“What about your classes? Who’s going to cover them?”
“Dr. French has decided to promote Amy to assistant professor status for one semester. Fortuitous, for her.”
“Well, uh, listen,” I say. This is embarrassing. “If they’re not paying you, and if you, say, need money, let me know. You can borrow whatever you need and don’t have to pay it back.”
Dr. Evans falters for a moment. “Oh. Well, that’s very generous of you.”
“No, I mean it. Between one thing and another, I’ve got like over three thousand dollars. Here, look,” I add, digging the wad of bills out of the left pocket of my jeans, the pile of hundreds Skoll left behind and the separate pile from James’ thug – all crumpled and worn by this point.
“You actually carry this much money around with you?” Dr. Evans asks.
“Well, sure. I’d be crazy to leave it at my place. We don’t even have locks on the doors.”
~ ~ ~
Thursday, January 6
Lunch at Grundy’s. Meat plus three, of course. My treat. Today’s entrée is chopped steak. Joan orders greens, new potatoes and okra. I’m having the mashed potatoes, broccoli in cheese, and squash.
“Eating like this, you ought to have gained some weight,” she remarks, as I finish my third cornbread muffin. “Doesn’t look that way, though.”
It’s the tail end of downtown Oxford’s lunch hour, and as patrons start to leave, I look down the long table and spot a recent acquaintance, dawdling at his ease over an empty plate and a near-empty glass of ice tea.
He glances about for a waitress, but Grundy’s is short-handed today, so he rises to fetch a pitcher of tea, and sets about checking the other remaining patrons before serving himself.
“A lovely lady should not have to wait for service,” he says, with a charming flash of dimples, as he fills Joan’s glass.
“Hi, Blake,” I say, but he returns a blank look to my greeting. “Daniel. We met at Mr. Duck’s party last week.”
The smile fades. The dimples vanish. “Then I must humbly apologize for my behavior. The Duck says I was out of control. I have no memory of the evening, but the entire trailer court has been chastising me about it all week. Is it true that I asked the Widow to sleep with me?”
“Right after you threw the jar of mayonnaise through the window, saying it was demon possessed. No sweat, man – we’ve all done crazy things stoned.”
“That’s true,” Joan agrees. “He,” she adds, pointing at me, “once proposed to a girl named Melissa in the middle of a drug bust. Went down on one knee, declared undying love, and asked her to marry him while he was being cuffed.”
“I thought maybe one of the cops would turn out to be a romantic and set us loose.”
“I’m Joan,” she adds, extending her hand, “and I’ve never trusted mayonnaise jars either.”
Instead of shaking Joan’s hand, though, he takes it in his, and bows to kiss it. “Blake. You are very kind.”
~ ~ ~
Friday, January 7
Suzie has left Nick and decided to move in with us on Tyler Avenue. Joan and I are consoling her in the kitchen.
“He said something unforgivable,” she reports.
“What did he say?”
“I can’t repeat it. Don’t ask me to.”
She and Joan agree to barrack together in James’ room until his return, or until some other arrangement can be devised.
Cindy arrives home from Christmas break in the middle of the unpacking. “Other girls, at last – what fun!”
I drive to the Jitney for pork chops and fry them up in a skillet Suzie has brought with her. We eat in the parlor, watching Star Trek, and decide to grab a show after dinner. The line outside the Lyric is too long, so we head for The Last Picture Show at the Ritz instead, running into Clamor on the way. She elects to fall in with us for the evening.
“Will you look at this,” Clamor says as we stroll together down Van Buren. “Medway has a harem.”
Along the way, we’re confronted by a man wearing a tweed overcoat. “Where can a man get a drink in this damn town?”
“The Holiday Inn has a bar,” I tell him. “There’s also a package store on University Avenue, or you can buy cheap wine at the Jitney.”
“Where can I get a beer?”
“Holly Springs.”
“Is that a bar?”
“It’s a town about 30 miles north of here. Lafayette County’s dry for beer.”
“I can’t get a beer?”
“No, sir.”
“Hell of a place to live,” he complains, walking on without a polite word.
