Hearts in Atlantis(114)

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 f**kin 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 f**kin 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 The cocky look in his eyes had been replaced by fright that made him look younger.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 nipple rough in my mouth, and she still had her panties on but only sort of, they were all pushed and bunched to one side and I had first one finger in her and hen two fingers, Chuck Berry singing 'Johnny B. Goode' and The Royal Teens singing 'Short Shorts,' and her hand was inside my fly, fingers pulling at the elastic of my own short-shorts, and I could smell her, the perfume on her neck and the sweat on her temples just below where her hair started, and I could hear her, hear the live pulse of her breath, wordless whispers in my mouth as we kissed, all of this with the front seat of my car pushed back as far as it would go, me not thinking of flunked prelims or the war in Vietnam or LBJ wearing a lei or Hearts or anything, only wanting her, wanting her right here and right now, and then suddenly she was straightening up and straightening me up, both hands planted on my chest, splayed fingers pushing me back toward the steering wheel. I moved toward her again, slipping one of my own hands up her thigh, and she said 'Pete, no\' in a sharp voice and closed her legs, the knees coming together loud enough so I could hear the sound they made, that locking sound that means you're done making out, like it or not. I didn't like it but I stopped.

I leaned my head back against the fogged-up window on the driver's side, breathing hard. My c**k was an iron bar stuffed down the front of my underwear, so hard it hurt. That would go away soon enough - no harden lasts forever, I think Benjamin Disraeli said that - but even after the erection's gone, the blue balls linger on. It's just a fact of guy life.

We had left the movie - some really terrible good-ole-boy thang with Burt Reynolds in it - early and had come back to the Steam Plant parking lot with the same thing on our minds . . . or so I'd hoped. I guess it was the same thing, except I had been hoping for a little more of it than I'd gotten.

Carol had pulled the sides of her sweater together but her bra still hung over the back of the seat and she looked madly desirable with her br**sts trying to tumble out through the gap and half an areola visible in the dim light. She had her purse open and was fumbling her cigarettes out with shaky hands.

'Whooo,' she said. Her voice was as shaky as her hands. 'I mean holy cow.'