written across it on his pillow. George Lessard joined Steve Ogg and Jack Frady in Chad, the brain dorm.
Six down, thirteen to go.
It should have been enough. Hell, just what happened to poor old Kirby should have been enough; in the last three or four days before he freaked, his hands were trembling so badly he had trouble picking up his cards and he jumped in his seat if someone slammed a door in the hall. Kirby should have been enough but he wasn’t. Nor was my time with Carol the answer.
When I was actually with her, yes, I was fine. When I was with her all I wanted was information (and maybe to ball her socks oil). When I was in the dorm, though, especially in that goddamned third-floor lounge, I became another version of Peter Riley. In the third-floor
lounge I was a stranger to myself.
As Thanksgiving approached, a kind of blind fatalism set in. None of us talked about it, though. We talked about the movies, or sex (‘I get more ass than a merry-go-round pony!’
Ronnie used to crow, usually with no warning or conversational lead-in of any kind), but mostly we talked about Vietnam . . . and Hearts. Our Hearts discussions were about who was ahead, who was behind, and who couldn’t seem to master the few simple strategic ploys of the game: void yourself in at least one suit; pass mid-range hearts to someone who likes to shoot the moon; if you have to take a trick, always take it high.
Our only real response to the looming third round of prelims was to organize the game into a kind of endless, revolving tournament. We were still playing nickel a point, but we were now also playing for ‘match points.’ The system for awarding match points was quite complex, but Randy Echolls and Hugh Brennan worked out a good formula in two feverish late-night sessions. Both of them, incidentally, were flunking their introductory math courses; neither was invited back at the conclusion of the fall semester.
Thirty-three years have passed since that pre-Thanksgiving round of exams, and the man that boy became still winces at the memory of them. I flunked everything but Sociology and Intro English. I didn’t have to see the grades to know it, either. Skip said he’d flagged the board except for Calc, and there he barely squeaked by. I was taking Carol out to a movie that night, our one pre-break date (and our last, although I didn’t know that then), and saw Ronnie Malenfant on my way to get my car. I asked him how he thought he’d done on his tests; Ronnie smiled and winked and said, ‘Aced everything, champ. Just like on fuckin College Bowl. I’m not worried.’ But in the light of the parking lot I could see his smile wavering minutely at the corners. His skin was too pale, and his acne, bad when we started school in September, was worse than ever. ‘How ’bout you?’
‘They’re going to make me Dean of Arts and Sciences,’ I said. ‘That tell you anything?’
Ronnie burst out laughing. ‘You fuckin pisspot!’ He clapped me on the shoulder. The cocky look in his eyes had been replaced by fright that made him look younger. ‘Goin out?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Carol?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good for you. She’s a great-lookin chick.’ For Ronnie, this was nearly heartrending sincerity. ‘And if I don’t see you in the lounge later on, have a great turkey-day.’
‘You too, Ronnie.’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ Looking at me from the corners of his eyes rather than straight on. Trying to hold the smile. ‘One way or another, I guess we’re both gonna eat the bird, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yeah. I guess that pretty well sums it up.’
24
It was hot, even with the engine off and the heater off it was hot, we had warmed up the whole inside of the car with our bodies, the windows steamed so that the light from the parking lot came in all diffused, like light through a pebbled-glass bathroom window, and the radio was on, Mighty John Marshall making with the oldies, The Humble Yet Nonetheless Mighty playing The Four Seasons and The Dovells and Jack Scott and Little Richard and Freddie ‘Boom Boom’ Cannon, all those oldies, and her sweater was open and her bra was draped over the seat with one strap hanging down, a thick white strap, bra-technology in those days hadn’t yet taken that next great leap forward, and oh man her skin was warm, her