Hare in March

by Packer, Vin

  Today I took it upon myself to confront a pledge, whom I had reason to believe was stealing from other members of the fraternity. Our president is away in St. Louis, and as Pledge Director, I felt it was my duty to cope with the situation. I frankly admit that I never liked this pledge very much. That is a matter of record. I have a way of detecting bad character, and from the start, I was uneasy in the presence of Charles Shepley.

  Often I had the feeling — I can’t explain why — that he was a very dangerous person. A violent person. Perhaps a psychopath, though that sounds rather dramatic. But I did have such a feeling about Charles Shepley.

  I deplore violence, unless it is a necessary means to a worthwhile end, such as it is in Vietnam, for instance.

  For this reason, I believe that I actually hated Charles Shepley. Can you imagine me hating someone? Probably not, but there you are; the human mind is filled with contradictions and complexities.

  But I no longer hate Charles Shepley. I pity him perhaps more than I have ever pitied another person.

  Yes, he is the one who has been stealing from us. He admitted this to me. It was almost as though he were waiting for someone to accuse him, so that he could let go the terrible mental burden he has been shouldering since his arrival at Pi Delta Pi. Have you ever seen a man cry? I hope you never do. It is not a pretty sight.

  In a few hours, I am going to drive him into New York, where he lives. I have promised him that I would not tell anyone, until he is away from here. I have promised to send on his things, so that he need not experience any embarrassment, nor be forced into any explanations. There is yet another sad note to this story. The other night, his family revealed to him that his membership in this fraternity depended on their gift of a set of silverware. We have all known this, and of course, we kept it from him. I never approved of the arrangement, but the majority voted for it, even though Charles Shepley was not Pi Pi material.

  It is my guess that upon making this discovery, or rather, upon being inflicted with this information by his family, he wanted to be caught stealing. My roommate found him in the president’s suite, rifling the closet. He was red-faced, and offered the weak excuse that he had drunkenly found his way into the wrong room.

  I am not sorry I confronted him. I think he might have had a serious breakdown. Nor am I sorry that I was taught a lesson by this experience: there is a reason for everything a man does. There are stumbling blocks in the way of men which we have no way of divining, pressures upon men which we have no way of appreciating, fears and anxieties in the hearts of men which we would never guess were there. Some men will never be able to calm down and carry on; others will struggle to survive, and learn to cope, and do what they must to exist.

  I have more to say, but I will finish this when I get back.

  I have to laugh at myself for once feeling that Charles Shepley was dangerous or violent. Usually, I am right, but not this time. Poor guy!

  More later —

  When Bud Burroughs returned from his three-thirty class, he saw the letter under the note that Hagerman had left him, requesting that Burroughs conduct the Purgatorio.

  It was a very simple Purgatorio; the pledges were to solicit funds on campus for medical supplies to aid the fighting men in Vietnam.

  Sixteen

  At three fifteen, Shepley and Hagerman set off for New York in Hagerman’s car.

  Hagerman drove very slowly. The vaunt, the puff, the bluster were gone from him; he was sniveling and obsequious. His face had taken on a pinched look, and as he sat behind the wheel of the Corvair, with his short little legs working the brake and the gas pedal, he seemed suddenly very tiny, which he was, which until now he had always managed to camouflage behind a facade of bravado.

  Shepley felt sorry for him. It was only a feeling, and not a thought, for he was not thinking of anything at all anymore, but doing whatever came into his head, as he had since leaving his family last night. What he had discovered about the contrivings of everyone did, it was true, go through his mind, but now as indifferently and lifelessly as an item of foreign news read in a newspaper. He was equally indifferent to his own stratagems, except to see that he was successful at them; thinking about all of it came too hard and was so futile.

  “I don’t know how much I’ll be able to get, Shepley.” “Do the best you can. Then we’ll see.” “I don’t know what my family’s going to think.” “We’ll soon see.”

  “They might not give me anything; what if they don’t give me anything?”

