Authors: David Marlow
And when their lips parted, Corky named his price. “Why don’t
you
write the report for me?” he whispered into her ear as he also nibbled on it.
Amy couldn’t. That kind of cheating went against her principles, her moral standards.
As he smiled into her eyes, she looked at him with great determination and whispered, “I’d be happy to.”
Guy finished his morning exercises and stood tall against the wall, marking off a lead scratch.
He penciled in at five four and a half. A full inch and a half higher than last time. After noting the date on the wall next to the mark, he made an appointment to meet himself there in exactly a month to record the next measurement.
Amy had the best time writing Corky’s book report. Wording it as he might, she carefully incorporated his vernacular, his sensibilities. For a time she lived with him through his vision.
Corky dropped by Thursday evening to pick it up. Sitting at her desk he read it through without comment. Once finished, he looked to her and smiled. “It sounds so smart. How can I thank you?”
Amy could think of a hundred ways. “Don’t be silly.”
Corky stood and kissed her. This time, genuine, grateful affection replaced affected passion.
“I better be going, huh?” He broke away. “Got to put all this down in my own handwriting before tomorrow. You won’t say anything?”
Amy winked. “Mums de woid!”
When Evelyn heard Amy escorting Corky to the door, she hurried into the hallway to join in the good-bys. “Nice seeing you again, Corky. Sorry your visit was so short.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Silverstein.”
“Perhaps Amy will ask you for dinner soon. I’m a wonderful cook.”
Amy coughed.
“Sure.” Corky opened the door and kissed Amy on the cheek. Then he was gone.
Amy and Evelyn stared at the door a few moments, saying nothing.
Evelyn finally spoke. “Now that’s what I call a lovely boy!”
“Thought you might like him.”
“So handsome and tall. So charming, well mannered.”
“All that and more,” Amy was sad to agree.
“So why hasn’t he asked you out?”
Mrs. Bartlett returned Corky’s book report with the B+ marked in red pencil. A footnote on the last of the three pages read:
Excellent. This is “A” work, marked down due to tardiness.
Nathan sat in the doctor’s office, glassy-eyed, staring at illuminated X-rays. When Doctor Zucker finished explaining what all the dark spots could mean, Nathan asked, “ What’ll I say to Birdie?”
The doctor swiveled in his leather chair. “The more she knows, the easier it will be …”
“She won’t understand. Doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“I could speak with her.”
“Would you do that, doctor? All those medical terms. She’ll listen to you. “
The doctor made a notation in his book. “I’ll take care of it.”
Birdie was washing dishes when the phone rang.
“Birdie? It’s Doctor Zucker.”
“Hello, doctor.” Balancing the phone between her shoulder and chin, she dried her hands.
“Nathan just left a few minutes ago and I thought we might have a little chat before he gets home.”
“All right.” Slowly, Birdie sat down.
“He’s been having problems with his lower digestive tract, Birdie.”
“Hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”
“No. This is true. Didn’t want to upset you needlessly, I guess.”
“What does it mean?” Birdie was guarded.
“It could be several things. The tests we’ve taken and the X-rays have not been as encouraging as I’d like. But there’s only one real way to find out what the problem might be.”
“Problem? What problem?” Birdie balanced herself at the edge of the chair. Back muscles tightened into painful knots.
“What we have to do, Birdie, is a minor exploratory. It’s a simple operation.”
“A simple operation doesn’t sound serious to me.”
“The exploratory itself is not.”
Birdie leaned back. “That’s a relief. I know anytime you’re under anesthesia is cause for concern, but, doctor, for a moment there I was worried.”
Doctor Zucker now understood what Nathan meant about having a difficult time explaining the situation. He decided she knew enough for now. “He’ll be reporting to the hospital a week from Monday, late afternoon. Make him comfortable and relaxed until then, will you, Birdie?”
Birdie looked at the receiver with indignation. “Of course, doctor. That’s my job!”
Ignoring her shaking hand, Birdie stiffened her spine and walked into the kitchen.
Everything will be all right, she told herself. A minor operation. So what? Nothing wrong with that man. In nineteen years, he’s never been sick. Oh, that Asian flu last year, sure, but everyone had that. Healthy as a horse, that one. I won’t allow him to be upset. Not important enough.
