Rumors of Peace (31 page)

“You know, Donald Woodall is really good-looking now. Are you going around with him?”

“Sort of.” Though we were in different classes, he still ate lunch with me, and we had attended a noon dance, and I had gone home with him again to look at his pins. He was still insulting at times; but I insulted him back, and we got along all right.

“He's the one that's very tall with the blond hair?” asked Bev.

“He used to be sort of funny?” asked Powder Jean, and blinked again at Peggy's look.

“I don't think he was funny,” Peggy told her coolly. “I don't think there was anything funny about him.”

“He was funny,” I said. “He's still funny.”

Peggy was in a corner. She looked irritated to have to defend him. But she did. “Well,
I
don't happen to think so.”

“Let's give it the vote,” I said. It was meant to be humorous, but it didn't come off. Peggy said they should put on “Begin the Beguine” and practice some dance steps. As a fifth wheel, it was my dismissal. I got up, and Peggy walked me to the door of the room.

“Thank you very much,” I said.

“Don't mention it.”

She was clearly delighted to see me leave, yet she didn't seem delighted with what she was returning to. There was still that touch of boredom on her face, that quality of presiding over something that didn't grip her talents.

I walked back through the Dungeon, thinking with a dry smile of the time I had waited on the chesterfield for Mr. Hatton, feeling so depraved and depressed, envying the lives of this little group behind the closed door.

T
HE
V
ALENTINE
H
OP
was a great success, from what I overheard one morning in homeroom a couple of weeks later, as Notebook Jean's friends enthused around her desk. But it was lost on me; I was sliding down in my seat, reaching into my shoulder bag.

            
My dear Suse,

                
First of all, I don't know why a poem could not be written about a dog scratching itself, as long as it showed a true dog scratching itself in a true way, so one felt what it actually is to be a dog. You are right to say that poetry is always beautiful, but beautiful can mean many things. It can even mean pain and sorrow, and I believe there are more poems written about death than about love. Those moments in between, as you call them, the terrible moments and the ordinary moments, are really more the material of poetry than the moments of bliss.

                
Not being a poet, it is hard for me to explain, but I think we go to poetry not to find faith in the blissful moments, but because we know other people have felt as we. They have known all our own emotions; they have known the same questions, and have stood awed by nature, and have lived with all the small familiar things that we have lived with (including scratching dogs), and
this is somehow, though I do not know why, a necessary thing to feel inside oneself. If you will forgive me for sounding pompous, I think it has to do with being part of the enduring spirit of man.

                
And so with the United Nations. It is true that to plan a lasting peace sounds like a high-flown poem painted in the air, for I can only agree with you that peace has not played a large part in the history of our world. But it is the spirit that has prompted this organization; it is mankind's old tough hope and its willingness to try, which, if we are to call the United Nations a poem, makes it a beautiful one. Whether it succeeds or not is another matter entirely.

                
I see that I have borne out the fact that I am not a poet, for I have wound up on a very clinical note indeed. Let me allay that note by saying strange things happen, even miracles, and who knows? Maybe we will really come through this time.

                
Now, Suse, I must end this, for I haven't much free time—translating German texts for the present, having quit my studies. Thank you for giving my brain such a good workout, and with best wishes that you are busy and happy—

Egon

I closed my eyes, savoring the words. Trying to savor them.

“They were completely unique—”

“They were absolutely darling, Jean—”

“Oh thanks, I just used this heart-shaped cookie cutter—”

“Did you notice Dick Johnson, the way he dances?”

“You mean like a spastic?”

“What does Lois see in him?”

“She could do much better—”

“I adored the punch—”

“My poor mother, she's
livid—
I used up all our sugar stamps for the next twenty
years
—”

“Did you see what Barbara was wearing?”

“She should never wear pleats—”

“You'd think she'd
realize
—”

Poor Barbara, not to realize about her pleats! I was about to put
my fingers in my ears when it occurred to me that I was hearing poetry. This was one of those small ordinary moments we all shared, a moment beautiful in its own way, part of the enduring spirit of mankind.

“At least if she turned the hem up—”

“It's hard with pleats—”

“And that sick green, why bother?”

No, this could not be what Egon meant. If this was what endured, God help us. I would have to ask him. But I couldn't do it right away because he was busy with his new job; I would have to respect that, hard as it was. Meanwhile, it was interesting that he had broken from his former life and was no longer a student. It seemed a final statement of his distance from Helen Maria. He had never mentioned her once in his letters, never said Helen Maria is fine or Helen Maria sends her regards. They were finished, and Helen Maria was stepping out with someone else; but Egon was not.

