Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  Heather shrugged. “It always seems to work out.” She smiled a child’s smile. “My karma directs me, and I can embrace the unknown. It doesn’t frighten me—does it frighten you?”

  Her penetrating look was not threatening, but she created a sense of discomfort within him. He was still several steps away from embracing the Age of Aquarius stuff.

  “Great,” Roxy broke in. “To get down to business, it’s thirty-three dollars a month, utilities included. You buy your own food. You’re on once a month to clean the bathroom and living room. We have the room on the end, you have the middle one, and Cal has the one next to the living room.”

  “Though feel free to clean more often if you like,” Steve chimed in. Roxy gently punched him.

  “The room will be available on September first.” Roxy and Steve took her on a tour. Heather stopped to look at the large bathroom at the end of the hall. It was painted in large red, white, and blue stripes with a chair rail of white stars.

  “We’re very patriotic,” Steve said.

  “Here’s a key. There’s a bed in the room but no sheets,” Roxy said, giving Steve a quick smile.

  “Groovy. I’ll have two bags. But I always sleep in the nude.” Moving quickly like a large bird, she smiled broadly at them and glided down the stairs.

  The drive down Interstate 95 was a constant battle between his small VW and the tractor trailers that owned the road. Steve did not overestimate the power of his VW Bug but hung between the hulking vehicles as their wake battered the car with waves of air. The six twenty-five-cent toll booths from West Haven to New Rochelle slowed traffic to a crawl, but it was the last one in New York that signaled he was almost home. Going to see his father had been a difficult decision, but Steve had told Roxy that he needed to tell his father about the police career in person. After all, they had last seen each other at graduation, and back then, Steve had still been going to law school.

  The maple trees along the Cross Island Expressway on Little Neck Bay were tinged orange and yellow from an early frost. Since he had left for college and his mother and siblings had moved to Florida, he had felt less and less connected to Long Island.

  Taking the familiar exit dumped him on the stomping grounds of his youth. Borelli’s Pizza was still on the corner, and Steve had to remind himself to pay attention to where he was driving. He could get lost in the memories later. The main street was unchanged—a supermarket, luncheonette, paper store, Franklin National Bank, and Persia Carpets. He remembered the neighborhood as a place a kid with a bike could conquer anywhere. The new library, a small red-brick building, had replaced the old white one-room schoolhouse building where he first fell in love with Tom Swift books.

  When his mother moved to Florida, Steve stayed most of freshman summer with his father in his studio apartment, sleeping on the couch in the living room. Parking the VW in the visitor space, he approached the four-story red-brick apartment building with a quiet determination. He had made his decision, so he wasn’t asking for approval. His father hadn’t wanted him to go to Brown, saying they couldn’t afford it. Steve had never asked him for money; he made it work on his own with jobs. He wasn’t angry with his father; they never had harsh words. They agreed to disagree on things. Today would be one more time.

  Greeting each other with a handshake, Steve noticed his father was more hunched. He remembered how his round, ruddy Irish face would turn beet red in the summer sun, bringing a plethora of unseen freckles to the fore. Thinning white hair and black glasses made him look like the government clerk he was.

  Looking around the apartment, Steve noticed it hadn’t been vacuumed in months. It didn’t surprise him because his father had drifted into another world while Steve was in high school. Barely functional at work, the civil service job protected him from his lack of ambition as long as he showed up.

  “How you getting on?” Steve asked, putting his shoulder bag on the couch where he would sleep.

  “Aches and pain. I’m getting old,” his father replied, moving to sit in the Barcalounger, where he could read and watch television. “It won’t be too long.”

  “Right. Two years till retirement.” Steve knew his father wasn’t talking about retirement, but he’d been hearing the same old story for five years now.

  “If I make it to retirement, God willing. I may move down to Florida, where it is warm.”

  “That would be good. The kids would like it.”

  He nodded, but Steve knew that his father was dreaming, trying to recreate the world he had lost. “What are you reading these days?”

