Whom Gods Destroy

by Clifton Adams

  It doesn't take you long to find out that most of the Cedar Street gang are pretty snotty. So you get into fights with them and usually beat hell out of them because you're pretty good at that kind of thing. You've got a vague idea that the thing can be settled as simply as that. If you just beat hell out of a few of them they'll come to believe you're as good as they are.

  It doesn't work that way. It takes you quite a while to see that you're not getting anywhere, but finally you see that fighting isn't the answer. So you start studying; long hard hours.

  The teachers say you've got a good brain, better than any brain in the room, maybe. You don't know just why it's so important to make these snotty Cedar Streeters see that you're somebody, but it is. You lie awake at nights and it gnaws at you and you ask yourself, Why is it so important? I'm smarter than any of them, I can whip any of them. But I'm not one of them.

  In your second year of high school you think you've found the answer. You go out for football. You're big and tough and fast and you've got a head on your shoulders. You're a natural quarterback. You get your picture in the paper and write-ups and State University sends scouts down to watch you do your stuff. But what really gets you is the yelling from the sidelines. You hear them yelling your name and it goes to your head like high wine. And after you make a touchdown they all pound you on the back and holler at you and tell you you're the best damn quarterback Old Big Prairie High ever had, and you feel so proud that you're ready to bust. You're finally getting somewhere.

  And there's a girl, too. But we'll have to go back again to understand that.

  You have to go clear back to the beginning to understand about Lola, because it was Lola who put the hunger in you to pull yourself out of Burk Street and be somebody.

  Lola was a symbol at first, and hardly a person at all. She was nine years old and she wore a white dress and black patent-leather slippers, and she was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen because she represented something that you were just beginning to understand. She represented class. She lived in a big white house on Cedar Street and her old man drove a new Dodge sedan. She didn't even know you were alive.

  There is one day that you remember in particular. It was in September, and you remember standing around in front of the school building that afternoon after school was out, with the rest of the bunch. Then Lola came out, talking to some girl that you didn't know but who must have lived on Cedar Street, too, and they passed right by the group of boys, their heads in the air, not even seeing them.

  “Snotty little dames,” one of the kids said under his breath.

  Somebody snickered. “I wouldn't kick that Lola Johnson out of bed, though.”

  Nine years old. You learned fast on Burk Street. The boys began shoving each other and pushing and snickering wisely to cover up their embarrassment, and for the first time you could remember you were ashamed of them, ashamed of being one of them.

  “What's the matter, Roy?”

  “He's stuck on Lola Johnson.”

  “Like hell I am.”

  “Goddamn, let's go down to the slough and see if the mud-cats are bitin'.”

  “I've got somethin' else, to do.”

  You walk off, careful not to take the street Lola and the other girl had taken, but as soon as the other kids are out of sight you cut quickly across vacant lots and come out on Cedar Street.

  You can think of no logical reason why you did it. But your chest was pounding and aching, and not just from the run, as you fell in quietly behind Lola and the other girl, almost a full block back. She looked so clean—even after a full day at school she was clean and white and starched. I love you, Lola! The thought explodes in your mind as you watch her from a distance. You don't know what love is, of course; you only know that she represented something that you craved.

  The girl dropped off at one of the houses on Cedar and Lola walked on alone. She reached her house finally and went inside and for a long while you stood across the street, just looking at the house, with a strange kind of ache inside you.

  In some strange way, in the remote, dark places of your mind and heart, you came to a decision that afternoon. Somehow, you had to reach that other world of Cedar Street. You had to be someone that Lola Johnson could look up to.

  It took a long time. When you had the football in your hands and when you heard the crowd yelling from the sidelines, knowing that Lola was yelling too, then you thought yon had made it.

  In your senior year you were sure you had. You were “somebody” now. People pointed you out—That's Roy Foley—all-State quarterback. Not even Lola could ignore a thing like that. When you spoke to her in the halls, between classes, she spoke back. Sometimes she smiled, and when she did your insides would go to mush.

  “Lola, ah— That is, well, I'm going your way this afternoon. If I could carry your books ...”

  “Oh, I'm sorry, Roy, but I'm not going straight home this afternoon. I promised Patsy that I'd go over to her house.”

  Well, you never walked home with her. But, on the other hand, she didn't look down her nose at you either. She knew who Roy Foley was, and that was something.

  You told yourself it was something—but you began to wonder. Had you really made progress, or had you been kidding yourself? It was Lola herself who put your mind at ease—for a little while, at least.

  “Lola— Well, I was thinking, if we beat Classen Friday, ah— Well, they'll be having a dance in the gym, I guess....”

  You'd stopped her in the hallway, between classes, on some flimsy excuse, and the words came blurting out. You were alone with her for just that moment. The warning buzzer was sounding outside the superintendent's office, the signal that classes were ready to begin. For a moment she looked blank, and you were afraid that she was going to rush on to class without bothering to answer. Then she paused, glancing almost furtively, you thought, up and down the empty hall.

  Suddenly to your amazement, she became a different person. She smiled. She almost blinded you with the dazzling warmth of it.

