Grouper's Laws

by D. Philip Miller

  Blondie thought back the evening before with Tammy. Why had he found it so disappointing? Because he’d expected her to be as extraordinary in intellect and character as she was in appearance? Because he’d built her up to such mythic proportions in his mind she had no chance of satisfying him?

  He hadn’t been fair. She’d never read his script, “The Way I’d Like Things to Be,” so how could she have played the part he’d assigned her? He had no right to be disappointed in her. If he were going to be consistent with Grouper’s notion that people should operate as “free agents” — and he wanted to be — he had to accept its corollary: other people would follow their agendas, not his. And he had to learn to accept them for doing so, no one more than the Grouper. The sting of self-reproach and a commitment to tell him as soon as he returned accompanied the thought.

  On the positive side, Blondie credited himself with drawing a line with Buford. He would not participate in, nor passively stand by and tolerate, the abuse of another human being. Knowing that pointed toward a new definition of himself. From now on, he would be a person who stood for things … like kindness and decency toward others. It wasn’t a complete definition. Blondie was sure he could add a lot to it, would add a lot to it, but it was a start.

  And no more fantasies! What else had Grouper said? You had to destroy the myths, be a free agent. It sounded kinda scary, but it had the gritty feel of truth.

  Blondie stopped at a gap between two fast-food joints and looked out to sea. Wave after white-capped wave stretched away to the horizon. He raised his eyes to the sky. It was a parfait of cream, pink, salmon, ivory.

  Was there a God in heaven? He couldn’t care less.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Framed by the boundaries of the P-mobile’s rear-view mirror, the ramshackle clutter of Ocean City receded from Blondie’s view until it was no more than a whitish mound — like an accumulation of bird droppings. Blondie found the comparison particularly apt insofar as the last sign of the town was a mosquito-like cloud of gulls wheeling on the horizon, about to begin their day’s work of cleansing the boardwalk of discarded taffy wrappers, mishandled French fries and half-eaten hot dog buns.

  The gang was abuzz, galvanized by Blondie’s late-night fisticuffs.

  “You cl-cleaned B-buford’s cl-clock,” Shakes said admiringly.

  “Surprised the shit out of me,” Brick allowed, in an attempt at praise.

  “Yeah, that was something,” Feller added. “I think you broke his nose.”

  “I b-bet h-he won’t f-fuck with the B-b and F Club anymore.”

  Blondie appreciated their praise, but it almost seemed as if they were viewing his triumph, if that’s what it was, as a group victory. What had they done? None of them had joined the fray. Nursing a face of scattered bruises, minor cuts, and periodic throbs and pulses, Blondie didn’t feel like according them any credit.

  Claudine Clark was wailing on the radio about “Party Lights” of various colors. Yeah, well, he’d seen the party lights last night. In fact, he’d been chasing those lights all year. But he suspected he wouldn’t be looking for any soon.

  “Why so quiet, Blondie?” Feller asked.

  “My head hurts.”

  Well, that was true, wasn’t it? But that wasn’t what was bothering him most. He felt as if he has just broken up with someone. But whom? He’d already called it off with Flossie. And he’d never gone with Tammy in the first place. What was going on?

  The P-mobile sped ever westward as the landscape slid away. He felt a reluctance to return to Fenton. It wasn’t his town. It never would be. At the same time, he felt a need to talk to the Grouper. He needed to patch things up with him. He was the only one who would understand what was going on with him. He needed his friend back.

  When the guys dropped him off in front of his house, Blondie felt relieved. He hadn’t had anything to say to them for a hundred miles. He just wanted a place to be quiet and relax. To lick his wounds. And think. Blondie saw right away that both his parents’ cars were beneath the carport. Everyone would be home.

  Blondie eased the front door open. His mom stood before him, dusting the downstairs banister. She turned as he stepped inside. When she saw him, she clapped her hand to her mouth.

  “It’s all right, mom. I just had a little accident. It’s nothing to worry about. I just need to rest a while.”

  Please, please, please, he prayed, don’t make me explain.

