The Temple of Gold (10 page)

“Zock,” I told him, “I don’t know. I honest to God do not know.”

“You didn’t hit her?” I shook my head. “Well,” he said. “At least that’s something.”

They came out in a little, Sally with tears in her eyes. At the car there was a scene, because Sally said she didn’t want to ride home with me, seeing as I was a monster and there was no telling what I might do. But Bunny calmed her down so we finally got in, the girls sitting in the back seat, Zock and me in the front, with Sally’s sniffling the only sound heard all the way. ...

That was not, however, the end of me and Sally Farmer. Quite the contrary, in fact. For the next day she happened to accompany Bunny over to Zock’s house where I naturally happened to be. Of course she didn’t speak to me, but every so often I caught her looking over in my direction. And the day after that we bumped into each other not far from my house, where I took the bull by the horns and apologized. Once I did that, I couldn’t get rid of her until she had to go home for supper.

Sally’s old man, Elias P. Farmer, had more money than God and lived in a great white house with pillars, overlooking the college. Old Elias had never gone there, but instead went into the clothing business where he made his bundle. He was very famous, since he was always giving money to somebody, usually Athens College, and so had his picture in the Chicago papers all the time. Actually, he wasn’t as bad as you might imagine, and he was a Cub fan, which you would never expect. Since I was a Cub fan too, we always had a lot to talk about whenever we got together, and that was pretty often, for I took Sally out for a long time. Practically a year. So Elias P. had plenty of opportunity to moon with me over the good old days when Billy Herman was covering second and Cavarretta skipped like a dancer around first. At the start, Sally and I used to double-date with Zock and Bunny. But later we drove in my mother’s car or in the Cadillac convertible that Sally’s old man had given her.

I cannot say too much in favor of Sally Farmer, in that all I know as far as manners are concerned, she taught me. I think I was sort of a project with her. She improved my dancing and got me in the habit of opening doors for her, lighting her cigarette first, plus all the other little things women are brought up to expect.

It might be thought, from the above, that Sally was what Mrs. Crowe called an “old-fashioned girl.” And I suppose she was, because all during that year we would horse around, me trying to get her clothes off, but never succeeding. For each and every time things started rolling, she’d grab me by the shoulders, look me in the eyes and say: “Ray. We mustn’t.” I suppose I heard her say “Ray. We mustn’t” upwards of ten thousand times in the course of that year. I always knew exactly when she was going to come out with it, so, sometimes, I said it right along with her. She never thought that was funny. But then, Sally was not a girl who could be accused of having a sense of humor.

Then, one night in the early summer after our junior year, we went to a beach party where she got pretty smashed, what with not eating and drinking too much. So I took her home and when I did, it turned out that Elias P. was away and no one was in save the maid, a fine old deaf lady named Ingebord. We snuck upstairs to Sally’s room, flopped on the bed and, in the course of time, I managed to get her clothes off. “Ray,” she said. “We mustn’t.”

“Sally,” I said. “We’re going to.”

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

We didn’t. Mainly because she started whimpering, something I’ve never been able to take. So I got up, thanked her for the evening, said good night, and left her there.

And soon, Sally and I began to go our separate ways. There were no scenes, nothing violent like what was going to come later with Annabelle. But gradually at first, then more and more, she began staying with the country club set, seeing less and less of me. I was never broken-hearted over the turn of events, since I wasn’t too nuts about her. I liked her, I suppose. But that was all.

And after Sally there came a whole procession of girls, some smart, some stupid, some pretty, some not. There was Bobby Pope, and Nancy Heimerdinger, who was all right except for her name, and Jayne Stein, a real phony, and Alice Blair, with even a couple of college girls thrown in here and there, a feather in my cap seeing as I was still only in high school. But I don’t want this to turn into either a catalogue or a boasting contest, so I’ll say no more about the girls I knew up until I graduated. For none of them ever meant so much as a hill of beans to me. Not in the long run.

But what I do want to talk about now is college, and Zock’s departure to it. He wanted to go to Harvard, so, naturally, they accepted him. Since not only was he a great guy but was also the number-one student in our class, going through the entire four years without getting anything lower than an A.