The bell rang; order descended. I returned the letter to my shoulder bag, tenderly placing it next to the first one, two lights shining deep in the dark. And the light of his blue eyes, and the light flowing through my veins, and the light of mankind's miracles, for we might really have peace forever.

            
Dear Helen Maria,

                
I'm dashing this off in study hall. You'll be happy to know I'm in College Prep now, but you won't be happy to know I've only got a B minus average. I realize that I'm not a scholar, because I don't stick to things. My mother says I run hot and cold, and that's true. Right now I'm hot for poetry, I think there may be more truth in it than in book learning. For
me.
I would never be so presumptuous as to tell others where they should look for truth. To each his own, as I mentioned in Peggy's room the other day. Yes, she invited me over, I was quite flabbergasted. Her friends are extremely dull, in fact everyone in my class is dull. The class I came from was dull in their studies, but they were more original to be around, I can't explain it. But I guess I will stick here now that I am here, because as Thomas Wolfe says, you can't go home again. I have a friend named Donald who is reading Thomas Wolfe.
Personally, I think the tragedy of life is that you can't go home again, but recalling your attitude about the melancholy aspects of life, I will not belabor this point. Anyway, I'm not melancholy at all. I'm cherishing some hopes for mankind. As for Peggy, who I brought up a minute ago, she is practically queen of the school but she looks bored. All her friends talk about is powder puffs and Frank Sinatra and I think it's getting to her. Maybe she will turn serious and become a scholar like yourself, or at least start acting more interesting and original. That's about all the news, I thought you'd like to catch up on everything. I wish we could get together again. We never finished that history conversation in your kitchen when it got so exciting and you said brava!

Your friend,

Suse

For a long time I had felt guilty about writing Helen Maria, in case she was still hanging onto Egon, eating her heart out. But now I was certain of their break, and I knew she had recovered, because to brood was not in her philosophy. I felt with a rush how much I had missed her; I wanted to see her again and talk about history and life. And there was no reason why the three of us couldn't be friends, without any hard feelings. Maybe we could even go out on a double date, my hair was long enough.

I picked up my pen again.

            
P.S. My hair is almost shoulder length. If I came to Berkeley you wouldn't even know me.

O
NE DAY
, in early March, Peggy stopped me in the hall. “Why don't you come over this afternoon? Nobody'll be there.”

I was surprised. But I nodded. “All right,” I said.

It was a stormy, dark day, but with moments of dazzle when the rain came flashing down like gold needles. The leaves on the trees were new and green and wet, and the wind shook them hard on their branches. We didn't talk because the wind was too strong. It blew at our backs, pushing us along almost at a run, as if to get us home to her room in a hurry.

“You want a Coke? Or how about a cup of hot tea?” Her face looked eager, and I felt that mine did, too. She went off to make the tea, and I stood at the French windows, looking out at the trees shaking dark and light in the garden. Rudy came over and sat at my side. He lifted a short back leg, cocked his head, and scratched behind one of his long hanging ears. With his black, blunt claws he scratched long and passionately, making a harsh noise painful to hear. His muscles worked fast and rippling under his smooth brown coat. His eyes were slits, with deep grooves of concentration between them. At times he looked as if he'd fall off-balance, but he never did. Then suddenly he stopped, gave his head a shake, so that the ears made a snapping sound,
and settled back on his haunches. With a sigh of satisfaction, he gazed out again at the garden.

Yes, why couldn't you write a poem about that? I saw now what Egon meant. It had to do with Rudy's soul.

Peggy came in with a tray of tea things and set it quickly on the rug. We arranged ourselves on either side, and she poured for me, offered me milk and sugar, asked if I was comfortable. We lifted our cups and sipped.

“That day you came over,” she said, “you didn't like my friends.”

“It's just that I don't have anything in common with them.”

“But look at Helen Maria. She never had anything in common with anybody, and look how she never had any friends.”

“She had us.”

Peggy gave a little sigh.

“I liked those days,” I said. “I thought we had fun.”

“I don't know, it was kind of pathetic. She was a screwball. I was fat. You had green hair.”

“It was fun anyway. Remember when we went up on the hill that night and she invoked the gods? I'll bet none of your friends would do that.”

Peggy laughed, almost with her old gusto. “God, if they'd seen us! I can imagine their faces!”

“Well, what do you want them for then?”

“Oh, you always see things black and white,” she said, setting her teacup down. “Nobody's perfect.”

“They don't have to be perfect. Just not zombies.”

“Zombies. That's disgusting. Are you calling Bev a zombie?”

“Not her so much, but those two Jeans. If you think about the enduring spirit of man, you can't fit them in at all. There's nothing in them you'd want to endure. I can imagine Keats writing a poem about Rudy scratching himself, but can you imagine an ode to a pleated skirt?”