  As if she’d heard him, her quizzical expression turned to one of concern.

  “You go up and lie down until you feel better,” she said. “Dinner will be in about an hour.”

  Even the pillow hurt his face, so Blondie lay on his back. He must have dozed off. The next thing he knew, his mom was calling him to dinner. When he entered the kitchen, his mom and dad were already seated.

  Neither of them asked about his face. Blondie considered it a sign of newfound respect, though he didn’t know why anything would have changed. Because he’d turned eighteen? Because he was off to college soon?

  The atmosphere in the kitchen felt freer and easier to Blondie than it had for quite a while. Several times, his dad made comments that led to brief flurries of conversation between him and his mom. Their truce seemed to be holding. He was glad to see it. If his parents couldn’t get it together after eighteen-plus years, what hope was there for any relationship? Besides, he wanted his family to stay together.

  After they’d finished eating, his dad picked up a copy of The Mayhew Courier and riffled through the pages. When he reached the back, he furrowed his brow and glanced over at Blondie.

  “That large boy you hang around with …. ”

  He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Grouper?”

  Blondie didn’t like the look on his dad’s face.

  “Isn’t his last name Whipple?”

  An alarm went off inside Blondie’s mind. He asked his dad to show him what he was reading. It was an obituary notice: “Walter Clarence Whipple Jr., 18, son of Mr. and Mrs. Walter Clarence Whipple Sr. of Rock Creek Road, died unexpectedly yesterday evening. A funeral service, open to all who knew Walter, will be held Saturday, Sept. 8, at 3:00 p.m. at Simpson’s Mortuary.”

  Last night. The same night he’d been making love with Tammy. “Died unexpectedly”? Blondie had no doubt what that meant. His biggest surprise was that he wasn’t really surprised.

  Like the tumblers of a lock falling into place, the clues came together in his mind. Grouper’s speech at graduation. His lack of concern about where he was going to college. His confession to him. Why he hadn’t accompanied them to Ocean City. It was obvious now. Grouper had known he was going to check out. But why? Just because of his difference. Hadn’t Blondie tried to be understanding? Hadn’t he?

  “I’m sorry, son. It must be quite a shock.”

  For a moment, Blondie felt as if the air had been sucked from his chest, the hope drained from his heart. He realized that Grouper had represented all that Blondie found right with the world. Then he felt a surge of anger. What had become of Grouper’s rhetoric about the importance of living life true? What truth was there in giving up? What was the value of being a “free agent” if one checked out of the game?

  He went upstairs to his room and tried to sort through his emotions. Finally, he quit trying to make sense of them and, one by one, they faded away until nothing remained but a sorrow the size of the ocean. Blondie sobbed until his chest ached.

  After a long time, his mom knocked on his door and told him he had a call. It was Feller.

  “Have you heard?” Paul asked.

  Blondie said he’d seen the article.

  “Any idea what it was?” Feller asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “What he died of,” Feller said.

  “Loss of faith.”

  “What?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  Blondie wasn’t going to betray Grouper’s conf
idence. The rest of the guys could think what they wanted.

  “You going to his funeral?” Feller asked.

  “Sure. Are you?”

  “Yeah. I’ll let everyone else know.”

  Blondie was glad Feller had volunteered. He didn’t think he could talk about Grouper’s death with anyone else.

  The next few days were torture. He couldn’t stop thinking about the Grouper and blaming himself for what happened.

  Thursday morning, Feller called and asked Blondie if wanted to shoot some pool that evening. Blondie didn’t feel like it, but he needed to do something to get his mind off the Grouper.

  Feller picked him up in a new Oldsmobile Cutlass.

  “Surprise,” he said. “It’s a belated graduation present from my folks.”

  Blondie whistled.

  The poolroom was empty. The new school year at Fenton High had begun. He and Feller shot a few games, but Blondie’s heart wasn’t in it and he lost almost every one.

  “Boy, it’s getting you down, isn’t it?” Feller said.

