Arc of the Comet

by Greg Fields

  The four broke into a run, their clothes instantly soaked and clinging to their churning legs and arms. It was a run of desperation, and a run of joy. They ran with boundless energy and power, believing that they would never tire, that together they could run through the rain forever to the ends of existence itself and back again. Their limbs pulled them along fluidly, their lungs filled and emptied effortlessly, the water splashing around their feet and into their eyes, cooling them. It was a benediction, holy water sprinkled lavishly on their chosen heads. They had to run nearly a mile around the far side of the park to get home. In the buoyant confidence of youth unleashed, they dashed down the road, away from all fears, away from all uncertainties, assured in their hearts that they were running toward those things they desired—toward security, toward glory, toward fame, toward the crowning ecstasy of life itself.

  They ran through the rain together, no one pulling away and no one falling back. They reached the park’s entrance and bounded across the street, then down the short block to the apartment, opened the lower door and sloshed up the stairs to their entryway. The walls of the stairway were splashed thoroughly, and small pools formed on some of the steps. The four piled into the apartment.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Rosselli between breaths, “I’m drenched.”

  “Take off your shoes and stay on the carpet.”

  “God damn, I’ve never been so wet. Mac, you ought to feel right at home.”

  Finnegan, shoeless, went down the hall to the bathroom and returned with four towels. “Here, dry yourselves off. We better take off our clothes before we do anything else or we’ll saturate the rugs.”

  They stripped, wrapped their dripping clothes in their towels and went to their respective bedrooms. O’Hanlon tossed his bundle in the corner then went down the hallway, still naked. “I could use a beer.”

  “I need another towel,” said Finnegan, and followed him. O’Hanlon pulled out four beers from the refrigerator, gave one to Finnegan, then carried the other two into the adjoining bedroom.

  McIlweath and Rosselli were finishing toweling off and getting dressed when O’Hanlon entered with the beers, Finnegan behind him.

  “Christ, you guys,” exclaimed Rosselli. “Put some clothes on. You’re disgusting.” Laughing now, O’Hanlon and Finnegan headed next door to their bedroom where they got dressed. The four reunited in the living room.

  “A toast,” said Finnegan as he entered, extending his bottle in front of him. “To this evening, to the rain, and to friendship.” The three others stood up and the four of them met in the center of the room.

  “We have one year left together. Let’s not forget that. Let’s draw as much from it as we can, from ourselves and from each other, and at the end of it, let’s be able to look back on four years of brotherhood. And let’s carry those feelings for this year to the grave.”

  They clinked bottles and drank.

  “Well said, Conor,” said Rosselli. “We have to be aware of that. We’re living the dream, right now and right here. It’s something we’ll never be able to duplicate as long as we live.”

  “You’re right, Dan,” rejoined Finnegan. “The way we live now is really unnatural. We have only a finite amount of time left. Appreciate it, and be protective of it. We’ll never have it this easy once we leave here.”

  They drank then, and drank for the rest of the night, into the small hours of the morning, with the storm pounding on the roof and against the windows. They grew quite drunk and told their stories with great embellishment. They slurred their words and laughed at each other’s mistakes.

  Around 3:00, Tom McIlweath, slouching back in his chair by the window, fell asleep, his glasses askew and his mouth gaping. No one wanted to disturb him, and a few minutes later Dan Rosselli spread out on the couch to sleep, too. Finnegan, the room whirling about him, slid off his chair onto the floor and lay spread-eagle with his face toward the couch. O’Hanlon, the survivor, tried to rise from his chair, but his limbs did not respond. His hands slid off the armrests as he attempted to push himself up. Resigned, he slumped back and closed his eyes. There was no point in fighting it.

  The four of them slept that night, lights on and fully clothed, in their contorted positions. They awoke within a few minutes of each other the next morning, each stretching groggily and gingerly taking account of their heads, their stomachs, and their dry, starchy mouths. A rankly acrid smell the odor of stale beer spilled onto the rug, filled the room. When the phone rang at 11:00, they cursed it. Only McIlweath moved to answer it, the other three falling back into their chairs and holding their heads.

