The Rebellion of Yale Marratt

by Robert H. Rimmer

  Heatherly felt the class getting out of his grip. He answered Yale ironically in a well-modulated, classroom manner. "It seems to me," Heatherly paused and he let his eyes rove about the classroom. "It seems to me that I remember a little story about Mr. Marratt that appeared in the Midhaven Herald several years ago. I think it was before Mr. Marratt was a student at this institution. Let me see, it was about some gliders. Ah, yes, that was it!"

  Yale blushed, knowing what was coming.

  "You and some other boy, Mayer something or other, had a wild idea that you were birds. It seems that you weren't satisfied that the Wright Brothers had done the same thing more practically years ago. You, shall we say, 'lifted' a few odds and ends, assembled a glider and whizzed through the air." Heatherly spoke with gestures, swooping and flaying his arms. The class snickered. "The fact that you broke your leg, crashed into a helpless old lady, created a minor scandal because of certain valuable properties that had gone into the contrivance directly from the Latham Shipyards, was a small matter. All that, less than three years ago seemed to have tremendous use to you. Now, let me see, less than six months ago, I seem to remember you wrote an essay on Shakespeare which, I understand, was read in your Sociology class, which purported to study sociological conditions in Shakespeare's time. Now you find the same type of analysis in my book to be so much tripe. Perhaps, Mr. Marratt, your values are not completely settled. Perhaps, you are floundering a bit! If I am to believe my eyes when I cross the campus, I often see your hands linked with the hand of a certain lovely lady. I can assume that within this same relatively short period of several years you have found a new meaning in life. Perhaps a new romance?"

  The class roared with laughter. Everyone at Midhaven College was aware of Yale and Cynthia. Yale blushed, angry with Heatherly for making a point of his relationship with Cynthia.

  He sat in his chair vanquished, but Heatherly wasn't finished. He directed the hour into a discussion of the values in life. Determined to vindicate himself in the eyes of the class, he ranged world affairs. What was useful in life? What was tripe? Was it useful to be a Mussolini or a Hitler? Was it useful to build battleships and airplanes to destroy people? Was it useful to spend a lifetime in pursuit of the "bitch goddess Success"? He jumped back on Yale. Was it useful to sit in a place like Mama Pepperelli's, day after day, drinking chocolate Cokes; reading all the current magazines without buying them? Was that useful? Maybe Mr. Marratt would give the class a definition of what was useful and what was tripe?

  Yale didn't attempt it. He felt Heatherly's attack was unfair, without realizing that his own criticism of Heatherly had been a hit below the belt. Within an hour after the class was over the rumors of what had happened spread around the college. Like any gossip in a small college it was chewed and regurgitated endlessly.

  Walking toward Mama Pepperelli's that afternoon to meet Cynthia, Yale regained his sense of humor. He even began to feel a little bit of admiration for Professor Heatherly.

  Sonny Thompson was making Cokes behind the soda fountain when Yale walked in.

  Yale looked around. Cynthia had not yet arrived.

  "Hyah, lover -- your red hot flame has not yet honored us with her graceful appearance." Sonny's manner was always effusive and many times quite embarrassing to Yale. Yale noticed that several of the other students in Mama Pepperelli's looked up when he came in and exchanged glances.

  Sonny followed Yale into one of the back booths. "I've got a great idea," he said, "I'll get a date this weekend. If you'll toss in your car and a few bucks' worth of gas, we'll beat it to the City. We can go up the old Post Road, find a joint to dance, soak up a few beers, and then heave to with the dates in one of those cozy little cabins. What do you say?"

  Yale didn't quite grasp what he meant. "Do you mean stay overnight?" Yale shook his head, but not convincingly. Spending the night with Cindar seemed like a warm, good idea. As he had done many times, he imagined himself burrowed beneath the blankets with Cindar, really making love to her for the first time. Although he had been with her almost daily during the past two years, the strict regulations for co-eds had kept their dates little more than hand-in-hand walks to Mama Pepperelli's, or a few hours studying together at her dormitory reception room. Or on Saturdays when there was time to use his car, they would end up parking for a few hours on a lonely road. He had explored Cindar's body but his approach to her continued to have the same feeling of reverence. They both sensed, without saying it, that intercourse in a parked car would have little beauty or satisfaction. Yet they both knew that given the right time and place, they would consummate their love.

