by John Rechy
As they drove away, I stared at the fraudulent house. I started to walk the long, long way to the projects. Soon I was running. The steamy night, as if it had followed me from the ranch, clung to my body, drops of perspiration clouding my eyes. When I had reached the house where I lived in the projects, I waited for minutes, welcoming the sweat as if it might wipe away the days past, the accusing regrets.
I found this out from Barbara, who tried to underplay its significance, kindly, “Oh, did you know—?” I accepted it unassailably the moment she had spoken it. The reason that I had been considered for the famous fraternity was that it had been put on probation by the college. A certain grade average was required for the fraternity to be allowed on campus. My high grades would have given the fraternity a passing nudge. The fact that I was good-looking had further paved the way for the unexplored invitation. It had not been known—because of my careful subterfuges—that I lived in the government projects and, the conclusion was easy, that I was Mexican.
* * *
Since that night in Balmorhea, I was haunted anew by the memory of the kept woman of Augusto de Leon. The reason why that memory had so powerfully asserted itself, after I had walked out on Miz Crawford and stood alone in the cactus garden at her ranch, baffled and eluded me. Before that, the memory had recurred, yes, goaded by the fact that Marisa Guzman was an enduring subject of speculation in the city. But I had not remembered her with the insistence of that recent night, and without an apparent impetus to spring the memory. When I deliberately evoked that night, the details of the recollection, the memory trailed off, once finding a new focus on Isabel Franklin, as if she existed in the penumbra of Marisa—in the shadows, as I had seen her under the steps at our high school. Then those associations were carried away again by the memory of the kept woman as she sat in the drab room smoking, her motions precise, elegant, a choreography of movements. I would rehearse those in my mind, as if within them lay an elusive connection. Then the spell of the memory was shattered, just as the spell of the kept woman had been by the intrusion of the harsh woman who had invaded the room and the cacophony of the wedding celebration’s sounds.
The kept woman’s superb poise—was that it?
I remained friends with Scott, but the matter of rushing me died down. Our friendship became hurried greetings, exchanges of information about classes, little else. I began to separate myself more and more from other students. I returned to my original intention, abandoned so disastrously, not to court popularity.
With a new staff—still five—I dedicated myself wholeheartedly to the first issue I would put out of El Burro, a name I would change after my first issue, to ease the transition. I solicited stories through the college newspaper. I chose the best two—there were not that many more good ones. One was by a girl delineating her surprise upon arriving in the desert from Boston, a wistful story. The other was by a young man I had seen on campus, usually alone. The story was about a friendship between an athlete and a “smart kid,” who is caught giving answers to his friend during a test.
I could not totally at first abandon the cartoons and jokes the students had learned to expect. But I chose the ones I thought had not been overused. I chose them from schools I considered sophisticated. For the cover, I asked Barbara—using that as an excuse to call her after we hadn’t met for a few days—to pose in the school auditorium, in her ballet leotards and shoes. I directed the shooting, made sure that the theater’s curtain draped exactly, its folds highlighted. She and the photograph were beautiful, the photographer agreed, shifting his allegiance to me in small increments of approbation.
I wrote an essay for my first issue. It was titled: “Modern Art: A Shattered Mirror.” It was pretentious, but I did not see that then. The article was illustrated by a young art student, a girl who had just arrived from the East. The illustrations were of various figures, men and women, in colorful distortions.
I went down daily to the printing office to make sure that the magazine was exactly as I and the new staff—I had managed to convert them, too, conditionally—had planned.
I would still have to wait for weeks before my first issue as editor of the magazine was printed and run and appeared on campus.
For a week, Barbara did not appear at the library, or at the classes I knew she was taking and that I would find a reason to pass by. Pretending not to be bothered, but becoming angrier and angrier at her unaccountable absence, I continued our translation, which was going nowhere.
There was another girl I met at the same time in college, a pretty girl who had recently transferred from somewhere in the East. We had a class together, a class in philosophy taught by a rabbi so boring that students would walk out unnoticed as he rambled on.