  “Hello? Hi, Anne, how are you?”

  Rosselli groaned audibly and shut his eyes.

  “Not much. We just had dinner and sat around. Conor and Dan came back last night so we had a lot to catch up on . . . Well, yeah . . . Okay, give me about half an hour. I’ll meet you there . . . No, I’m not. I feel fine . . . Really. I’ll be there in half an hour. Goodbye, Anne.” He hung up and plodded wordlessly down the hall to his room.

  “The Fairy Princess,” said O’Hanlon huskily. “She’ll give him hell for being hung over, then she’ll make him swim an hour. The poor bastard’s going to suffer mightily today.”

  Finnegan rose with effort. “You derelicts want some coffee? I’m going to make a pot.” Interpreting his friends’ grunts for assents he headed for the kitchen. Conor Finnegan felt truly wonderful. It was grand, it was glorious, to be back.

  ***

  The following weekend Conor brought Glynnis to campus. She did not take the train; Finnegan drove to Philadelphia to pick her up. It had been three weeks since he had seen her.

  By the time they got back to new Brunswick it was nearly dark. No one was at the apartment, where they stopped briefly to drop off Glynnis’s bag before taking a walk around campus. Finnegan had arranged for O’Hanlon to sleep on the living room couch which folded out into a bed. His own narrow bed would fit them both.

  With his boyish sense of wonder revived, Finnegan showed Glynnis the campus, the touchpoints of his life here, then they walked the short blocks north to Tony’s. The restaurant was crowded, so they waited for a table at the bar. Few women were there that night, and when Glynnis entered Conor thought he noticed heads turn and linger on her a bit longer than normal.

  They got a small table for two against a far wall. His head seemed light; he felt giddy, not because of the single beer he had drunk at the bar, but because Glynnis was finally here. All surety was once more dismissed. This was new, and he would have to inch his way through it. He was uncertain whether he should be protective, or solicitous, or cavalier. He sat on every one of Glynnis’s reactions, every word, every gesture. If he was off-balance, how then must she be feeling? He tried to read her. At the same time he tried to accustom himself to the simple fact that Glynnis had walked next to him and now sat before him in places that previously were solely his. She redefined this part of his life by her very presence.

  They ate and drank again, catching up on the three weeks apart. Glynnis talked of her family and her trip home. She spoke of school, her small circle of friends, her dissolute roommate whose youth had been aborted. Conor listened and when he spoke, his disjointed thoughts hopped from topic to topic. He outlined his honors thesis, reviewed his professors, spoke grandly of his friends. He told her how the river looked as he ran along it on late winter afternoons. He mentioned the funny names of the places around them—Rancocas, Weequahic, Metuchen. Finnegan felt compelled to lay open what this place truly was as far as he could see it, to stretch it across the table for Glynnis’s closest inspection. In the end, he tried to make her comfortable, that was all.

  After dinner Conor and Glynnis walked back to the apartment. For the first time since their greeting kiss, he touched her, putting his arm around her narrow waist and pulling her form to his side. Glynnis in response lifted her hand to Conor’s shoulder and nestled her head against him. They walked on silently, dwelling once again on the renewe
d sensation of each other’s presence. Conor breathed deeply, drawing in the combined scent of Glynnis, and of the quiet city streets of the late summer’s evening. He pressed her side and spread his fingers to capture as much of her as he could.

  To Finnegan’s surprise, all three of his roommates were in when the two of them arrived at the apartment. They were sitting in various positions in the living room as Conor opened the door. The thought of introducing Glynnis to his three friends had heretofore made him somewhat nervous. Although he had confidence they would all get along, the uncertainty of Glynnis’s reaction to them, and they to her, had given him pause. He would have to see if his confidence was justified, and there was nothing to do but proceed.

  “Evening, Conor,” Rosselli spoke first.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” It was Glynnis who greeted them, a glint of a smile in her expression. Conor had not anticipated that she would speak up so quickly, even in greeting. Her eyes scanned the three forms reclined before her, the first impressions that most often prove indelible. The three sitting figures stood up.