“Him again,” Joan remarks. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you recognize him? That’s Amy’s sugar daddy, the man she was with at Overton Square.”
~ ~ ~
Saturday, January 8
I fall asleep on my pallet to the comforting sound of women’s voices downstairs – Joan and Cindy commiserating with Suzie over Nick’s abandoning the freak lifestyle.
When I wake later, the house is quiet. They’ve either gone to bed, or out. The only sound is a light tapping of drizzle against the window pane, and Citizen sighing every now and then in his sleep. I’m feeling alert, awake, but not restless, perfectly content to be still for the rest of the night, get some reading done. Maybe some writing, too.
But first, a little meditation. I haven’t sat zazen since the night of solstice at Faulkner’s grave. I’m out of practice, and it takes more focus than usual to locate my hara, regulate my breath, turn off my thoughts. Eventually, time and space begin dropping away, my body merges with the universe, every cell and atom joining in the frequency of all that is.
Yes. The chant rises from the chest, rumbles up through the throat, vibrates out between teeth and lips. The sound of creation passing through my substance. It goes on and on and on . . . .
And suddenly stops. In an instant I experience a wrenching sense of vertigo, falling, space ripping at me, consciousness tearing me back. I’m back on my pallet, in my room, in the house on Tyler, in Oxford, on earth, and my eyelids fly open to discover another being, also sitting zazen, immediately before me, close enough to touch.
It’s Melissa!
Melissa, my first, truest, and most lamented love.
Melissa, her hair wrapped back in a tie-dyed scarf, wearing the amber necklace with the ankh I gave her three Christmases ago, tiny bare feet propped in lotus position, bell bottoms, a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the granny glasses.
My heart tries to jump through my ribcage and into her arms, but fails, bouncing back with a thump at the moment I realize that Melissa – though undoubtedly sitting in meditation a mere yard away from me, distinct in every detail – isn’t exactly here either, isn’t exactly occupying what anyone would refer to as “space.”
My hand that’s reached out to touch her falters, and drops. Instead, I simply gape. Her eyes are closed, her face serene, the mouth set in the Attic smile that always made me smile back. I sit watching, barely daring to blink, for what seem like minutes.
Slowly, gradually, something changes in her expression: a sense of distraction, some interference in her meditation. It’s me. I’m the distraction. I try to rein in my consciousness, but I’m too late. She’s aware of me now, and her eyes flutter open.
For an instant we are gazing at each other, face to face, and she breaks into such a sweet smile of welcome that my fool heart makes another attempt to sail past my ribs, with the same result as before.
And then she’s gone.
I sit on my pallet, watching that space, wishing to see her again. I sit here for over an hour, and I may sit here all night, except for the noise downstairs, the repeated hammering at the front door. Someone’s arrived. Another visitor. Someone wants to enter.
I slowly rise, descend the steps, and open the door. The night is dripping, rivulets pouring down all sides of the porch roof, and
here stands a man in a poncho, his head protected under a wide-brimmed hat, shivering in the damp air.
“I’m looking for James,” he says.
“I’m afraid he’s out of town.”
“It’s important. Do you know of any way I can get in touch with him?”
“Sorry, no. He’s just someplace on the road.” My instincts tell me to extend hospitality to this stranger. “Why don’t you come in? I was just about to warm up some coffee.”
Inside, with his poncho and hat off, he looks frail, gaunt, with a weariness around his eyes that testifies to hard times. Wherever this man has been, he’s had one hell of a bad trip.
He slurps at the coffee eagerly, hunching himself over the steam from the cup as if trying to get warm from it. We drink without talking for a minute, until I break the silence.
“I’m Daniel,” I offer.
“I’m . . . . Well, my real name doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t know it anyway. A lot of people call me Tamburlaine.”
“Tamburlaine,” I repeat.
“I need to get a message to James. Can I leave it with you? Will you remember to pass it on when you see him?”
I nod, one bow of the head. Yes.
“Tell James that I need him to stop searching for me. I need everybody to stop searching for me. They’re ruining my life.”
