by Greg Fields
“I don’t know, Conor. I’m just not good with women. I’m not confident or comfortable. “
“You can’t hold back, pal, and you know it as well as I do. Sooner or later you’ve got to put yourself on the front lines. Maybe with Anne, maybe with someone else, but you’re going to have to make a move sometime.”
McIlweath rolled back and put his hands behind his head again. “Maybe I will, Conor. I know you’re right.”
“Give yourself a chance, Mac.”
“Listen, don’t tell Lanny or Dan about any of this, okay? I don’t feel much like being teased.”
“No problem. But if this pans out you’re going to have to introduce us all to her in due time. No secrets then.” Finnegan rose and walked to the door. “Keep me posted. The prospect of watching Tom McIlweath stalk a female promises to be fascinating.”
Finnegan headed back to his room, and to bed. For a brief moment, inexplicably, an image of McIlweath and himself running down the towpath flashed through his mind, an image from a while ago, when McIlweath passed him and, in doing so, inadvertently elbowed him in the upper arm.
***
For weeks Tom McIlweath maintained his boyishly distant pose. He hovered on the far periphery of Anne Newbury’s life, content to look for a safe entry to the core. Young Tom went out of his way to give himself the opportunity for fortuitous chance encounters that no one could have expected. He lingered in the locker room after workouts, hoping to repeat the circumstances of their initial conversation. He looked up her address and drove through her neighborhood thinking he might see her walking somewhere and offer her a ride. During free moments he walked aimlessly around Queen’s Mall hoping that he might find her coming out of one of the old buildings.
All his efforts, though, came to nothing. His relationship with Anne reverted back to a non-relationship. Never did his locker room timing pay off, never did he see her walking through town, never did she emerge from class at the right moment. The only times he saw her were, as before, in the pool during workouts. She occasionally smiled at him from pool’s edge, and he smiled back, but they did not speak. Through the chlorinated water their images were fuzzy and ill-defined.
Conor Finnegan told no one of McIlweath’s infatuation. To be sure, he considered McIlweath’s approach to the entire situation laughable, but he dared not betray his friend’s confidence. He knew that Rosselli and O’Hanlon would ride McIlweath cruelly if they knew how any specifics.
That sentiment, though, did not prevent him from leaning on McIlweath at every turn. Each night Finnegan would corner McIlweath in secret, in one of their bedrooms or the kitchen, and ask how the day went.
“Did you see her?”
“Only at workout.”
“Well, did you speak to her?”
“No. I didn’t get the chance. I handed her a towel when she got out of the pool, though.”
“Didn’t you at least say ’good workout’ or something?”
“No, Conor. It wasn’t the place. Too many people around.”
“To say ’good workout’?! And what do you mean it wasn’t the place? It’s a pool, for Christ’s sake, and she just worked out. Mac, I’m begging you, just make conversation. Anything small and dull will do. You’re good at that.”
Finnegan did not understand, but he was willing to go along with it as sympathetically as he could. Tom McIlweath, he concluded, had a problem. He, Conor Finnegan, might be able to help him with it if they both were lucky. To do so, he would have to be patient and persistent.
Because McIlweath had taken him into this deepest of confidences, Finnegan felt an almost proprietary responsibility toward the situation’s outcome. He went so far as to try to devise a way in which he could make the approach on Tom’s behalf, but he knew that nothing he could do along those lines would make any sense. He’d no doubt brand himself a fool in the process. One way or another, though, Finnegan would see this relationship come off.
McIlweath fell back on his dreams and fantasies. He concluded sadly that he lacked the simple fortitude necessary to bridge the gap between Romantic daydreams and a more exciting reality. To take a chance with Anne and to lose it . . . Anne was too special. She was an ideal, Dante’s Beatrice. He could not bear a rejection here. Better to be timidly lonely than to suffer a thoroughly crushed ego. McIlweath kept his distance in a melancholy, bittersweet silence.
Until Fate, which McIlweath had pursued so meticulously, turned around and ambushed him.