  Sonny could see that Yale was wavering. "Listen, my honorable roommate, don't tell me that all these months you haven't got into Cynthia's pants. From what I've heard, in my short career, these Jewish babes are passionate and go big for a little nooky."

  Yale stood up in the booth with a murderous look in his eye. If Cynthia hadn't walked in just then, he probably would have struck Sonny.

  "What gives with you two?" she asked, locking from Yale's face, frozen with anger, to Sonny's half grinning smirk.

  "Nothing. Beat it, Sonny, I'll talk with you later."

  But the seed of Sonny's idea took root. Warm visions of making love with Cynthia stayed with Yale. He broached the idea to her on the way back to her dormitory. She didn't answer at first. A thousand ideas slipped wildly in her mind. Mixed with fears of getting pregnant was her realization that Yale's love for her bordered on adoration. His, "I love you, Cindar, I need you, Cindar" was at once the expression of violent emotion, and bewildered fear. She herself had grown up in the confines of a closely integrated and loving family. Until she had met Yale her brief emotional life outside of home had been confined to the quick give and take of high school boys. She had learned to return the flippant remarks with searing wisecracks and easy banterings about sex that gave an illusion of knowledge but had little foundation in fact.

  In their two years at Midhaven Cynthia had found that the fact of her religion could produce new and unaccustomed hostilities with veiled feelings from even those girls that she knew most familiarly. It had been a pleasant relief to realize that with Yale, for some strange and unaccountable reason certainly not bearing on his family, the fact of her Jewishness had absolutely no effect. It had made her only voyage into Gentile waters easier, or more dangerous. She didn't know. Whatever her own confused feelings were toward Yale, she was certain of the strength of his love, and she knew that the love she gave him in return was a clean, comforting experience.

  "Yale, don't look as if you asked me to jump off the Empire State Building." She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "It'll take some doing to get me out of the dormitory overnight, but that's your problem. Who is Sonny Thompson going to get?"

  5

  Sonny solved the complications of getting Cynthia out of her dormitory. "It's quite simple," he told Yale. "I can get a date with Bee Middleton. Bee lives in Midhaven so all you have to do is have a note from Bee's mother that Cynthia is going to stay overnight at Bee's. All Bee has to do is to tell her house mother that she is going home for the week end. In other words, one note will do the trick." Sonny smiled at his ingenuity. "I'll write the note. Bee can give it to the house mother and, presto, we're all set."

  Sonny's facile plan for getting the girls free of college restrictions worked without a hitch. Saturday afternoon they piled into Yale's Ford convertible and started toward New York. Yale was not too enthusiastic about having Beatrice Middleton along, since her father was vice president of the Marratt Corporation.

  Liz had tried in the past to promote several dates with Beatrice, but after one experience Yale decided that it was crazy to go out with a girl who didn't like anything he liked. He had taken her to the West Haven Amusement Park. . . .

  After one circuit of the lurid jangling splendor he had guided Beatrice toward the deserted beach. But she didn't enjoy sitting alone, listening to the night, speculating on the mystery of the s
tars. She wanted to be back on the midway, riding the roller-coasters, screaming on the whip, driving the bump-em cars, eating greasy hot dogs, trying to win the plaster of paris dogs or cupids for rolling a ball or tossing a loop. It was such fun Beatrice's eyes sparkled; her cheeks were flushed. But Yale hadn't been happy. The crowds oppressed him. He felt the sorrow of thousands of people drifting aimlessly. He wanted to walk the whole length of the midway quickly to see if the something they were all looking for was there, buried somewhere in the smell of water-rotted wood in the tunnel of love or lurking in the dingy back rooms of amusement palaces where swarthy men and women counted the dimes and nickels from their concessions while they planned new and bigger lures in which the people could drown their sorrows. It was crazy. Or maybe all these people were happy? Maybe they returned to their walk-up flat and over a cheap linoleum on a kitchen table or in the shadow of carnival lamps with lush purple fringes adorning mahogany-vanished end tables, they surveyed their rag dolls and plaster of paris monstrosities, and congratulated themselves on their ability to win them so cheaply. And every time they looked at them the noise and gaiety of the carnival came back to them; the thrill of the coaster ride, the frenzy of the plunge down after the car had inched wearily to the top of the wooden dragon, was honey to the monotony of their lives. To Yale it was sorrow. Sorrow so intense that it made him shiver with the sad misery of it.