  “I just finished the Volume 9 of Durant’s Story of Civilization. Where are you?” his father asked.

  “Only on Volume 6,” Steve said. “How’s work going?”

  His father gave him a wry smile, the smile Steve remembered from his youth. There had been mirth in his voice back then. “It’s a job. I should have done better. I had the education but never the . . . Your mother thought I would do better . . . I don’t know. Maybe the war put me back in the minor leagues.”

  Nothing new here; Steve had heard the same excuses, framed in different words, since he went to college. But his father never would talk more about the war other than to say he was in one of the waves on D-Day. He was older and better educated than most of his company. That was one of the few details Steve knew—but now that he was facing being one of the most educated on the police force, he had a feeling his father could teach him something important. If only the old man would talk.

  Only anecdotes of his training time in England.

  “I’ve got a job,” he announced, figuring it was better to be upfront with everything and wanting to get it over with quickly.

  “I thought you were going to law school.”

  “Not now. I start on the Providence Police Department next week.”

  He could see his father trying to process the information about what type of job in the police department would use a Brown degree. “Some type of analyst? They hire college graduates?”

  “I’ll just be a regular cop.” Steve was sitting now, looking directly at his father, whose eyes seemed absorbed in the view out the window.

  “No special program?”

  “No. Just a regular cop.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense—why go to school? You will end up a failure like . . .” Steve could hear the word me and could feel his father’s cold disdain for a life badly led.

  “No, Dad. I think I can accomplish something. It’s a big commitment.”

  His father shook his head, looking at Steve as he picked up Newsday. He wore the sadness that he had worn since the family split up. Steve could feel the projection of failure on him, which he refused to accept.

  “I didn’t expect you to understand, but I wanted you to know.” Steve looked at his father, wishing he could shake him back into life. He had tried that first summer, engaging him in political discussions, taking him to movies, even to the city for a play and Schrafft’s, where his dad had taken him as a kid. He was okay for the moment but when the stimulus passed, he fell back into that other world.

  “I’ll buy you dinner,” Steve said, standing to end the conversation about his future. “I have to go back tomorrow.”

  The next morning, his father was dressed in a grey suit, white shirt, and navy bow tie, ready for work at the county office. “Thanks for coming. I don’t think you’re making the right choice. I made some bad decisions; it didn’t work out.” He shook his head, defeated. “I will come and see you one of these days. Take the train up.”

  “I look forward to it.” Steve knew they were only words.

  When he was gone, Steve looked around the apartment. The kitchen sink was filled with some pans with burnt food and plates that looked like they’d been there for weeks. Cockroaches scurried away when he entered, even in the daylight. The bathroom hadn’t been cleaned; it had yellow stains and smelled of urine coming from the toilet and floor. Checking the cleaning supplies from his last visit, Ste
ve found the Comet, scrub brushes, Lysol, bucket, and mop in the same position in the closet. He set to work in the bathroom, scrubbing the soap scum and black mildew from the bathtub and washing the toilet bowl with Pine-Sol until the fresh pine scent enveloped the bathroom. In the kitchen, he cleaned the dishes and scrubbed the pots until they shone. Looking in the cabinet above the stove, he found the bottle of boric acid he had bought last time he visited. Carefully, he poured a line along the cracks in the counter, along the base of the cabinets, and under the sink. It should hold the cockroaches at bay for a month, but he needed to call the landlord to have the place exterminated again. He cleaned the floor with an electric broom and emptied all the garbage into the chute in the hallway. Domestically done, Steve washed his hands of Long Island. Although he knew that nothing had changed, he felt better for his drive back to Providence.

  Little Compton Beach was a sliver of a retreat on the Atlantic, mostly known to the well-heeled of the old money set. Steve and Andy built a fire with charcoal and driftwood scooped up among the dunes. He placed rocks under the coal and lit the fire. Two coolers, one filled with beer and wine, the other with clams and mussels, were waiting for dinner. Heather, in a homemade macramé two-piece bathing suit that showed off her long, sturdy, unshaven legs, wrapped potatoes in aluminum foil, each with a different fold, and put them in the fire to roast. Andy took a Frisbee and started passing it to the girls. Roxy was in a yellow two-piece accentuating her bust, the two cups held together with a metal O ring.

