STEVEN WOKE ME AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning by barreling into my room and jumping on top of me. He was five years old, small and wiry, and he often acted younger than his age, especially around me. I suppose it was because I had always been his big brother, Mark being long gone when he was born, and Jim having left for the service not long afterward. Also, I indulged him and acted like a little kid, myself, when I was around him. He brought it out in me.
I tossed him off onto the carpet and sat on him, being careful not to put my full weight on his body. I was wearing only my underpants, so he tried to tickle my sides, but he did it too hard, so it was easy for me to control my laughter. Finally, he got frustrated.
“C’mon, John, let me up!”
“Not until you tell me who your favorite brother is.”
His eyes lit up. We’d been playing variations on this game since he’d first learned all our names.
“Is Mark your favorite brother?” I asked.
“No!” he shouted.
“Is Jim your favorite brother?”
“No!”
“Is George your favorite brother?”
“No!”
“Then who is your favorite brother?”
He got a devilish grin on his face.
“No one!”
I started tickling him unmercifully. He thrashed around, laughing hysterically and begging me to stop. Finally, I did.
“Okay, one more chance. Who is your favorite brother?”
“John is!”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure!”
“Will I always be?”
“Always!”
“Okay, then.”
I got off of him. He leapt to his feet, ran to the door, and turned back toward me. “I had my fingers crossed!” he cried and went flying through George’s room and down the hall.
I laughed, and that segued into a huge yawn. I wanted nothing more than to lay down and go back to sleep, but I had a nine-thirty psychology class, and I was determined to make that day more fruitful than the previous one. After psychology came creative writing, then a sociology lecture at one-thirty. After that, since I didn’t have to work, I figured I’d study until it was time go to Claire and Tony’s for supper.
Remembering the shoplifting arrest, I shivered, though the day was already warm. I was still shaken by it. I wondered if it meant I’d have a criminal record for the rest of my life, something prospective employers would uncover routinely. It was hard to believe I could be tainted for life because of stealing a ninety-five cent paperback, but it was a distinct possibility. Depressing.
I showered, put on my jeans and a fresh t-shirt, and filled my army surplus knapsack with all the textbooks and notebooks I’d need for the day. Then I lugged it downstairs with me. The kitchen smelled of coffee, fried eggs, and dishwashing soap. Only Marion was still at the table. She was finishing a powdered sugar doughnut and a glass of milk. Dad was at work. So was George, off to a high-paying summer “slave” at the Gisholt factory. Mom was in the basement doing laundry, and I could hear Ruth out in the driveway with Steven, trying to teach him how to play hopscotch.
“Hi,” mumbled Marion.
I returned her greeting. She was the only shy one in the family. She hung back most of the time in family conversations and, perhaps because of that, was a keen observer for someone her age. I felt very close to her, and she to me, though our affection was rarely verbalized.
I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios, put milk on them, and sat down across the table from her. The sun was streaming in the pair of open windows at her back, surrounding her with a halo. We smiled at one another, but then she looked down at her plate, hiding her light-brown eyes. She seemed nervous around me. My argument with Dad the night before must have gotten to her.
“How’s your summer going, kiddo?” I asked.
“Okay,” she replied, her head still down.
“You getting ready for school to start up again?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you get a new pencil case and a bunch of new folders?”
She looked up, offended.
“C’mon, John–only little kids get excited about stuff like that.”
“Like hell! Oops. Hope Mom didn’t hear that.” I looked toward the basement door. “I still get excited about stuff like that, and I’m in college.”
“But you’re different.”
“What do you mean, different?”
She thought about it for a moment.
“I guess it’s that you still seem a lot like a kid. Most older people try to act so grown up. You don’t seem to want to.”
Out of the mouths of babes …
“Do you think that’s good or bad?”
She thought again. “Sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t.”
I smiled, which seemed to relieve her tension a bit. “Me, too,” I said.
I reached across table and chucked her under the chin.
“Thanks for being honest with me, kiddo.”
I wolfed down the rest of my cereal, got up from the table, and put my bowl into the dishwasher. I double-checked my knapsack to make sure I had everything, slung it over my shoulder and groaned. It felt like it was full of rocks. I looked at the kitchen clock and realized I’d never make it to the bus I needed to take in order to get to class on time. I’d have to hitchhike.
“Tell Mom I left, will you, Marion?”
“Sure. Good luck with your weightlifting.”
“Not funny,” I said, shifting the bag higher on shoulder.
I walked the few blocks to Lake Drive as fast as I could with the heavy knapsack and got a ride pretty quickly from a guy my age in brand-new red Volvo sports car. His hair was long, but perfectly trimmed, and he wore a crisp white t-shirt and cut-off jeans that looked like they’d been trimmed by a New York designer. His manicured hands were wrapped comfortably around the leather-covered steering wheel.
“So, you’re a student, huh?” he asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“Not any more. I just dropped my student deferment, so why the hell go to school? I’m working at my old man’s investment firm. I don’t do much–run a few errands and shit–but he pays me a bundle. It beats the hell out of studying–not that I ever did much of that.”
He laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever said. I waited for him to recover.
“Aren’t you afraid of getting drafted?”
“Hell, no! You think I’d be doing this if I thought there was any chance I’d end up in ’Nam? No way, man! The draft counselor at school told me they definitely won’t call any more numbers in the draft lottery this year. It’s an off-year election or some shit like that. My old man says the same thing, and he hangs out with congressmen and senators. I dropped my student deferment the minute I heard that, and by New Year’s Eve I’ll be able to tell the draft board to kiss my ass. Then it’s dope and pussy forever!”
