dance and fetch drinks. Offering whatever she wants.

“Look,” Nick says, “I don’t mean to say a word against a girl, but I can’t see how a fellow would be looking at Budgie Byrne, with someone like you standing next to her.”

I sit motionless, staring at the faint shine of the Ford where it idles by the curb a hundred yards away. The dormitory sits like a giant rectangular ghost behind it.

I can’t quite believe what I’ve just heard. I sift through the words again, piecing them apart and then back together.

He clears his throat. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m not trying to . . . All I mean is that she’s very pretty, yes, in the same way all girls like her are pretty, skin and hair and smart clothes. They’re all alike. There’s nothing special there, nothing interesting.” He pauses. “
You
know what I mean, don’t you?”

“Not really. All the boys like Budgie. There must be
some
thing there.”

He laughs out loud, heartily. “Oh, there’s something, all right. I’m sure they like her plenty, or most of them. But I guess I’m different.” He pauses and says, under his breath, so I almost miss the words: “Nothing new there.”

“Well, I like different.”

“I know you do. Oh, look. I’m sorry. You’re frozen.” He starts to take off his jacket.

“No, it’s all right,” I say, but he settles it over my shoulders anyway, heavy and shimmering with the heat of his enormous body. The silk lining slides like liquid against my neck.

I know you do,
he said. What does that mean?

“I’m warm enough,” he says. “So tell me, Lily Dane, what you do when you’re not out traipsing around after Budgie Byrne to football games.”

I laugh. I like that he uses words like
traipsing
. “Study, mostly. Reading, writing. I want to become a journalist.”

“Good for you. Lots of women doing that these days.”

“And you? You’ll be graduating soon.”

He scuffs the grass with his heel. “I’ll be starting work at my father’s firm.”

“Your father owns a history company?” I say teasingly.

Nick laughs. “No. Everyone on Wall Street has a history degree, though you’d never know it, the way they keep making the same mistakes, crash after crash.”

“
Hmm
. So is that why you’re studying architecture, too? Find a way to rebuild it all with a sounder foundation?”

“No.” The amusement drains from his voice. “I just love architecture, that’s all.”

“Then why don’t you become an architect, instead?”

“Because my father wants me to join his firm.”

“And do you always do what your father tells you to do?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Do you always do what your parents tell you?”

I pull the ends of his jacket close to my chest. A warm scent drifts up from the wool: cedar closets and shaving soap, reassuring, extraordinarily intimate.
This is how men smell,
I think. “I guess I do. Of course, Mother thinks I’m only getting a job to find a husband.”

“Are you?”

“No. I want to . . .” My breath dissolves in the air.

He nudges me with his shoulder. “You can tell me. I’m just some stranger. I don’t even
know
your parents.”

“I don’t know. Travel. Write about what I see.” I hesitate again, embarrassed, because I haven’t really put it all into words before. The dream is just an image in my head, a vision, a yearning for something else, something more, something sublime and brilliant. I am sitting at a desk somewhere, typewriter before me, in a room on a high floor, with some foreign scene—Paris or Venice or Delhi—framed in the sun-flooded window.

“Then you should go out there and do it,” says Nick Greenwald, with passion. “Now, before some husband ties you down with housework and kids. Go out there and
do
it, Lily, before it’s too late.”

We fall silent, watching the Ford. I wonder what’s going on in there. Probably not just talking, I realize with a jolt. Graham kissing Budgie, Budgie kissing him back. Embracing each other, his hand wound in her hair. Like the movies, like Clark Gable and Joan Crawford.

My face grows hot and tight.

Nick looks at his watch, shakes it, holds it up to catch the sliver of moonlight. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to sound so vehement.”

Vehement.
“No, you were right. You
are
right. It’s very kind of you to take such an interest.” I am warm underneath Nick’s jacket, and yet I can’t stop shaking. His words keep repeating themselves in my head. He is so solid and massive next to me, so vital. I think of his expression as he stood with Graham in his dark green jersey, the relentlessness of his eyes, the lightning snap of his arm as it sent the ball down the field. I can’t quite comprehend that all that power and determination is packed within the laconic human shape stretching out its wounded plaster leg beside mine. If I were brave enough, if I were brazen and confident of success like Budgie, I could simply lift my fingers a few inches and lay my hand atop his. What would it feel like? Calloused, probably, like his leather football. Strong and calloused and firm. It could probably snap my fingers like chicken bones, if it wanted.