Part 5. The Storm
January 9 – February 5, 1972
Sunday, January 9
“You’re just in time for Bonanza!” Garrett hails, as I step through the door on Tyler Avenue. “The bong’s ready, and I brought some excellent shit back from Colorado.”
We exchange a bear hug in the parlor.
“Whose VW bus is that parked out front?” I ask, heading to the kitchen to fix a peanut butter sandwich.
“Mine.”
“You bought a bus?”
“I sort of won it.”
“Card game?”
“Not exactly.”
“Raffle?”
“It’s a ’66 with around 167,000 miles on it, and still runs great.”
Garrett is being evasive.
“You didn’t steal it, did you?” I ask.
“I’d rather not get into the details. It would seem like I was bragging. So,” he adds, deflecting further questions, “Joan’s been staying here. Suzie, too. How’s that been working out?”
“It’s always a pleasure to have the lady folk about. Where are James and Andrew?”
Cindy calls from the parlor. “Hurry up! It’s starting.”
“Left them back in Denver. Once I got the bus, I headed home. Have to be back at work tomorrow, you know. So, how was your break? Anything interesting to report?”
I finish making the sandwich, grab a paper towel, and say, “Well, actually . . . . “
“Will you boys come on?” Cindy says, cross, poking her head into the room. “The show’s already on. It’s a Hoss episode tonight!”
“We’ll catch up later.”
~ ~ ~
Monday, January 10
“You slept with Cindy, didn’t you?” Garrett says by way of ambush over a bowl of Cap’n Crunch as we’re both preparing to leave the house, him for the head shop and me for spring semester registration and the Museum. “It’s no good trying to dissemble. I’m a pretty sharp observer of body language. Something happened.”
I shrug. “It was only one night, the one after ya’ll took off. Cindy was bummed about Andrew not saying goodbye or even leaving a note. But we just slept. Mostly. I mean. Technically, nothing happened.”
“A simple yes or no is sufficient,” Garrett remarks. “I’m nobody’s confessor.”
“Don’t tell Andrew.”
“Trust me, I know a thing or two about keeping secrets. I’ve got a few of my own.”
“So I’m gathering. Such as the Rebel Buddha?”
Garrett flushes. “Oh, hell. They’ve already started? I told them to wait.”
“Signs in the window, kitchen equipment being hauled in by truck, and apparently you’re the mastermind behind it all. What do you think Hirsch is going to say when he gets back?”
“I’ll have to get to him first, to explain. He’ll be upset, sure, but I think he’ll calm down once he sees the deal I’ve cut for him. Everybody wins, especially Hirsch.”
~ ~ ~
Tuesday, January 11
Bondurant and Bishop Halls have turned to cauldrons of rumors, speculation and gossip, all involving Dr. Evans, Mrs. Giordano, and the suspension.
“We miscalculated the Board of Trustees,” Dr. Goodleigh admits, sinking back a few moments in her rocking chair before amending her thought. “Okay, I miscalculated, and I feel very foolish for overlooking what’s obvious now.”
“Which is?”
“The administration has been waiting to get revenge on Harold for the past ten years. This suspension isn’t about adultery. It’s about that book of his.”
“Men behind Closed Doors,” I say. “I’ve heard about it, never read it.”
“Copies are rare, which certainly enhances its mystique. It was a pretty brutal satire of what happened here during the Meredith crisis. Of course, Harold took the precaution of changing the setting to a little college in the bayou, but everybody knew it was about Ole Miss.”
“He says he’s going to take this time off to finish another. I ran into him in Bishop during the break.”
“Are you thinking about joining the strike?”
“What strike?”
“The English graduate students are going on strike to protest the Board’s decision. Students in some other departments are joining them, in solidarity.”
“The English grad students on strike? Well, that’s certainly going to bring the college crashing to its knees.”
“Their hearts are in the right place, and symbolic gestures are all we have at the point. You should consider it. I wouldn’t mind if you went on strike. I’d be a little surprised if you didn’t, actually. It seems like your sort of move.”