  “Oh,” she said. “Roy, I do wish I could go to the dance with you!” You could feel yourself glowing inside. And you felt eight feet tall. “But I've already promised Bob Carney I'd go with him. I will see you, though, won't I, Roy?” And then, miracle of miracles, she took your hand in hers and squeezed it!

  There was one thing you were sure of, as you stood there, struck dumb in your rose-colored trance. She liked you. It was in her eyes, in her quick response as she squeezed your hand. The only thing you could think of was, She likes me! Maybe she even loves me!

  And maybe it was true. Probably she did love you, or at least was infatuated with you, but of course things are never as simple as that. How were you to know or understand the complexities of women? It never occurred to you that when Lola smiled or showed a warmness toward you, it was always when there was no one to see her.

  The entire team was at the dance, of course, and people kept pounding your back and telling you what a great guy you were. You weren't a very good dancer, but the girls didn't seem to care that night because you were a hero. You were the greatest guy around.

  “I never was so excited in my life, Roy, the way you made that touchdown in the last quarter!”

  You've forgotten the girl's name. You probably didn't even see her because you were watching all the time for Lola. You saw her come in and she was so beautiful that it made you ache inside just to look at her. You let her have one dance with her date, and then you cut in.

  “Hello, Lola.”

  She smiled and you could see that she was glad you'd tagged in. She's proud to be dancing with you. Lola is more than a symbol now, she's everything you want or will ever want. She's cleanness and sweetness and softness, everything that Burk Street isn't. When you put your arms around her, you want to mash her to you. But you don't do that. You dance, a little more clumsily than usual, and you feel sweat breaking out on your forehead.

  This is a hell of a thing. On the football fiel
d you're not afraid of anything and you know just what to do, but you're dancing with a girl and she's smiling at you and you're scared to death.

  “Is anything wrong, Roy?”

  “Wrong? Oh, no, not a thing. Everything's fine. I guess I don't dance so good—so well, though.”

  “We could sit this one out,” she says, “if you don't feel like dancing.”

  Now you've done it. Just keep talking and talking and finally you'll ruin everything.

  “It was a wonderful game.” And she looks up at you and her eyes are soft and she's still smiling that gentle smile.

  “I guess we could get Cokes,” you say. “We could go outside on the steps and drink them. It's pretty hot in here.”

  So you do that. You get Cokes and go outside.

  “It's a nice night,” you say, and then you think, God, that's a new opener for you! It's a nice night!

  “The moon's just coming up on the other side of the river—see it?”

  You say you see the moon. You say a lot of other things just as bright, and all the time you're wanting to put your arms around her and kiss her.

  “It was a wonderful game,” Lola says again. “I shouted until I was hoarse in the last quarter.”

  You begin to feel a little better. “If I'd known, maybe I'd have done better.”

  “You did wonderfully, Roy. You won the game.”

  There's nothing to be afraid of, you tell yourself. She's talking to you just as she would to anybody else. The thing is, you don't want her to talk to you the way she would talk to anybody else. You want it to be special. You want her to feel the way you feel. And you think, Maybe she does. She likes me. I can tell when somebody likes me.

  An idea hits you then, and you say, “Are you going to college, Lola, when you finish high school?”

  “Why, I suppose so, Roy. Why?”

  “I think I'll go, too. I can get a scholarship if I want it. I want to study law or something.”

  “I think that would be nice.”

  “Maybe we could see each other there, if you go to State University. I'll be going out for football, probably.”

  “Why, that would be nice.”

  You're not sure just how it happened, but you have one arm around her now. And all the feeling inside you starts rushing up in your throat and you can't talk any more. You drop your Coke and put both arms around her, and you pull her against you so hard that you know you're hurting her, but you can't help yourself. You mash your mouth onto hers and time seems to stop. The world stops and waits. And for the first time in your life you feel good and clean and at peace.

  When you release her, her eyes are wide and startled. Then suddenly she smiles and says, “My!”

  You start talking then, and you can't stop. “Lola, I love you. I've loved you ever since I can remember, almost. I want to marry you—not right now, of course, but not too long off, either. I'm going to amount to something, Lola, you wait and see. They can't keep me on Burk Street if I don't want to stay there. I'll be a lawyer or something. Maybe a doctor, and you'll be proud of me, Lola.”

  At first she just has that startled look, and that little half smile. Then abruptly, right in your face, she laughs.

  She throws her head back and howls, and tears of merriment form at her eyes and run down her cheeks. She gasps for breath and holds her sides as if she's in pain, and then she starts all over again, howling and laughing.

  You turn cold. Your insides sag like rock. “Lola!”

  She gets her breath finally. “Oh, Roy!” she gasps, “You're the funniest thing!” And then she starts laughing again.

  You start backing up, a step at a time, at first. Then you turn and try to slip away.

  “Hey, Roy!” someone calls, and you know it's one of the team but you're too sick with shame to turn around. You walk faster, staying in the shadows, and the only thing you want is to get away from there. As far away as you can get. And then you hear the others coming out of the gym to see what all the excitement is about, and you hear Lola laughing, starting all over again.

  “Lola, what on earth!”

