The War Council

by Ann Shepphird

  He seemed to like me, Connor did. I knew that Coach Banks had, well, bartered their participation. Connor told me that Coach had cut laps for all those who’d help out. The other guys seemed to feel it was, you know, a lark and just partied, but Connor really seemed sincere. I mean, he told me what was up. That was worth something, wasn’t it? And he said he was surprised how cute I was and even asked me to go out with him after we left the bar. I told him he didn’t have to, but he said he wanted to. He liked me, right?

  We ended up walking around Berkeley for a couple hours. We watched the weirdos on Telegraph and stopped in every bar along the street to see who had the best drinks—kinda like a progressive dinner, you know? And we talked. Mostly Connor talked about rugby. He was really passionate about rugby and seemed to feel that rugby was like this microcosm of life and that each game represented the struggle that is life. I wasn’t sure how guys pummeling each other over possession of a ball represented life, but he seemed to buy it so who was I to argue? Boys, right?

  After a while, we walked up to the I-House where he lived. Funny, I’d walked past the building the four years I’d been at Berkeley and had never been inside. I mentioned that to Connor, and he asked me in.

  Okay, I know what you’re thinking now, so I’ll tell you: We did it. Okay? It was weird, you know? There I was, so pissed off at Biff, who until recently I had thought would be the only man in my life forever. He was off fucking around with skanks—not Professor DeVillier but Kitty and the countless others I now knew existed—and there was Connor, hot as can be. I gotta admit I was pretty psyched by the attention.

  We went up to his room, and he put on some music. We were sitting there listening to, I think it was Bruno Mars, when he kissed me. It was kinda strange. I was sitting there kissing him, and all these weird thoughts kept swooshing through my brain. On the one hand I felt “ha, I’m getting Biff the fuckface back.” On the other hand, I felt guilty, like I was betraying the fuckface, mostly because he’d always really liked the fact that he was my first, you know. And I liked the fact that he liked that, until he started humping anything that moved. Fuckface asshole.

  I also felt a little like I was using Connor, but he didn’t really seem to care and he was awfully cute and really seemed to like me. Okay, so we’re still kissing, and now I’m trying to figure out what I’m feeling. I was thinking how different it was kissing Connor from kissing Biff and how awkward that first time kissing somebody is. You know how it is: When you’ve been with somebody for a while, your lips know right where to go while the first time you kiss somebody, you keep missing and fumbling, and it’s just a little weird.

  Next thing I know we’re, like, out of our clothes and, you know, and I guess the first thing I notice is that Connor is, you know, a big guy, all over. The rest was kind of a blur. To tell you the truth, it was all kind of a blur: the Kingfish, that night, sleeping with Connor… And the next morning was just plain freaky. Mostly because, I don’t know, I felt closer to Connor all of a sudden, you know? I mean, I’d slept in his massive arms all night, and I felt warm and protected the way I did with Biff. Only it wasn’t Biff. It was Connor, and I didn’t really know Connor. He was just this big cute guy with a neat accent who loved rugby and Biff was who I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. How could I feel these things?

  “It’s natural,” Maggie said when she heard my story later that week.

  Maggie, Monique, Kathy, and Hallie were meeting with me at the War Council offices while planning their next assault on Biff. The guys weren’t there. I think they’d sent them away so they could see me alone. You know, gal talk. I was glad because I needed some advice, bad, and the gals in the sorority wouldn’t understand. I spilled my guts.

  “I feel kinda, you know, guilty, like I’m as bad as he is.”

  “You didn’t make the rules, honey; he did. You’re just living by them,” Monique said. “Besides, it’s healthy. No one should marry the first person they sleep with.”

  “Oh, come on, Monique. Don’t be so cynical,” Kathy said. “I did.”

  “No way.”

  “Really?” Hallie piped in.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you ever, you know, wonder?” Monique asked.

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  “What? You think that’s weird? Hallie?” Kathy seemed to be looking for support.

  “I’d been with my share of jerks before Randy came along. It made me realize what a gem I had.”

  “Well, maybe I knew I had a gem without having to comparison shop.”

  “Oooo.”

  “A bit defensive, aren’t we?” Maggie asked.

  “No.”

  “Listen, Cindy,” Maggie turned to me, “except for Kathy here who, I think we can all agree, is practically perfect in every way—yes, Mary Poppins is her patron saint…”

  Everybody but Kathy snickered.

  “…most of us need to grow a bit before we’re ready to decide who we want to spend our lives with. We need to realize our power.”

  “See, that’s what confuses me. This power stuff.”

  “Well, you mentioned wondering why Biff would risk your relationship to sleep with other women. Why do you think he would do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because to him it’s not much of a risk,” Monique answered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He expected you to be there waiting for him,” Maggie said.

  “Just like I have been every time before.” What a wuss I was.

  “Exactly.”

  “But if he loves me, why would he do something that hurts me?”

  “Ah, the egocentric male,” Monique said.

  “Ahem,” Hallie interrupted.

  “Yes, there are exceptions,” said Monique. “And we’re talking generalizations here, but most men are socialized to be rather egocentric creatures. They don’t change because they hurt someone else—they don’t realize they’re hurting someone else. They change when it hurts them.”