  “They’ll give you something.” “They’re different from what you think.” “They couldn’t be. I haven’t thought about them.” “I mean, they’re not devoted to me. They’ve never liked me.”

  “They love you. Don’t ask for the moon.” “Love me? Nobody’s ever loved me but Janice.” “I don’t want to hear about it.” “All right, I won’t talk.”

  “I don’t care if you talk. Just don’t give me your life history.”

  “They might not even be home. I know my father won’t be home.”

  “We’ll soon see.”

  They went on like that, almost politely. Hagerman was chain-smoking, and Shepley rolled down the window rather than complain about the smell of the Gauloises. He leaned his head out and took a deep breath of the warm March air, and periodically he noticed the view of the river and the varying blues in the distance, intertwined with the stark gray arms of leafless trees and the green of pines and evergreens.

  “Shepley?”

  “What?”

  “I have to make a stop.” “What kind of a stop?” “I have to find a john.”

  “Pull over and go behind a bush; do we have to make a production out of it?”

  Hagerman looked embarrassed. He said, “I can’t. I have to find a john. There’s one near here.”

  “All right. You have to make boom-boom, huh?”

  “There’s one right off this exit. There’s an abandoned filling station about five minutes off this exit.”

  “My family used to call it making boom-boom. What was your family’s word for it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Shepley laughed. “You remember. But it embarrasses you, doesn’t it, Hagerman?”

  Hagerman said, “No. Why should it?”

  “What’d they call it?”

  “I said I didn’t remember.”

  “You’re just another poor jackass, aren’t you, Hagerman?” “Aren’t you, Shepley?” “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

  Hagerman swung off at the exit.

  “What do you mean it’s abandoned?” Shepley said. “It’s abandoned, that’s all.”

  “Well, now, there won’t be any toilet paper, Hagerman.”

  “It’s the nearest one.”

  “You really have to go bad, huh?”

  “Does that give you pleasure, Shepley?”

  “Hagerman, I liked it better when you called me mother. This new you is very colorless, Hagerman. Can’t you do something about it?”

  “I wish you’d lay off, Shepley. I don’t feel well.”

  “I wish you’d lay off, Shepley, please.”

  “I wish you’d lay off, Shepley, please.”

  “This is the living end, Hagerman; this really is!”

  But it wasn’t. Oddly enough, it was like everything that had happened in the last sixteen hours — it was flat. It was the way Lois had described her time at the Cheetah, while they were lying in bed last night at the Bluebird. “Dull fireworks!” she had said, and he had stifled an impulse to say, “So’s this.” Meaning the way she had done everything he liked and then some, and he had, too, and it was not because they were not high — they were drinking right along with it — but there was none of the old wild euphoria, just sort of a wisenheimer awareness of it all, of her female machinations and his male response, as though it were all happening inside a breeding case, and yet at the same time some larger him was on the outside, peering in, observing with detachment.

  — I love you, Cha
rles.

  (You don’t love anybody, Lois.)

  — I love you, too, very much.

  (Neither do I.)

  — We’ve never said that before to one another. I’m glad we waited.

  (I wish we hadn’t said it.) — I’m glad, too.

  (Nowhere to go from here but down, now).

  And Hagerman had lost his swagger; he looked like an ugly little kid whom nobody ever wanted to play with, scurrying off with the green-apple trots, already working his belt open before he got inside the door.

  Shepley sat smoking a cigarette he did not really want, fiddling with the dial on the radio to find some music. The next song you hear will give you a message about the coming events of your life in the month of April. Listen!

  Hi, ho, hey, hey,

  Chew your little troubles away.

  Hi, ho, hey, hey,

  Chew Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum!

