On the Wilde Side

by Sandra Marton

  They bunched together, all of them, and stared up at Johnny.

  Don’t, he told himself. Hell, don’t…

  He got to his feet. Trotted down to the field. No uniform. No equipment. Santos didn’t bother with a huddle. He waved them all into formation, rattled off an audible, and Johnny fell back five steps, spun past the defender, ran toward the end zone and leaped high, high, high in the air…

  The ball fell into his hands as if it had been waiting to welcome him home.

  The guys cheered and crowded around him, and Johnny...

  Johnny was glad he was sweating, because maybe then nobody would notice that he was crying.

  * * * *

  He drove home forty minutes later, downed half a gallon of OJ, showered, changed into clean jeans and a white T-shirt, phoned Connie and drove to her house.

  It was time to break things off.

  She was waiting for him on her porch. And, man, she really was mousy-looking. Why had Alden chosen her when he could have had any girl he wanted?

  Well, no.

  Alden wasn’t the Wilde brother who could have any girl he wanted.

  Johnny was.

  And despite what Amos had said, he was willing to bet that Alden had never been with a girl. Not with this one or any other.

  Johnny felt a stirring in his loins.

  The Wilde brothers. One who’d never have a girl, one who hadn’t had one in almost a year.

  He rolled down his window.

  “Hey,” he said, and motioned her over.

  She looked a little surprised. He hadn’t done that before. Until now, he’d done what he figured Alden had done, gone to the porch or the door, then escorted her to his truck.

  Yeah, well, things were about to change.

  He leaned over and flung the door open. Connie reached for his hand and he drew her onto the seat beside him.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said, his truck tires spitting gravel as he peeled down the driveway.

  “I didn’t expect you to see you tonight.”

  “Change of plans.”

  He made a left, not towards town but towards a lake that was the kind of hangout he never took her to.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the lake.”

  She looked at him. “I thought maybe we could see that new Goldie Hawn movie.”

  “I’m not in the mood for a movie tonight.”

  He drove fast. It felt good; he hadn’t gone over the speed limit since the accident. When they reached the lake, he drove straight through the parking lot to a place where the branches of magnolia trees, heavy with blooms, formed a natural screen. He pulled in, turned off the engine and looked at Connie.

  Her hair was loose. He reached out, tugged at a frizzy curl.

  “So,” he said, “you ever come here with my brother?”

  She blushed. She knew what he meant.

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  He smiled, ran a finger down her arm, watching the goose bumps rise on her skin.

  “Too bad. That nothing ever happened between you, I mean.”

  “We were good friends,” she said. “Don’t do that.”

  “What? I’m just touching you. You feel nice.”

  “John…”

  “Johnny.”

  “Johnny. What’s the matter with you tonight?”

  “Nothing’s the matter with me. I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m going to be me and Alden, all rolled into one.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He reached for her, drew her towards him.

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “John. Take me home.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Please…”

  She sounded scared, but something in her eyes said she wasn’t scared, she was excited.

  She was wearing a sleeveless blouse. He started to unbutton it.

  “No!” She pushed his hands away. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m doing what Alden would have done, if he’d had more time.”

  He leaned forward. She turned her face away. He wrapped her hair around his hand, brought her face to his and kissed her.

  “Oh,” she gasped, “don’t…”

  He kissed her again. Cupped her breast. She squealed into his mouth…and then she sighed and leaned into him.

  He fumbled in his pocket for the rubber he’d thought to bring with him.

  And as he unzipped his jeans, drew her onto his lap, pushed her skirt up and her panties down, he thought, This is for you, big brother.

  He didn’t think again until he’d almost fucked her blind and she was sobbing his name, and then what he thought was that Miss Cleary was wrong.

  He didn’t deserve anything good.

  Not in this lifetime, or in any other.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HE FLEW TO Washington with Amos. Two of Senator Duncan’s staffers took them to lunch; the next morning, having evidently passed the staffers’ scrutiny, Johnny met alone with the senator.

  A couple of weeks later, he and his father flew to Stewart International Airport in Newburgh, New York. They rented a car, drove to the Point and had breakfast with guys in uniforms that bristled with medals. After, Amos settled in for more coffee; Johnny toured the campus with a cadet.

  Driving back to the airport, Amos flashed him a big grin.

  “You’re as good as in in,” he said. “How’s that sound?”

  Johnny said it sounded fine.

  It didn’t, not really.

  Everything he’d seen indicated rigidity, discipline and obedience. Those had been pillars of Alden’s way of life, not his; he felt as if he were stepping into a pair of shoes that wouldn’t fit, but that really wasn’t the right analogy.

  He was stepping into shoes that were too big for him.

  That was what he’d have to remember.

  * * * *

  That last year at Wilde’s Crossing High was tough academically, but he studied his ass off and ran a perfect 4.0 average.

  And he was unstoppable on the football field.

  The state and the school awarded him trophies, and the girls flocked to him.

