The Rebellion of Yale Marratt

by Robert H. Rimmer

  Peoples looked at Mat, now, with interest. "What in hell have you been doing? You look as if you've been on a binge. Didn't you work today?" One hand on the wheel, Peoples fiddled with his underwear, evidently trying to pull it down. "This weather I get creeping underwear. You know it was one hundred and two degrees at noon. Tonight is going to be rough -- no relief in sight." He stopped the car at a red light. They watched a thin, raggedly dressed boy scooping tar bubbles off the road. The boy wound the tar on a stick and then blissfully chewed some of it. Peoples laughed. "You know I haven't chewed tar since I was a kid. Tastes lousy." Peoples shifted the gears as the light changed. "Well, are you going to confide in me or keep it to yourself?"

  Mat shrugged. "I've been trying to decide what kind of heel I am." He told Peoples about Honey Johnson. He explained his own reactions and his childish desire to horrify Doctor Tangle. Almost a form of suicide, so far as his ministerial career was concerned.

  Peoples listened in silence. Finally, he said, "You're overlooking the very obvious fact, Mat, that you felt a normal sexual attraction for the girl. You're so bottled up inside yourself that you responded with all the timidity and tenderness of a young man who feels the girl might reject him."

  Mat felt the angry blush on his face. "Why does it always have to be a sexual motive?"

  "When have you had a woman last? You are twenty-three. The sperm flows strong at that age. Man of God or not."

  Mat looked out the window of the car. Should he tell Peoples the truth; that he had never had a woman. That his only release had been an occasional "wet dream" that freed him temporarily from his nocturnal imaginings. That he had spent so much of his life studying and earning the money to pay for his studies that he simply didn't know how to approach a girl to ask for a date . . . let alone go further than that.

  "You know, Mat Chilling, your Honey Johnson has a sister Evelyn who has been picked up a couple of times for whoring. Whether your motives were sexual or whether they were hedonistic . . . or even whether you have a deep sympathy for the plight of our Negro friends in Helltown . . . no matter what your feelings may be, the plain truth is that this young Miss Johnson will sooner or later lose her virginity . . . if she hasn't already. I would suggest she couldn't lose it to a better prospect than you. I had a colored girl once . . . they can be very affectionate."

  Mat shook his head. "I know that you seem to think I have inherited some chivalrous ideas from the Middle Ages, Peoples, but I can't view people or women or any particular woman -- even Honey Johnson -- simply as a sexual object. To me she is very much a feeling, breathing person. You may be right that I want to go to bed with her; but if I could, it would be with a girl named Honey Johnson and I would be forever in her debt." Mat smiled. He continued, slowly, feeling for the words to evoke his thoughts . . . "I would be my sister's keeper, because I share the intimacy of her fears, her hopes, her despair. I wouldn't want her otherwise. Too many men view sex as an open vagina; a clutching of legs and a grovelling of bodies. I look on it as a commitment of one individual to another, a total involvement of which the congress is an ultimate manifestation."

  Peoples laughed. "You believe so much in human dignity, don't you, Mat? I won't argue with you, but I'm afraid most people are a long way from accepting your views." He lighted a cigarette and inhaled, blowing the smoke in a cloud around his head. "No . . . men do not change. We lose sight of this historically, because we lose, in an impossible accumulation of words, the details that make history intimate on a day-to-day basis. Are the Nazis in their persecutions of the Jews different, basically, than a previous generation? Last night I was reading some sidelights on the French Revolution, the period seventeen ninety-two to seventeen ninety-four, the Reign of Terror. Have you ever read some of the eye-witness accounts? Thousands upon thousands of people were brutally slaughtered by the tribunals of the Republic. Given the emotional impetus, the individual for most men becomes nothing. There's a horrible account of what happened to the Princesse de Lamballa, one of thousands who were murdered. She was in the household of the Queen, accused of plotting against the Republic. She was tossed into a courtyard filled with massacred bodies of the aristocracy, bashed on the head with a sabre, stripped, her breasts hacked off, her body opened up and her heart torn out, her head cut off and placed on the end of a pike which they later paraded before Louis XVI and his family. . . ."