  “They’re like dogs,” said Kathy, finally getting into it. “You’ve got to punish the behavior.”

  “Kathy!” Maggie said.

  “What?”

  “You punish Brian?”

  “Subtly,” she said. “I didn’t get this degree in psychology for nothing.”

  “I’d like to take this analogy a step further, if I could,” Monique said.

  Uh oh.

  “Think of men as big sloppy drooling dogs,” she began. “They’re cute, they’re fuzzy, they’re incredibly lovable, and they give great big sloppy kisses. But they also run in circles without thinking, and frankly, sometimes need to have their noses shoved in a little shit before they learn not to do it in the house.”

  “I’ve found that in a lot of ways they don’t think in the logical progressions we do,” said Hallie. “It’s not that he deliberately sets out to hurt you; he just doesn’t see the effect, period.”

  “Let me give you an example of that,” Kathy said. “One day, when our kids were toddlers, Brian put a full glass of water on our coffee table and left the room. Our toddlers were in there. Toddlers are very mobile. So, I said, ‘Brian, how could you leave that on the table with them in the room?’ It never occurred to him. His entire thought process was: I want to put this down. Here is a table.”

  “And that’s how they can be with sex,” Monique said. “They’ve got this external organ that says, ‘I want that,’ and they act without thinking. Then it’s like, ‘what have I done?’”

  I was still confused. “But how can they separate sex from the feelings it brings?”

  “Oh please.” Monique practically choked on her coffee. “Guys could do it in a pail if they wanted.”

  They all laughed.

  “Just look at their sex organs,” Maggie poin
ted out. “It’s outside them. It’s inside us. They can separate. We—well, most of us female types—can’t.”

  “Yeah, there are some women who can separate,” Hallie said.

  Everyone turned to look at Monique.

  “What?” Then she got it. “Hey, I feel. I do. I am not the Hard Ass everyone thinks I am. I feel. It’s one of my weaknesses, okay? Sheesh.”

  “But there are some women…” Hallie continued.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “There are some girls in the house. They talk about it all the time: ‘spo-ing.’”

  “Spo-ing?”

  “Sport sex.”

  “Oh.” They looked at each other with raised eyebrows and mouthed the word.

  “The thing to remember,” Maggie said, “is the fact that if there is initial interest there, they want us. We start with the power. I mean, it’s a visual—well, maybe more visceral—power, that attraction.”

  “Unfortunately,” Monique continued for her, “many women then turn around and throw that power away. They sleep with a guy once, decide he’s Prince Charming and toss their identity and self-respect right out the window. Not only is it incredibly demeaning, it doesn’t work.”

  “Doesn’t work?”

  “Who wants a passive little cupcake slobbering all over them?”

  “Yeah, ever see those girls carrying tins of cookies over to the fraternity houses? Sickening.”

  That one opened my eyes a bit. “Oh shit.”

  “I’m sorry, Cindy, but, well, let’s work on this. How did it make you feel to, well, service Biff like that?”

  “Service?”

  “Sheesh, Monique.”

  “What? God, you guys. Go on, Cindy.”

  “Well, I thought I was being nice. That made me feel good. But then it felt bad because I was doing all these nice things for him, and he was kinda being a shit, you know? So then, I thought maybe if I did more, I wouldn’t lose him.”

  “So, you felt out of control and desperate not to lose him?” Kathy asked.

  “Right.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Appeasement never works,” Hallie added. “Didn’t work in World War II, and it doesn’t work in love.”

  “Cindy, did you ever think that maybe you weren’t allowing him to give?” Kathy asked.

  “Huh?”

  “If you are running around giving all the time, people don’t have room to give back. You have to allow people to give by taking a little.”

  “And then you won’t be taken for granted,” Maggie said.

  “It’s a principle of human nature that we like what we have to work for. You’re not allowing Biff to feel that,” Kathy said.

  “Did you ever notice that sometimes it’s the bitchiest women who have the nicest husbands?” Maggie asked.

  “Let’s lose the word bitchy, shall we?” Monique suggested.

  “Toughest?” Hallie offered.

  “Straight shooters. Self-fulfilled women who know what they want. Indifference kills,” Monique said.

  Kathy turned to me. “Cindy, we’re not saying you have to be a bitch, but you do need to build up your life outside of Biff. Get out from this spell he has you under. Connor was a good step, but let’s keep it going. Enjoy your life. Maybe Biff will become a part of that life, but he should never be all of it. You should never lose all of yourself in a relationship. Then no matter who you are with or not with, you will be happier—because you will have you. You will respect yourself, and you will like yourself, and others will be drawn to that strength. That’s the power.”

  I noticed that Maggie seemed to be listening to Kathy’s words as much as I was. Hold onto yourself and you will have power. Huh.

  The next few weeks everything changed. I guess you could say I grew up a little bit. I started looking at my relationships with men differently. I mean, why should I limit my life until I was ready to settle down, get married, whatever? Sheesh, I was a free agent.