McIlweath took a Latin course across town at Douglass College. On most days he drove the few miles through New Brunswick’s sooty streets, but he had been asked this day by his coach to stop by the pool to review his events for the coming season and so had no time to hustle back to the apartment for his car. He would have to take a campus bus to get to class on time.
The bus stopped outside the gymnasium on College Avenue. McIlweath expected it to be crowded, but for some reason it was not. Only a handful of students occupied the plastic seats. As McIlweath stepped up to the aisle, his heart shot forth a burst of adrenalin: one of those seats was occupied by Anne Newbury, her head buried in some type of textbook. There could be no escape from this, nothing short of turning around in full view and stumbling back down the steps to the street.
With mock assurance, McIlweath walked the aisle to her seat. “Hello, Anne.” She looked up, startled. Her blue eyes widened and shone alertly through her glasses. The pose froze itself into McIlweath’s memory. “Mind if I keep you company?”
“Tom, no. Not at all. I’m surprised to see you. I’ve never seen you on this bus.”
“I rarely ride it. Coach had his annual preseason meeting with me, so I’m running late.”
“You have a Latin class?”
Tom was pleased. She remembered at least what he was studying. Or perhaps she just noticed the nature of the books he carried. No matter, it still counted. “Yes. It’s an upper-level course I can’t get here. The Romantic Poets. Propertius, Tibullus, Ovid, and the rest of the boys. Dull stuff, and some of it is pretty juvenile, like a boy going through puberty.” Tom inwardly flinched at his careless mention of ’puberty.’ He wasn’t back at the apartment anymore. He was with Anne, and he couldn’t risk treading through offensive references.
He continued, “I had forgotten you took a course across town, too.”
“I’m not sure I ever told you,” Anne replied. “It’s a mathematics course. Probability and Statistics. I wanted to get it out of the way and it’s not offered here this term.”
“So you can calculate the odds on things?”
“Some things. The easy things. Like how often you can expect to draw a certain poker hand. That’s an example they always use to get us started. But I don’t know anything about cards. Their examples always confuse me,” she smiled.
“I’m not much on odds. What’s going to happen is going to happen. There’s no predicting it. We’re human, and that means we’re fallible, flexible and unpredictable.”
“That’s rather fatalistic, Tom.”
“Well, I think it’s important to devise statistical formulas and probability tables, but they can’t apply to the human condition.”
“Obviously,” said Anne, “You’re not majoring in the sciences. But doesn’t studying the humanities get frustrating because of that very unpredictability? Man’s history is so misdirectional, like a moth caught under a lampshade. Just when you get him figured out or come up with a theory why something happened the way it did, something else comes along to controvert it. There are no formulas, and no surety, in the humanities. It’s all so confounding.”
“But that’s the beauty of it, Anne. Flesh and blood, with all its mistakes. Confused intentions, pomposity, arrogance, greed, altruism. Man’s highest accomplishments and his greatest blunders. That’s classics, and history, and sociology, and economics, and literature. And it all applies to each of us as we are.”
“Maybe that’s what confuses me. You strive to find the best of what
mankind has created and his highest thoughts. But then you look around and see the brutality of where we are. Killing each other, bombing, raping, cheating and swindling . . .”
“Vietnam, Charles Manson, Rwanda, the Holocaust . . .”
“Right. Do we ever really learn anything from all this studying?”
“What alternative do we have other than to try to find the greatest avenues for our potential? It’s the best chance we’ve got to overcome our primitive nature.”
“I don’t know, Tom. It’s all so confusing. The sciences are much more logical.”
“I’ve had this discussion before with one of my roommates. Science versus the humanities, and all that.”
“It’s whatever our temperaments allow.”
“Are our temperaments that different?”
Anne looked at McIlweath with a smile, then coyly turned her head. “That no doubt remains to be seen.”
The bus turned a corner so that the momentum pressed McIlweath’s body against Anne’s. Tom noted her scent, the light, pungent sweetness of his hair. Her body felt softer against his side than he had expected it to be. He had anticipated the firm musculature of a swimmer.