  Mat shuddered, listening to the recital. "That's not all," Peoples continued grimly. "One of the ruffians was seen later chewing on her heart, another cut off the lips of her vagina and made mustaches . . . while others loaded cannons with her legs. Let's see . . . that was about one hundred and sixty years ago . . . some of the stories that have come out of Germany recently seem to have a remarkable similarity."

  "What are you trying to prove?" Mat asked.

  Peoples shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. I hope you retain your idealism. The fact at the moment is that you do need a woman, and fate, destiny, Karma, call it what you will, says that inevitably Honey Johnson will engage in some dispassionate use of her vagina with a man, white or dark, who just wants to release his sperm, and in all probability this man will care not one whit about Honey as an individual."

  "I don't care," Mat said. "Someday I may have the courage to fight for the Honey Johnsons and their lousy destinies. At the moment, I'll have to live by what I believe."

  Peoples turned his car into College Avenue, driving toward the campus. "Have you heard about the shindig tomorrow?" he asked. "Biggest social event in the whole year. Everybody who is anybody in the city will be there."

  Mat knew that he was referring to Barbara Marratt's wedding. Doctor Tangle was officiating. "I'm sorry," Mat laughed, "you are discussing something outside my social ken. I would be better understood by the Honey Johnsons of this world. I've met Yale Marratt and talked with him several times after classes. I've heard Doctor Tangle complain about young Marratt's interest in one of the female students. That's the extent of my knowledge of the Marratts."

  Peoples pulled the car up in front of Doctor Tangle's house and stopped. "Guess you don't read the Midhaven Herald . . . this is a marriage of millions. The bridegroom's father owns Texas ranches and oil wells. Local estimates are that Pat Marratt, father of the bride, is personally worth at least three or four million dollars."

  Mat wondered what Peoples was trying to tell him. It wasn't like Peoples to recite the gossip from his own paper. "What do the Marratts have to do with my problem, and the whole subject of human dignity and destiny?"

  Peoples' eyes were twinkling. "Ah, you sensed that I was about to make an important generalization."

  "Stop being so damned pompous, Peoples," Mat said. He opened the car door. "Come on, out with it, I've got to get out of these stinking clothes."

  "Well, I thought you might have known Yale better. Unless you do, my point is lost. You see, in a larger sense he is caught in the same web as Honey Johnson. You tell me that she is trying to escape from her environment . . . a world she never made. Young Marratt is trying to do likewise. Both of them are up against forces stronger than they are." Peoples smiled wistfully. "Human dignity can't persevere in the face of dismemberment. Honey Johnson won't have her legs stuffed in a cannon and Yale Marratt may never lose his head, but as they make their 'truce with necessity' the dignity they once possessed will shrivel and attenuate."

  Mat shook his head. "Sometimes, I think you read too much, Peoples! You won't make a good newspaper editor when you grow up." He walked up Doctor Tangle's front steps followed by an explosion of laughter from Peoples' car.

  14

  Yes, it had been a strange day, revealing undercurrents in his feelings that he had suppressed too long. As Mat lay on his cot, trying to get up energy to take a bath, he had made at least one decision. No matter what openings there might be, no matter what Doctor Tangle might suggest, he was going to spend the summer working at Latham's. For three months he was going to forget God, religion and theology. After having pursued G
od in an effort to find himself, perhaps by searching his own personal thinking he would find the kind of God that was necessary for his own wellbeing as well as a God he could bring to others. Mat had a feeling growing in him that it would not be the God of orthodox Protestantism that he had studied so carefully these past years.

  He heard a cautious knock on his door. If it were Mrs. Tangle he was not in a very presentable condition. He opened the door warily and peered into the hall. He recognized Yale Marratt. The coincidence of his recent conversation with Peoples and the fact that Yale Marratt was standing on his landing flashed through his mind.

  "Yale. What brings you around on such a warm night?"

  "I don't know just how to tell you, Mat. But I need your help." As Yale walked into the room, Mat was shocked at his appearance. He had been crying. His face was smudged with dirt. His shirt was torn.

  "For heaven's sake, Yale! What is it?"

  "Cynthia . . . you know her . . . my girl friend . . . is badly hurt. She's down near the chapel. I wonder if I could bring her up here."