  Blondie noted that Feller seemed about the same as he always did. But then, he’d always been better at “maintaining an even keel,” as he put it.

  “Let’s grab a six and go up to the Overlook,” Feller suggested after a while.

  Blondie hesitated. That had been Grouper’s place. He decided Grouper wouldn’t mind.

  A faint mist blurred the lights of town from the Overlook. It seemed as if they were parked at the edge of a broad shallow lake and Fenton lay just below the surface.

  Feller chitchatted about the Orioles and the Colts as they downed a couple beers. Blondie felt he had something else on his mind, but he didn’t press him.

  “Look, Blondie,” Feller finally said. “I’ve decided not to go to Smith-Reid after all. I don’t think it’s fair to ask my parents to put up so much money.”

  “They just bought you a new car,” Blondie pointed out.

  “That’s what I mean. They can’t afford a new car and a high-priced college.”

  “So you took the car.”

  Blondie regretted his comment. But he couldn’t help feeling he’d been sold out.

  “So where will you go?” he asked.

  “To Maryland, with the rest of the guys. It’s a lot closer to home.”

  “What about your photography? You said Smith-Reid had a much stronger photography department.”

  “Well, yeah, but how much do you learn from school anyway? So much of it is hands-on once you get a job.”

  Why was he arguing with Feller? He’d made up his mind. He wanted to be with his high-school friends. He wanted to be close to Fenton. Despite all Feller’s big-time talk, Blondie realized, at heart, he was a small-town guy.

  “But hey, you were accepted at Maryland, too.” Feller grabbed Blondie’s arm. “There’s still time to change your mind. Why don’t you come with us? It would be great. Just like old times.”

  Blondie was tempted. Feller’s decision not to go put a whole new face on Smith-Reid. Could he cut it alone? What fun would it be? And the thought of recapturing “old times” had a certain appeal.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  That cheered Feller. He began to reminisce about high school as if it were already years away. The night at the submarine races with Susan Conner and Jump-em Johnson. The visit to the burlesque house in Baltimore. The time the Bear suspended them from school. Facing down old man Caldane. The big fight at the quarry. Prom night. The trip to Ocean City. The night Grouper died and came back to life.

  “I guess he won’t be coming back this time, huh?” Feller asked when he realized what he’d said.

  No, Blondie thought, the big fellow won’t be coming back. His throat felt too tight to say anything for a long while. And then, all he could think to say was, “I guess summer’s over, huh?”

  Saturday dawned with the threat of rain. High clouds gathered and folded into a gray massif. The wind began to howl.

  Blondie dressed in one of his father’s dark suits. It was big enough in the shoulders, but his sleeves stuck out and the pants, even after his mom let them down, stopped a couple inches above his shoes. But he couldn’t see buying a suit he’d never wear again. He knew Grouper would understand. It wasn’t from a lack of respect.

  When he left the house, Potter was planting a new shrub in his front lawn. He looked up and, for a moment, his eyes met Blondie’s. Blondie was surprised to find in them a trace of empathy, as if he knew where Blondie were going. Was that possible? Then, almost imperceptibly, Potter nodded. Blondie was so surprised he could think of no response until he was well on his way to the funeral. But he promised himself the next time he saw Potter, he would nod back. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe there was a human being inside. One thing was certain. You never could tell about people.

  Simpson’s Mortuary was on the road north toward Philadelphia. It was a two-story brick building with white columns and a white cupola, and it was protected from the world of the living by a fence of iron spikes. A smattering of cars sprinkled the lot when Blondie arrived. The P-mobile was one of them. Rain began to fall as Blondie dashed inside.

  The service was in a chapel in the east wing of the building. One wall was stained glass that, even on this dark day, tinted all inside with swatches of gold, rose and aquamarine. Dominating the front was an enormous casket of black-lacquered wood trimmed in pewter and surrounded by vases of gladioli. The lid was propped open, revealing a pink satin lining.

