The Rebellion of Yale Marratt

by Robert H. Rimmer

  "We're going to find a bed to sleep in," Sonny said jovially. "Ye Gods, stop looking as if you were going to an execution."

  Yale drove the Ford slowly along the Post Road, trying to ignore the argument going on in the back seat between Beatrice and Sonny. They passed signs. Cabins -- running water -- Red Cross mattresses -- radio. Yale stopped the car questioningly.

  "I won't stay in those places, they look like outhouses," Beatrice moaned.

  "We can find better cabins than that," Sonny said, trying to pacify her.

  "Let's find them then," Cynthia said. "I'm dead."

  A few miles farther, Yale turned the car off the road into a small group of what looked like miniature log cabins. An old lady came out of one of them. Her hair was in wispy strings on her forehead and she clutched what was once a maternity gown.

  "Whatcha want?"

  "Have you got two cabins?"

  "Nope, got a double. Five dollars for tonight. Pay in advance." She peered into the car. "You ain't married, are you? Well," she sighed, "I suppose it ain't none of my business."

  Sonny was about to say they would drive on and look for two singles when Beatrice perked up. "We'll take it," she said firmly, probably figuring in safety in numbers. She gave Sonny a sarcastic look.

  "Sure, let's take it," Cynthia said sleepily. "I don't want to drive all night."

  In the cabin they stared at each other awkwardly. The only partition between the two beds was a faded chintz curtain suspended on rings that moved along a wire fastened between the exposed rafters.

  The old lady had opened the single door of the bathroom, and given detailed instructions on how to flush the toilet. She also expounded on the fact that she expected the place to be picked up and not left messy. Finally, after staring silently at the four of them, she left.

  "This place makes me feel cheap," Beatrice said.

  Sonny flopped on one of the beds. "Forget it, and have a drink. We've got to sleep somewhere, haven't we? After all, you did pick the place. If it had been up to me, I'd have kept looking."

  Beatrice sat on the edge of the other bed beside Cynthia, and whispered to her. "I don't like this. Let's get out of here."

  Cynthia shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know about you, but I'm pooped."

  Sonny passed the half empty bottle around. Cynthia refused it. Beatrice reluctantly took it, examined it, and, in an act of bravado, took a long swallow. Fiddling in the drawers of the one dresser in the room, Sonny found a deck of worn cards and fanned them. "I don't feel sleepy. Do you kids?"

  The strangeness of the place, plus an awakened feeling of guilt and nervousness, had all their minds racing. Sleepiness vanished before the prickings of their consciences. Lounging on the edge of one of the beds, they began to play a wild game of bridge with Yale and Sonny partners against Beatrice and Cynthia.

  Sonny kept bidding seven no trump, insisting that if Yale would play properly with him they could make every hand. They continued to drink until the bottle was empty.

  "This is dull. Let's play strip poker," Sonny suggested.

  Cynthia giggled. Beatrice, her eyes staring and dull, shook her head emphatically no.

  "How do you play it?" Yale asked.

  "Simple." Sonny Thompson seemed to have a wealth of devious ideas tucked away in his brain. "Did you ever hear of black jack or vingt et un sometimes known as twenty-one?" Sonny flicked a card down in a circle to each of them. "That's your underneath card. You bet against me. You bet that you'll come closer to twenty-one than I do." He explained the values of the cards. "Actually you have to bet on each hand, checking being unfair in strip poker. I'll work around to each one of you in turn." He flicked a card to Cynthia face up. It was an eight of spades. "What have you got underneath?"

  "A king."

  "That's worth ten. An ace is worth eleven or one. You can stand on eighteen or take another card hoping to come closer to twenty-one than I will. If you go over, you owe me a piece of clothing. If I am under eighteen or over twenty-one, I owe you a piece. If we are both even, any amount up to and including twenty-one, there is no exchange. Once you take off a piece you can't put it back on even though you win it from someone else."

  "It's too complicated," Beatrice complained.

  "No, it's really simple. You'll see when we get started."

  "It's not fair," Cynthia objected. "You both have more clothes on than we have."

  "We'll even up. How many pieces have you got, Bee?"

  "None of your business," Bee said and then laughed. "Oh, all right, if you want to know. I've got a dress, a slip, panties, a bra, stockings and shoes. I don't want to play."

