The Rebellion of Yale Marratt

by Robert H. Rimmer

  "I like him," Kathie whispered. "He's really saying that people are nice . . . if only other people would let them be."

  Yale grinned. Maybe Kathie was right. He realized that somewhere in the past hour of listening his anger with Mat had vanished. Now Yale had only a vast curiosity to discover how Mat had arrived at this new dynamic philosophy of life. Had Cynthia been a part of this development?

  Yale's thoughts were interrupted by the realization that Mat had suddenly disappeared from the platform. His voice continued even more persuasively over the microphones. The stage grew dim. For a moment the light disappeared entirely. The tent was in blackness. Mat's voice whispered, "And these are the words of Jesus, 'Think not that I am come to send peace on earth. I came not to send peace but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father; and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law.' Is this Jesus of ours a man of Peace?" Mat demanded. "No. He is a sower of hatred! Jesus managed to trump the awful wrath of the prophets with a new idea . . . an insidious hatred of sex. Think of this man who could ignore his mother and all women in his quest for power. 'Woman,' Jesus said to Mary, 'What have I to do with thee?'" Mat paused and then he thundered, "There is no future for the dignity of man in a concept so based on fear and disgust with the normal sex act that it required a virgin birth for its prophet.

  "JESUS!" Mat's voice thundered. "I'll tell you what YOU and every man has to do with women." As Mat's voice reached an almost unbearable pitch, the stage was lighted with a hazy, soft blue glow. The audience, as if looking through swirling mists, caught the almost ethereal glimpse of a woman, standing naked in the middle of the stage, her arms raised, her head tilted to the sky. It was a dreamlike personification of Woman. The female principle in life, Yale thought, the essence of Beauty. As the light slowly dimmed he knew that, for a second, he had been staring at Cynthia! The lights came on full again. She had vanished from the stage.

  "This should be your worship. The Worship of the ineffable wonder of man, and his receptacle of life . . . woman !" Mat had returned to the stage. "I offer you what you have always known. I only ask you to be unafraid of those who hate man. They travel in many guises. They will continue to dominate you with this fear and hatred. Stop them. Now! With the very wonder that makes you a man . . . or a woman."

  Mat had finished. He bowed to his audience and disappeared through the trap door. Had Mat constructed it that way in the event he might cause a riot? The audience was moving out of the tent as if they were stunned.

  "How did you like it?" Pearlstein demanded. "Wasn't that something? Boy, that guy could sell you the Brooklyn Bridge."

  "I'm going to see if I can talk with him a minute," Yale answered. "He's a fellow I knew in college."

  "No kidding! I think I'll tag along. I'd like to hear what he's got to say. Come on, Kathie, let's see what kind of a guy he is."

  Yale wanted to protest. He would have preferred to see Mat Chilling alone but he was embarrassed to leave Pearlstein and Kathie without explanations. He shrugged. It probably wouldn't make any difference. Mat and Cynthia's reception couldn't possibly be cordial. What good would it do to confront them now with the fact that they were married. They knew it. They had probably been married five years. Could he scream at them . . . "Why couldn't you have told me?" Could he shout at Cynthia, "Why? . . . when I loved you so much? How could you do that to me?" No. It was too late for histrionics. Cynthia and Mat wouldn't believe that after five years he had never been sure what had happened. Not until just now. Nor could Cynthia ever understand that something of her, something indefinable like a shadow or a friendly ghost of herself, trailed constantly at Yale's side, holding him to her in a way that was sometimes frightening.

  The pale-faced girl who sold tickets told them that Mat Chilling lived in a trailer behind the tent. She doubted whether he would see anyone.

  Followed by Jake and Kathie, Yale walked toward the rear of the tent. The lights on the sign "Seek the True Love" were extinguished, leaving them in sudden darkness. For a moment Yale considered abandoning the idea of seeing Mat. Meeting him alone was one thing, but with strangers like Pearlstein and Kathie he knew he would be constrained. On the other hand, he thought, if I wait until tomorrow I may miss them entirely.

  "What's the matter, Marratt?" Pearlstein asked. "Change your mind?"