When the girl, who had exchanged smiles with me, walked out of the class one day, I followed her out, mainly because I hoped that Barbara, back from wherever she was, would see me with her and become jealous. As we walked out, a boy in the front row looked at me, and then at the girl; he made a spinning sign with a finger pointed at the side of his head. What? Obviously jealous, and that made me feel good.
The new girl looked like a gypsy to me. She even dressed somewhat like a gypsy, spangly earrings, flairy skirts, blouses that more than hinted of abundant young breasts; yes, like a reckless gypsy, but not, oh, God, not like the grimy gypsy girl who had once terrified me by trying—I realized this only eventually—to kiss me that distant day when I had thought she was going to breathe a vaporous potion into my soul. This girl had long, abundant dark-reddish hair, which she emphasized by periodically pushing it away from her face with a dramatic twist.
That day, early afternoon, the wind was howling, tossing tumbleweeds against buildings and then exploding into myriad splinters. Fighting the wind, still looking around for Barbara, marking time for her to appear and see us, I introduced myself to the girl:
“John. I’m a writer.”
“Anne. I’m going to be an opera star!” she shouted over the howling wind, which, however, abated as if to catch its breath, allowing her shouted words full force. Several students—Barbara was nowhere in sight—turned, startled, to look at her.
I asked her to have coffee with me at the student union building; I was working the night shift at the newspaper and had time. At around the same time, I usually met Barbara there before we went to the library to continue our translation.
“Why don’t we go to my house for coffee, writer?” she asked me, overly flirtatious. “I live nearby. We can talk more comfortably. Oh, don’t you love the wind, so free!”
I hated the wind. “I don’t have a car,” I said, always embarrassed to admit it; I didn’t have my brother’s car that day. Too, I didn’t really want to go anywhere else with her, I was comparing her with Barbara and finding her lacking; she was extravagantly ebullient, her head pushed back as if to devour the hateful wind.
“I do have a car.” She grasped me by my waist. “Come on, writer!”
With the wind tossing her hair about, she looked even prettier—and older than I had thought, about twenty. I felt somewhat trapped, now that whole intent of this encounter had failed.
“Come on, get in, it’s wind-eeee!” she trilled joyously.
She had led me insistently to what looked to me like a new car, hers—a surprise; I had expected something less of the reckless gypsy.
She opened the door for me. Either she or a gust of wind—probably both—shoved me in. “Let’s go-oooo.”
She turned the radio on, a classical station, and hummed along with the music. “Don’t you love music? It’s the language of the soul.” She drove a distance away from the college, an elaborate trip for coffee, but now I was letting myself enjoy the “gypsy” girl’s teasing company, feeling that I was spiting Barbara whether she saw me or not.
What the hell! We had entered Fort Bliss, the military base in El Paso.
“You live here?”
“Yes.”
The daughter of an enlisted man, maybe a se
rgeant allowed to have his family with him in one of the Quonset huts converted into residences.
She drove on along the tree-lined street, the wind battering the car, dust scratching against the windows. We entered a section of large two-story houses with lawns and spacious Southern-style screened porches. In front of each house was a placard that designated the name of the main occupant, name and rank. Captain Evers … Captain Logan … another captain. I read the names as the sheets of dust abated.
As we moved farther along the street, which became wider, the houses were even more attractive; larger lawns separated one from the other, a greater distance apart; name placards were more prominent. Lieutenant Colonel Johnson … Colonel La Fountaine. …
We parked in the driveway of the largest house.
General Welton, Commanding General.
Anne sprang out and opened the door for me. “Here we are, writer!” she said gaily, offering her hair up for the wind to grasp.
I stopped before the placard on the lawn and looked at Anne.
“Who?” I shouted.
“My father,” she shouted back, “but no one’s home except the maid.”
The free-living gypsy was a general’s daughter? A commanding general’s daughter!