Peggy was silent for a moment. “I have to tell you something, Suse. You bore people. You bore them because you don't make sense. You bored my friends as much as they bored you, but at least they were polite.”

“Pin a rose on them!”

“Oh, honestly.” She sighed.

It was falling apart, all our eagerness and intimacy. “Let's start over again,” I said.

“All right,” she agreed, drawing Rudy to her as he waddled by. He lay down with his head in her lap. A few moments of silence passed. “Well, how's your family?” she asked. “How's Peter?”

“He's in Germany. They're getting close to the Rhine now.” I held up two fingers and pulled them back as I spoke. “Normandy. The Battle of the Bulge. He's been through them both, and he's been lucky all the way.”

“I'm glad. I really am.”

“But it's odd,” I said uneasily, “He's been lucky so long it makes you worry. You keep holding your breath.”

“You've got to have faith, Suse. That's the only thing you can do. Have faith.”

“I know.”

“How's Karla?”

“Fine. She's in Hollywood.”

“Hollywood?”

“That's right. She's an illustrator at the Walt Disney studios.”

“Is she working there waiting for a break? She could get a screen test easy with her looks.”

I put my hand inside my blouse and rubbed my chest. The skin there felt tender these days, itchy, and there was a slight swelling on either side. “Karla's an artist, that's her career. She doesn't want her face plastered all over the screen.”

“I'll bet. I'll bet she'd be thrilled. Anybody'd be.”

“I wouldn't.”

“You would be too. You'd love to have millions of people come and ooh and ah over your face.”

“Do you think they would?”

She cast me a brief look. “They might.”

Ten feet high on the Technicolor screen I saw my wheat-gold hair streaming in a wild wind, my silver eyes flashing, my skin smooth and gleaming over the perilous cheekbones. A face in a thousand. I stretched
out on the rug, smoothing back the long, wild hair.

“Well, maybe I belong in the movies, but I still wouldn't want a bunch of strangers gawking at me.”

“Who said you belonged in the movies?” She looked irritated. “If you really want to know, you're still way too thin. And your hair's too straight. They'd have to fix you up plenty before you'd be ready for the cameras.”

“What are you mad about?” I asked with pleasure.

“I'm not mad. It's just embarrassing when somebody takes themself so serious. You can't have a decent conversation that way.”

“Well, let's start over again then.”

“All right.” And she was silent, stroking one of Rudy's long ears.

“Listen,” I said after a while, “since we're being really honest today, I want to ask you something. How come you've always been so interested in good looks?”

She thought about it. “Because they're like a sword.”

“A sword?”

“They can get you places like nothing else can. People stand back like you had a sword. But you've got to know how to use it. Helen Maria, for instance, she doesn't know how to use it. She just wants to be a classical scholar. It's a waste. She might as well look like Eudene.”

“Well, Eudene's happy. A lot of homely girls are happy. Remember little Valerie Stappnagel? She was happy.”

“Maybe they're happy, but they don't have any power.”

Power. Having a sword in your hand. But where were you advancing as the crowd parted before you? You weren't storming a citadel or throwing out a government; there were no flags or leaping flames at the end of the crowd, just the student body president, or a movie producer, or a rich husband, or many rich husbands, like those of Aunt Dorothy, and all Aunt Dorothy left behind was a little yellowed sketch of a boy and a pool of tears on Helen Maria's floor.

“That's not power,” I said. “That's just going after men.”

Peggy gave me an indulgent smile. “Grow up,” she said, still stroking Rudy's ear.

“I have, for your information. I'll tell you something, Peggy. Nobody else knows it. I'm in love.”

“With who?” She was interested. She put down Rudy's ear.

I paused; I didn't want her to suspect Egon. “You don't know him.”

“He's not in junior high?”

“God, no. He's out of college. He's a friend of a friend.”

“What does he think of you?”

“He's in love with me.”

“That's ridiculous,” she said flatly. “You're fourteen years old.”

It was like a bucket of cold water. I sat up angrily. “Age is in the
soul,
it's what you've been through
inside!
I've been through a lot inside, and he knows it, and that's why he doesn't care if I'm fourteen!”

“Don't get mad, or we'll have to start all over again.”

“I'm not mad,” I said, picking up my teaspoon and putting it down again. “I'm just surprised that you have such a small mind.”

“I don't have a small mind, I'm just realistic. Look, they've got all sorts of girls their own age, what do they want with some kid in junior high? Besides, they could be arrested.”

“Just for holding hands? Or kissing?”

“I'm not sure. Probably.”