  "Well, I don't know. I haven't seen this fellow for nearly five years." As Yale spoke a flashlight flared in the darkness, blinding him for a second. "Are you looking for someone?" It was Mat Chilling.

  "Mat! It's me, Yale Marratt." While Yale couldn't see his face, he could hear the gasp of astonishment. There was a long pause as the flashlight searched Yale's features.

  "Cynthia, Cynthia," Mat shouted excitedly. "Come here! Look who is here."

  "Yale, it's good to see you! Cynthia and I often have wondered how you were. Come on up to the trailer." While he was speaking Mat dropped the beam of the flashlight onto the ground. Even in the gloom, Yale could see that he was trembling. He is as surprised as I am, Yale thought. Yale noticed him looking at Jake and Kathie.

  "These are a couple of people I met tonight," he explained, introducing them. "They were as fascinated as I was."

  Yale was about to continue when he saw Cynthia at the door of the trailer. She jumped down two steps at a time, threw herself against him, and held him in a long embrace. "Yale! Yale Marratt!" She breathed in his ears. "I simply can't believe it! What are you doing in Miami?" Cynthia stood back and examined his uniform. "You're an officer -- a lieutenant!" As she talked she pushed him to the steps of the trailer. "Come on up. it's tiny but there's room enough. Bring your friends," she said, noticing Jake and Kathie.

  They followed her into the trailer and sat awkwardly in camp chairs she arranged around a tiny table. Yale looked at Cynthia. The desire to reach out and touch her, to hold her close to him, was so overpowering that it brought tears to his eyes. God, he thought, after five years I'm still in love with her. He searched her oval, heart-shaped face, finding it still beautiful with wide brown compassionate eyes. She looked at him in wonder. "Yale -- oh, Yale -- you are a finance officer. How in the world . . . ?"

  "No kidding," Mat interrupted. "I would have picked you for anything in the army but finance."

  "I went to Harvard Business School." Yale's voice was a little distant. He realized that they were trying to probe him before he could delve into their background. "It was inevitable" He wanted to say, what else was there to do? You were gone, Cynthia -- with you went everything.

  "So your father won that battle, too?" Cynthia asked quietly.

  "I guess you might say so. But what about you two? If I am amazing to you, you are more so to me. You're married, I guess?"

  Cynthia nodded and Mat said quickly, "We were married last year."

  "Oh, I thought it was love at first sight. I had an idea you were married right after graduation."

  There was a tense silence. Mat looked at Cynthia. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. Pearlstein, noticing the gap in the conversation, changed the subject for them. "That was some spiel you gave out there, Mr. Chilling. God damndest thing I ever heard! Pardon my English, but it's the first really refreshing idea I've heard on the subject of religion since I was Bar Mitzvahed."

  Mat grinned. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

  "Oh, it was Wonderful" Kathie breathed. "So very, very true." Cynthia looked at Kathie, puzzled. There was a does-she-belong-to-you-Yale expression in her eyes.

  "What did you find so true about it, Miss Winters?" Mat asked encouragingly. "You know, it helps me to get all types of reactions."

  "Well," Kathie said, embarrassed at being singled out, "I guess I just think sex is natural and a lot of fun. Most people are afraid to say so. They think it's dirty. They hate you for doing what they'd like to do themselves."

  "As Kathie gets your message, the only thing wrong with the world is the lack of a good sexual orgy," Yale said crudely.


  "Oh, I do not! I . . . well, I don't know." Kathie stopped, evidently deciding she couldn't express herself with this group.

  "Well, my message is not exactly urging sexual freedom," Mat explained. "It's rather that the world ultimately must accept that the only logical hope for man depends on inspiring him with a deep abiding love for both the wonder and frailty of man and woman."

  "You could preach that from the rostrum of any church," Yale said. "Why use a cheap side-show technique . . . finishing it off with a strip act?" As he said the words he was sorry for them but somehow he couldn't control his bitterness. He looked at Cynthia. "Of course, you do have an expert in those matters. Don't you?" he asked sarcastically, staring at Cynthia who blushed.

