Going All the Way (25 page)

He felt very glad that he had acted in a way he never had before, that he had shown where he stood. It almost made up for the absence of the beautiful girl art student he had expected to meet at the party and fall madly in love with.

He went home to bed and jacked off thinking about her, the way he imagined she'd be. Maybe he would really meet such a person and really get married to her. Gunner would be the Best Man.

6

The day after the party was a stifling summer Sunday, and Sonny woke up around eleven, bleary and slightly nauseous. His parents were at church, and he went down to the kitchen and had a couple aspirin, a Pepsi-Cola, and a peanut-butter sandwich. He took the Sunday
Star
out onto the breezeway and experienced the soothing relief that came with the anticipation of sinking into the sports section and the funnies, those magic parts of the paper that at least for a while had the power of pushing the everyday fears and fuming thoughts of the future clear out of his mind. He hadn't even finished the funnies, though, when his parents came back, blessed for another week, and Mrs. Burns reminded him today was the day they all had to go to Grandma Lee-no's for one of her big Sunday meals. Sonny had put this occasion off ever since he'd been home but there was no getting out of it any longer. Grandma Lee-no had called a few days ago and said that she knew nobody loved her anymore and she was just a worthless old woman, but anyhow she was cooking up a real big Sunday meal and if everyone didn't come and eat it she was going to kill herself.

Not wanting to have his grandmother's blood on his conscience, in addition to all his other guilts, Sonny made himself go get dressed. Grandma Lee-no was his mother's mother, and Sonny had “named” her when he was a little boy who couldn't pronounce her real name, Leona. Like everything he did then, Grandma Lee-no thought the name he gave her was the cutest thing in the world and cherished it as a special gift from her “little angel-child,” which was what she called him then and in fact still did, insisting, “You may be all grown up but you're still
my
little angel-child.”

Grandma Lee-no lived in a little house up on Guilford that Sonny and his parents had lived in until they built their own place and gave the old house to Lee-no, who had just retired about then from a lifetime of service at the Indiana Gas and Utility Company, where she worked one of the switchboards; raising her children without any help from that fly-by-night no-good Johnny Haspel, who had left with some floozy for parts unknown when Alma was just a little girl and Buck was still a baby. Oh, yes, he came back and visited every few years when the kids were growing up, bringing them toys and trinkets and buttering up to them with his old snaky charm, making them think he was wonderful—until they were old enough to understand he was nothing but a two-bit liar with a slick tongue, all promises and no delivery, just like most men. They were so cute when they were little boys, but then they all grew up to be—
men
. Even little Sonny had gone and done it, just like the rest of them, but Lee-no still loved him anyway.

“Oh, my lit-tul
an
gel-child,” she cried when Sonny came in her front door. “Kiss your pore old ugly grandma.”

Sonny leaned down and bumped his lips dutifully and dryly against her slack, parchment cheek. Her wiry little arms squeezed his waist, and he pulled away.

“Hello, Lee-no,” he said.

“Oh, I know you don't want Lee-no to squeeze you anymore,” she said. “Nobody loves an ugly old woman.”

“I love you,” Sonny mumbled and sat down on the couch.

“Sonny loves you,” Alma assured her, “We all love you, Mama.”

“Lord, yes,” Mr. Burns said.

“Well, you all just sit down by the fan there. I'm still a-cookin'.”

The whole house was like an oven, and the little oscillating fan on the floor buzzed bravely but only sent out enough of a breeze to sort of tickle you. Alma went to the kitchen and Sonny and Mr. Burns picked Lee-no's Sunday paper apart, trying to find something to distract them. Not even the funnies and the sports could work their magic on Sonny in Lee-no's house, though; there was an oppressiveness about the place, a sort of invisible gravy of despair that clogged your senses. The many mementos and photographs and figurines that cluttered the mantel and the marble-topped table and the knick-knack shelves didn't brighten things but seemed to Sonny like little symbols of sorrow and betrayal; a picture of Sonny as a cute little boy in a sailor suit, his cheeks tinted with rose, smiled from a heart-shaped frame; a grayish picture of Alma as a fair young maid, circled with silver; a model airplane curved and painted by Buck as a boy, a plaster Jesus kneeling in prayer, a silver reindeer Sonny had liked to play with long ago, a gold Statue of Liberty that Johnny Haspel had sent from the 1939 World's Fair (it turned out to be the last thing anyone heard from him), a snapshot of Buck with some Army buddies just before he was sent overseas, a pincushion that looked like a tomato, a souvenir plate with a picture of the White House that Miss Verbey from across the street had brought from her trip to Washington.