Inside the large, well-furnished house, she led me into a spacious room. A record player; many albums in shelves or strewn about the floor; recordings of operas; open librettos; A couch.
The unexpected details of her life—and the powerful position of her father, who would be affronted by my background—gave me a peculiar pleasure to be here and with her.
“I am going to be renowned as the ultimate star who sang the greatest of all roles most memorably!” She planted her hands on her swaying hips and stood before me, as if before an adoring audience. “Carmen!”
I couldn’t help myself; I laughed at the firmness of her grandiloquent intent and at her theatrical pose.
She slapped at my hand with splayed fingers, like an open fan. Apparently having forgotten her invitation to have coffee, she was humming strains from Carmen that I recognized from my father’s productions. I quickly pulled away from that sad association as Anne swayed sensuously, like the gypsy woman in the opera, now singing phrases from Carmen’s seduction song.
I had remained standing, watching her, taken aback by all this, trying to grasp where it was going.
She danced toward me, in practiced steps, one foot over the other slightly, then the other swinging over the first, advancing, dancing closer, now gyrating inches away from me.
Was this really happening? In her house? In the general’s house! A commanding general’s house, yes!—and she was his daughter, and all that was pleasing the hell out of me now. I did what she was inviting me to do with her extended arms and dancing fingers. I extended my own arms out and held her swaying body—still hesitantly, not knowing how low she might want my hands to grasp what.
Her movements slowed, tantalizing, before me. Did she really want me to do what I suddenly wanted to do—thought I wanted to do—wanted to do? Would she let me—if I tried—or tease me away? Challenged, I pressed against the quivering body of the commanding general’s daughter and, in his own house, drew her to me.
She broke away from me, singing, “No, no, no, no-ooo!”—eyes seductively narrowed. Feeling suddenly silly, but more than silly, feeling a gathering of unwanted excitement—and suddenly aroused before I even realized I was, or wanted to be, I knew I had to act—she stood there wiggling and daring me, almost, almost pressed against my body. Do something, do what? Damn Miss Edwards—she had confused me, she had—Damn Barbara!
I was able to add this in my mind: not only was I with the daughter of the commanding general of Fort Bliss in his home, but if he knew that, and knew who I was—! I pulled away from her quivering body—still dancing?—trembling?—slightly, apprehensive at the last thought I had evoked to arouse me. It had aroused me but also had made me nervous. What if the general did walk in?
Before me, Anne tossed her head back with insouciant disdain—and mouthing something that sounded like, “Poor soul”—she shifted away from me, all of which annoyed me to the point that I surprised myself by grabbing her angrily—was she challenging me, sure she could control me, taking me for granted?—pulling her against my body, responding to a new urgency.
Her lips parted, her head tilted back, inviting. I felt her breath on my face as she gasped a few more strains, puffy phrases, from Carmen.
I leaned my head toward her lips, my heart throbbing, or was it my—?
She dodged my attempt. As if beating a fan against her thighs, she warbled, “No, no, no, no-oooo!” But she didn’t move away.
I yanked her back—yes, awkwardly—or she flung herself at me; I wasn’t entirely sure. But I was sure that I was pressing my body against hers, now wildly excited and wildly afraid. The General’s daughter! She’s the general’s daughter!
My hands kept sliding away from whatever part of her I attempted to touch, or that she led me to—her movements making contact difficult, easy, difficult …
Determined not to let her take over—we seemed now to be fighting—I sat back on a couch and drew her firmly toward me, between my legs, not pausing now to disbelieve that this was happening.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she sang. “Yesssss.”
I leaned back on the couch, coaxing her down in this unique battle. Still undulating to her own music, she lay on the couch and over me. I rolled over with her—she almost fell from the narrow cot—and now I was on top.
“Yes, yes, yessss!” Her fingers snapped behind her as if cracking castanets. We both pulled on her skirt—no panties! We both opened my fly. The general’s daughter in his home, in Fort Bliss … breasts, whose?—Miss Edwards’s, yes, no, legs in sheer stockings, whose?—sweaty male bodies in the showers, wet naked bodies, Miss Edwards, Henry Miller, hot bodies wrestling. …
I barely touched her between her legs.
