The Flex of the Thumb (10 page)

By this time, she was completely nude. She stood facing Vano with her feet apart and her hands on hips. “I'm getting heat.
Now
do you understand?”

Vano's beleaguered
hooommm
roiled and timbred orange and active, but he was like a desperate swimmer treading water to stay afloat. Nevertheless, he sported a hard-on the texture of a brick. “Yes I do understand,” he said.

Mary Thorne undressed him rapidly, climbed on top so as to straddle him, then slipped him inside. It didn't take long, but just before he shot his wad, face-to-face with the sway of her remarkable breasts, Vano threatened to break the surface. So intense was his state of disorientation, so tenuous his deep in lodging, that he even felt a brief urge to throw his slider again.

But by the time he squeezed off the last and feeblest contraction, he was receding down again, down and deeper down where the vibes were firm to shimmer him in the resonance like a perpetual gong.

When they were finished, they lay side by side. “I might get heat for you again,” said Mary.

Since he was so way down deep, it took even longer than usual. “That would be nice,” he finally responded.

“Is that all you can say?”

“It would be
very
nice.”

Mary Thorne was more than a little annoyed. “Don't you know who I am?” She got out one of her cigarettes, forgetting in her moment of pique that there was no lighter. She left it between her lips anyway. “Do you realize how many guys would give their left nut to be where you are right now?”

“No, I guess I don't.”

“Are you always this agreeable?”

Vano was watching the bobbing, unlit cigarette. “Yes, I guess I am.”

“I think you are. I could definitely get
heat
for you again.”

“That would be very nice.”

Chapter Four

It was not a congenial beginning to Reggie Rose's day. For breakfast, Bertie Kerfoot served him a cold jar of pig's knuckles, one week old, with a head cheese spread. She gave him a partial bottle of Dr. Pepper.

While he nibbled with no enthusiasm, Bertie embroidered the experience by smoking her cigarette in his direction and disclosing the pathological condition of her sister's hemorrhoids in much detail. “I'm sure it's going to come to surgery,” she said. “I may have to go and visit her.”

This would put her behind the wheel
. “Why don't you have a drink?” suggested Reggie. “Maybe a few fingers of J&B would relieve some of your stress.” If she had a few drinks, she might steer herself over the edge on one of the canyon roads. Reggie visualized Bertie's car in a freefall, plummeting to a fiery crash. He could almost hear the headlines.
Tape at eleven
.

Bertie said, “I sure hope they use that new technique where they tie those little devils off instead of doing the actual cutting.”

Reggie dropped his fork and stood up. He could stand no more. He decided to hie himself to the office and try his luck with Mrs. Askew. He told Bertie, “I'd like to stay here and discuss this with you, there's so much work to be done. You have no idea.”

As soon as he got to the office, he dealt with Mrs. Askew aggressively: “Get that coach on the phone, that Washinski, that whatsisname.”

“You mean Coach Radulski.”

“That's the one. I want to know about that pitcher. I want to find out when we can expect the revenue to come pouring in.”

Mrs. Askew informed him that there was a new memo from the trustees regarding curriculum development. “According to the memo, it's imperative,” she said. “It has to become a priority.”

Reggie thought of the pig's knuckles and listened to his stomach churn. “I'm going to ferret out the academic dean,” he declared. “Curriculum development ought to be his sphere.”

“Good luck,” Mrs. Askew told him.

“Thank you.” As soon as he closed his office door, Reggie began to pace.
If we don't do something soon in curriculum development, we will be in serious trouble—the trustees' report is quite explicit on that point
.

This thought was nonplussing in the extreme. He sat down hard in his swivel chair. He thought,
what the hell am I supposed to do about curriculum development
? And then he thought,
what would be the perfect crime to hasten Bertie Kerfoot's demise
?

He stood up to resume his pacing. This led him in the direction of a more comforting thought:
I
deserve a decent breakfast. Things like curriculum development will have to wait
.

Mrs. Askew entered to inform him that Coach Radulski was not in his office.