Tom McIlweath for weeks had sought a sign. In Anne Newbury’s surprising tactility, in her teasing response to his leading question, he had found it. With his mind rebounding from their conversation, his senses drugged by her presence, his instincts triggered by the pleasures of these past few minutes, he placed himself at last before her. He did not know what he had said, nor did he perceive himself in the action of saying it, until the words had passed from him.
“Anne, do you think you might like to have dinner with me Saturday night?”
***
The first time Conor Finnegan set eyes on Anne Newbury, something indefinable snapped within him creating a tiny fissure, a hairline rift along a previously solid wall. Had he been asked why this was so and what he felt, he could not have explained it, certainly not in any rational way. He felt as if he were in bed, in the dark, and heard voices outside his window, not threatening necessarily, but merely unknown and unexpected. Anne Newbury carried something with her he had not seen before, an invisible specter lurking over her shoulder, voices in the dark. Finnegan could not articulate it, but he most definitely perceived it.
Perhaps it was just that Anne Newbury at first glance was not the girl Tom McIlweath had described. She was not overwhelmingly attractive. That was Finnegan’s first disappointment, although, to her credit, neither was she completely without her charms. Most noticeable were Anne’s sharp blue eyes, hidden behind the blur of thick glasses. She wore her hair to her shoulders. McIlweath had described it as light brown and thick, but in reality it seemed stringy. Anne’s body was slight. She had hips and breasts, but they were not immediately discernible to the naked eye. There were bulges where bulges were due, but in neither location was there a great abundance. Finnegan thought her small breasts to be jagged, and running his hands over them would be like grasping a pair of pointed rocks.
McIlweath had brought Anne by after dinner. He wanted her to grant his new home the benediction of her sweet breath and soft footfall. It would be, if nothing else, a confirmation of this latest reality.
Only Finnegan was at the apartment that Saturday night, though. Rosselli and O’Hanlon had gone to a fraternity party in a quest for alcohol and women, guaranteed of finding at least the former. They would not be stumbling up the stairs until much later. Finnegan had not wanted to go along. He had no need tonight of the noise, the press of bodies, the false banter. He had the opportunity for a quietly introspective evening, a rare enough occurrence, and so he would take advantage of it. Besides, unlike his other two roommates, Finnegan was excited by his friend’s prospects. He alone knew what had gone into bringing it all about, the risks involved. He had helped nurse McIlweath through his uncertainties. In a small sense, it had been like sharing the birth of a child. Conor Finnegan, midwife, felt quite proud.
But all that pride tarnished when Anne Newbury walked through the door. Finnegan had been listening to music in the living room. He sat back in the easy chair with his eyes closed, mouthing the Dylan lyrics. When the door opened he sat up at once. Anne walked through first, and Finnegan perceived instantly that strange quality that dissembled his nerves.
Anne stood there with a shy, manufactured smile. Her whole expression struck Finnegan as contrived.
“Anne, I’d like you to meet Conor Finnegan. Conor, this is Anne Newbury.”
Finnegan stood up. “It’s a pleasure, Anne.” He smiled, self-consciously sticking his hands into the rear pockets of his jeans.
“Hi” was all he got in return.
“Would you like to sit down?” asked McIlweath, gesturing to the couch.
“I hope Tom hasn’t been telling you too many stories about what slobs his roommates are, Anne. We’re actually a pretty friendly bunch of guys, and reasonably clean.”
“Tom says you’re all good friends. That’s enviable. This is a nice apartment, Tom. I like the view.” Anne sat down in the chair nearest the window, leaving McIlweath to sit by himself on the couch. Finnegan resumed his seat in the easy chair across the room. ’Awkward,’ thought Finnegan.
“Where’d you two go for dinner?”
“Tony’s,” answered McIlweath.
“Not much on atmosphere, is it?”
“We didn’t mind,” replied McIlweath, a thinly rapturous smile affixed to his narrow lips.
“What do you do?” asked Anne. “Besides study.”