  Mat tried to conceal his amazement. "Chum, you must he affected by the heat. Don't you know this is Doctor Tangle's house?"

  "He's not home. I just saw him go out with Mrs. Tangle. Please, Mat." Yale's voice bordered on hysteria. "I'll go get her."

  "Use some sense," Mat said. "You better take her to the infirmary. How did she get hurt, anyway?"

  "Look, Mat. I can't explain. I don't know why the hell she did it, but it was practically suicide. Will you please help me?"

  Reluctantly Mat followed Yale down the stairs. They found Cynthia huddled in the shadows of one of the buttresses of the college chapel. In the light of a street lamp, Mat caught a glimpse of her face and whistled. "Good Lord, young lady, what happened to you?"

  Cynthia looked away from him. He could tell that she was in pain. As she walked she swayed, and nearly fell. Mat and Yale steadied her and listened in dismay to her hushed sobbing as she let herself be slowly guided up the four flights of stairs to Mat's room.

  Mat latched the door. Seeing Cynthia in the light he was shocked. She looked as if she had been beaten by a sex maniac. Her face was a mess; bruised, with long torn gashes in several places. One gash came perilously close to her eyes. Her blouse was stained with blood.

  "Were you attacked?" Mat asked. "Who did this to you?"

  Cynthia slumped in a worn mohair chair. "I did it to myself," she said. "It's no one's faalt. Would you help me get my skirt off? I can't reach the zipper. My arms feel as if they were dead."

  Yale looked at Mat and around the room. There was no place for privacy, except a tiny four-by-five bathroom. Yale nodded at the bathroom. "Will you excuse us, Mat?" he asked.

  "Oh, Yale," Cynthia said wearily. "This is no time to be a prude. I need help." She fumbled with the zipper and finally undid it, letting her skirt drop to the floor.

  Yale hissed at her to please have a little modesty.

  "Stop worrying," Mat said, looking in dismay at Cynthia. Her brassiere and panties were stained brown with blood. Her entire body looked as if she had been whipped with a lash embedded with thorns.

  "Help me undo my brassiere," Cynthia said, wincing, as she took off her blouse.

  Yale looked at her amazed. He wanted to shout. No, no! Cynthia! Suddenly all his emancipated ideas about nudity vanished. This was Cynthia, the girl he loved. He didn't want her standing naked in front of Mat Chilling. It was cheap, awful.

  "Mr. Chilling," Cynthia turned her back to Mat, "if Yale feels so proper, you do it!" She turned her back to Mat. "Please," she insisted.

  Awkwardly, Mat undid the clasp and drew away from her.

  Cynthia stepped out of her panties. She took off her bra. "Stop looking so surprised, Yale. It was all right to be naked two years ago when we played strip poker." Mat and Yale watched her go in the bathroom and close the door. They heard the water running in the tub. Mat picked up a book and fingered it nervously. "She should see a doctor. She may be hurt internally."

  "I suppose you think I tried to rape her," Yale's voice was pitched with anger.

  Mat shrugged. "I'm not asking questions, Yale. I'm just wondering what you are going to do. She must see a doctor."

  "Mat, I'm going crazy, I think. I don't know what to do. You know how long Cynthia and I have been going together. There never has been a quarrel or a misunderstanding. Then today, God . . . oh God . . . what did I do?" He tried to explain to Mat what happened and found it impossible. It was too private, too close to the actual act of love. How could he explain why Cynthia had been naked? What explanation was there of her maniacal running down that cliff . . . or her horrible "Rape me, go ahead, rape me," words that weren't Cynthia's at all?

  The door of the bathroom opened and Cynthia walked out. She was still naked. Her eyes were hard. Her face almost ugly, with a harsh expression grotesquely accentuating the bruises on her cheeks. Her breasts that had been so beautiful to Yale were lacerated and bloody. Her body, from her neck down, was inscribed with torn welts and cuts, some of which were still bleeding.

  "Mr. Chilling," she said. "I am afraid that Yale is quite shocked with me. You see he still has a great deal to learn about women." She lay down on Mat's bed, raising her knees and spreading her legs. "I have a thorn badly imbedded here." she said, pointing to the inside of her thigh. "Will one of you help me get it out? There's some tweezers in my handbag."