  “A few introductions are in order. Glynnis, this is Dan Rosselli, Lanny O’Hanlon and Tom McIlweath. Roommates and brothers in sin. Gentlemen, Glynnis Mear. She’s proof that I have a side I never show you guys.”

  “I’m so glad to finally meet you all. Conor speaks of you so often that I feel as if we’re old friends. And Lanny, it’s so sweet of you to give up your room for me. I’ll try not to be a bother.”

  “It’s no bother,” replied O’Hanlon. “In fact, it’s a pleasure. I wasn’t aware an animal like Conor could attract someone as lovely as you.”

  Glynnis laughed. “Conor’s not an animal. At least not most of the time. I’ve been anxious to see where you all live. This is really quite charming.”

  “I was just about to go to the kitchen to get us something to drink,” said Rosselli. “What would you like? We’ve got beer, soda, and some harder stuff if you want.”

  Conor and Glynnis requested beers, McIlweath scurried out to help Rosselli carry them out, and the two of them sat down with O’Hanlon on the couch.

  “Nothing happening tonight, rooms?”

  “Not a thing, pal. No parties, no ladies, no plans. I thought I’d sit around with Dan and Mac. Between the three of us we can probably manage an incredibly boring evening. What are you two up to, besides the obvious?”

  “No plans for us either. Maybe we can all sit around together.”

  Rosselli and McIlweath returned quickly with the beers. They each took one, and Rosselli proposed an unexpected toast. “To old friendships, and to new ones.”

  None of the five left the apartment that night. No one had anywhere to go. They sat there in the living room, music playing softly, and talked among themselves. Glynnis took an active part, asking questions and making her own observations on whatever arose. She did not seem awkward or ill at ease. She operated with the assumption that, because these were Conor’s closest friends, they should be her friends, too. The Transitive Property of Friendship.

  And Conor’s friends reacted to her openness in kind. They spoke without inhibitions or restraint, occasionally lapsing into subjects that were essentially tasteless, such as O’Hanlon’s sexual habits or the adventures of Rosselli’s incontinent uncle. No one stood guard. Conversation flowed back and forth freely, naturally and happily, and it seemed as if Glynnis might have been around for years. Finnegan’s tightened veins relaxed in gratification. By the end of the evening when he crawled into bed and burrowed himself into Glynnis’s soft body, he was thoroughly content.

  The remainder of the weekend they spent simply. Saturday they walked in the park and had a picnic lunch. They walked down to the river. That night Finnegan fixed dinner, then they went to a movie. On Sunday morning they went to Mass at the little chapel next to Old Queen’s. Glynnis had noticed some ducks in the park on the other side of the river, so after brunch they packed some popcorn and bread crusts and walked across the old steel bridge to feed them. The sturdy white ducks boldly nipped at the popcorn in their hands, squawking among themselves and pushing one another out of the way. Conor occasionally pitched a handful of seed into the pond to see the ducks dive over and into each other in pursuit of the popcorn before it sank. In the sleepy late afternoon the two walked back to campus and stopped in the student center’s snack bar for ice cream. No one else was in the small bistro. They ate quietly and returned to the apartment, finding no one there as well. All of a sudden, the afternoon had emptied. They napped for an hour or so, then Conor drove Glynnis back to Philadelphia.

  On the drive back to New Brunswick, Finnegan felt overwhelmingly tired. Leaving Glynnis behind after having her so near for two days instilled a graphic loss, a disruption of the contrived normality he was only too willing to accept. It would be days before he would see her again. She had been so warm, so animated, so central, and he knew she had responded well to being with him on his own turf. Washington belonged to neither of them—they had been visitors. But New Brunswick was Conor’s alone, the crucible wherein the fatty textures of smug complacency had been burned away by the challenges of space, time and uncertainty. Finnegan, in his self-perceived conquest of this new place, had come to possess it. Now Glynnis took her part in it as well. She had felt comfortable with Conor’s friends, and she had been relaxed all weekend. In her self-assurance, Finnegan thought, lay her independence, and he found that he loved her all the more for it.

