Blondie felt strange hearing Grouper say that. Blondie’d never felt so tight with any group and now Grouper was saying they didn’t know each other. Was he saying they were a bunch of phonies? Was it true?
“None of my teachers ever tried to get to know me — except for Miss Spalding. However, I’m not sure anyone else can ever know who we are in any meaningful way. The more important question is whether we know ourselves. Fenton High graduates, I ask you: Do you know who you are?”
Grouper’s voice boomed over the mike. Several seniors near Blondie shifted in their seats. Blondie sneaked a glance at his parents. Their faces were attentive, but devoid of comprehension. Mr. Whipple stared at the stage. He didn’t seem pleased.
Blondie was sure Grouper wasn’t talking to him. He knew who he was — or at least who he would be one day. He’d be another Jack Kennedy or Lawrence of Arabia or Ernest Hemingway. So what if he wasn’t that person yet. In time, he was sure he’d grow into the image of himself he carried inside.
Grouper’s voice rumbled on like an approaching storm.
“When we first arrive in the world, we’re formless, but we have the potential to become anything we want: poets, politicians, scientists, saints, inventors, industrialists. By the time we leave grade school, however, we’ve been molded by the expectations others have placed on us. In high school, it gets worse. Our parents’ and teachers’ expectations increase. Peer pressure becomes enormous.
“I know most of you parents out there have largely forgotten what high school is like. You don’t need to remember, because I suspect it’s not much different from the rest of your lives. At its best, high school is exciting, a breathtaking adventure composed of learning new things, meeting new people, sharing ideas and feelings. At its worst, it’s involuntary immersion into an insensitive and intolerant — often bullying — conformity. Hardly a breeding ground for change, let alone progress.
“After all, high school is the forge for the archetypes of adult society: those who seek success with their looks; those who seek success with their bodies; those who seek success with their brains; those who seek success with their fists.”
The Bear’s face twisted in consternation.
“The world is in peril,” Grouper warned, his voice rising to baritone. “For the first time in history, we must contemplate the end of civilization. Much as we don’t like to think about it, at any instant we and all our kind could be incinerated in a hail of radioactive firestorms. Around the globe, billions of humans live in abject poverty, nonetheless breeding millions of new mouths to feed. In the United States, disparities in income are alarming and unjustifiable, with people of different colored skin relegated to poverty and social inequality. Look around you — it is now more than 10 years since the Supreme Court ruled that segregation is illegal. Yet, Fenton High still has no black students.”
Again, the crowd stirred. On stage, the Bear’s eyes had drawn into one long squint.
“There’s a secret war going on in a place called Vietnam, a place few students even know of. Yet, if it continues, it will suck many of us into its bloodthirsty jaws …. “
The Bear sat forward on the edge of his seat. Blondie could tell he wanted to quiet Grouper. He wondered if he’d dare.
“In the face of these threats, these injustices, most of you choose to change the channel, to tune out, to continue lives of graceless materialism and smug conventionality.”
Blondie sensed an undercurrent of anger. The crowd felt challenged, perhaps attacked, and he knew that wasn’t why they’d come. They’d come to see their children graduate and go home feeling proud and fulfilled.
“But today, you come here hopeful, hopeful that we, the next generation, can solve these problems and preserve the planet from extinction. But how can we? We are your clones. What can we do but recreate the same world we inherit? The best within us has been driven underground by meaningless classroom lectures and by a high-school culture that celebrates hard drinking, hard fighting, hardheadedness and hardheartedness …. “
Grouper paused.
” …. This is my advice to the parents gathered here today: Don’t count on us! Most of us will never recover from high school. At least one of us won’t even survive it.”
The audience gasped. Beside him, Ethel Philbin began to weep. Blondie could see, though he couldn’t hear, the Bear gnashing his teeth. He looked as if he were about to spring upon him and rip out his larynx. Grouper caught his look.
“My time appears to be ending. Before I sit down, I feel I owe my classmates a few words of advice. Here they are. Flee Fenton! Flee Fenton as fast as you can and go as far away as you can. Thank you.”
Grouper turned and smiled at Mr. Bearzinsky, then ambled back to his seat.
Blondie waited for someone to clap, but silence reigned. Blondie felt embarrassed for Grouper, so he clapped his hands once, hoping someone would join in. No one did.
The Bear strode to the mike and grabbed it in a stranglehold. With a tight jaw, he snarled a brief thanks to Grouper for his “unusual perspectives.” Then, forcing a smile, he announced the awarding of diplomas. The first row of students stood and began shuffling toward the platform. Mrs. Buckley rose and took a clipboard to the Bear. He began reading names from it as students rolled past, picking up their certificates from Mrs. Buckley. When Blondie received his, Mrs. Buckley said, “I’m very pleased that you and your friends are graduating on schedule.” She smiled like a jackal.
When all the diplomas had been given out, the FHS Glee Club sang “Climb Every Mountain” from the Broadway musical The Sound of Music. It was full of brave and sappy thoughts about overcoming all obstacles until one found his or her dream.
Parents’ eyes filled with tears. Graduates’ chests swelled. Despite what Grouper had said, everyone seemed sure the Class of ‘62 was going to conquer the world.