  Sonny ignored her. "That's eight pieces counting each piece separately. Yale and I have shoes, stockings, pants." He paused, scratching his head as he tried to enumerate what they were wearing. "Underwear, shorts, shirt, a tie and a coat. Let's see, that's ten. We'll take off our ties and coat to even up."

  "It's still not even," Beatrice said. "Your underwear top isn't as crucial as our bras!"

  Yale leaned back on the pillow. "My God, what complications." There was more discussion. It was finally discovered that both girls were wearing earrings and these were accepted as an extra piece of clothing giving them each nine pieces against eight for Yale and Sonny.

  "My mother says that it's bad for people to stand around naked together," Beatrice said in a whimpering voice.

  The way she said it struck the three of them with a sense of almost hysterical comedy. Beatrice looked at them indignantly. "What's so funny?"

  "Your mother should see you now," Yale said. "Anyway, what's bad about your body?" He actually wanted to know and would have been just as agreeable to starting a discussion about the relativity of morals as to proceeding with the game.

  Beatrice looked at him coldly. "If you don't know by this time, Yale Marratt, I'm not going to tell you. This whole thing is bad. If it ever leaked out in Midhaven, we'd all be expelled."

  Sonny dealt the cards. Cynthia made twenty-two. Yale stood on eighteen, not showing his underneath nine of clubs. Reluctantly, Beatrice picked up her cards. She refused to show them for a minute but finally acknowledged that she had only seventeen. As the banker, Sonny played his hand. He turned up a king, then a six. He'd have to pay each one of them a piece of clothing if he stood pat. He drew another card and turned it over hesitantly. It was a king.

  "Twenty-six," Beatrice said, relieved. "You owe us all a piece."

  "Pay up." Yale laughed. "The inventor of the game goes to the cleaners."

  Sonny handed Cynthia and Yale a shoe each, and Beatrice a stocking. Yale took the deal and won a piece from them all. Cynthia dealt and lost two stockings and a shoe. It was Beatrice's turn and she dealt, protesting that no matter what happened she wasn't going to undress all the way. Sonny lost to Beatrice and Cynthia tied Yale. Sonny's stockings, shoes and shirt were off in a tangled heap on the bed.

  When Yale dealt again he won from all three. He had a pile of stockings and shoes in front of him. He held up Cynthia's silk stockings, laughing.

  "It's not fair, you haven't lost a thing," Cynthia said.

  "You must be cheating.

  Cynthia dealt and lost to Yale. She hesitated, and then remembered her earrings and pulled them off, laughing. "Thought you had me! Didn't you?" Beatrice lost to Cynthia and handed her her earrings. Sonny also lost. He took off his pants and sat in his underwear. When Cynthia dealt again they all made different combinations of twenty-one. No winners or losers.

  Sonny passed the whiskey bottle. He winked at Yale as he gave the deal back to Cynthia. The dealer stood the chance of losing three pieces and therefore had the biggest risk.

  "I just dealt," Cynthia said.

  "No, you didn't," Sonny grinned.

  "I did, too. Didn't I, Bee?"

  Bee passed her hand over her face. "Darned if I know. I'm tight!"

  Cynthia took the cards and dealt. She lost her dress to Yale. Hesitating, she slowly took it off while they wat
ched her. Sonny obviously was enjoying her embarrassment. She sat on the bed in her slip. On the same deal Beatrice lost her dress to Cynthia, and reluctantly took it off and gave it to her.

  Sonny, losing to Cynthia, took off his underwear top and handed it to her. Cynthia passed the deal to Beatrice again. Beatrice took the cards dubiously. "I think you're right, Cynthia, you just dealt."

  "It's too late now," Cynthia said. "You're stuck."

  Beatrice took the cards. She sat on the bed with her legs curled up under her slip. "If I lose, I am through, I'm not going any further."

  She dealt and lost to Sonny, and won from Yale and Cynthia. "We're going down at the same pace," Cynthia laughed.

  "Are you going to take off your slip?" Beatrice demanded. Cynthia looked at Sonny, grinning at her, as if to say, "I'll bet you don't dare." She shrugged her shoulders. "Why not?"

  She pulled her slip over her head and handed it to Beatrice. Nervously, Beatrice took hers off and handed it to Yale. She crossed her arms across her brassiere and blushed.

  Sonny picked up the cards. "Here goes someone!" He dealt four cards down.