  Shepley thought of an afternoon at Holy Child when he had gone to visit Billy with his mother. Billy used to love gum. When they lived on Riverside Drive, at any hour of the day you could put your hand down under a tabletop or a chair, and there would be a wad of gum stuck there, lucky old wad of satiated Spearmint blessed by Billy’s pearly fangs. Anyway, that afternoon at Holy Child, Charles’s mother had kept on trying to put a stick of licorice gum in Billy’s gaping mouth, and when she got no response, she said, “I’ll chew it for you, darling, but I’ll leave the taste in it for you; don’t you worry,” and she had chewed it and pulled it out, and put it on Billy’s lips and tried to push it in, and it had fallen out all full of drool.

  That was all.

  Just a random memory.

  It was taking Hagerman a long time. Shepley got out of the car and stretched his legs, leaned down and picked up some gravel, and tossed the pieces one by one at a telephone pole.

  It was a seedy filling station; the idle gas pumps were peeling and the rubber hoses were rotted; there was a dead bird near the door with maggots and flies all over it, and there were tall weeds which had pushed their way through the tar and formed little clusters where cars used to drive in and wait for service.

  Shepley looked at his watch. Hagerman had been in there for ten minutes. Shepley decided to goose him, and he walked across to the small square brick building and went inside. The door marked MEN was shut, and Shepley stood just outside of it and called Hagerman’s name.

  There was no answer. Shepley waited another few seconds.

  Then he shouted, “What the hell are you doing in there, Hagerman?” and still Hagerman did not answer.

  Shepley tried the door; it was locked.

  “Hagerman, what the hell are you doing?”

  There was no sound.

  Shepley rattled the doorknob and banged his fist against the door.

  “Hagerman? … Hagerman, are you in there?”

  And he thought of the pinched look on Hagerman’s face, and Hagerman whining, “I wish you’d lay off Shepley. I don’t feel well,” and he began to alternately kick at the door and shove it with his shoulders. It started to give, and Shepley applied more force, until the lock broke.

  The putrid stench of stale excreta hit his nostrils full force at the same time something heavy and hard and merciless hit his head.

  You were a gambler was what you were; you had always been one. You could suffer a surfeit of the worst sort of trepidations, and it would always make sense why you did when you won, for there was a thrill that went all through you, that lifted you right off the ground, like in dreams when you flew and it was easy and sweet and you were invulnerable. You forgot it at times; at times you thought you were a loser and your luck had been spent, but that was part of it, was what made times like this the exalted moments that were your reason for existence. Anything less was some weak stave you’d fall from leaning on, but you could lean on the power which charged you when you pulled off yet another coup, and weren’t you cool!

  Hagerman got down off the chair. He did not put the monkey wrench back inside his overcoat, but left it lying there beside Shepley. Blood trickled from the back of Shepley’s head. He might well be dead, though Hagerman doubted that, and did not care, either way.

  Hagerman walked across and kicked over a white pail once used for discarded paper towels. He turned a rickety chair on its side. He stood before the dirty mirror hanging on the wall, reached under his coat and ripped his shirt and tore his tie. Then he took out a small pocketknife and snapped the blade to, and slit some threads near the shoulder of his coat, and pulled until the material gave. Momentarily, he studied his face; then hating to do it, he nicked it with his knife, then took his fingernail and scratched the nick open; he did the same thing to his forehead. He wrenched a leather button from his coat, and tossed it on the floor.

  He stood and looked at everything, and then he left the place, and drove his car a mile down the road, pulled over, cut the motor, and shook up a cigarette from the package in his pocket.

  Then the old faithful computer took all the data in and gave it back, gift-wrapped.

  — Oh, God! My old trouble! I have to get to a john fast.

  — Sure, Peter. Is there some place near?

  — There’s an old abandoned gas station off the next exit. I’m sorry, Charles. I know you’re upset.

  — I feel better; in fact, I feel as though a weight’s been lifted from my shoulders.

  — I’m glad. I’m glad I could help. You were bound to get caught eventually.

  — I know it.

  — Here we are. I’ll try not to be long. — Take your time.

  Hagerman went inside the filling station; he had been to this place once before, so he knew it was open; he knew it was filthy and he was prepared for the foul odor, but he had this condition, this thing he had never told anyone about but Bud Burroughs, and urgency could not afford to shop around for quality.