Clapper returned to the mike and mumbled a few more words like a benediction. He opened his arms wide like Christ embracing the world’s sinners and “presented” the FHS graduating class to the world. Mortarboards rocketed skyward as parents rushed to their little darlings, swelled with pride that they’d been ratcheted up one more notch in life. Students sought each other out for hugs and handshakes and affirmations of enduring friendship. It was an orgy of self-congratulation.
Soon his mom and dad surrounded him. His dad shook his hand. His mom hugged him with tears in her eyes.
“Please don’t be weepy, mom,” Blondie whispered to her. He burned with embarrassment until he realized all his classmates were being similarly victimized.
That night, the guys drove out to the quarry to celebrate — all except Grouper. His parents had insisted on taking him to an expensive restaurant in Baltimore for a graduation dinner. The celebration never came off. The group was moody, out of sorts. It didn’t stop the flow of beer, but it did stop the words.
Blondie wondered what they were all thinking about? Was it about what Grouper had said? Had he put a spell on them? Or was it just uneasiness at facing the end of one part of their life with no clear idea what to do next?
Feller ended their reverie by saying, “Well, it’s been a pisser.” Blondie didn’t know whether Feller meant graduation, the past year, or their entire high school careers. Regardless, he was sure Feller was right. Shortly afterward, Shakes got wiped and threw up in the car.
In bed that night, Blondie found himself walking under the rose arches again. This time, only girls held the ends of the rods …. and they were all naked. Flossie was one …. and Delores … and Tammy. They were watching him with admiration in their eyes. He liked that.
When Blondie came to Mary Cherry, he was confused. She was a senior. Why was she holding a rose arch? He turned to his partner. It was Ethel Philbin in her blood-red graduation gown. But he was wearing something else: a white letter sweater with a big red “F” on it. An assortment of small gold footballs, basketballs, and baseball bats was attached to it. He felt an ove
rpowering apprehension as he looked ahead, down the dark tunnel of roses.
As he walked on, a point of light appeared ahead. It grew larger as he drew nearer. He reached the end of the archway and found himself in a concrete room. It was empty except for a long dark object standing upright in one corner — a shotgun. Blondie felt a terrible dread.
He woke to a still house. Goosebumps forested his arms and legs.
He’d been Bobby in the dream. But why? And what had he been so afraid of? He thought about it for a long time until an answer began to form in his mind. Perhaps it was what had driven Bobby to his desperate act, the thought Blondie feared more than any other: that nothing extraordinary was ever going to happen in his life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Summer at last. Warm, languid, golden. It came filled with images of a more secure and agreeable time. Blondie could remember his mother crooning to him when he was a child, her voice husky and sad, as she sang the bittersweet standard “Summertime” about the soft life of someone whose father was rich and whose mother was good-looking. He remembered her voice and the words like a comforting embrace.
Had she really sung to him that way? He was no longer sure. He was sure, however, that his daddy wasn’t rich and his momma was no longer good-looking. But no matter. They were getting along better now and soon they’d be leaving for New York.
His life wasn’t without worry, however. Since graduation, Blondie had been wrestling with what Grouper had said in his speech. Why had he said the group hardly knew each other? Blondie had never felt so close to anyone as he did to Feller and Grouper. He finally felt bothered enough to call Grouper and ask if they could get together and talk. Grouper told him he’d been grounded.
“My father was ‘displeased’ by my graduation remarks. He said they were an attack on his generation. He took the whole thing personally.”
“Perhaps it was because of all the other parents there,” Blondie said.
Grouper harrumphed.
“My father could care less about anyone in Fenton. He refers to Fenton culture as a high society of rubes. No, he’s angry because I don’t value what he does, don’t respect what he’s accomplished.”
“Have you heard from Yale yet?” Blondie asked to change subjects.
“They turned me down. They said I didn’t display the leadership qualities they were looking for: I hadn’t been in student government; I hadn’t participated in extracurricular activities.”
“So?”
“So I guess I’m going to the University of Pennsylvania. It’s the best school that took me.”
“That’ll be all right, won’t it? It’s got girls. It’s not far away.”
“I’d rather have gone to college with you guys. But Father thinks you’re a bad influence.”
A bad influence? That was a crock. Maybe they weren’t Ivy League material, but they weren’t dope smokers or juvenile delinquents, either. Anyway, Grouper had always been a willing participant in their activities.
Blondie finally got around to why he’d called.
“I’m sorry if my comments upset you. They weren’t meant for you.” Over the phone line, Grouper’s low voice seemed to percolate from a deep well. “They
were meant for all those who never attempt to find out who they are — or why they’re here for that matter.”
“My dad says everything is part of God’s plan.” Blondie didn’t know why he said it. Perhaps, he thought later, he just wanted Grouper’s reaction.
Grouper snorted.
“You don’t believe in God at all, do you?”
“No.”
Blondie had suspected as much. Still, he was amazed at the casual, almost dismissive, way Grouper had answered, as if the matter were of little consequence. Despite his own uncertainty about the almighty, Blondie’d never dared consider himself an atheist. What if he denied God’s existence and he were wrong? God would bust his balls … forever.
