Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  The new brick building next to Wriston Quad was graduate center lounge, an open room with sofas and cushioned chairs, the university’s answer to the coffee houses on Thayer Street. Roxy, Liz, Suzi, and Bill were sitting on two sofas as Steve returned with two pitchers of beer. Several weeks had gone by, and he could comfortably sit again. He hadn’t told Roxy the truth, insisting the bruises were from breaking up a fight in a bar. He waved off her concern, and she didn’t press him.

  “The woman is the stronger sex,” Suzi said, her light-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. “We have always had to be because we’re the ones who carry on the species.”

  Steve saw a thin young man sitting with a group of students. In the darkness, he couldn’t be certain but the look and shape . . . He looked like that sneaky Gaeta. Was he working undercover here? Who was the target? Could it be that he was being set up? Or Roxy?

  “If that’s so, why do guys do all the fighting?” Bill asked. He looked like an auto mechanic with thick arms and strong rounded shoulders and a hell of an attackman.

  “Men start wars; they should fight them. You men are just little kids. I can beat you up. No you can’t, yes I can . . .” Liz mocked, turning her head on her long, thin neck.

  “It’s you men who made up rules to control women through religion, law, and physical power.” Roxy was adamant and animated. “Western society is afraid of us and terrified of our sexuality.”

  “Not me. I like your sexuality,” Bill protested.

  “Pig,” Liz said, smiling at him.

  “Laws kept us from voting, inheriting property. It’s all the male insecurity, and we want equal rights.” Roxy’s eyes were lit with the fire of another cause.

  “But the male provides protection. We’re the ones they send off to war,” Bill said. “Not that many of us want to go to Nam.”

  “And you still need us for procreation,” Steve added to stir the pot.

  “I’d just need to cut off a penis and keep it in a drawer for when I felt a need for it,” Liz said, rolling her eyes at the general laughter. “Well, it would be easier than these complicated relationships and dealing with you men.”

  “It might shrivel up a bit,” Suzi laughed, bringing her hands in closer and closer together.

  “You know what I mean, It’s better than . . .” Liz flushed, and the other girls laughed.

  “Masturbating. Come on girl, say the word,” Suzi encouraged.

  “Yes, that word. Oh, my mother would die.” Liz led them in laughter.

  “Guys do it all the time, right?” Roxy turned to the boys.

  Steve met Roxy’s eyes, and they lingered for a few seconds, exchanging a moment of awkward silence.

  Cal moved to the upright piano and started playing show tunes. First he played “Getting to Know You” then moved into “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.” Roxy joined him on the bench, playing “A Few of My Favorite Things” while the kids sang the words they knew and hummed the rest. Cal followed with “Camelot,” and Roxy answered with “Some Enchanted Evening,” which Steve sang along with. He still found Roxy’s intensity intoxicating. She was never lukewarm; she was either passionate or totally disinterested in a subject. Whether she was protesting the war or advocating for equal rights for women, she was never on the fence. And she had discovered how to have greater influence the longer she’d been at Brown. Whether it was equality like eliminating the Pembroke diploma or establishing co-ed dorms, he knew she’d be relentless. He was still her security, but their fire had dimmed.

  Looking around the room, he could hear students fervently rearranging facts and solving the problems of the world while sitting in the safety of a college campus. Pontificating about equal justice as written by the great philosophers, their ideas were dreams, lofty dreams. Don’t bother with the boring details or getting your hands dirty. He had protested the war but now was trying to do something more. He was once part of this world—he had enjoyed it, believed in the completeness of it. But his world had moved on to deal directly with the unpleasant truths of the grownup world.

  The welts on his back still ached. He wasn’t nostalgic, but he had a sense of satisfaction at having made the transition from the lounge to the street. A smile reached his face as he thought how the captain expected him to back down. But now he had to be careful. He wasn’t going to give in. He was more determined now to figure out the puzzle like the one Durk had to do. He set his teeth tightly with a slight shake of his head. There was a way.

  “I didn’t know you could play the piano,” he said as the group settled back into their final beer.

  “Audrey and I used to play all the time. My father would sing along, making up words when he didn’t know them.” She was smiling at the memory, but the smile faded. “I haven’t played since she died.” He squeezed Roxy’s left hand, and she covered his with her right. They would have the night together.

  As they were leaving, he motioned Bill to come close. He saw Gaeta, who did not seem to recognize him. Now he was worried.

  “See that skinny kid with the Bruins jersey on?” Bill nodded. “He’s a cop, working narcotics. Tell people to steer clear of him.” Now he would be on guard, even here.

  Steve hung out at O’Malley’s after the evening shift. Dylan, Meatball, and some of the other guys from the Academy were regulars. Steve didn’t know if he could trust them.