  They jumped in and out of the water to cool off. Steve, in blue and yellow trunks, expertly bodysurfed the waves. He wished he still had his surfboard. In high school, during the summer, he and two buddies would get up with the first light and go down to Long Beach before the lifeguards came on duty. Andy rode waves, aiming at the two girls, who screamed as they danced away from him. Steve raced to the water and grabbed Roxy off her feet and dove into an oncoming wave with her. Raising and spitting water, Roxy dunked Steve under the next wave as they laughed in the warm August Atlantic water.

  When the sun began to set, they sat around the fire with towels stretched over their shoulders for comfort, not warmth.

  “When are you leaving?” Steve asked, passing Andy a beer.

  “Thursday,” Andy replied, looking at the can and then out to the ocean.

  “It’ll be a great adventure. You’re doing a good thing.” Heather smiled at him.

  “I didn’t think a jungle in South America was the direct career path from Brown, but it’s better than the jungle in Vietnam. I’ll be doing community development, whatever that is. Or maybe an irrigation project.” Andy’s eyes seemed set on the horizon. “They’re not exactly clear in the form letters. But definitely won’t be leveling villages with napalm.” Andy and Steve held each other’s gaze. “You staying here?”

  “Yeah, not ready to leave.” He motioned to Roxy. “I got accepted and start the academy in the middle of September.”

  “You’re serious? You’re really serious? You’re going through with it.” Andy shook his head and lowered his chin. “Where do you think that’s going to lead?”

  Steve shrugged. He wasn’t sure, but his new course was set. Law school could wait. He would stay in Providence and try to be part of the change.

  “Talk about not wanting to get killed.” Andy screwed up his mouth in mock disdain.

  “Yeah, maybe I might be a little crazy.”

  “Do you remember that freshman game against Yale, when you . . .”

  Roxy came over, smiling, to break up the guy talk.

  “Better keep your hands off those senoritas.” She put her arm inside Andy’s. “I hear if you touch ’em, you marry them.”

  “So that’s why the Spanish only sent conquistadors and priests.” They all laughed, but for Steve and Andy, the fun was laced with nostalgia. It wasn’t graduation jitters but, like tens of thousands of young men around the country, they didn’t talk about the next time they might meet. Nothing was clear, just shades and amorphous shapes of things to come. When they’d arrived at Brown fresh and scrubbed, they never thought it would end this way.

  The group was quiet for a moment. Steve said, “I guess it’s time for real life.”

  “You may have graduated, but you aren’t going anywhere.” Roxy put Steve’s arm around her. “I need you too much.”

  “I’ll happily be a kept man, but I don’t think that’s what you have in mind.”

  “It’ll work out. I’m not letting you too far off the leash. There’s so much here for us.” She smiled and nuzzled him.

  The fire began crackling, and Andy scraped away the coals and covered the rocks with wet seaweed. He put the clams and mussels on the seaweed and covered them with more seaweed as the steam rose around him. He looked satisfied with his creation.

  “Twenty minutes,” Andy said to the group.

  He turned on a transistor radio and Cat Stevens sang, “Baby, baby it’s a wild world . . .”

  In the apartment, Steve was dressed in his brown uniform pants and matching shirt with a beige tie and black shoes. He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was cut very short, and his mustache was gone. Roxy came up behind him and looked at him slightly quizzically, as if she was trying to recognize him. Their gazes met and released.

  “Here we go,” he said, turning away from the person in the mirror.

  “Yes, you are in the deep end. Do you know how to swim?”