College was never a real problem for me, as there wasn’t any doubt but that I would go to Athens. There were reasons, many of them financial. But mainly it was because my grades were not very good, being low Cs, those of a gentleman. To tell the truth, I’m lucky I got accepted anywhere, as none of my teachers were for me. And probably Athens would have given me the thumbs-down too, had it not been for my father being such a big deal, not to mention America’s leading etc., etc., etc. So Athens it was, and there an end.

The night before Zock left for Harvard, we doubled-dated for the last time. He was with Bunny, naturally, which irritated me, seeing as it wasn’t a tragic parting, what with her leaving for Wellesley in three days. And so, probably for spite, I took out Marjorie Bluestone, a college freshman at Athens who did the trick. She was sort of a slob, Marjorie was, with absolutely nothing else to recommend her, but still, I had been keeping company with her, off and on, for some time.

We went to the Palace, strictly for old times’ sake, the three of us and Marjorie, who thought it was corny. We danced a little, then drove out in separate cars to the Crib, a little bar some miles from town.

As I said, I was pretty peeved to start with. And Marjorie didn’t help things any, for she kept gassing on about sociology, her way of showing that she was in college while we, as yet, were not. Every time Zock or Bunny said anything, Marjorie jumped right in and put her foot in her mouth, which probably accounts for the peculiar shape it had.

Finally, I told her. “Why don’t you shut up,” I said.

She laughed, thinking I was kidding.

“I mean it,” I said. “Shut up.”

So she did. Which only made things worse. We sat around drinking beer, not talking. The jukebox there played nothing but loud brassy saxophone music, and right then it was going full blast. I began getting itchy. Zock, too.

“I think maybe Bunny and I will move on,” he said.

“What’s the matter? We bore you?”

“Intensely,” he answered.

“Run along then,” I told him. They got up. “See you at Christmas,” I called.

Zock turned. “Fine,” he said. Nodding once to Marjorie, he took off.

“Thank God,” Marjorie said, the minute they were gone. “Where did you dig them up from? I’ve never seen such rude, unpleasant people.”

“Take a look in the mirror,” I told her. “You’re no rose.”

Naturally, being drunk, she started to cry. Sniffles at first, then the real thing, with tears running down her face, streaking her make-up.

“Cut it,” I said. “Cut it out right now or we go home.”

And with that, she started. I was Cruel, she said. And Heartless. And Totally Without Understanding. Not to mention Sympathy. Her voice got louder and louder and people turned to watch as she pointed at me with a stubby finger.

“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing her by the arm. “I told you once and once is plenty.” I pulled her outside, shoved her in the car, and began the drive home.

As we passed Half Day Bridge, she reached over, switched off the ignition, grabbed the key, opened the door, and stepped out.

“Marjorie,” I said. “Cut the act and give me the key.”

“Make me,” she said, half laughing, half crying. “Make me. Come on, you son of a bitch. Come on.”

So I got out of the car and started wrestling with her. She bit me and clawed and the next thing I knew, there we were, half naked, sprawled on the warm, muddy ground. Which was, I figured, just a perfect way to end a perfect evening.

Afterward I drove her back, said good night from the car, and went home to bed.

But not to sleep. Tossing, turning, swearing out loud, I lay there watching the clock. Then, about three, I threw on some clothes and went over to Zock’s house. I hit his window with a couple of pebbles and right away he was there, looking down.

“That you?”

“The same,” I answered.

“What’s up, Ripper?”

“Nothing. I just thought we might take a drive. Or a walk. It’s nice out.”

“Be right down,” he said, and a minute later, he was. “Well,” he asked. “Walk or drive?”

“Walk,” I said, and he headed for the beach.

“That Marjorie’s a fine girl,” he began. “You’ve really got something there.”

“I know it,” I told him. “I already married her in secret. For fear she might get away.”

“Good move,” Zock said. And then: “Did you?”

I nodded. “In the mud near Half Day Bridge.”

“Why?” Zock asked.

Which stumped me. “I don’t know. Why not?”

“I guess you must be state champion by now,” he said. “Why don’t you retire and rest on your laurels?”

“Gee, thanks,” I told him. “I wanted to ask you for advice only I was too shy to come right out with it.”

“Free,” Zock said. “Tonight everything’s for free.”

“Just don’t tell me to find a nice girl and settle down. Please.”

“I won’t,” he said. “But why don’t you find yourself a nice girl and settle down?”