“Where is he, then?”

“His secretary thinks he might be out on the playing field.”

“At eight in the morning? Is there a phone there?”

“No, no phone. You could walk over to the field and check. It's not far.”

“Don't be silly, I'm the president. Just keep trying his office.”

Then Reggie went to the union, where he had orange juice, a very nice onion and green pepper omelette, and hot coffee. He ate ever so slowly so as to relish every mouthful of this delicious repast. On his table was a matchbook. While he chewed, he read the backside of its cover:

Learn astrology! Delight your friends!

Earn big bucks at home, charting!

President Rose put the matchbook in his pocket. Astrology was big nowadays. He ordered more coffee and prepared to linger over it, but then Professor Revuelto came barging in. Reggie winced. He feared Revuelto would want to join him, but as luck would have it, the beefy Cuban spotted a table of students. Just after dropping his briefcase noisily, Revuelto twirled out of his paisley neck scarf. He threw his arms wide to proclaim: “My dear ones! Let us come together!”

The students to whom he spoke were playing cards in close proximity to Reggie's table. They mumbled and grumbled and shoved around reluctantly to make room for Revuelto to sit down.

Finding his seat, Revuelto clapped a few of the students on the back, then loudly ordered two fried eggs, sausage links, hash browns, four pieces of toast, and orange juice. He began telling the students all about some of his close calls with Venezuelan officials and underworld figures. Very little of what he told them was factual.

Then the breakfast came. Revuelto began devouring the eggs and toast aggressively, in doubled-up forkfuls. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and ran in little rivulets down his chubby, swarthy face. The uncooked white of the eggs dribbled in cloudy streams through his chin whiskers. Egg yolk stuck in his mustache. Revuelto gobbled on.

Seated next to him was Rita Lieberman. She stared at the spectacle of Revuelto with his eggs and toast and said, “Oh my god.”

Revuelto looked at her briefly, then threw back his head to laugh savagely. Small fragments of his breakfast erupted from his mouth like spray.

“Oh my god,” Rita repeated herself. She moved her chair to a safer distance.

Reggie Rose had to wonder by this time whether this breakfast experience was significantly better than his earlier one with Bertie. After he paid his bill, he left quickly.

He found Oboe Meel basking on the quad with two maintenance men and a nondescript student of passive body language. He sat down just in time to hear Sydney Gibbs ask Oboe, “How many kids do you have, Oboe?”

“Sixteen. I have sixteen children.”

“Why so many?”

Oboe did not find this question impertinent. He said, “I will be happy to tell you.”

Reggie Rose turned instantly glum, for he knew this answer would be lengthy in the extreme.

Oboe began by saying, “There is in every man a longing for recognition which endures. The idea of a lasting effect. Some people call this immortality, and link it in some fashion with a belief in God and/or the hereafter.”

He continued, “I too have such a longing. I too want to have an impact on the world. My way of doing this is by creating as many little Meels as possible, and sending them out into the world. In other words, my offspring are my lasting effect.”

“Well, I always wanted to know,” said Sydney Gibbs. “Thanks a lot for telling me.”

“Did you ever hear of a thing called birth control?” asked Billy Byrd, the second maintenance man.

But as Oboe was not finished, he found it convenient to ignore both remarks. “It isn't only that I have sired 16 children. Oh no. I have sired 16
consuming
children. Most all of my offspring have reached adulthood; only one is still in her teens. All the children are voracious consumers. They all own at least one full-sized car which consumes large quantities of fuel. They all have closets full of clothes. They have computers and video games and televisions and VCRs. They have audio tapes, video tapes, and CDs. They use many cans, bottles, plastic, and paper products.”

“Well, thanks again for telling me.”

Oboe went on, “Having 16 children would account for some impact on the world, I suppose, but having 16 consuming children! Think of the impact on the world's resources! Think of the drain on forests and petroleum products and landfills and even the sea itself! In this way, do you see, I am achieving a lasting effect.”