  They talked about high school rivalries and Red Sox heroes. Steve drank with them but wasn’t really a part of the conversation. They weren’t his memories—being a Yankees fan wasn’t going to win him any friends. These guys were his age, sharing the same dangers and boredom on the street, but he wasn’t one of them. He was an outsider. He could talk sports and be diligent about the job, never trying to take credit for the increased production of his partner. But he wasn’t one of them, and they knew it. Some envied his education; some resented it. Not being from Providence didn’t help either because he had no back channels like Meatball did.

  They knew how the captain felt, and about the locker room. So he was marked. Each of these guys would have to make their own decision on right or wrong. Steve had made his decision.

  “Sorry about the other night. Didn’t mean to put you in a tough spot.” Steve said to Foley as they were leaving.

  Foley shrugged. “You were following procedure.”

  “That’s not how the captain sees it.”

  “What are you trying to do, get yourself killed?” Foley stopped in the night air.

  Steve looked him straight in the eye. “Some of this stuff is just wrong, and it doesn’t have to be. A little sunlight is a great disinfectant.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I mean all this shit—the tuning up, the payoffs, the special favors. We work for the people, not the brass.”

  “Too much beer, man.” Foley opened the door to his car. “You are trying to get yourself killed. It’s bigger than you.”

  Getting into his car, he couldn’t remember how many pitchers of beer they had consumed. Crossing town, he rolled through each red light, confident that he couldn’t get a traffic ticket in Providence.

  Stumbling up the stairs to the apartment, he dropped his keys twice before he opened the door to the bedroom, aware that he was making too much noise. Falling heavily into a chair, he tried to take his shoes off, but his revolver bounced on the wood floor. Roxy sat up with a start, turning on the small reading lamp next to the bed.

  “Sorry. I was trying to be quiet.” He tried to enunciate the words, aware he was slurring.

  “It’s four a.m. again, and you’re drunk,” Roxy said, flipping off the light and lying down. He quickly stripped off the remainder of his clothes, getting into bed beside her. He felt an erection as he touched her back. He nuzzled up to her neck with kisses as he wrapped his arms around her, reaching for her breast. Pushing his hand away, she flipped to her stomach. He gently stroked her back, following its curve to the tight round mounds of her ass, which he caressed, runnin
g his finger between the cheeks. He continued to probe lower to her vagina, parting the lips with his finger, looking to stimulate moisture.

  “Okay. You won’t let me sleep,” she said, turning over on her back. “Come on.” She guided him into her, but as he built a rhythm, she was passive, waiting for him to come. When he finally exploded inside her, she pushed him off.

  “Sleep it off,” she said and turned again to her side with her back facing him. He lay on his back, knowing that he had fucked her but they hadn’t made love. Why didn’t she didn’t want him? He needed her so badly. This wasn’t what he wanted—he thought he would be her hero. He should tell her more, the anxiety bordering on fear that he kept hidden in his macho shell. He wasn’t going to let them beat him. And now he felt he was a stranger even to her.

  He touched her shoulder as he cuddled to her back. Then the beer captured his brain, and he fell quickly to sleep.

  At the next roll call, Steve thought he would still be on foot.

  “Logan, you lucked out tonight,” the sergeant said. “You ain’t walking. You’re sitting. Captain wants these reports typed up by morning.”

  He handed Steve a large pile of handwritten documents. Steve looked at the sergeant, who shrugged.

  “Better than freezing your ass off.”

  Steve retreated to a desk at the far side of the room to be away from the door, the booking desk, and anyone coming in to do a report. The office was better than the stupid punishment posts where no one was alive but little animals scurrying in the darkness. Maybe learning to type in high school was the great skill his father told him it would be. He put an incident form in the black manual Underwood and began filling out the report.

  239 Williams Street. 12/12/71—Dangerous conditions, disturbances. Police responded to a call at residence. Found house and steps badly maintained. Tenants caused disturbances and potential fire hazards observed.

  249 John Street. 12/21/71—Police responded to call of loitering and possible drug dealing at the location. Hazardous conditions and violations of occupancy laws observed. Landlord not in residence.

  239 Williams Street. 1/4/72—Call for illegal gambling ring, potential numbers operations being run. Numerous suspects fled upon arrival by the police.

  249 John Street. 1/18/72—Disturbance with weapons reported. Upon arrival, police observed a suspect fleeing the scene. Observations show property in disrepair and potential fire code violations.

  249 John Street. 2/28/72—Accompany fire department on inspection of property. Numerous fire code violations. In addition the property is an active nuisance and the scene of illegal gambling and drug activities.

  Steve finished up the reports and approached the desk sergeant.

  “A lot of activity in Fox Point,” Steve said.

  “The Portuguese. Always arguing with each other. Using those knives. They should go back to where they came from.”

  “Up by me. Don’t remember any calls,” Steve said, knowing that he paid special attention to any calls on the hill. It didn’t fit the normal pattern, which was mostly breaking and entering or family disturbance calls.

  The sergeant shrugged. “I only remember the important ones.”

  “What calls?” the little round newspaper man asked as Steve was returning to the squad room.