  Sonny had miraculously produced a couple of bottles of whiskey. After a few raw slugs, Yale found it somewhat easier to adjust himself. Bits of Beatrice's inane conversation continued to drift from the back seat of the car, interrupting his more muted whispering with Cindar. By six thirty they were a few miles outside of New York City, and had found a roadhouse that seemed to constitute Sonny's and Beatrice's idea of a good evening. It was called The Golden Coach. Photographs in the ornate but run down lobby advertised charcoal broiled steaks and dancing to Red Pierce's orchestra. Sonny, realizing that they wouldn't be served hard liquor, had come in equipped with two flasks. They ordered glasses of ginger ale and giggled while Sonny spiked them under the table.

  By the time their steaks arrived they were all feeling very gay. Sonny entertained them with a tower built of water glasses, salt shakers, knives and forks that mysteriously hung on the verge of tumbling, horrifying their waiter.

  Cynthia held hands with Yale under the table. The supper room was almost dark. A glittering dome that revolved on the ceiling cast sparkles of light among the tables and on the dance floor. "Listen to that song," Cynthia said. "I want to dance to it." Dizzily they walked to the dance floor.

  A singer with incredibly high arched eyebrows sang the words of the newest popular song, "Remember Tomorrow."

  Remember tomorrow, Cynthia thought. The words slide into my mind and gracefully pirouette to an old dancing tune. Remember tomorrow, born in the afterglow of yesterday.

  The orchestra hushed. Brasses muted. The body of the singer disappeared. Only her face remained, glowing softly in a green spotlight. Flecks of blue, yellow, green, bounced off the slowly moving crystal ball and were flung on the dreamy faces of the dancers. "Remember Tomorrow." It was sure fire. Hit Parade stuff.

  Cynthia danced, the curves of her body against Yale's chest and stomach. My tomorrows are yesterdays. Time has ceased to be marked by hours and minutes. This moment alone is all. I feel this warmth. I feel this splendor. The bloom has burst forth in full fragrance. I am all. "I am drunk, Yale," she said, pressing close to him. "And I love you."

  Sway-slide-easily. Closed eyes. A thousand sounds trickle into the silence of my brain like useless echoes chasing themselves from rock to rock. I am a pebble cast into infinity. The rings spread out convolute and then expand into echoless space. I am a warm, splashing ocean lapping the shore. A creature of moons. A lovely twenty-eight-day flower; degenerating and re-generating on moon currents.

  "What are you thinking, Cindar?"

  "What am I thinking, Cindar? About you, Yale, my darling. About the warmth of you. About the warmth of us. Cindar is warm. Her breasts are warm and suddenly conscious." She laughed, throwing her head back, searching his face with her wide-set brown eyes. "Oh, Yale, Yale, my dearest. You want to know a secret? I am tight! Gloriously and maddeningly tight. Undid. Words and thoughts are bubbling through my brain, half dressed, and I am embarrassed. But I can't help staring at them because they are so lovely in their nakedness."

  Yale drew her close and kissed her. "You're cute, Cindar. Let's smoke the rest of this one out."

  "Isn't getting glowing nice?" Cynthia smiled the feeling at everyone she passed. Not that she could tell who they were. Dimly -- shadows, but not substance. Not men and women from high up in skyscraper offices, or freshly scrubbed from dirty factory jobs. Not men and women dressed in Saturday night white linens, and flowered silks and crinkly seersuckers. Not the gray haired man she had smiled at over Yale's shoulder. This was not Rick Rocco's famous Golden Coach. It was a gray place. The colors were whirling too fast, and their brilliance intermingled.

