“I thought I was rooming with Tradd St. Croix,” Mark said. “I missed it when he turned into Sigmund Freud.”
“Will knows that what I’m saying is true,” Tradd said.
“They’ve got me scared, Tradd,” I said, looking at the gentlest and most sensitive of my roommates and the one whose judgment I trusted most during times of crisis. “I feel responsible for Mark and Pig going out to the house the other night. I may have even dragged you into it. Now I want to get all of us out of it and I’m not sure how to do it. But I think we’ve got to fold our tents, keep our mouths shut, and be careful. I think we should stick close together, only go out together, protect each other, and keep our noses clean. If I can tell Cain that we’re no threat to The Ten, that we’ll never tell anyone what we saw out at the house, then maybe they’ll forget about us, maybe they’ll let us finish out the year without trying to get us.”
“I’m sick of talking about these assholes,” Mark said. “I’m sick and tired of it. If they try to pull anything, then let’s worry about it. But there’s enough hot air in this room to fill up the Goodyear Blimp.”
“How will they know their secret is safe with us?” Tradd asked me, ignoring Mark. “How do we assure them that they can trust us?”
“We don’t,” Pig said, speaking for the first time during the session. “That’s the worst thing we can do. That and letting them know that we’re afraid of them. I say fuck them and the horses they rode in on. If they try to hurt anybody in this room, then they’ll have Dante Pignetti paying them a social visit. If they give us any shit I’ll tie Cain Gilbreath up to the tracks and get the name of every fucking one of them. Then I’ll pay lots of social visits. I’ll wear white gloves and full dress and I’ll kick ass so hard they’ll think it was D-Day on this campus.”
“We don’t know what they might have planned, Pig,” I protested. “It could be anything. They pushed Bobby Bentley down a flight of stairs in Columbia. I tried to call him but he’s checked out of school, and his mom won’t tell me anything.”
“They try to push me down a flight of stairs, I’d make them eat those fucking stairs,” Pig exploded, flexing the muscles in his arms. “Then I’ll make them eat Columbia. Fuck them. Let them be afraid of us. We haven’t done anything wrong, man. They have. We’ve got to act like we’ve got the world by the balls, like we’re not afraid of anybody or anything on earth. We’ve got to do what they don’t expect.”
“In this rare case, I think Pig might be right,” Mark said. “The one thing we’ve got is knowledge of what that group is like and what they do. If they try to fuck us, then we fuck them. If they let us alone, then we let them alone. We’ll just wait to see what happens.”
“This is no time for juvenile bravado,” Tradd said. “I agree with Will.”
“It don’t matter what you and Will think, paisan,” Pig said. “Because Mark and I can kick the shit out of both of you any time we want to.”
“So what!” Tradd flared. “Do you think that can change the way I think a single iota?”
“Sure it can. People have a tendency to believe everything I say when I’m breaking their arm,” Pig said affably and without belligerence, only stating facts according to his vision of the world. “Now I declare this chicken-shit meeting officially over.”
“Cain said that you, Mark, and I ought to drop out of school, Pig,” I said.
Both Mark and Pig laughed heartily over that one, and the subject dropped after Pig said, “He doesn’t understand that Pig loves life on the high wire. I told you that the other night. That’s where I belong, man. That’s how I want to live.”
Chapter Forty-one
They did not make a move. We did not hear from them. We received no ironic messages in our mail slots nor any menacing communiques slipped beneath the door to our room, and after a week of vigilance we concluded that our silence had appeased The Ten. We said nothing to anyone about the events at the General’s house. Each day was a small victory in our war of attrition. Each day we moved closer to the day when we would graduate, when we could be invulnerable to the displeasure of The Ten.