Frowning, I moved the teaspoon back and forth on the tray. “Well, it doesn't matter. You would do it where nobody saw you.”

“They wouldn't take a chance. Why should they ruin their lives to kiss somebody in the ninth grade? I mean I don't like it either, I'd rather go around with some older guy instead of Jerry, but you've got to face facts. I've gotten very realistic.”

“You've gotten full of hot air,” I muttered, giving the spoon an angry twirl so that it clattered against the china.

“All right.” She sighed. “Let's start over.”

“I told you, I'm not mad.”

“Then I'll give you my honest advice. Forget this guy, and concentrate on Donald Woodall. He'll do you a lot more good. I hear he's got a lot on the ball, and if you could get him to crack his books and get out of dumbbell class and sort of influence him not to be so rude—”

“Why should I spend my time changing Donald Woodall? I've got better things to do.”

“Like what? You're not in activities. You don't go to parties or dances.
And you're not a grind either. It seems to me that you just sort of . . . float around.”

“Well, that's freedom.”

I thought she would argue, but she nodded slowly in agreement. “That's what I miss. Freedom. I'm being honest. You saw how it was, you think the same and talk the same and dress the same. You have to agree on everything.”

I was surprised to hear this confession, surprised and pleased. It made my words gentle. “But you're the top one, you could change it any way you wanted.”

“That's just it, you can't. Oh, I can say I like Dick Haymes better than Perry Como, and they will, too. Or I can say pearl necklaces are out and lockets are in, and they'll put on lockets. But if ever I said I liked Enrico Caruso or put on antique jewelry—well, I'd just lose my position. I wouldn't have any influence at all. It's something bigger than all of you, and you have to stay inside it. Not that I like Caruso or antique jewelry—but if I
did.
Or if I went up on top of a hill at midnight, believe me it wouldn't make them do the same thing; it would make them drop me. You can't go outside this thing, even if you're the top one.”

“What is this thing?”

“I don't know. Customs, I guess, the way things are. And the question is: do I stay, or do I go out?”

“Oh, go out, definitely.”

“Oh, it's easy for you to say, you're already out. I've got a lot to lose. Like Jerry.”

“You don't sound very crazy about him.”

“Maybe not, but he's student body president.” She put her hand out at me like a stop signal. “I know, I know, that doesn't mean a damn thing to you. But I want to tell you, when I think back to what I was in the seventh grade, I shudder. I wouldn't have dreamed of even
looking
at the student body president. We were from different
planets.
It makes me sick when I think how low I was—”

“You were never low!”

“Don't be polite. I was low. I was a dumb fat slob. And if you think
I went on that damn diet and knocked my brains out studying and figured out exactly how to dress and act for the
fun
of it, you're crazy! If you think I'm going to throw all that out the window just to climb some stupid hill in the middle of the night, you've got another thought coming!”

“I didn't say anything.”

“No, but you're sitting there thinking it! You really irritate me!”

“All right, we can't talk then. We'll have to start over.”

“That's fine with me!” She poured herself more tea, not offering me any. The gray room lightened a little, went dark again, and was suddenly irradiated. The French windows trembled with wet, sparkling light, the trees in the garden blew back in a wild glare, and just above their tops, but far in the distance, probably miles beyond Shell Hill, the fluid darkness lit with the steep, lofty end of a rainbow. I could feel a sudden happiness soar through me; I reached out perhaps to squeeze Peggy's hand, but squeezed Rudy's paw instead.

“I'm going to be a poet.”

“Fine,” said Peggy politely.

“I'm going to write about storms and things, and I'll write about Rudy, and a lot of other things. How's Helen Maria, by the way?”

“Well, like I said the other day, she doesn't write much.”

“You say you don't know who she's going with now?”

“She never tells us personal things, it's all guesswork with Helen Maria. But she was really blue at Christmas.”

“She was home for Christmas? Why didn't she come and see me?”

“Because she didn't do anything. Just sat around and moped.”

I was sorry to hear this. But it was in the past now, and she was over it. “So you think she broke up with what's-his-name?”

“Egon. I think so.”

“That's too bad,” I said, rubbing my chest again. “But those things happen.”

“You shouldn't rub there. It doesn't look good. It looks like you're feeling yourself.”

I took my hand away. “That's disgusting, Peggy.”

“That's why you shouldn't do it.”

“There's nothing there anyway. Hardly anything.”

“There will be. That's how it starts, by feeling tender.”

I knew it. I knew what was happening. And it was strange, because I always thought I would be fearful and angry when my body began to change, but I had been feeling a pleasant anticipation. I realized I wanted something there, small, shapely, unobtrusive. Because if you were going to be held in someone's arms, you didn't want to be a complete ironing board.