  Yale drew a three underneath. "Hit it."

  Sonny flipped an eight of hearts at him.

  "Again." A two came next. Yale hesitated. "Again." A jack came next.

  "You're over, pay up."

  Yale handed him his last stocking.

  Sonny dealt a queen underneath to Cynthia and then a six facing up. She looked at her underneath card for a long time trying to decide what to do. She could beat Sonny or try for a card between one and five. She had to play. Sonny would certainly beat sixteen. "Hit it," she said breathlessly. Sonny flipped her a ten of hearts. "Damn," she said nervously.

  "Pay up," he laughed. Cynthia looked at Yale. Her eyes said, "Should I?"

  "Go ahead. Show him what pretty breasts you have. He's driven me crazy asking."

  Cynthia fumbled with the clasp on her brassiere, unhooked it and held it against her for a minute. Finally, blushing, she took it off and handed it to Yale.

  "Not bad," Sonny said, examining her breasts with exaggerated interest.

  "Keep your comments to yourself!" Cynthia snapped.

  Shocked, Beatrice took the deal. "If I weren't drunk I wouldn't do this." She dealt and lost to Cynthia and Yale. "I have only two things left," she wailed.

  "Take 'em off," Sonny laughed, examining his cards. "I lost to you so I'm out, too!"

  "I'm not going to undress any further," Beatrice said. Cynthia can do what she wants to." Beatrice started to pick up her slip as if she were going to put it on. They were all silent. Her tone of prudishness suddenly made them realize what they were doing. Their revelry fell through a sluice. "Oh, all right!" She got off the bed and took off her brassiere and panties. "There!" she stood naked beside the bed. "I hope you see enough." There was a peculiar anger in her eyes; her voice sounded near the edge of hysteria. Something was needed to save the impending tragedy.

  Cynthia hopped off the bed and slid out of her panties. "Come on, Yale. Let's all look at each other like curious kids and get it over with."

  Yale and Sonny finished undressing awkwardly. They all sat on the bed, trying not to look at each other too obviously; trying to hide their embarrassment.

  A "now-what-are-we-going-to-do" silence filled the cabin. Finally, Beatrice said archly, "If you've all seen enough, I think Cynthia and I will go to bed." She stated it so flatly that there was no room for Sonny's hesitant, "But -- "

  Cynthia eyed Yale. "You sleep with Sonny." She said it curtly, and started to draw the chintz curtain across the wire. Yale looked at her body seeing her uplifted breasts, and, as she turned, her white buttocks between her tanned shoulders and legs. He was suddenly amazed at the overwhelming feeling of chasteness and beauty that Cynthia, nude, held for him.

  "There's no point in doing that," Yale said. Cynthia gave him a use-your-head look.

  Yale walked back to his side of the curtain. He suddenly realized that his love for Cindar was a solitary thing. Even if Beatrice had been willing to sleep with Sonny, the atmosphere of the cabin would have produced a terrible feeling of sordidness. The whole affair that might have been beautiful and tender with Cynthia alone, held the possibility of a cheap orgy. "You won and lost, Sonny. Come on and let's get some sleep."

  In bed, after Sonny had ceased telling him that he was a lousy pal, and given up trying to persuade him that they could shift beds later on, Yale listened to the quiet breathing of Cynthia and Beatrice on the other side of the curtain.

  It was raining, and the drops fell quietly on the absorbent pine roof. You start out seeking something, he thought, and you wind up miles from where you ever wanted to be. He supposed that he had encouraged Sonny in the game. He couldn't deny his curiosity. He had wondered how Beatrice looked naked. After he had seen her he realized that she was just another normal girl. And while he found it good to look at her without clothing, he sensed that it was in admiration for a generalized aesthetic beauty and not a sexual attraction. Vaguely, he felt that the mores of the American culture were wrong in making nudity such a secret, closeted affair. Perhaps a great deal of the filth and innuendoes associated with sex would be eliminated if the western, cultures accepted the everlasting and amazing mystery of man's and woman's bodies. If all children were brought up with a clear understanding, and taught a real love of man for man. It would have to start, he thought, with the established religions first eliminating the sinfulness of man.

  What he wanted was to be lying beside Cindar, alone; by themselves somewhere. He wanted to tell her the ideas careening through his mind and listen to her sympathetic, "Yes, Yale, I understand."