Oboe paused long enough to take several deep breaths. He took out his red bandanna and began wiping his forehead. Leaping to their feet, Sydney Gibbs and Billy Byrd seized the opportunity to excuse themselves. Vano Lucas, the silent student, did not move or speak; he took no notice of the two maintenance men in motion.

Reggie had taken the matchbook absently from his pocket. He worried it from one hand to the other. Having endured Meel's excruciating verbal tome, he had little patience: “See here, Meel, there's a great deal of work to be done in curriculum development.”

Oboe's eyes were closed. “Does this sound like a topic which will excite my interest?”

“If we don't do something soon in curriculum development, we will be in serious trouble.”

“What I know about curriculum development would probably not fill a thimble. What I care about it would be considerably less.”

“The trustees' report is quite specific on this point,” persisted Reggie.

Oboe responded with a rhetorical question: “Have I not told you on prior occasions that your trustees' report is a fiction?”

Reggie fumed inwardly, but sighed out loud. His eyes traveled impatiently across the printing on the matchbook in his hand. A thought came to him: “See here, Meel, what about astrology?”

Oboe opened his eyes long enough to ask, “What about it?”

“I'm asking you for your opinion on astrology.”

He closed his eyes again. “There are those who find it fascinating. For example, the lady who scavenges the aluminum cans from the dumpsters in our neighborhood.”

Reggie stood up abruptly. He felt his energy returning. “Meel, I have to say I find your remarks encouraging. I say, let's consider that this matter is now under advisement.”

“If that's what you say, I am not wont to quarrel with it.”

Vano was so deep in it didn't occur to him that this was an odd sort of exchange.

Reggie left in higher spirits. He made his way directly to Mrs. Askew's desk. “Do we offer any courses in astrology, Mrs. Askew?”

“I doubt it.”

“What do you think of astrology, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Personally, I would never set foot out of the house without first consulting my horoscope.”

Reggie found her remark even more encouraging than Oboe Meel's. He inquired, “Mrs. Askew, what is it exactly that the trustees' report says about our curriculum?”

She had to pause a few moments while she chewed her pencil. “Well, for one thing, it says we need to set our sights higher.”

“That's good enough for me,” said Reggie. “You can't set your sights much higher than the stars in the heavens.”

He went to his office where he collapsed in the swivel chair. Tired though he was, he felt a strong sense of accomplishment. First (through his encounter with Chaplain Johansen), he had struck the initiative to move the campus in the direction of godliness. Now, he was about to take the lead in curriculum development.

It was on a Thursday afternoon when Mary Thorne made her way up to the third floor of Vano's dorm. Then she made her way to Vano's room. This was against policy, as these were not designated visiting hours, but when Mary was
getting heat,
she didn't let much of anything stand in her way.

Robin Snook was at football practice, but Arnold Beeker was seated at his desk, working on a calculus template on his computer screen. Mary said to Arnold, “Get lost.”

Arnold could tell by her demeanor that this wasn't the time to proclaim his rights. He left. As soon as he was gone, Mary closed the door behind him. She embraced Vano savagely, then began rapidly removing his clothes.

They made love passionately (at least for her part) on his bed in a feverish congress which lasted the better part of 20 minutes. Then Mary sat on the edge of the bed and smoked a cigarette, yet another policy violation. While doing this she informed him, “Coach Radulski keeps calling me. He wants me to influence you to pitch baseball.”

This information didn't surprise Vano, nor did it disturb the comfortable resonance of his zone.

“He's an alkie,” said Mary. “I bet you didn't know that.”

“I think I did know that,” Vano replied.

“He wants me to manipulate you.”

When Vano had the reply he wanted, he said, “I used to be a pitcher. I'm pretty sure I was very good. What did you say to him?”

“I told him to kiss off. I don't manipulate, I get heat.” She dropped her cigarette into a waiting Mountain Dew can and listened to the
ssizzz
. Then she changed the subject. “It's a burden to have a body this beautiful. I bet you never thought of that, did you?”