  "I'm sorry you feel that it is a cheap technique. The reaction I have had has been for the most part receptive. The public . . . the little man or woman in the street, like Kathie here . . . seem to have a basic understanding of their fundamental needs. In essence I am telling men that all love, the love of a man for his wife, for his mother or his father, or for the idea of women in general, is a deep permanent need, and nothing to fear . . . man should not even fear his transient desire for the pretty women he sees or his admiration for the sexual components of the female and vice versa. Of course, the established churches do not see eye to eye with me. But in glorifying love in all its aspects I can touch the heart of man and lead him . . . not to some cloudy heaven of the future -- but to the God that is in his every minute of living."

  "I agree with you," Jake said, emphatically. He patted Mat on the shoulder. "Why don't you come over to the Beach with us and have a few drinks, Reverend? We'll have a good religious discussion." He stood up and Yale got up with him.

  "Oh, you're not going so soon. Please stay a while, Yale," Cynthia pleaded. Yale wanted to stay, but what could he say to her in front of Mat, he wondered? What he had to say was too dangerously fraught with his love for her. And that was hopeless. "Oh, I guess I better go along with Jake and Kathie," he said. "Maybe, if I don't get shipped out, I'll drop around tomorrow morning and we'll have a talk. You've got an interesting idea, Mat. Maybe you'll start a new religion. Too bad the Army caught up with you. I shouldn't think they'd dare have your ideas circulating in an Army camp. You could start a civil war."

  Mat laughed. "In the Army I will conform even as you have, Yale."

  Cynthia took Yale's hand. As he returned the pressure of her grasp he felt the ring she was wearing. She withdrew her hand and held it against her breast. She looked at him strangely. His glance stopped on her fingers. She was wearing the ring he had given her at Midhaven College! The ring with the Yang and Yin symbol. Their engagement ring! Why . . . why did she still wear it? Did Mat realize it was his ring? Yale looked at her, astonished. Cynthia turned away, accepting with doubt in her eyes his promise to see them tomorrow.

  As they walked away from the trailer, Yale was lost in thought. What had Cynthia been trying to tell him? She had obviously wanted him to see the ring. Was she saying that she still cared for him? It was crazy. She was married. Maybe they even had kids. He had been afraid to ask. God, he thought, why in hell did I ever go back to the trailer? Why am I mixed up so irrevocably with Cynthia? I thought I had it licked, and now after five years the past reaches out and grabs me so hard it makes me feel sick to my stomach.

  "Let's go to Tangy's and tie one on," Pearlstein suggested. He hailed a taxi. "We've had enough of God tonight. What do you say, kids? It's on me."

  Yes, Yale thought, I need a drink. Not one but several. Would he go back tomorrow to try and talk with Cynthia alone? No. Why get involved? It's dead. It's over. But, he knew if he wasn't shipped out that he would try to see her. He couldn't help himself.

  Tangy's was crowded. They found a table. Opposite them on a tiny elevated stage behind the bar a pianist was singing dirty songs with a sneering voice. Jake ordered drinks which they gulped quickly. But the fourth round Yale was feeling less distraught. Jake had appropriated a pleasantly fat woman from the table next to them. Kathie drank her fourth drink and drummed on the table. Occasionally she joined in on the refrain of a song like "roll me over in the clover." As she sang she looked at Yale with an amorous expression.

  "Our lieutenant here," Jake said to his companion, "has a yen, I think, for a little lady over in Miami."

  "Don't carry a torch, honey," the plump woman said, affably breathing liquor and a smoky breath in Yale's face; "it'll burn you to a crisp."

  "Did you love that girl?" Kathie demanded.

  "Naw," Yale said drunkenly, wondering for a second why he just didn't get up and leave. "I love you, Kathie, old kid."

  Jake leaned over and whispered in Yale's ear. "I'm all fixed up with this tomato. She's staying in a fancy joint up the beach. Here's the key to my room. You can have it tonight. Leave it at the desk," Yale felt the key being slid into his uniform pocket. "Thanks," he muttered. "I don't think so." But he didn't return the key.

  The pianist who had been on an intermission returned to his elevated platform. "How are all you happy little drinkers?" he asked, leering at the audience. He sang a song filled with sexual innuendoes. His patent leather shoes beat an insinuating off-rhythm to his pounding of the piano.

  "Sing the lamb song," someone yelled.

  "Yeah, sing the lamb song!"