  There was so much to learn, and to know. He realized that he was suddenly afraid of dying before he could accomplish the vague plans half formulated in his mind. He didn't know how the fear of death had come upon him but it had been lurking in his brain for weeks.

  Walking along College Avenue, or picking up a book, or starting to work on the play which continued to elude him, the idea would suddenly seize him of the uselessness of the whole thing. If he died, he couldn't finish what he started. All the bright beauty of living would be gone. Plans of being with Cindar, and marrying her and living in an atmosphere of quest and study -- all of them were contingent, futile. He would be dead. Maybe tomorrow, maybe tonight. When you want to live so badly, he thought, you lose your balance. He fought the feeling. He knew he was perfectly healthy. He cursed himself for getting such ideas. Why couldn't he live matter-of-factly like Sonny Thompson or any of the host of people that he had met at Midhaven College? They acted as if they were immortal.

  Nothing would shake his feeling of impending death. It came on him driving his Ford. He might crash with an oncoming car and be dead. He might step off a bus, and a car would crash into him, and he would be dead. He could visualize himself lying in a crushed heap. He shuddered at the thought. He was mortal. He could die.

  Somehow, the pattering of rain on the roof lulled him to sleep and he started to dream.

  In his dream he watched himself before the elevator door. "Don't go!" he screamed. "Don't go!" He saw himself stand motionless, unable to pull back from something that was drawing him forward. The room cascaded about him in fountains of whirling colors. It was a dance floor and the dancers were huddled together in the center. The murky blues, vanishing into warm pinks with green tinges, enveloped him. The room was closing in on him in a warm glutinous mass. The walls bent forward and curled in huge ripples like massive sheets of steel snapping under whip-like pressure.

  "I'm suffocating!" He could feel himself being pushed irresistibly to the blank, black cavern of the elevator. "Don't go! Don't go! It's a long way down." He watched himself going forward, tons of pressure squeezing against his back.

  "The elevator, the elevator. It's empty. I can't go down alone."

  He cringed against the wall which was no wall, but an endless tunnel of blackness. Slowly, noiselessly, the door inched
closed, the elevator started down. I'm not alone, he thought. I'm not going down alone. The bodies moved closer. They were warm and naked, and their perspiration slid over them wet and sticky. His hand touched a nipple and the deceptive softness of a breast. Against his stomach and buttocks he could feel the crackling wire hair of pubes. The elevator was gaining speed. A warm cloying smell of urine flooded through his nostrils. The elevator began to spin. "The cable, the cable! -- it's broken!" he yelled. The elevator was descending rapidly but now in a completely detached way. The bodies vanished. His head was being drawn up between his legs while his stomach seemed to be pulled up in an opposite direction. The elevator whirled faster turning in a rotary motion. "It'll crash!" he gasped. "Stop it. Stop it! I'm falling!" His body began to spin. "No," he yelled with terror. He watched himself becoming dizzy. He watched his strength ebbing away as he waited for the crash. He heard the deafening grate of scraping steel and screamed.

  "Yale! Yale!" He woke up, and looked at Cynthia, not recognizing her for a minute. "Where am I?" He shuddered. The room came into focus and he saw the bright sunlight streaming through the window of the cabin. Cynthia was dressed, sitting on the bed beside him. She caressed his forehead gently and spoke soothingly to him. Sonny and Beatrice looked at him curiously.

  "Wow, what a dream!" Yale shook his head, trying to free himself of the memory.

  Sonny said, "Come on, get dressed and let's get out of this dump. I need an aspirin and I'm hungry as hell."

  As they got into the car, Yale whispered to Cynthia, "You know, I can't remember what that dream was about but it felt as if I were being born." Cynthia squeezed his hand.

  6

  When Yale looked back on it in later years he would mark the summer between his Junior year and the beginning of his Senior year as a period when his life took off on a new direction. Cynthia had taken a summer job as a counsellor in a girl's camp in Maine. He wrote her almost daily long letters filled with love and confused philosophy. He entreated with her that sometime before their senior year started they must be alone together. They worked out a plan. Yale would come to New Jersey for a weekend just before school started and would stay overnight with her family. Then they would drive back to school together and stop somewhere overnight. Yale went through the summer months buoyed by the thoughts of being with Cynthia again, and alone with her, to really love for the first time.