  Yale shouted, "For Christ's sake, Cindar, have a little modesty."

  "You see, Mr. Chilling," Cynthia said, speaking very coolly, not looking at Yale. "Yale doesn't realize that many women are whores at heart. They like to have men look at them. You better go, Yale. I'm going to ask Mr. Chilling to do me a favor and let me stay here tonight."

  Watching Cynthia, Mat was torn between his sudden amazement at seeing a woman so intimately naked, sitting before him, revealing herself so unconcernedly, and the fear that Doctor Tangle might return and hear them. Good God, what would Doctor Tangle say? His career as a minister would be concluded before it began. "You can't stay here," he muttered.

  Yale pleaded with Cynthia to please get dressed. They both started to talk at once.

  "Stop it, do you hear!" Cynthia screamed. Mat jumped and held his hand over her mouth. She bit his finger. He looked at her in dismay. "I've got to stay here tonight, at least. I can't go back to the dormitory. Mrs. Wicker and every girl in the place would know about me in five minutes. I am very sure I wouldn't be welcome at Yale's home . . . or would I, Yale?"

  Yale stared at her in misery and said nothing.

  "So, I stay here tonight. I've got to see if I can fix my face. Yale, you go now. If you don't I'll scream again."

  "You better go, Yale," Mat said. "No one will know she is here." Fearing that Cynthia would actually scream as she promised, Mat edged Yale to the door. He walked down the stairs with him. On the porch Mat looked at Yale. Tears were streaming down his face. Mat patted him on the shoulder. "I'll find out what it's all about, Yale. She's not pregnant, is she?" he whispered, embarrassed at using the word.

  "I don't think so," Yale mumbled, wiping his tears on his shirt sleeve. Of course, Cynthia wasn't pregnant, he thought bitterly. They hadn't had intercourse since February. It was rotten having to discuss Cynthia like this, revealing their private wonderful love to a stranger. Oh, my God! Cindar, what has happened to us? Yale started back up the stairs. Mat grabbed him. "Yale, Yale, go back to the dormitory. I'll take care of her."

  Yale looked at him, unable to speak. "All right, Mat, I'll go but I'm coming right back. You've got to help us figure out something to do. I'll see if I can get a car."

  Cynthia was in the bathroom sitting on the toilet and vomiting into the tub.

  "Mr. Chilling, forgive me," she sobbed. "I had to do it. Oh, God, I had to do it, and I'm so sick." She slid onto the floor, crying uncontrollably. Mat picked her up and carried her to his bed. He soaked a towel with the coldest water he could get, wrung it out, and gently patted her face
. Finally, she stopped crying, and stared at the ceiling.

  "What happened, Cynthia?" Mat asked and his deep voice was soothing.

  "I'm a Jew, Mr. Chilling. Do you know that?"

  "Please call me Mat, Cynthia. I'm only about four years older than you. I know you're Jewish. So does Yale, I presume."

  "Well, we can't ever be married. Not ever, do you understand. . . ." Cynthia got off the cot. She pulled on her panties and put on her skirt. Mat snapped the hook on her brassiere. He helped her button her blouse. As he helped her he felt her skin. It was hot and dry to his touch.

  "You've got a fever," he said, alarmed.

  "I've got to go. Yale will come back." Cynthia tried to smile. Her lips moved, forming the words "I'm sorry." Mat caught her as she fainted. Thank God for a flash of inspiration! There was one person who could help . . . Sarah Cohen. He would take her there.

  Mat sweated through the graduation ceremony. The walls of the little chapel were damp with moisture. Outside an intermittent drizzle of rain flicked against the stained glass window. The rain had brought no relief. The air in the chapel was heavy and humid.

  Dr. Henry Twidell was receiving an honorary degree for his work with a mission in Africa. As Dr. Twidell mouthed the graduation platitudes, Mat looked around as much of the chapel as he could see without turning completely around and being obvious. He recognized Pat Marratt and what must be Mrs. Marratt sitting beside him. Yale was there somewhere lost in the front rows among his fellow students in their caps and gowns.