The house grew smokier and hotter as mealtime neared, and when everything was done, Grandma Lee-no came out with tears in her eyes, wiping her hands frantically on her apron, and said, “I guess we'll have to go ahead. Buck's not here, wasn't here all night, never called. The Good Lord knows if he'll ever come back.”

“Now, Mama,” Alma said, following Lee-no into the living room, “you know Buck, he's all right.”

“He never tells me anything,” Lee-no whined.

Mr. Burns cleared his throat and reddened. “He'll be back, don't worry. When he's hungry or out of money, he'll be back, I'll guarantee you that.”

Uncle Buck, having been recently divorced for the second time and “between jobs” again, had moved back with Lee-no, who still feared every time he went on a toot and didn't show up for a few days that he had come to a bad end, been murdered or kidnapped. It was not clear to Sonny who would wish to kidnap Buck or from whom they might expect to extort any ransom money. Certainly not from Mr. Burns. Sonny didn't mention that he had seen Buck in the Topper only the night before and that he was probably right now humping away on that sexy redhead he'd been with. Sometimes. Buck had the nerve to take his girls home to Grandma Lee-no's and fuck them right on the rollaway bed in the dining room. If Lee-no discovered Buck in the bed with a woman she would scream and holler and pound her fists on the wall and threaten to call the Army, the Navy, and the Marines. Lee-no didn't seem to have too much confidence in ordinary police.

Everyone gathered around the dining-room table, which steamed like a caldron with gravy and potatoes and a monster chicken stuffed with dressing. All bowed their heads while Grandma Lee-no said grace:

“Dear Heaven-ly Father, we ask thee to bless this food, in the name of thy Son, Jesus Christ. And bring Buck back home safe again.”

The grace-prayer seemed to have relieved Lee-no, and she turned to her joking mood, saying, “Good-bread-good-meat-good-God-let's-eat!”

“
Ma
-ma,” Mrs. Burns said, as if she were shaming a naughty but lovable child.

Grandma Lee-no banged her fork on her plate and said, “If that bad boy isn't home by dark, I will call the Army, the Navy, and the Marines!”

Mr. Burns sighed and asked, “You want me to carve, Lee-no?”

“Oh thank you, Ellie. You're
sech
a gentle-man!”

Mr. Burns stood up and attacked the great, stuffed bird.

“You can give me dark meat, as long as it's
that
kind,” Lee-no cried. “Don't want any that
other
dark meat, though, that what's taken over.” She held her nose and said, “Pee-yue!”

“
Ma
-ma,” Mrs. Burns cautioned.

“Well, I don't care, Alma. I wished my daddy was alive now, he said way back then in the Depression the Jews and the niggers were a-gonna take over, and the good old Klan was the only thing'd stop 'em, by golly!”

“For God sake, Lee-no,” Sonny said and stood up from the table.

“An-gel child!” she whined.

“Sonny! She doesn't mean it,” Mrs. Burns said.

“Why, Alma, I mean every word,” Lee-no insisted. “Just like Daddy use to tell us: ‘We're KKK and we mean what we say!'
Whoo
pee!”

Sonny headed blindly for the door, hearing behind him the sudden sobs of Grandma Lee-no, crying through the fumes of food, “Let him go, he hates me anyway, I might as well die.”

Sonny stood for a while on the front porch and then came back in and shoved himself up to the table. He crammed himself with the food so purposefully and indiscriminately that by the end of the meal Grandma Lee-no was no longer threatening to die. In fact, she felt good enough to sing “Moonlight and Roses,” which she claimed Sonny used to love to hear when he was her little baby angel-child and she rocked him in her arms at night until he went off to “seepy-time.”