I didn’t bother to answer because by then we were on the beach, walking slow along the sand. It was a beautiful night, with just a sliver of moon shining down on the smooth top of Lake Michigan. Way off in the east you could almost feel the sun, stretching, about to make its move. Peaceful. That’s probably as good a word as any. With everything exactly right in place, right where it ought to be. And you just knew, as sure as God made green apples, that nothing wrong was ever going to happen; that come flood or war or famine or anything else, we were going to make it, Zock and me; come what may, we were going to live forever.

So we walked along, not speaking but just walking quiet on the sand, under that sliver of moon. We walked for miles, hours, never once saying a word. Because right then, we didn’t have to. We knew all there was to know; ourselves, the world, each other, everything. Then, before dawn, we sacked out on the beach, like we had done that night in Chicago years ago. And, as I was slipping away, all I heard was the slap, slap, slap of the waves against the shore. ...

Those hours are the happiest I have ever had in all my life. And they are mine. Mine alone, now. And I don’t give a shit what anybody says or what anybody thinks or what anybody does. Nothing, nothing in this world is ever going to take them away from me. ...

We woke in the early morning and made our way home, jabbering like jaybirds. Throwing stones, joking, wrestling, singing, jumping around in the sand as if we were crazy. We were pretty tired when we got to Zock’s house, but we kept right on horsing, standing there in the middle of the yard.

“So they’re actually letting you into Athens,” Zock said.

“In three days I start. They had to accept me. Because, and this may come as a surprise to you, my old man happens to be America’s leading expert on Euripides.”

“Do tell,” Zock said. “Now I wonder who is America’s second leading expert on Euripides? Just think of him. ‘Here I am,’ he probably says to himself each morning over tea. America’s second leading expert on Euripides. Now, when is that lousy Trevitt going to die?”

“A sad tale,” I said.

“Tragic,” Zock nodded. Then we were both quiet.

“Well, Zocker,” I said, belting him one on the arm. “Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

“My mother has already warned me.”

“And stay loose.”

“I shall,” he said. “I shall endeavor to try.”

“Do endeavor so,” I said, imitating him.

We shook hands. “Good-by,” I said. “Good-by, Euripides.”

“Good-by.”

But neither of us moved.

“I hear you’re an absolute angel,” I said finally.

“I hear you’re not,” he said.

Then we both ran.

T
HE TOWN OF ATHENS
is separated from the college by Patriot’s Square, which is so called because of two students, Mark Dawes and Philip Morgan, who left during the Civil War and got blown up by mistake on their way to Shiloh. The town itself lies along Lake Michigan, with the college stretching inland for a couple of miles. Most of the school buildings face onto the square, and behind them the college owns a few hundred acres of woods and swamp that they have been trying to raise money to fix up ever since I can remember. It is a sort of constant battle between the two, the college and the swamp, to see which is going to swallow up the other.

If you believed the brochures, you would probably think that as far as beauty is concerned, right after the Taj Mahal comes Athens College. This is not true. For it is an ugly school, being made up almost entirely of buildings that are eyesores and which they would like to tear down, except they haven’t got the money. If it wasn’t for Elias P. Farmer, plus a few graduates who were lucky enough to make good, it is my opinion that the swamp would have won out long ago. But instead of admitting that their school is ugly, the old graduates speak of it as being “quaint.” Talk to anyone who ever went to Athens and that word is sure to pop up. Quaint. And more than that, they’ll tell you they like it the way it is and wouldn’t change it for the world. Because Athens is a school that is strong on tradition.

There is, naturally, Patriot’s Square. And Kissing Rock. And the Ancient Oak, a huge tree which Elmer Houston, a legendary goofball, tried valiantly to poison in the spring of 1927. Plus about half a dozen other places that the mere mention of makes old graduates misty-eyed. Athens was founded by missionaries, and their spirit still hangs over the place like a rain cloud. The girls are mostly muscular and unattractive but interested in “things”; the boys are pipe-smokers who love to sit around and gas about what’s happened to the Monroe Doctrine. Social life at Athens is based on talk, since there isn’t much else you can do. It is one of those co-educational-white-Protestant-no-drinking-no-driving-no-swearing-no-especially-not-THAT-schools where mothers can send their kiddies in complete confidence that nothing awful is ever going to happen.