  Cynthia's mind hummed a gay tune. Cynthia is Cindar, and Cindar glows. Johnny Walker glows. Funny man with knee britches and a tall silk hat, a man with an aerial beam casting his smile through a fog of uncertainty. The puritan old maid has left for the night, and the usually quiescent people downstairs have taken over the joint. Hell would break loose, and the old lady that dwelled somewhere in her head would have a few of her expensive vases broken. So, they could be mended, not so good as new, but serviceable.

  What if they could see her at Midhaven College? Cynthia Carnell, the pride of French V, glowing. Wouldn't Professor Cartier be surprised! He didn't drink. He didn't smoke. He wore a kimono. Why, he probably sits down to pee! Cynthia broke into happy laughter. Yale squeezed her through the crowd at the edge of the dance floor.

  Why am I giggling and murmuring, "I love you," into Yale's ear? It's a nice ear. Scrumptiously clean. Is this me giggling? Is this an outward giggle or an inward giggle? "Yale!" Cynthia demanded, her mind suddenly clearing. "Where are Sonny and Bee?"

  "Probably still in there dancing." Yale guided Cynthia onto the wide veranda that girded the rear of the Golden Coach. The roadhouse had been so arranged that it backed onto a landscaped garden, with a parking lot for automobiles on the far end. They walked in and out of the hammocks and divans scattered along the porch, noticing the people sitting, quietly talking, kissing, smoking. Near the end of the veranda Yale found a secluded spot. He leaned against the low, white railing, held the swaying Cynthia with one arm, and looked out into the darkness. I'm in love, he thought. I'll always be in love and I'll always be lonely and anxious like this because, no matter how much you're in love, you always have within you a small untouchable island, an area so remote and so unrevocable that no matter how much you care for someone you never can communicate it.

  He hugged Cindar against him and she, glad of his support, stayed close. What am I afraid of, he wondered. I set goals for myself impossible to attain, and I am emotionally shattered, just realizing the impossibility. Why can't I be like Sonny and leave things alone and not press them so far? Why do I respond so violently? Even to the weather? I seem to absorb the sadness of the night, and want to touch it. I float on sunshine, yet I am happiest at night. Yale smiled to himself. I'm just a weird character, he thought, and chuckled.

  He flicked his cigarette over the shrubbery surrounding the veranda. It showered sparks against the mudguard of one of the cars parked in the lot, gleamed against the headlight and disappeared.

  Like a sudden shift in the wind the breath of the music drifting onto the veranda stopped. Other couples walked out into the cool evening air, flushed from the close sweatiness of the dance floor. Cigarettes gleamed in the darkness. Confident male whispers echoed back answers to the sibilant husky sound of female voices.

  The music of the spring evening took up where the orchestra left off. Maple trees, their buds just fully emerged into yellow pink leaves, shifted uneasily in the warm wind. Across the gard
en thousands of fireflies careened through the air, disappeared, only to flash again as they slid down another air current. The warm dampness of the late spring evening filled the air with a rich earthy smell, and erupted in wet drops on the silhouetted automobiles huddled in neat rows alongside the building.

  Cynthia clung to Yale oblivious to the sounds of laughter, and the kissing, and the brown smell of cigarette smoke mingling with the air. The conversation moved about them like an oscillograph reaching peaked crescendos and diminishing into soft whisperings of the night. On the top of the arcs a male voice slightly louder than the rest seemed to dominate the peaks.

  "I don't care what he thinks. It was a dirty trick. Someday the bastard will get what is coming to him. Freedom, they call it, huh?" The voice died away and then wafted back strong and full. "A man can't open his mouth, that's what I say, and McGrew is a lousy, cheap chiseler, and I'll tell him so someday."

  A female voice pleading. "Why not forget it for tonight, Jim? Come on, let's have another drink."

  "Yale, I'm awfully tight." Cynthia said, pushing a lock of hair back on her forehead. "When are we going?"

  "Pretty soon. Are you going to be sick?"

  "No." Cynthia's voice was doubtful. "At least I hope not."

  Sonny Thompson walked up, peering into the dim light, eading Beatrice Middleton by the hand. "Yale?"

  "Yeah."

  "We've been looking all over for you. We better get going. We got to find a place to stay before it's too late."

  "Where are we going?" Beatrice asked suspiciously. She knew what was coming, but evidently hoped by some good fate to avoid it at the last minute.