“Ouch!” she said.
I pulled my body back, but then quickly forward.
My bewildered cock, acting now on its own, independent of me, shoved against her exposed opening, a moisture—whose? Mine? Hers! She was humming—no, growling—the “Habañera” from Carmen! My father—No! The general’s daughter! In his house! The General!
There was the sound of a door opening, distant but definitely within the house.
“Quick!” she said, “Quick!”
She spread her legs. I pushed between them, my cock—Where was it? She closed her legs, tightly, very tightly, together—accepting my cock; no, pushing it out—coming, coming, coming!
She stood up, arranging her clothes. She whispered, “You didn’t get in. I’m still a virgin and so are you! Now hurry, my father’s here!”
I adjusted my clothes, trying to rub off the gummy moisture.
The general came in, all colorful ribbons, metals, and stars.
“Daddy, I want you to meet—”
She had forgotten my name.
“John,” I said.
“John what?” the general demanded. “You have a last name, don’t you?”
I needed to camouflage my name, quickly find another one, in case her father would vengefully track me down. His face was reddening. Quick! A name! “John Franklin, sir,” I introduced myself, extending my hand. The general didn’t take it; he merely glanced at his daughter, and then at me.
“I was just leaving,” I said.
“Yes, you are,” said the general, as his daughter began humming again.
“Good-bye,” I said to her.
She waved an airy hand at me.
“Glad to meet you, sir.”
The general didn’t answer.
I stepped out, realizing I would have to walk blocks and blocks along Fort Bliss before I could reach the bus stop.
John Franklin?
What had really happened? Why did I feel so angry?
The next day, in philosophy class, I took my usual seat. The professor was not
there yet.
In came Anne. In the aisle of the row where I sat, she paused. She smiled at me, a smile that turned sneery, a slash of bloody red. She took a step as if to occupy the seat next to me. Instead, she thrust her head back in emphatic disdain and, hips swaying, walked up the three ascending levels of the classroom, thrusting her hips about, to sit next to another student, another good-looking one. After class, I didn’t wait to see whether she would leave with him.
As I walked out, the boy who had made an ambiguous sign when I had left with Anne that first day leaned over the aisle and said, “I told you, man.” He repeated the sign, spinning his finger next to his ear. “She’s crazy—I told you, man.”
That same day, I saw Barbara talking to a man I didn’t like, a hulking guy, older than the other students, probably thirty years old; I knew he was in the engineering department. He seemed quite arrogant, with a ruddy skin and a swagger to his walk. He might even have a tattoo on his upper arm; inky scrawls crept out under a short sleeve. Barbara was smiling at him.
I turned away from her, hoping she hadn’t seen me. If she had been contriving to have me see her with that guy, just as I had done unsuccessfully with Anne, I didn’t want to allow her the pleasure.
Why did it upset me doubly that the man she was talking to, so friendly, was older? Did she see me only as a smart kid—she was, after all, a year older than I—a smart kid who might have a crush on her? What did I really feel for her, this mysterious girl who, in the middle of laughter, might stop abruptly as if throttled, and who seemed to move away into a private terrible place of her own?
14
As the time approached for the appearance of my first issue of the college magazine, I became increasingly nervous, needing to leave the campus as soon as my classes were over, even going to work early at the city newspaper during the day shift. Then, at night, I would take refuge from the campus world in the public library.
A handsome white building with thick columns, it looked like a Southern plantation. I spent as many hours as I was able to there, impatient to finish one book so that I could start another. I read eclectically—Nietzsche, Marx—and I would place the impressive volumes, faceup, on a shelf visible to all the reporters of the newspaper I worked for. I would check several books out at the same time, shifting from one to the other, discovering Dostoyevsky, Flaubert, swept into their worlds, and, gratefully at times of most tension at home, away from mine.