  "So you're poor little lambs?" The pianist smirked.

  "Yeah, we're poor little lambs." The crowd was enthusiastic. They tinkled their glasses with their cocktail sticks. The pianist assumed a choir boy expression. He struck a few chords and sang.

  "We are poor little lambs who have lost our way, baa, baa, baa."

  The crowd joined him. "We are poor little lambs who have gone astray, baa, baa, baa."

  "I'm a poor little lamb . . . I'm a poor little lamb . . . Kathie said sadly. She fastened her lips on Yale. "Wanta make love," she whispered. "Your friend in the tent thinks it's a good idea. I think it's a good idea!"

  Yale pushed her away gently. "You get the clap that way."

  "No, honest to God, honest. I'm not a whore. I'm just lonesome as hell. You don't know what it's like to have been married, and then all of a sudden -- plop," she banged the table, "you don't have it anymore. You know somethin'. I've got two kids . . . two nice kids. Who'll ever want me? You know all I want is to be wanted. No one wants a woman with two kids except for a quick roll, and 'I'll be seeing you.' You know that?"

  "That's all you'd get from me," Yale said.

  "I know it," Kathie said. "But what else is there?"

  2

  Yale opened the door to Pearlstein's room. Kathie stumbled in ahead of him. She flopped on the bed, grinned at him drunkenly, twisted violently and then slid slowly off the other side, crashing into the wall.

  Yale picked her up and deposited her back on the bed. He pulled off her shoes. The maid had turned the sheets down. Although it was warm, Yale pulled the sheet over her. For a moment he deliberated whether he should undress her, and then decided against it. She was obviously out cold; she breathed so heavily that it was close to snoring. Better to leave her here and go back to his hotel. It had been nearly a year since he had been with a woman but an inebriated pick-up was not appealing. Last night she had probably been with someone else. If he stayed, he would end up feeling sorry for her and for himself.

  He was halfway out the door when she woke up. Where was he going?

  "I thought you needed the sleep."

  Kathie got out of bed. "Aw, please. Stay with me. I'm not a floozy. A year ago I had a nice little apartment in Miami. I had a husband and a new baby. I wouldn't have looked at you . . . even if you whistled."

  "So your guy got knocked off," Yale said coldly, "and you started to peddle your hot ass."

  "A year ago no one would have used such language with me. Am I that cheap looking?" She sighed. "I guess I am."

  Yale came back and sat on the bed. "I'm sorry, Kathie. I don't know what in hell has gotten into me. I used to be a nice kid who tho
ught all girls were made of sugar and spice."

  Kathie grinned. "That's me. Honest, I'm sugar and spice. She turned her back to him. "Unzip my dress." Yale slid the zipper and released the catches on her brassiere. He watched her breasts come free. He knelt beside the bed and kissed them gently. Her fingers tightened in his hair. "Okay, Kathie, let's play house. Let's cuddle together and tonight forget that an army is slobbering around in the snow . . . freezing to death or being pulverized."

  He made love to her gently; thinking, as he caressed her, that this was the third girl he had made love to in the nearly five years since Cindar had left him. You couldn't really call that an excessive amount of love-making for a man of twenty-six. Kathie caught the smile on his face. She asked him what was funny.

  "Not funny," Yale said. "I'm afraid that I'm not very expert."

  Kathie laughed. She pulled his face down against her cheek.

  "You're fine, honey. Just don't come ahead of me. Please." It was over in a few minutes. A bit clinical, Yale thought. No vast emotions or involvement, just a physical release. She lay in his arms, her face nestled in his neck. He looked at the graceful curve of her shoulders, the undulation of hip and leg carelessly thrown over his legs, and he felt an intense sorrow for her frailty and the essential womanliness she would always have to deny. Why do we lose the breathless wonder of life? Yale stared at the ceiling and listened to Kathie's relaxed breathing. Even I indulge in labeling, he thought. By tacking a word on a person or thing, I pin it down. I can call Kathie a whore, a prostitute, or just a dame with hot pants. But these words are not Kathie. They corrupt any further possibility of knowing the essential Kathie. How little we know about each other, or for that matter, how little we understand the mystery of our own being! How amazing that we communicate with one another at all!