  Amos warned him about the girls.

  “Some of them are bound to be underage. Some will see you as an excellent catch.” Smiling, he slapped Johnny on the back. “You’re the prince of El Sueño, son. You need to remember that.”

  Johnny nodded. He didn’t give a damn about being a prince, but hearing his old man address him as son…

  That wouldn’t grow old.

  “When it comes to sex,” Amos said, “learn to make friends with your trusty right hand.”

  He boomed out a laugh and Johnny forced a smile. Actually, it didn’t much matter. After that night with Connie, he hadn’t thought much about sex.

  He didn’t think much about Connie, either. When he passed her in the hall, she looked at him with big cow eyes.

  He simply ignored her.

  She was out of the picture.

  So was Agnes Cleary.

  He’d thought about calling her after receiving the acceptance letter from the Point, but he’d put it off and put it off until, finally, it was his last night at home.

  Amos had thrown a party at the ranch. He made a speech welcoming everyone, and said how proud he was of his son. It was a term that had always been reserved for Alden. He’d been the one Amos called son.

  Now, the designation was Johnny’s.

  He was his father’s son, heir to half a million acres of rich land, prize-winning horses, herds of cattle, gushers of black gold. He was what Alden had been, the crown prince of El Sueño, and he waited to feel the excitement that should have gone with the title.

  All he felt was the awful realization that he wouldn’t be his father’s heir if he hadn’t killed his brother.

  At midnight, high on the first beer he’d had in m
onths, he slipped into the den and dialed a once-familiar number.

  Agnes Cleary answered on the first ring, almost as if she’d been waiting for the call.

  “I’m sorry,” Johnny blurted. “I should have come to see you.”

  “That’s all right, “she said gently. “You’ve been busy.”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “For West Point. I know. Congratulations.”

  “I don’t deserve congratulations. My old man pulled strings.”

  “You did most of it yourself. Your grades, your determination…”

  “It’s what Alden wanted! Not me!”

  He heard her sigh.

  “Did you tell that to your father?”

  Johnny shook his head, as if she could see him through the phone.

  “No,” he whispered, “I couldn’t. I told you, it’s what Alden wanted. And my father. He wants this, too.”

  “But what about you? What do you want?”

  “I don’t know. Not this. Not—”

  “John.” Amos’s hand fell heavily on Johnny’s shoulder. “It’s time to say goodnight to your guests. You have an early flight tomorrow, remember?”

  “John,” the voice in his ear said with urgency, “it isn’t too late. You need to forge your own path, to follow your own dream—”

  Amos Wilde took the telephone from his son’s hand and hung it up.

  “Come along, son,” he said, and Johnny rose and followed his father from the room.

  * * * *

  He hated West Point.

  Just as he’d figured, it was all about discipline and obedience.

  From Beast Barracks—the endless, grueling summer that was mandatory before a cadet began his plebe year—through the first few months, life was sheer hell.

  Give way to upperclassmen Walk to the side of the hall. Obey. Obey their dumbest orders.

  Christ, he despised it.

  The only place he felt free was on the football field.

  Nobody said so, but he was the best receiver they had, maybe the best they’d had in a while. He could tell by the way the coaches watched him, the way the other players treated him.

  That improved things.

  And, gradually, he realized that he could hold his own in a classroom. He was as smart as damn near anybody else, including those who’d gotten into the academy strictly through merit and hard work, not through the efforts of powerful fathers and the politicians they could influence.

  By the end of his first year, he could hardly wait for the next group of plebes to arrive. It was going to be someone else’s turn to suffer.

  He went home for part of the summer.

  Life was good.

  Girls crowded around him and he discovered he’d regained interest in fucking. Guys looked up to him. They always had, but it was different now. He was the hometown hero, back from the wars.

  He considered calling Miss Cleary, but why stir up the past? OK, so he felt a twinge of guilt when he remembered all she’d done for him, but hey, life moves on. He felt a similar twinge when he bumped into Connie one evening. He was going into the movies with a blonde cheerleader hanging on his arm; Connie was part of a group of girls just coming out.

  She gave him the kind of look he’d once seen a dog give to an abusive master and there it was, that little stab of guilt, but what was there to feel guilty about? What had happened hat night had been as much her idea as his and anyway, this was the seventies.

  Virginity was no big deal.

  Amos did a lot of boasting about him whenever people were around, not so much when they were alone.

  One night, Johnny came home late and saw a light in Amos’s den. He heard what sounded like voices; curious as to who’d be visiting at two in the morning, he went quietly down the hall, his footsteps muffled by the silk runner.

  The door to the den stood ajar.

  Johnny looked past it.

  His father was standing before an enormous photo of Alden, a glass of bourbon in his hand. From the looks of the bottle on the desk, he’d been drinking pretty steadily all evening.

  “You’re gone and I still I miss you, son,” Amos whispered thickly. “You were my dream for the future of the Wildes and El Sueño, and nobody can ever replace you.”