But it was easy to forget about danger when lulled into a false consciousness of safety by rituals that had not changed in a hundred years. It was difficult to perceive the hazard of those days when the city was so serenely beautiful and the gardens so flawlessly tended. The earth ripened in extravagant, sunstruck greens, and there were thunderstorms late every afternoon. The water dried quickly on the parade ground, and the campus was lovely to walk across at dusk. The life of the Corps went on as always. There was drill on Tuesday and physical training on Thursday; there were intramural games on Wednesday and parade on Friday. There were eight o’clock classes, morning room inspection by the tac officers, and the food in the mess hall was plentiful and hot and very bad. The days grew warmer and the custodians had to cut down dandelions that grew up overnight on the parade ground. Cadets began lying naked on the rooftops of the barracks to get tanned for weekends on the beach. A sophomore fell asleep in third battalion while sunbathing and received first-degree burns on his genitals. Three freshmen were missing for a day when their Boston Whaler broke down while they were fishing in the Gulf Stream.
In Charleston, black vendors began to sell fresh tomatoes and okra in the city market. Fresh flowers beautified the windows of mansions along East Bay Street. Men in shirt sleeves contentedly pushed their power mowers along the lawns of the suburbs. April was the last month you could buy oysters in the city, and the restaurants began scratching them from their menus. The trawlers with their black, mended netting began moving out of Shem Creek before daylight to shrimp the fertile shorelines along the barrier islands.
We relaxed and began to think more of graduation than of The Ten. We worked on our senior essays, spent long hours taking notes in the library, flirted with the women who checked out books, sent out graduation notices, and prepared ourselves mentally for life outside the Gates of Legrand. We knew the pleasant fatigue that comes from long hours of study. At night, we ate cheese and sardines on crackers in our room and prepared for the last exams we would ever take at the Institute. We all but had it made.
On the first Wednesday in May, Pig came into the room with a letter he was waving in his hand.
“I got the letter,” he said to me.
“What letter?” all of us asked simultaneously.
“The most important letter in my whole life, paisans. I’d like to make an announcement in this room. This is going to make you guys even happier than it’s made me. I feel happy just thinking how happy all of you are going to be.”
“Tell us, for godsakes, Pig,” Tradd demanded. “We’ve still got exams coming up.”
“I’ve been as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest all week long,” said Mark, who had already begun to study for the night. “If I don’t do some serious studying I’m not going to graduate with my class.”
Pig smiled and said, “Theresa and I are getting married next Saturday.”
“What?” Tradd said, shocked and disbelieving.
“Have you lost your fucking mind, Pig?” I said.
Mark sneered. “What mind?”
“She’s flying to Charleston on Saturday morning and Father Bridges is going to marry us secretly as St. Mary’s downtown. Everything is set. And I’m going to have three best men instead of one. All three of you paisans are going to be up at that altar when the Pig says his vows.”
“Why don’t you just wait until graduation like everyone else, Pig?” I said. “Otherwise, you’ll get kicked out of school if someone finds out.”
“Just have patience, Pig,” Tradd advised. “It’s only a month away from graduation and then everything will be legal. Then there can be a nice formal ceremony in the chapel with all your friends attending and a reception at Durrell Hall.”
“We don’t have the money for a nice wedding, paisan,” Pig said, his countenance darkening. “That’s one of the problems. And we’re tire
d of waiting and we’re flat broke anyway. We finally talked her parents into it, and I want her to be my wife when I walk across that stage in June. I want her to be Mrs. Pignetti.”
“I can’t believe that we had that long conversation about being careful last week, Pig, and then you announce that you’re getting fucking married,” I said.
“Hell, Will,” Mark said. “We all know at least ten seniors who are secretly married already. It’s no big deal. If asshole-breath wants to get married, then let him get married.”
“Isn’t anyone going to congratulate me?” Pig asked in a wounded voice.
“Congratulations, Pig,” I said quickly. “And it’s not that we’re not happy for you and Theresa, it’s just that we’re worried about this other thing. Also, you and Theresa have always been married in my mind. I’ve always thought of you together.”
Tradd came over to Pig and shook his hand warmly. “You’re marrying a wonderful woman, Pig. And you know that I mean that.”
“Yeh, I can’t believe a sweet thing like Theresa is going to have to watch you take a shit while she’s brushing her teeth for the rest of her life,” Mark said, grinning broadly and pummeling Pig’s back. Then Mark embraced him joyfully and with a raw animal vitality that made the room spring to life again. Mark lifted Pig off his feet and the two strong boys spun in a slow, exuberant circle as Tradd and I reached up to slap Pig’s large, grinning head.