  The thought occurred to him that he had left Shepley in the car, with the keys. For a moment, he almost went back for the keys, but then he rebuked himself for such an idea; Shepley was so obviously beaten and tractable.

  Hagerman locked the door of the men’s after himself, out of habit more than anything else. He relieved himself, and he was just on the verge of reaching for his overcoat, which he had hung on a hook in the small stall he had used, when he heard Shepley’s voice.

  — Hagerman?

  — Just a minute, Charles.

  — Hagerman?

  — Just a minute, Charles.

  He put his coat on; he was starting toward the door when he heard Charles shout:

  — You picked a nice spot, Hagerman. Start saying your prayers, Hagerman.

  And damn it all, Hagerman did not feel very brave; he, damn it all, actually began to tremble.

  Then Shepley tried the door.

  — Open the door, Hagerman.

  — Please, Charles.

  Yes, he had said please; he was that scared.

  But Shepley kicked in the door, and came at him carrying a monkey wrench.

  The only thing that saved Hagerman was the fact Shepley kept talking, kept reading Hagerman out, saying he was going to kill Hagerman, but first Hagerman was going to really appreciate how much Shepley hated him. He kept bouncing Hagerman against the wall, knocking things over, grabbing his clothes and pulling him in and pushing him back, with his eyes like the eyes of someone who had gone soft in the head.

  He was ape; he had really flipped.

  All right, Hagerman cried — admit it. And Hagerman begged — admit it. And yeah, Hagerman did say his prayers. And God isn’t dead, because suddenly Charles Shepley slipped and fell to his knees, and the monkey wrench landed at Hagerman’s feet, and Hagerman picked it up.

  You’re a little man, but when you’re fighting for your goddam life, well, mother, you hit like a man twice your size.

  • • •

  Okay?

  Okay, but wait a minute. Let’s savor it a minute … You are a mother, mother; Peter, mother, you leave you
r mark, you do … and no Len Lovely, it don’t rub out.

  Then Hagerman turned the key in the ignition, and headed into Far Point to meet the father of his roommate.

  Seventeen

  He woke up in a field, at the bottom of a hill, not far from the filling station. He remembered staggering there, remembered the warm feeling of his own blood trickling down his neck and soaking into his shirt collar through his jacket, and the pain throbbing at the back of his head. His only thought then had been to get away, out of sight of the road, in case Hagerman came back to finish what he had started. He had seen a housing development down past the hill, and he had headed for it. But he had collapsed, exhausted and quite faint from the realization that he had nearly been murdered, that maybe he would, after all, die, that his blood was leaking out of him.

  Now he was stronger. The back of his head was sticky, but dry; the blood had clotted. He stood and the vertigo he had felt earlier had vanished; the pain was mild. He removed his jacket and saw that there was not a lot of blood on it. He put it back on, and he walked easily, though the memory of his terror upon awakening on the floor in the filling station lingered.

  What he wanted to do was get out of Far Point, go somewhere, anywhere, but not home. He had five dollars and some change; the rest of his money was at Pi Delta Pi. That all seemed very far away; his mind did not want the task of sorting all that out, of thinking about the right thing to do, the practical thing to do, or of trying to imagine what Hagerman was doing.

  Lois. He wanted to be with her. He trudged through the field toward the lights ahead, trying to fathom the reason for a sketchy feeling of indifference he had had earlier when he remembered last night and being with her. He had turned it into something very different than the way it had been; he was sure of that. It had been very good between them, better than it had ever been. Yet he did remember, even now, thinking that it was the beginning of the end with them, that she had announced her love, and whatever he stole from that point on he would be stealing for himself. And he had gone directly from the Bluebird to Blouter’s suite, as he had planned to do before the Bluebird, but something was different about it. She was missing from the adventure; it was not for her. It was not even for anything he wanted; it just was, the way it just was when he made the demand on Hagerman after breakfast.