“If you’re going to live life true, you have to be a free agent,” Grouper continued. “That means doing without any crutches for your soul — myths, drugs, self-delusions, religion or whatever.”
Free agent. Blondie liked the sound of it. It had a rebellious ring. He flashed on James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause. But what did any of that have to do with the Grouper? He was no James Dean.
The second Saturday after graduation, Dispatch got married in a ceremony as bare boned as a fossil. The only people invited were Blondie and Wanda Wanamaker (a friend of Meryl’s). Blondie was surprised Dispatch had chosen him — he didn’t feel that close to him. By default, he was best man.
Dispatch wore a worn-looking herringbone suit that fit him like a body bag. Meryl wore a garish yellow dress with a blue bow, while Wanda, Meryl’s maid of honor, was decked out in a beige suit that flattered her as much as the runs in her stockings. Blondie wore the only suit he owned, a green worsted his parents had bought him for his 17th birthday. It pinched him in the armpits and crotch.
Mr. Butler, the justice of the peace, was tall and officious. He made the four of them sign a battery of forms whose purposes Blondie couldn’t fathom. He asked Dispatch and Meryl a multitude of questions to make sure they knew what they were doing. Blondie knew they didn’t, of course, but what Justice Butler didn’t know was that Meryl was pregnant — or supposed to be.
Though the ceremony was as brief and compelling as an oil change, Butler didn’t make it through before succumbing to an allergy attack. His eyes watered and he sneezed during several critical pronouncements. Dispatch endured the service stoically, but Blondie could tell he was distressed. Who wouldn’t be, marrying a bimbo like Meryl?
Blondie experienced his own discomfort when the justice asked if there was anyone present who knew of any reason why Dispatch and Meryl “should not be joined together.” Blondie could think of several, the main one being that marrying Meryl meant the end of Dispatch’s life. But it wasn’t his show, so he kept quiet.
“Where are you going on your honeymoon?” Blondie asked Dispatch after the ceremony.
“We’re going to Philadelphia for the weekend,” Meryl answered for him, as excited as if they were off to Rio.
“We’re going to see the Liberty Bell,” Dispatch added, with a hint of irony.
The following day, Mrs. Potter fell down the stairs. Blondie didn’t see it — it happened inside their house. He only saw the ambulance pull up and two guys in white bring her out on a gurney. She looked like a loaf of bread beneath the sheet as they wheeled her to the back of the van. Mack was beside himself, gesturing at the medics and pacing around the ambulance after they deposited her in it. The next day, his mom reported that Mrs. Potter had broken her hip and would be in the hospital for a spell.
“She’s pretty old, you know,” his mom said.
Blondie just grunted.
“Mr. Tilly says Mack is pretty broken up.”
Blondie couldn’t believe the bastard had any feelings. Anyway, how did Mr. Tilly know how Potter felt. Was he friends with the old goat?
Blondie saw Rudy mowing their back yard the following day and thought about going over and asking him. But he realized whatever slim bond had linked them during the school year had been broken — if not before prom night, certainly at the Cherrys’ pond.
Blondie’s eighteenth birthday fell the day before his parents were to leave for New York. His mom had baked a cake with white frosting and a silver golf club on the top. It was spiked with eighteen yellow candles shaped like tees. She lit them all, then challenged him to blow them out in one puff. He did. His dad took pictures. So this was the way someone became a man, Blondie thought.
After they finished eating, his mother glanced over at his dad. Her expression was serious.
“Now?” she asked.
His dad shrugged and looked at Blondie with a pained expression.
“There’s something we need to tell you,” his mom said, although his dad didn’t appear to be invol
ved. “Come with me.”
Blondie followed her up the stairs to his parents’ bedroom. She shut the door and asked him to take a seat on their bed.
“Remember how I promised to tell you something when you turned eighteen?” she reminded him.
Blondie hadn’t forgotten. He was sure what it would be: he’d been adopted. That would explain a lot of things, like his hair color and why he felt so little connection with his dad. He’d already prepared himself for the news.
His mom’s face screwed into in a look of anguish. Blondie was afraid she was going to cry.
“Francis isn’t your real father,” she said.
He’d guessed correctly.
“And you’re not my real mother, right?” he volunteered.
She looked at him in shock.
“Look, I can handle it,” Blondie said. “I know you love me.”
“But Bernard, that’s not what I’m trying to tell you. Of course, I’m your mother.”
This was getting more complicated.
“Then I don’t understand.”
“Your real father was a captain in the army,” she continued. “I met him in Missouri when I was visiting your grandmother in the fall of 1943. Howard was tall and handsome. His hair was the color of butter …. “
So that’s where he’d gotten his coloring. He could feel his breaths cycling slowly and shallowly, his lungs caught in the grip of uncertainty. The axis of his life was turning with each word from his mother’s lips.
“We were so in love. We were going to get married, but he was on a two-week furlough and, by the time we were sure, he had to report back to duty.
He was killed on some small island in the Pacific not long afterward. I received two letters from him …. “
Her voice broke. Blondie felt her pain. She had known love. Why had he doubted it?
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