When Mark let Pig down to the floor, Tradd jumped up into Pig’s arms and shouted, “Practice carrying me across the threshold, married man.”
Pig reverently bore the limp and sighing Tradd across the room, hurled him without ceremony into a lower bunk, fell on top of him, and began humping him with joyful ferocity.
“Get this beast off me,” Tradd screamed.
“Be gentle, Pig,” I cautioned through my laughter.
“I bet Theresa does that to Pig,” Mark said.
“Hey, don’t say that about my girl, man,” Pig moaned. “My God, I’m almost ready to come.”
“Don’t you dare, Pig!” Tradd squealed, scrambling out from under those great powerful arms. “Gross,” Tradd muttered, straightening the creases in his trousers. “The thought of your semen makes me ill, Pig”
“I’m gonna name my three sons after you bastards,” Pig announced.
“Tradd Pignetti,” I said. “That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard of.”
“Yeh, I thought about that,” Pig said seriously. “I’ll name my youngest kid that. He’ll be too little to know how fucked up that name is.”
Mark groaned and said, “Can you believe ol’ asshole-breath is going to be married Saturday? It seems like only yesterday that he got his black belt.”
“It often seems to me, Pig, that you’re not even old enough to get your driver’s license,” said Tradd.
“That reminds me,” Pig said, snapping his fingers, “I’ve got to work on my car tonight and tomorrow to get the ol’ clinker ready for the honeymoon trip.”
“You can’t work on your car at night,” I said.
“Who can’t?” Pig answered. “I hang a light on the hood and give the ol’ girl a tune-up. I’ve done it plenty of times before.”
“During evening study period?” Tradd asked.
“It’s the best time. It’s cool and the tacs are sniffing around in the barracks then. They never check the parking lot. But I need to ask you guys a big favor.”
“Ask and you shall receive, my son,” said Tradd.
“Man, I hate to ask this, paisans. I really do. It hurts me worse than you’ll ever know. But you guys have been so wonderful about sharing money with me.”
“How much do you need, meatbrain?” Mark said, reaching for his wallet.
“No, let me finish, paisan,” Pig said to Mark. “I’ve wanted to say this for a long time. All of you here know I didn’t have enough money to go to college. None of you ever mentioned it to me once in four years. Yet anytime you had money, I had money. Anytime I needed it badly, you got it for me. I mean you guys have been so great it makes me want to cry to think about it. I’ve already talked this over with Theresa, and we want all of you to know that you’ve got a home and a place to stay anytime you need it.”
“Goddam it,” I said, embarrassed and moved at the same time, “shut up and tell us how much you need.”
“No, let me finish. I couldn’t have made it through this school without you guys. I wanted you to know that I realize that. I didn’t have anything when I came to this school. Now, I’m not saying nothing against my family, man, and all of you know it. I’m proud of them, so proud I can barely stand to think of it because they worked their tails off to send me all the money they could. I never wanted to ask you guys for money. It hurt every time, but you guys never made me feel small when I did it. That’s why you’re going to be my brothers for the rest of my life.”
“Next time I’m rooming with all rich kids like Tradd,” I said.
“Me, too,” Tradd agreed. “No more poverty-stricken wops for me.”
“How much do you need, asshole-breath?” Mark asked.
“I’ve got twenty,” I said, counting out eleven bills on my desk.
“I’ll take it,” Pig said.
“Here’s thirty and congratulations,” Tradd offered.
“I’ve only got five, but I’ll cash a check tomorrow,” Mark said. “By the way, what’s the uniform for the funeral?”
“Full-dress salt-and-pepper,” Pig said. “With sash and swords.”
I said, “I’ll have to borrow a sword.”
Pig explained. “That’s for the arch.”
“How can three people form an arch?” Mark asked.
“Improvise,” Pig said exuberantly. “Hey, thanks, guys, and I’ll be in the parking lot if you need me.”
“Don’t get caught, Pig,” I warned. “Or you’ll be serving restrictions on your wedding day.”
“Just stay here tonight, Pig,” Tradd said. “Let’s talk about your wedding. I’ll call Mother and see if she can’t have a small reception for you and Theresa.”