  But now she was not there, and the drive back to New Brunswick was exceedingly dreary. Finnegan checked off the miles on his odometer, counting down until he got to Trenton, to Princeton, to Rutgers. He wished it all would pass quickly, but it took the same ninety minutes his Friday drive had taken. He arrived at the apartment a bit out of sorts, a mood intensified when he considered the work yet to be done. He had a short essay due for his art history course the next day. All week he had put it off, resolved to write it on Sunday night after Glynnis had left. Now that Sunday night had come, he had absolutely no desire to write.

  Finnegan forced himself to the kitchen table and plodded through his material while sipping a cup of tea. A note said that Rosselli and O’Hanlon were at the library. McIlweath had vanished without a trace again, sucked into the Newburyian vortex. Conor Finnegan felt utterly alone, the simple joys of the weekend just passed dispersed, and very distant. Something inside him ached; he could not identify it. He knew it had to do with Glynnis, but its precise contours eluded him. Was it a discontent that they were now apart, the flip side of that sublime weekend? Was it just a predictable letdown? Was it some foreboding, a subconscious interpretation of something she said or did, some posture she assumed that his mind has silently ingested? He couldn’t tell what it was, beyond the yawning emptiness that had dragged him down.

  An hour passed before Tom McIlweath came in. He joined Finnegan at the kitchen table, he to translate his Latin, Finnegan struggling with medieval diptychs. Conor had barely finished when his remaining roommates bounced through the door. They were cheerfully loud, and they stormed into the kitchen to pull Finnegan and McIlweath away from the table there. Rosselli grabbed Finnegan about the waist and hoisted him down the hall into the living room, challenging him to a wrestling match. When Rosselli put him down, Finnegan spun quickly around to put his friend into a headlock. From that point they were engaged, the smaller, more agile Finnegan and the bulky Rosselli trying to throw each other to the floor while taking care to avoid breaking any furniture. McIlweath and O’Hanlon, too scrawny to be anything but pacifists, yelled from the hallway.

  The wrestlers groped at each other for several minutes before Finnegan made a dazzlingly quick move to Rosselli’s side, hooked his leg around his friend’s and buckled Rosselli’s knee. Down went the big man. Finnegan slipped an arm around Rosselli’s neck and kept his leg locked between the big man’s legs to render them useless. With his free hand, Finnegan pinned Rosselli’s right arm to his side. The other, for all his strength, was helpless. A
fter acknowledging such, he was released.

  “Don’t mess with a Mick, Danny boy,” panted Finnegan. Perspiration clung to his shirt collar and dampened his temples.

  “A lucky throw. Best two out of three?”

  “No. The guys downstairs wouldn’t like it. We must sound like two dancing hippos. Thanks for disrupting my studies.”

  “What are roommates for? Besides, you study too much. You and Mac. You needed a break. You’re next, McIlweath,” and Rosselli turned to the erstwhile observer, chased him down the hall and grabbed him in a bear hug. He carried him back to the living room where Rosselli sought to salvage at least one victory.

  Finnegan watched Rosselli throw McIlweath from one end of the room to the other before pinning him. He knew he would do no more that evening. His glum mood had dissipated completely as he regarded the scene in front of him, the apartment where it played out, and those with whom he shared it.

  When they went to their beds later that night, Finnegan and O’Hanlon chatted a bit with the lights off as they drifted to sleep.

  “I liked her, rooms. She seems like a down-to-earth girl. Not to mention gorgeous.”

  “Thanks, Lanny. I like her too.”

  “She’s nothing like the Ice Maiden. She’s got a head on her shoulders, and a sense of humor. You getting any physical gratification from her?”

  “Privileged information, friend. Let’s just say she holds my interest.”

  “Good for you. Really, that’s good. And I wish you luck. But remember what I told you before. Just be careful and pay attention to where you are. That means reading the signs. And she’ll definitely give you signs.”

  “Don’t fret, roommate. I’m cagey enough not to get burned. And you know I’m certain of where I’m heading.”

  “You can’t be certain of a damn thing, that’s my whole point. There are no certainties at this stage. Only educated guesses. Stay tentative, Conor.”

  “Good night, Lanny.”