She opened the freezer.
I’ll cook a wonderful meal. He’ll come home and have dinner like always.
From the bottom of the deep freeze, Birdie removed an enormous white paper package: four pounds of ice blue chops. As they defrosted in the sink, she cleaned vegetables, cut up ingredients for a salad, rolled dough for a sage-and-sesame bread and began cutting up apples for her standard apple-cinnamon pie.
I have to be strong, she resolved. No sense getting upset. Why create problems? We’ll have a lovely dinner and everything will be fine.
Nathan returned home, walking without energy.
Birdie greeted him at the door. “Doctor Zucker called.”
“I know.”
“I’ve made a marvelous dinner, Nathan. Your favorite vegetables. Lamb chops with mint jelly. Just for you.”
Nathan smiled with his eyes and walked slowly to his den. “I’m not hungry, Birdie. Maybe later.’’
After turning on the television Nathan collapsed into his leather lounger and stayed there the rest of the evening, staring without focus at the black-and-white images.
Birdie fed the kids and spent the rest of the night in the kitchen, keeping Nathan’s supper warm, hoping he’d soon be hungry.
What she did not know as she stirred string beans and fought back tears was that the stomach cancer was fast sealing off his colossal appetite, and that he’d already begun his painful, one-way trip to starvation.
ON THE FIRST day of the new term a heavy snow fell.
Students had to adapt to more than just harsh weather and the epidemic of mononucleosis sweeping the area. After searching for new classrooms, they struggled to unlock key idiosyncrasies of unfamiliar teachers while putting up with recycled textbooks, marred to incoherency by former owners. None of it made sense.
By the second week it was all old hat.
Guy had a new sport to cover.
Basketball season was in full flower and the elongated, willowy reeds dribbling up and down court truly left him cold.
At least his training program was paying dividends. He had gained a few pounds and could feel a definite strength in his arms. Several people noticed the gap between the bottom of his pants and the tops of his shoes and asked if he’d gotten taller. He told them no, he was still the same size, just in training to become a matador.
Ro-Anne wasn’t cheering too loudly on the basketball court. Unen-thusiastic as Guy, with no champion on whom to focus, even her famed spread-eagle jumps drooped.
She was preoccupied anyway, planning for her Sweet Sixteen birthday celebration the next month. Marian had promised her the grandest party ever seen in Waterfield. They were meeting with caterers and florists, dressmakers and shoe salesmen. The highlight of her life, she could hardly wait.
Corky’s arrivals home no longer involved the ritual roughhouse. Ever since their falling out, he and Carl had been coldly cordial. Corky had apologized and his father had accepted.
But Carl had not forgiven.
Dr. Potter looked very dramatic indeed in Guy’s photo of him setting fire to the
Gadfly.
The picture appeared in the next issue of the
Eagler,
which just happened to house the second publication of the monthly undercover newsletter.
The irony was circular. The stalwart
Eagler
reported the school’s fight against the subversive
Gadfly.
The
Gadfly
reported the fight against Dr. Potter, likening his pyrotechnics to Hitler’s burning of the books.
Students normally apolitical were suddenly arguing as to whether or not the doctrines of free speech should allow a publication like the
Gadfly
to exist.
The newsletter, organized to stimulate thought, was proving an astonishing success.
Though football season had passed, Corky stayed in shape, working out with the track team after school.
One Friday, after a long three-mile run, joggers relaxed tense leg muscles in a lively communal shower. The topic of conversation, stall to stall, was the usual… .
“If Emily Cordovan had spread her legs any wider in English this morning, announced a dash man, “I’d’ve creamed in my pants, for sure!”
“Emily Cordovan has the face of a douche bag!” Chuck Troendle yelled across the wet room.
“Maybe so. But her cookie’s a beaut!”
“Big C-man! How would you know?” asked a high hurdler.
“I know creamy thighs when I see em. Boy, does she want it bad!”
“Bullshit!” Troendle tossed the hurdler a bar of soap.
“It’s true!” he insisted, catching it.
“Who cares?” Corky weighed in. “With that face, who would want her?”
“You could do a lot worse,” said the hurdler.