  Then, standing in the darkness, praying frantically to a God that you know won't hear you, you hear Lola gasp out, between spasms of laughter: “Oh, this is just too funny! Roy Foley—.Roy Foley just said to me...”

  You don't hear any more. You turn blindly and run.

  You don't sleep that night. You lie there drowning in an ocean of shame, and anger swells your chest and throat until you can't breathe. You beat the mattress with your fists, and you swear that you'll get even with her if it's the last thing you do. You'll be a lawyer, the best damn lawyer in the country, and you'll break her. You'll break her old man. You'll frame him somehow and send him to jail, and see how she likes that!

  You think of a lot of ways to hurt her, but none of them are good enough. Damn her! Damn her! Goddamn her! And you curse yourself, too, because you know well that you haven't got the guts to face her again. There would be no college; there wouldn't even be a diploma from the high school, because you knew you couldn't face her.

  And that's the way it is when you're young and your name is Roy Foley and you live on Burk Street. You try, but you can't win. So you run.

  3

  YOU WOULD THINK THAT fourteen years would be long enough to forget. I thought I had forgotten, but there it was, the same thing all over again. The shame was just as sickening as it had been fourteen years ago, and the hate and anger were just as sharp.

  I went across the street and into the house again, and I guess I went absolutely crazy for a few minutes. I picked up a chair and slammed it against the wall, and I kept slamming it until there was nothing but splinters left. Then I pounded the walls with my fists and cursed. Foley, you're a phony, no-good sonofabitch! Oh, you were going to do great things! You were going to show her that she couldn't get away with treating you like that. A lousy fry cook in a crumby eight-stool hash house. Great God, you make me sick!

  The rage finally burned itself out of its own violence and left me weak and gasping. I lay across the bed and tried not to think about it. Well, what do you do now, Foley? I knew I couldn't stay in Big Prairie. Sooner or later I would run into her, and what would I do then? Now that I had cooled off I knew that I didn't have enough money to take care of the funeral expenses. What would I say to her? Here's three-fifty, Lola. Thanks for burying my old man for me. I'll pay you the rest when I get a job.

  I knew what I was going to do. I was going to run, just the way I had done before.

  I went back to the salvage shop and called a taxi, then went outside to smoke a cigarette and wait for it. I felt like I was just coming —out from under a long, hard drunk. My hands shook. The muscles in my legs had gone to milksop.

  The taxi came finally, and I went back to the bus station and found out that it would be another hour before I could catch anything going west. So I checked the suitcase and started walking the streets to kill time just looking around.

  The red Ford passed me, making about forty-five miles an hour right through the middle of town. I'd just stepped off the curb and he missed me by about six inches, and I thought, The sonofabitch, I hope he gets himself killed! Then, while I was still looking, the Ford screeched under tramped brakes, then made a U turn right in the middle of the street and came back toward me. It was a new convertible, but the top was up because the day was sharp.

  I jumped back on the curb and started to yell, but then I saw the girl sitting next to the driver. Her hair was long and so blonde that it was almost white. Her mouth was as red as an open wound. She wasn't beautiful—she was a long way from that—but there was something witch-like about her, and once you looked at her it was hard to take your eyes away.

  “Roy,” the driver called. “By God, it's Roy Foley!”

  I saw the driver for the first time. He was a heavy-set guy with eyes that were pale and vaguely weak-looking, and mousy hair that was beginning to get thin on top. He had the flushed, slightly puffy face o
f a heavy drinker. The first thing I thought was, How did a pig like that get a girl like that? The red convertible explained part of it, I guessed. Then it hit me who he was and it almost floored me.

  I gouged in my mind for his name, and then I had it. It was Sid Gardner. He was from Burk Street, just like I was, and he was one of the dumbest guys I had ever known. But he had that new car and that girl.

  By the time I got it all figured out I was over pumping his hand, and he looked tickled to death to see me.

  He turned to the girl and said, “Vida, this here's Roy Foley. He was the sweetest damn running back you ever saw.”

  “Not without you making the holes for me,” I said. I had him pegged now. He had been a guard or a tackle, as well as I could remember. The girl looked at me and smiled as though it was a debt that had to be paid.

  “By God,” Sid said, and then he remembered something and got serious. “Say, I heard about your old man. That's too bad.”

  There was nothing much I could say to that, so I nodded.

  “Look,” Sid said, “why don't you climb in? I've got to take Vida home, then I've got some running around to do, but that won't keep us from talking.”

  “Well—”

  I was thinking about the bus that would be pulling out in less than an hour, but I was calmer now and not so anxious as I had been back on Burk Street. Anyway, I still hadn't got over the shock of seeing an ordinary Burk Street punk looking so rich. There were two things I knew, he hadn't done it by working and he hadn't done it with brains. Then, how?

  I made up my mind right then to find out, if I could. There would be other buses.

  The girl, Vida, looked vaguely annoyed as she moved over to the middle of the front seat and I got in. Sid put the car in gear.

  The longer we rode the more I remembered about him and the better I understood him. Sid Gardner was one of those men who never grow up and never forget. He was still Burk Street, even with his red convertible and expensive-looking girl, and he would never forget that, either. But it would never bother him.