~ ~ ~
Wednesday, January 12
“Where’s Citizen?” Joan asks, as we navigate through the crowd in the Student Union during class change. “I haven’t seen him around for a few days.”
“He’s wandered off someplace. It’s his way. He’ll come back eventually.”
“What?” Garrett demands, only catching a bit of our conversation over the din of students milling about. “What are you talking about?”
“Citizen,” Joan shouts. “Daniel’s dog.”
“Daniel doesn’t have a dog,” Garrett shouts back. “It’s imaginary.”
“I saw him,” Joan replies. “I petted him. I cleaned up his shit.”
“This is just wonderful,” Garrett complains. “I leave town for two weeks and he infects you with his dog hallucinations.”
“I’m not the one who talks to Elvis in Holly Springs,” I point out.
“Lots of people have seen Elvis. Who besides the two of you have ever seen that dog?”
“Skoll.”
“Skoll?”
“Skoll.”
We’ve found a spot on the landing of the stairway to survey the room. A minute later we spot Dr. Hirsch, on schedule, waddling through the crowd, for his mid-morning coffee in the Grill.
“Sure you don’t want to back me up?” Garrett asks, turning to follow him.
“You left me out of the loop on this one, so I have nothing to explain. For once.”
“Look at that tiny girl,” Joan says to me. “She’s going to get crushed.”
I follow the trajectory of her pointed finger and spot Little Becky being jostled in the crush of students. I need to rescue her, but it’s impossible to reach her in this crowd. I frantically gape about for a handy rope or a vine growing from the ceiling that I can use to swing over the heads of everyone and snatch her up. I’ve seen too many movies.
Joan and I notice the boy beside her at the same moment. He seems to be running interference for her, his body shielding her
from contact with everyone around her. He also has his left hand clamped to the back of her neck, which he uses to steer her through the room like a push toy.
This is a patented southern-fraternity-boy possessive boyfriend gesture: This is my girl, and my girl is under my control.
“I hate it when guys do that,” Joan says.
“I hate him!” I agree.
~ ~ ~
Thursday, January 13
Dr. Goodleigh has finished sorting through the mail that accumulated over the break. She hands me a Christmas card from Valerie.
Sent December 27, postmarked Boston.
“Happy holiday, dear one,” she writes. “Hope you are well. Hope you are thriving. I am happy and loved. Have started sleeping with other women, finally understand what you boys get so excited about.”
~ ~ ~
Friday, January 14
The pickets are out in the walkway between Bondurant and Bishop, undergrads and grad students milling about with signs reading “Reinstate!”
I recognize many of the faces, am greeted by a few, accept a sign and begin milling with the rest. A few minutes later, I stumble across a new friend – Blake, from Mr. Duck’s trailer park.
“I didn’t know you were a grad student,” I say.
“Doctoral candidate in History. I’m finishing my dissertation on the Tennis Court Oath,” Blake replies. “Actually, I’ve been finishing it for the last three years. You?”
“Classics. My boss is campus rep for the AAUP. I’d rather be inside working, but she wants me out here instead. How does your chair feel about your being on strike?”
“I suppose he’d disapprove, if I were actually working for him. But the department took away my assistantship last year. I’m just out here for the fresh air.”
“What did you do to piss him off?”
“He says I’m a dipso.”
“Dipso?”
“Dipsomaniac,” Blake says. “Look it up in your Merriam-Webster. It’s under D.”
An irate man in a tweed overcoat is passing down the line, bellowing at the picketers. This time, I recognize him immediately: Amy’s sugar daddy from Overton Square.
“Goddamn snot-nosed punks,” he’s shouting. “Clear the way! Dirty hippies, get back to work. Or quit. I dare any one of you to go out and find a REAL job. You wouldn’t last ten minutes out in the REAL world.”
For some reason, he pauses upon reaching the spot in the line where Blake and I are standing. Maybe because I’m grinning at him.
“What’s so funny, faggot?” he demands.
“I know who you are,” I reply. “Should have recognized you before. You’re Edward Alcott. Welcome to Ole Miss.”