  I decided not to sleep with anyone else until I figured out who or what it was I really wanted. Too confusing. Biff and I had been broken up since that night I found him with Kitty at the Kingfish. And now that I knew that I would, you know, bond with whoever I slept with, I decided to keep myself clear headed. Besides, it was much more fun to flirt. I loved having a pack o’ guys and spending time with all of them.

  After graduation, I started working at the Edible Complex and moved in with Bunny. I wasn’t real sure what direction I wanted to go in—grad school or entry-level job—and I certainly didn’t want to go home, so I decided to stay in Berkeley and take some time to think about it.

  It seemed like suddenly there were guys everywhere. My pack o’ guys included Kevin, who I kept running into at Café Strada, and Connor, who I hung out with at the I-House and went running with. He’d been real understanding about why I wanted to keep things platonic for awhile. Like I said, he was pretty easygoing. He continued suggesting he’d be up for more, and we kissed every once in a while, and I have to admit it was tough staying away from him ‘cuz I kinda missed the sex, but I did, for now.

  And Biff. Biff stopped by the Edible Complex every once in a while. The War Council had really skewered his self-confidence. In a way, though, it turned him into a much nicer person.

  Naturally, the night at the Kingfish didn’t immediately change his ways, so the War Council continued their attack on his ego. They had me turn down all his requests for dates, they hacked into his phone and erased his voicemails and texts, and they passed a rumor around the sororities that he had a communicable disease. It was pretty awful for him, and I began to feel a little sorry for him. Monique’s puppy dog image came to mind every time he came by to visit me at work. He really did look like a dog who’d had his nose rubbed in some shit.

  It was mid-summer by the time he hit rock bottom. One day, he stopped by the Edible Complex and seemed particularly determined.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, Biff.”

  “Listen, I’ve got something important to talk to you about. Can I stop by this evening?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  I looked at those puppy dog eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

  He got all excited and ran off.

  Later that night, he arrived at my doorstep all dressed up. No Budweiser suit but he looked good. He was carrying a bottle of champagne and a dozen roses. Can you believe that?

  “Hi, Biff. What’s up?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Well, sure.”

  We sat down. My roommates, Bunny and Jane, were out, so we were alone.

  “Listen, Cindy, I, um, realize I’ve been somewhat of a shit and all…”

  “Yes. Yes, you have.”

  “I know. But, well, it seems to me that we meant a lot to each other once, and maybe we could again.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s why I was hoping that you could consider, well, I know it’s what you wanted at one time, and now it’s what I want…”

  I looked at him—what the fuck was he talking about? He got this determined look on his face and slipped off the couch to awkwardly balance on one knee.

  “Cindy, will you marry me?”

  The puppy dog eyes gazed up at me imploringly. Shit. I was shocked outta my socks. This was the moment I had been dreaming of for three years: Biff fuckface the Fifth was begging me to marry him. I felt this incredibly surge of, well, now that you mention it: power.

  Chapter Nineteen

  NICK

  False happiness.

  Have you ever had everything in your life going so well that you knew it was not destined to last? Everything so perfect that you knew it was an illusion? That with one false move it would all come crashing down around you like a house of cards? Well, I was living in a house of cards that summer in Berkeley.
<
br />   Not to be melodramatic. Ah, hell, what’s wrong with a little melodrama? I was in love, and love is melodramatic. I mean, really, if you can’t be melodramatic when you’re in love, when can you?

  So, there I was, in love with Maggie, in love with the most incredible creature on the face of the earth (note the melodrama). And she was in love with me. That was the miraculous part. Maggie had actually fallen in love with me. But our love was built on a lie—a manipulation, a trap.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had just been me who had manipulated her. I could tell her the lengths I’d gone to in order to get her to notice me, and we would laugh and kiss and tell our grandchildren all about it. But no, it was not just me. I had turned her friends against her. God, what a beast I was.

  Still, in my defense, it was Maggie and that whole damn logic thing that had started it all. Logic. Ha! Love and logic. Trying to insert logic into love is a completely illogical task. Because love is not logical. It does not follow the rules of logic. We fall in love at the wrong times with the wrong people, and there’s nothing we can do about it. That’s the beauty of it all. They’re not the wrong people because we love them, and it’s not the wrong time if we’re capable of falling in love.

  I was in love—real love—for the first time in my life. I was 37 years old and acting like a stupid teenager. I swear, I thought I’d have an acne breakout at any moment. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the totality of Maggie or how she made me feel. I would lie awake watching her sleep and felt a happiness pervade my being like nothing I had experienced before.

  My feelings for Maggie made me realize how detached I’d been in my past relationships. Not that I didn’t care for those women. I did, but it always felt more like a research project. I enjoyed getting to know them but never felt my soul being opened the way I did with Maggie. I wanted to give her so much. With the other women, it was like they always wanted more than I could give. I felt they impinged on my freedom, and when they pressured for more, I left. Simple. Troubling but simple.

  Finally, I was with a woman who made me want to chuck my freedom right out of the window. I wasn’t afraid of losing my freedom. I was a little afraid that I wasn’t afraid, and I was afraid of the effect she had on me. But what I was really afraid of was the fact that I might lose these feelings.