“Yeh, don’t take a chance on some tac busting you while you’re changing a sparkplug,” Mark said.
“Pig lives on the edge of madness. On the fucking edge.” He grinned wildly, saluted us, then kissed us all on the cheeks before he disappeared into the darkness.
As Tradd selected some books from his shelf and placed them in his briefcase, he said, “I’m going to go to the library, then call Mother about arranging a reception for Pig and Theresa. Pig really should have stayed in the room.”
The room grew quiet after the departure of Tradd and Pig. Mark flicked on the radio to an FM station. The music was uninspired, but it did not intrude on my thoughts and had a calming effect on me. I went to my desk, put on the lamp, and tried to start a paper on The Portrait of a Lady. I had never liked Henry James before I read that novel, had never expected to, and had considered him one of those irritatingly voluble novelists who used the language as if he hated English-speaking people. But he had moved me deeply with the story of Isabel Archer.
I heard Mark turning the pages of his chemistry text. He cleared his throat and shifted irascibly in his chair. He turned the radio down, then turned it up again. All the windows in the room were open and there was a breeze off the Ashley River.
I began my paper but began it badly. I never began things well. The first sentence had too many adjectives. So did the second. Remembering that my professor in the modern novel, Colonel Masters, a shy and excellent teacher, had chided me gently about my irrepressible love of adjectives, I started again with clear simple sentences. Nouns and verbs, nouns and verbs, and occasionally, to satisfy my own simple lust, I would throw in a delicious, overwrought adjective or two. I wrote six sentences, six strong sentences, then I thought about Annie Kate. I was doing that less often now. When she first left me, I could think of nothing else. Her tyranny over my dreams and my daydreams was unshakable and complete. The memory of her fi
lled me with sadness. Isabel Archer had reminded me of Annie Kate and that had made the book cut deeply. And still I could not tell anyone of Annie Kate. She was still my secret, my shame, my love. I had thought of a thousand reasons to hate Annie Kate, but I was not capable of hating her. I had been hurt my first time out, the first time I had ever given my love completely, without holding back and without reservation. I had been hurt and I would survive it. I had given her the whole banquet, the whole shy feast of boyhood, and Annie Kate, as was her right, had decided that she did not want it. I wrote some more about Isabel Archer, and I wrote simply again and in a way that would please Colonel Masters.
As I wrote, the radio played on the edge of my consciousness and I heard Mark stir again. I liked it when I could feel myself study, when I was serious about it, when I was thinking about subjects that had nothing at all to do with life in the barracks. I loved the ritual of my room during evening study period. I cherished the silence in the barracks. Ritual was safety. I would study for the rest of the year and only leave my room for classes and formation. An hour passed quickly. Then there was a disturbance in the barracks. It sounded far off, remote as an explosion on a star observed by an astronomer. But the noise grew louder, and Mark clicked off the radio and strained to hear it.
In a few moments we heard feet running on the gallery. Mark left the room to investigate. I walked over to his desk and cut the radio back on and turned it up loud. I would investigate nothing for the rest of the year. My curiosity had burned out on the General’s island. I was a theme writer again, I thought, as I began to hear the old familiar sound of cadets whispering outside the alcove, of messages being passed, and rumors being borne along the arches of the galleries. Rumor moved with astonishing swiftness in the barracks, a system of communication developed out of a prisoner’s instinct for survival behind stone walls. Voices grew louder outside my door. I heard shouting. I walked to Mark’s desk again and turned the radio even louder. On the quadrangle, far below me, I heard the OC and OG ordering cadets back to their rooms. The entire barracks was alive, and all the cadets were pressing along the railings, staring through the arches, listening for innuendo, making judgments in the darkness, passing time and whispering. The loudspeaker crackled into life, and a voice commanded, “All cadets in fourth battalion will return to their rooms immediately. I say again. All cadets in fourth battalion will return to their rooms immediately.” I refused to hear the voice, the voices. I was panic-stricken for no reason. I wanted Mark to return. I wanted Pig and Tradd around me. Desperately, I began writing again, flipping through the pages of The Portrait of a Lady, copying passages I had marked in ink.