“How?” asked another dash man.
“ Lots of worse looking girls around.”
“Name one.”
“Marge Flynn!”
Everyone howled.
“Marge Flynn is a real UGA,” claimed the high hurdler.
“What’s a UGA?”
“Don’t you know anything? Ugliest Girl Alive!”
Roars of laughter amid gallons of water.
Troendle splashed cold water on the fellow next to him.
“Hey, cut it out! I’ll tell you one UGA I’d never want to fuck.”
“Who’s that?”
“Amy Silverstein.”
Soaped-up bodies shook with laughter.
“I’d pay ten bucks to anyone who’d fuck her,” offered Troendle.
Corky rinsed the last of the suds from his hair and said calmly, “I don’t think she’s so bad.”
The uproar died fast. For a moment water raining on tile was the only sound.
“Oh, come on, Henderson! You mean to say
you’d
fuck Amy Silverstein?”
Corky looked around. They were all waiting. Soaping his crotch, he shrugged. “Sure. She’s got a great body. Why not?”
Faucets were turned off and water dribbled down the center drain.
Scrubbed, Corky dashed upstairs to the auditorium.
The sewing club was putting on its yearly fashion show at the Monday assembly. Ro-Anne was one of the models displaying the work of creative fingers.
The rehearsal was half over. Corky asked for Ro-Anne and was directed backstage.
“What’re you doing here?!” the alarmed young bride wanted to know. “It was supposed to be a surprise!”
“No one said anything,” Corky told her.
All in white, veil pinned to her hair, Ro-Anne pouted. “It’s bad luck to see me before the ceremony. Don’t you know that?”
Corky looked to the spotlights. “You’re not really getting married, Ro. You’re just modeling the gown.”
“Still! I wanted to surprise you.”
“Look. I only came to say good-by before you left. That such a crime?”
Ro-Anne softened. “I guess not.” She whirled around. “Like it?”
“You’re beautiful.” He smiled.
“They’re saving me for the grande finale.”
“The best for last.”
Ro-Anne lifted her veil. “You may kiss the bride. “
Corky kissed the bride.
“I don’t know why I ever agreed to go to that stupid health farm with mother this weekend. If it weren’t so important I lose those three pounds before my party …”
“I know. Well, just try to make the best of it.”
“How? With cucumber sandwiches, steam baths and rubdowns? And not a quarterback in sight.” She smiled. “Really, I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“Me too. You know I hate to be alone.”
“You thought about the ring?”
Corky shuffled his feet. “I thought about it.”
“And?” Ro-Anne laced fingers around his belt loop.
“And I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Seems kind offunny.”
“What’s funny
about it?”
“Doesn’t make sense. I mean, your mother buys you a ring for me to give to you.”
“You got it all wrong. Mother’s giving me the ring either way. I just thought it’d be a hoot if everyone thought it was a present from you. That’s all.”
“Who cares what everyone thinks?”
“I care. Plenty. Come on, Corky. Everyone has a crummy old ID bracelet. Please. None of the girls has a birthstone. It would mean so much more. Besides, if the ring comes from you, then you don’t have to buy me a present.”
Corky folded his arms. “Maybe I want to buy you a present.”
Ro-Anne frowned. “On
your
allowance?” She tugged at his belt buckle. “Please, Corky. Forme?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’re next, Ro-Anne!” called out the president of the sewing club from the wings.
“I gotta go.” Ro-Anne kissed him quickly on the lips. “Don’t watch. You’ll make me nervous.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“You better.” And then, deeply dimpled, the lovely bride pinched a blush into her cheeks and floated on stage.
Corky went to his fraternity meeting that night and lost nine big ones in as many minutes at the poker table.
He barely had enough change for a glass of milk afterward when they all shifted over to the Sugar Bowl.
Came Saturday, and Corky decided to make a plan for the evening. He was not about to stay home in front of the television watching heavyweight wrestling with his father.
Chuck Troendle and Jenkins both had dates with cheerleaders. Calvin was baby-sitting his twin sisters. Everyone was busy.
His last resort, he called Guy. “Hey, kid. Why don’t you and me take in a movie tonight?”
It was the best offer Guy had ever received. “I can’t,” he mumbled.