The question seemed to Finnegan to come out of the blue, a blunt projectile hurtled forth from the clouds. He had to regroup himself. “What do you mean?” he finally stammered. “I do the usual things. I eat, I drink, I sleep. I kid Tom a lot. I drive an old Ford. Am I doing okay?”
“But what do you do?” she persisted. “You don’t swim. Do you play any sports?”
“Conor used to be a great basketball player in high school.”
“But you don’t play here.”
“Well, no. Not on any team. I play in the gym on my own quite a bit.”
“Oh. Are you on the debating team, or do you play in the band or anything like that?”
“No, Anne. I guess I’m rather dull.” What the hell was this all about?
“Conor worked the past two summers for a United States senator,” said McIlweath. “He’s our political expert.”
“Oh, I don’t pay any attention to politics,” said Anne.
“Well, after working for the senator I’m not certain that I want to, either.”
“Isn’t politics rather disgusting?” she asked. “People contentious, mouthing at one another, calling each other names. People making deals behind everyone’s backs, and taking bribes.” She made a face.
“I haven’t taken many bribes in my day, and I can’t remember calling anyone a foul name. Not for a while, at least.”
“Would you like some coffee, Anne?” asked McIlweath. “Come on. I’ll show you the apartment.” They left the room and headed for the kitchen. Finnegan felt a rush of relief.
’Whatever strengths she might have,’ he said to himself, ’tact certainly isn’t one of them.’
The two remained in the kitchen for several minutes. Finnegan heard their voices and knew they were carrying on a conversation, although he could not discern any words. He did not want to. Every now and then one of them would laugh in a childish spurt. Another couple and Finnegan would have been tempted to join them, but here he had no desire to do so.
Tom and Anne at length returned to the living room. They sat side by side on the couch this time after walking into the room, completely oblivious to anyone else. Finnegan chose not to initiate conversation. ’The ball’s in your court, folks,’ he thought. ’Let’s see what you do with it. Let’s see if there’s anything you do like.’
But they said nothing to Finnegan. They talked to each other alone. They talked of people on the swim team, of workout lengths, of str
oke technique, of the delicacy of balancing a heavy work load with the demands of the pool. To them, Conor Finnegan had disappeared.
After an interminable half hour or so, Tom McIlweath wrapped it up. “I should get you home, Anne.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly midnight. Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink before we go?”
“No. I’m fine, Tom. Let’s get going.”
McIlweath fetched their coats. For the few seconds he was out of the room Anne stood awkwardly near the door. She said nothing to Finnegan, nor did she look in his direction. When McIlweath returned, she hurried into her wrap.
“I’ll see you later, Conor,” said McIlweath.
Anne had already taken a step down the wooden stairway. “It was nice to meet you,” she called over her shoulder. An afterthought.
“Yeah. Take it easy, you two,” and they were gone.
Finnegan went back to his music, tuning in something moody and low. ’Jesus,’ he thought to himself as the first song rose through the low notes, ’What the hell was that? But it’s Mac’s concern. He knows that he’s doing. Or at least he should by now. If he doesn’t, it’s nobody’s fault but his own.’
The concept of ’fault’, though, was as far removed from Tom McIlweath’s mind that evening as Halley’s Comet. His night with Anne had been a glorious time, one of the singular chapters in his young life. He viewed her through the gloss of moonlight; everything she had said had somehow been lyrical, touching or witty, every move she had made had been as graceful as the birth of Venus. She had accepted him, spoke low to him. She had even held his hand briefly. It was just the two of them. Tom McIlweath felt as if his entire existence these past several years had pointed him to this one evening. Perhaps it had. Sentiment plays itself off circumstance to create Fate. Tom McIlweath soared rapturously in Romantic intoxication. He was, on this particular evening, Lord Byron on the shore, or Shelley walking his moors.
McIlweath drove Anne back to her home, the large suburban house where she had grown up and still lived. He walked her to the door. A single light shone through the living room window. Although Anne’s parents were reportedly in bed, McIlweath felt inhibited.