  Johnny closed his eyes, then quietly backed away.

  His father was right.

  No matter how many football games he won, what grades he scored, how good an officer he became, he could never replace Alden.

  The next morning, he woke early and packed his things.

  He didn’t have to be back at the academy for another two weeks, but he didn’t want to be at El Sueño any more. The ranch was a dream, all right, but not his.

  Somewhere along the line, West Point had become home.

  * * * *

  The next years went by at lightning speed.

  John—that was now how he thought of himself—did brilliantly.

  His senior year, he was inducted into three academic honor societies.

  He scored the winning touchdown in the most important game of the year, the battle between the Point’s Black Knights and Annapolis’s Midshipmen.

  He requested placement in Military Intelligence and, on graduation, he was assigned to that branch of the service.

  Sometimes he thought about how his life had changed. He’d found his place in the world, though he’d never imagined it would be in an officer’s uniform. One terrible night had turned him from a boy into a man.

  Amos, of course, flew up for John’s graduation. After, they went back to Texas together.

  John would stay at Wilde’s Crossing for only a few days; he was due to head for Italy as the very junior member of a hotshot general’s staff. It was a plum job, especially for a brand-new second lieutenant, and though he joked that it probably would involve sussing out where the general could find the best veal Marsala in Rome, he was thrilled with the assignment. He’d turned out to have a feel for languages; he was fluent in Italian, and now would be his chance to put it to good use.

  Amos threw his usual over-the-top welcome party, a Sunday afternoon barbecue.

  John was uncomfortable.

  He had little to say to his old high school friends. There was a world of difference between them now, and he hung around just long enough to shake dozens of hands and slap as many backs. Then he sneaked upstairs, changed from his uniform to jeans and a T-shirt, clattered down the back staircase and took his graduation gift from Amos, a shiny black Thunderbird, for a drive.

  He’d thought it was an aimless drive, but half an hour later he found himself on Agnes Cleary’s street.

  He slowed the car as he approached the house.

  It looked the same as ever: Small. Neat. Flowers growing in the yard.

  Before he could overthink it, he pulled to the curb, stepped out of the Thunderbird, smoothed down his jeans, marched briskly to the front door and rang the bell.

  By the time the door swung open, he’d almost given up hope that Miss Cleary was home.

  “Yes?” a voice said.

  “Miss Cleary. It’s John…”

  But it wasn’t his old benefactor, it was a middle-aged woman with a dust mop in her hand.

  He took a half step back.

  “Is Agnes Cleary home?”

  The woman frowned.

  “Who are you?”

  “John Wilde, ma’am. Miss Cleary was my teacher a long time ago.”

  “Ah. I know your name, young man. My aunt often spoke of you.”

  “Spoke?” John said.

  “My aunt passed away in April. I’m here to try and put things in order before the house goes on the market.”

  John stared at her.

  “She’s…she’s dead?”

  “You didn’t know? I’m so sorry… Are you all right? Do you want a glass of water?”

  He felt numb. Numb, and shaken.

  “No. No, thank you. I’m just…I’m just surprised. I never thought—“


  “Neither did I. She always seemed indestructible.”

  Jesus. Things were spinning. Agnes Cleary, dead? He remembered all the times he’d thought of her, the times he’d meant to phone her…

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come in and sit down for a minute?”

  John blinked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. Positive.” He stood straight, dredged up a smile. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good day, ma’am. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  * * * *

  Half an hour later, he found himself at the lake.

  He hadn’t planned on it, but it was the right place to be. It was quiet and peaceful; damn near the entre town was at his old man’s barbecue.

  There was only one car in the lot, a black VW Beetle. He parked near it, got out of his car, tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and took a narrow footpath through the magnolias to the shore of the lake.

  He walked slowly, thinking back to how good the old woman had been to him. She’d damn near saved his life and how had he thanked her? By ignoring her. Forgetting her.

  Dampness blurred his vision. Sweat. It had to be sweat…

  “John?”

  Startled, he looked up. There was a bench a few feet ahead, and Connie was seated on it.

  He stared at her.

  Nothing about her had changed. Her hair was still frizzy, still that same dull color midway between blond and brown. She wore no makeup; her cotton shorts and blouse were dowdy. She was the same mouse she had always been, but his heart swelled at the sight of her.

  “Connie. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. How about you?”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m good.” He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I come here sometimes. It’s a pretty spot and—and…”

  Color rose in her cheeks. He knew what she was thinking.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “I, ah, I know. But I—I owe you an apology.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I do. I mean—”

  “I wanted what—what we did.” Her color deepened; her voice fell to a whisper. “I’d thought about it, you know?”

  “About you and Alden. Sure. But—”

  “Not Alden!” Her face flamed. “About you. You and me. I mean, I knew you’d never look at me that way. You could have any girl you wanted, but—” Embarrassed, she turned her head away and fell silent.