  Looming above the first row of pews, Blondie saw the broad shoulders and fleshy head of Mr. Whipple. A large woman sat beside him, her head covered by a dark hat and veil. Blondie presumed it was Grouper’s mom. Feller and the rest of the guys sat in a pew several rows behind. They all were dressed as somberly as he and seemed uniformly nervous and uncomfortable.

  Blondie walked slowly toward the casket. As he drew closer, the awesome body of the Grouper appeared. He was dressed almost as if for a wedding in a dark three-piece pinstriped suit with a forest green ascot at his throat. Blondie was amazed at how lifelike he looked. There was no mark, no discoloration, to indicate any misfortune had befallen him. His face seemed serene, with none of its former pinkish-purple coloring. He could have been sleeping.

  When Blondie reached the side of the casket, he looked down at the boy-man he’d come to love. He was glad his eyes were shut. He wasn’t sure he could have faced those deep dark eyes.

  He whispered to him, “Was your life so hopeless? Couldn’t you have held out?” Then, “What about me?”

  How could Grouper consider suicide a right? It was too selfish to be a right. How about those left behind? How about their rights? Their right not to be left friendless. Their right not to be left burdened with guilt and remorse.

  After a few moments, Blondie walked back and joined the rest of the Club.

  Shortly, a cherub-faced man with white hair and a white collar entered the room from a small door in the rear. He seemed pleased to be there.

  “My dear fellow Christians,” he intoned, annoying Blondie with his presumption. “We are here to bid farewell to a young man God has called before his time.”

  Who called whom? Hadn’t Grouper made the call?

  The minister praised Grouper as a “good God-fearing lad.” Blondie wished Grouper could hear him. He could imagine Grouper, even now, scoffing at such malarkey.

  After several minutes of eulogy, the preacher asked the assembly to join in the Lord’s Prayer. Blondie surprised himself by repeating the minister’s words.

  “Consistency was never one of my strong points,” he silently apologized to Grouper.

  After the minister finished his remarks, Mr. Whipple rose from a seat in the front row. He was wearing a suit like his son’s. When he began, he seemed stern and in control, but, as he began to speak, a perplexed look overtook his face.

  “Mrs. Whipple and I want to thank all of you for coming,” he said. “As you ma
y know, Walter was our only child.” His voice cracked. “Everyone who knew him loved him. We loved him. I’m not sure he knew that.”

  He paused and took several deep breaths.

  “We were very proud of Walter. He was quite bright and extremely gentle.”

  Mr. Whipple looked out at the crowd, as if seeking absolution.

  “We only wanted what was best for him.”

  His voice broke and he sat down. Mrs. Whipple put her hand on his sleeve and patted his arm.

  Grouper had been wrong about his folks. They had loved him.

  After a while, people began to look around. The minister rose from his seat and said, “The service is over. Please feel free to pay your last respects to Walter.”

  Feller and the rest of the gang shuffled toward the casket. Blondie looked for some sign of emotion from them, but each seemed as stiff as a robot. He realized they had no idea what to do. The death of someone close was a new concept. For him, too.

  When Mr. Whipple passed his seat, he gave him a lingering glance. Blondie took it as an invitation. He rose and followed him into the foyer.

  “You’re the one they call Blondie, aren’t you?” He seemed ill at ease. “I mean you must be, with your coloring.” He laughed awkwardly. “Can I speak with you a second?”

  Mr. Whipple led him to a corner of the hallway. “Walter left a note,” he said, looking around as if he were afraid someone might overhear.

  Blondie stared into Mr. Whipple’s eyes — the ones Grouper had once referred to as “cold lawyer’s eyes” — and saw only grief.

  “There were just two words: ‘Ask Blondie.’ Do you know what Walter meant by that?”

  The words cut him like a dagger. Was Grouper accusing him? Blondie couldn’t believe that. Grouper would never have been so cruel. Or was Grouper asking him to try and explain to his parents why he’d done it? He wasn’t sure they’d understand no matter what he said. More likely, anything he said would add to their grief. Blondie resented the note. He refused to be Grouper’s apologist for an act he considered unwarranted.