He said he remembered.

The next day Sonny felt worse than if he'd been boozing all night. His stomach was stuffed and his head glommy. He tried to do push-ups, but could only make five of them. He took a shower, drank an Alka-Seltzer, and sat in the den leafing through magazines. He hadn't kept up with his plan to read every new issue of
Newsweek
, hadn't even bought one for almost a month. He had already read most of the
Lifes
and other serious magazines in the house, and about the only thing he hadn't gone through already was a June issue of the
Ladies' Home Journal
. He flipped through it and came to an article called “Young Home-Builders.” It was about a young couple who had built their own terrace, and told how to do it.

When next-door neighbors George and Mary Mallen drop over, or we give a dinner for relatives, the terrace gives us elbow room. Breezeway door opens on back yard; so does kitchen door, for food transporting. Plastic dishes are kept in barbecue shed; it also holds a handy grill on wheels.

Breezeway's coffee table matches window seat; Don topped both in green plastic, smoothed over adhesive with a rolling pin. That magazine holder on the wall? Bright cotton—with pockets!

There was a picture of a young guy in a sport shirt sitting at a little table reading a newspaper, while his wife sat on the other side, watching him read. Sonny wondered if he would be doing that in a couple of years, on his own clever little terrace. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad, if you had some wife you were madly in love with. What the hell else were you supposed to do?

Sonny didn't really feel like thinking things out, at least by himself. He wished to hell Gunner would call, and they could tip a few cold ones and philosophize about stuff. Sonny sat around the house all day, and the next day too, but Gunner still didn't call. Maybe he had gotten in thick with the arty crowd, but Sonny kind of doubted it. They were obviously suspicious of him because he had been a Big Rod, just as his old Big Rod friends were suspicious of him because he was going out with a girl from the arty crowd and was always asking those weird questions, asking people why they did or thought what they did. There was even a rumor around that Gunner had been shell-shocked in the war, which explained the change in his personality. His old friends were relieved to know he couldn't help the way he was acting, and they figured he'd snap out of it sooner or later. Sonny guessed it was probably the first time in Gunner's life he had been on the outside of things. Still, he had a sexy girl and he had his art, so you couldn't feel too sorry for him.

Sonny was frankly more concerned with himself, his failure to get his real life started. He felt himself slipping into the same old nonlife of sleeping through half the day and eating through the rest of it, and he figured anyway the more he just waited for Gunner to call, the less chance there was of it, like the watched pot that never boils. He couldn't depend on Gunner or anyone else to get him off his ass, he had to take the bull by the horns himself.

I am the master of my fate

I am the captain of my soul.…

He repeated that over and over in his mind, a litany that left out God but still was inspiring. He started getting up around ten, taking a shower, doing his push-ups, and playing the
Victory at Sea
record. He did that three days in a row and worked up from seven to nine push-ups by the third day. He bought himself a copy of
The Caine Mutiny
, and reading it made him feel that even if he still was sitting around a lot he at least was improving his mind with literature. Besides it was a good story and blanked out his mind almost as well as the funnies and the sports page.

One day he called up Buddie and got her to take him down to the Herron so he could get another look at the art. Maybe he was partly hoping they might run into Gunner and Marty, but they didn't, even though they went for coffee at the drugstore across the street. Sonny found himself getting very irritated at Buddie. She didn't seem to know what to say about the art they had seen, any more than Sonny did, and she was wearing a little-girl-type sundress that was about as sexy as a paper bag. He kept thinking of Marty in her skin-tight toreadors, and getting more grouchy. He refused to go swimming with Buddie and got pissed off as hell when she noted he was white as a sheet even though it was the middle of summer. He made her take him home and went to his room to work on another “Things to Do” list. He wrote on it:

Take more pictures

—Send for university catalogs

Graduate schools

—photography?

—Get some sun

He was tapping the pencil against his teeth, thinking of other constructive things to do, when the phone rang. It was Gunner, sounding very mysterious. He said he had something to show Sonny but it wouldn't be quite ready for another few days. He'd call him when it was.