  “Nothing. Just some disturbances in Fox Point,” Steve said, turning to Toad who was leafing through the day book, looking at the arrest records.

  “What’s different about them?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Of course I do. I’m a newspaper man. Larry Sutton, Providence Journal.” The man stuck out his hand.

  “Steve Logan.”

  “The college boy. You were partnered with Rizzo the night the chick broke his nose?”

  “Yeah. You’ve got your facts straight. We met a while back.”

  Sutton lit a Lucky Strike. “Yeah, I keep track of Rizzo. He’s still the bully boy he was in high school, but now with a gun.”

  “Not your favorite cop?”

  “Tough to have a favorite in this town. I’ve been covering the department for five years, and I’m still amazed at what passes for normal.”

  “I’ve had to get used to a new normal in my life.”

  “We should have coffee. You’d be an interesting story.”

  “Not exactly what I need right now.”

  Sutton nodded and handed Steve his business card. “Maybe coffee.”

  Steve put the card in his pocket. “Yeah, maybe coffee.” This could be useful.

  On his way home, Steve turned up Benefit Street toward the college. The street was very much the same as it had been in the eighteenth century. Sturdy clapboard colonial houses stood side by side, the front doors located right at the sidewalk. Each had a different historic plaque with the house name and the date it was built. The sidewalks were still brick, and the street lamps were electric replicas of the old gas lanterns. Freshman winter, Steve had walked down the street in the snow and felt transported back to the American Revolution.

  Coming to Waterman Street past the court house, he took a sharp right and headed back to Fox Point. It was the long way home, but he had to take a look. He drove past 239 Williams Street: a modest two-story house with clapboard siding on a corner with several apartments. He turned the corner. 249 John Street. It backed up to the house on Williams Street. It was also a wood frame three-story floor-through apartment building. There were no signs of activity. One block away was the new university parking garage. He didn’t remember many incidents here, so this was making him think. Who would be interested in a couple of nondescript rental properties? There was more to the reports he had typed. He tore a page from his incident book and wrote down the house numbers. He would check the call log. It didn’t add up.

  “It’s me, not you. When I met you, you were so different from any boy I knew. You were smarter and fearless. Not that you aren’t now. But I was more . . . more . . . scared, frightened. Being away, here, for the first time, with all these rich Ivy League kids. You made me feel safer.” Roxy was wearing a blue flannel shirt, her hair pulled into a ponytail.

  “I’ll still protect you,” Steve protested.

  “Yes.” She tossed her head at him. “Because of you, I don’t need so much protection. You’ve helped me grow up. More than ever, I know what I need to do and what it’ll take to get there.”

  He nodded in agreement. “You do, and you will.”

  “And you—what are you becoming?”

  “What do you mean? I’m here to . . .”

  “What about those dreams to see the world? To write in a little café in France, to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, to travel?”

  “All still there. When we get married after you graduate, we can . . .”

  “Do you hear yourself? I didn’t come to Brown to find a husband. That was another generation. I’ve got plans and a medical career. I’m not going to be anyone’s housewife. And you’re too young.”

  “But you said . . .”

  “I know me more now. That was high school speaking. And I thank you for it.” She was holding his hands in hers; he looked down at her short nails and the rough skin she’d gotten from lab work.

  “But I know that there are . . .”

  “We need more space. Your hours are . . . I want to concentrate more . . . I don’t need to hear any more stories about arresting people . . . poor drunks. We’re living in two different worlds now.”

  He retreated behind a tight smile, hurt but knowing that the threads between them were frayed. While he wanted to deny the reality of it, he sometimes felt awkward with their friends. He hadn’t told her about the locker room because he didn’t want her to worry. He wanted her love, not her pity.

  The arguing went on for several weeks, but it was the silence that got to him. He would come home after the midnight shift, have a few beers, and watch old movies in the living room until Roxy turned out her study light. He lay in bed next to her, wanting to tou
ch but not knowing if he could. He was a stranger in his own bed. Love—he had never thought about love ending; rather, it was just going through an adjustment, growing into something more profound. He realized that she felt more secure working in the bio labs, doing experiments. It was the world she wanted to be in. He wanted it to always be them; he couldn’t imagine it differently. He couldn’t let it just slip away. Maybe this job was changing him more than he realized. He needed to do more. He turned his back and fell into a fitful sleep.

  He’d been dreading this moment for weeks, but he knew that their relationship had changed. He was more on edge, more disconnected from her daily life, her studies. School seemed more trivial to him now, but she was even more driven as the courses got harder. And work had changed. He noticed the way conversations stopped or quieted when he was around. It would be safer for her. The captain would certainly send another detail to check on him—when, he didn’t know, but he was sure it would happen. And with the grass, it would be an easy bust. It would be better if he moved.

  She was right: their lives didn’t match, so dating rather than living together would make more sense. He had no desire to date anyone else. He knew he was rationalizing because he loved looking at her while she slept. He would come home in the morning and watch her, peaceful, as her chest rose with each breath.