  “I guess I’ll find out.” Caressing her shoulder, he tenderly kissed her. He held on to her a little longer as she buried her head in his shoulder. His college days were gone, like his hair and mustache. Had it changed the way she looked at him? He turned again to the mirror and fixed the cap squarely on his head before he executed an about face, like the ROTC kids did on parade. He looked at her and remembered when they had met the year before.

  Cal had brought several freshman girls back to the apartment after helping with orientation. He was regaling them with his tales of Woodstock and all the music. Roxy was quiet, taking in the shabby college apartment with amusement. Steve watched the slight, dark-haired girl with delicate features move around the apartment with a dancer’s grace.

  Cal was into his senior role, trying to impress the girls with his knowledge and collection of music. ‘Want to hear the newest Beatles album?” He put his arms around two girls.

  “I need to get back,” Roxy said.

  “I’ll walk you back,” Steve said, standing quickly. He already admired her for cutting off Cal’s bullshit and followed her down the stairs to open the door for her. He wore a simple grey t-shirt that showed his smooth arm muscles.

  While the dorm was only a short distance away, Steve wanted more time with her, so he suggested they walk and enjoy the warm September air. She paused and looked him over carefully before agreeing. They stopped at Thayer Market, and he bought a quart of beer with the last of his weekend money.

  Walking through the stone wall entrance to Aldrich Dexter Field, the huge Meehan hockey rink loomed over the parking lot like an alien flying saucer. The small wooden building next to it, more like an old barracks, looked like a beaten jalopy next to the concrete behemoth.

  “This used to be the poor farm, where they locked you up until you could pay your bills. Interesting concept.” Trying to be casual, he searched for some conversation starter; his natural insecurity about girls made him stammer a bit. “Now it’s the field house for the team. Football is lousy, but we’re pretty good at lacrosse.”

  “You play?”

  “Yeah. You can come to a game in the spring—athletes at Brown are not big men on campus. It’s more the opposite,” He was proud of how disciplined and organized he had become. It had forced him to concentrate on school.

  She spotted a thirty-foot metal structure overlooking the back field.

  “What that? Let’s climb it.”

  As she climbed the metal ladder to the coach’s tower, her long white cotton skirt caught the wind, revea
ling a brief glimpse of her thigh. It caught his eyes, which had been focused on the flow of her muscles up to her tight cheeks a foot from his face.

  “It’s peaceful up here. You can see so much.” A soft yellow glow from the flickering lights of the Colonial houses seeped through the canopy of trees. They were beginning to change costumes for the fall. As the sun set, she passed the bottle of beer to Steve. He took a sip but didn’t take his eyes off her. Her dark hair moved slightly in the breeze as she lay down, looking up at the stars. He reclined nervously next to her without touching.

  “Do you know what you want to study yet?” He was aware it was a lame question, but she was a freshman.

  “I’m going to be a doctor,” she said quickly, her voice decisive and firm.

  “Why a doctor?”

  She told him about her sister and the pain of watching her slowly die of cancer. Her voice quivered with emotion—bitterness controlled, but not far below the surface. He was amazed at how open and trusting she was. Despite just having met her, he felt more comfortable with her than any girl he had ever met. He wanted to reach out and hold her, but he knew that wasn’t the right response.

  She told him how her father had died of a heart attack when she was fifteen and her mother moved them back to Ohio and her family. “It happened so fast. From a family to almost an orphan.” Her voice had gone soft as she turned to him and offered a crooked smile. He felt her vulnerability mixed with an extraordinary openness. She waited, looking directly into his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not like I’m some tragic figure. It happened. I’m here.” She kicked him. “Now your turn.”

  He told her about his family: his father’s breakdown and his mother taking the kids to Florida. He smiled faintly, shocked at how much came out of his mouth. He never talked about his family, not even to his roommates. “So there we have it. Our life stories and a quart of beer.”

  They sat up and looked at each other in the pale light. He knew more about her in a few hours than anyone he had ever met. Was she waiting for someone to come along who she could trust and be open with? He was in unfamiliar territory, and the unsettled feeling was intoxicating.