He downshifted for one of the sharp curves on Lake Drive, which follows the meandering coastline of Lake Michigan, and then popped back into third and accelerated. The Volvo purred beneath us.
Definitely no more numbers called for the rest of the year? If he really knew what he was talking about, this was big news! Was it possible I’d escape fighting in that ugly little war without leaving the country or going to prison? The possibility was exhilarating.
I looked out at the huge, beautiful houses that lined both sides of Lake Drive. No doubt, this guy was from a similar house in Fox Point or Bay-side, further north. It seemed unfair that kids who were already financially privileged always had the right information about how to get themselves into good situations and out of bad ones. I thought about guys I’d known in high school, guys from working-class families who didn’t have the aptitude for college, who took factory jobs after high school and got drafted right away. A couple of them were already dead, while guys like the Volvo driver concentrated on “dope and pussy,” doing just enough to get by. There was no justice in the world.
But I was one of the privileged, too. My family didn’t have the wealth and status of that guy’s family, but I was educated and I had the right information and I was going to use it. I decided then and there I would visit the UWM draft counselor that afternoon. I didn’t like being in the same class as the Volvo driver, but I consoled myself with the fact that I was morally opposed to the war, not just out for a good time.
The bastard refused to go a couple blocks out of his way to drop me off on Downer, so I could make my class on time. This after he’d just finished telling me how he could come and go as he pleased in his cushy job. Why was it the people with the most are so often the least generous?
The classes were a piece of cake that day. It was the last week of the summer session, so the atmosphere was relaxed and casual. The profs and TA’s knew it was our job to get ourselves ready for exams, and they weren’t about to go too far out of their way to help us. They were too busy mentally packing up beer and suntan lotion for their end-of-summer excursions. Early in the afternoon, I slipped out of a rambling sociology lecture to go to the draft counseling office in the student union. I avoided passing the bookstore. I had no need for a visual reminder of the previous day’s humiliation.
The draft counseling office was about the size of a study carrel in the library. When the counselor saw me through the glass and wire mesh door, he stood up to move his visitor’s chair, so I could open the door, which swung inward. Once I was in, I had to step behind his chair, while the door swung shut and he repositioned my chair beside his desk. I sat down and he offered me his bony hand, apologizing for the cramped quarters and explaining it was all the university would give him. I shook his hand and told him it was okay.
The counselor’s name was Carl Lindstrom. He was tall and emaciated and balding, though he was only a few years older than I was. His face was unshaven. He was gentle and solicitous, speaking in a voice so soft that, even in that tiny space, I had to lean forward to hear him. He confirmed everything I’d heard from the Volvo driver, saying he was certain there would be no more draft numbers drawn for the duration of the year. All I had to do was drop my student deferment and, by the end of the year, my eligibility would be over. I would be free from the threat of being drafted.
I couldn’t quite believe my ears. Ever since high school, when my opposition to the war had crystallized, I’d agonized over what I would do if I was drafted. That threat was the whetstone on which I’d sharpened my social and political beliefs. And it was about to be taken away. My life stretched out before me, uninhibited by the threat of violent disruption through imprisonment or emigration. I’d played the lottery and I’d won. I was both relieved and bewildered.
Carl empathized with my feelings. He told me they were the normal ones, under the circumstances. He asked if I was morally opposed to the war, and I said I was.
“Then,” he added, “you’ll also have to deal with feelings of guilt over having been spared the hardships others will face. But I have something that might help you assuage that guilt.”
A trace of a smile crossed his serious face as he pulled a mimeographed sheet from the middle drawer of his desk and handed it to me.
“This is about the Social Action Center, an organization with a staff of one–me–sponsored by the Quakers. We offer information about the war, the draft, and other social issues, and we run a soup kitchen and a house where runaway teenagers can come for advice and a place to crash. We’re always looking for volunteers.”
I looked over the haphazardly formatted information sheet, which had a big peace symbol at the top.
“I don’t know if you’re interested in any of the other things we do, but you might consider getting involved with our anti-war activities.”
“I’m definitely interested,” I said–and I was, in theory, though I wasn’t much of joiner.
“Then, why don’t you keep that information and stop in at our office, sometime. We’re on the corner of Farwell and Brady, second floor.”
I said I would, and rose to leave. Carl rose, too. I thanked him, then we did the dance with the chair all over again, and I left.
I walked across the huge concrete plain in the center of the campus toward the library. I was still in a daze over the news about the draft. It was as if I’d been training intensely for years to meet a tough opponent in the boxing ring, thoroughly terrified by his power, only to have him not show up for the match. It would take a while to believe I was going to win by default. It was a bit of a letdown.
I spent the rest of the afternoon engrossed in studying for my exams, only occasionally staring out the window to watch clouds rolling in from over Lake Michigan. It was easy to apply myself with the supper at Russo’s to look forward to. At 4:30 sharp, I snapped shut my sociology book, packed up my knapsack, and went outside. The cloud cover had blocked the sun, reducing the heat, so I decided to walk the mile and a half to Brady Street. I went down Maryland Avenue, through the tree-lined residential area south of the university, and then took Farwell past the familiar old neighborhood bars on North Avenue, and past the storefronts, small factories, and apartment buildings further south. Traffic was steady on Farwell, but nothing, I knew, like it would be on Prospect, a block east, where commuters would be streaming home from downtown.
As I walked, I couldn’t help reflecting on the change that had occurred in my life that afternoon. With the burden of facing the draft off my shoulders, my step was lighter and my pace quicker. I couldn’t wait to tell Claire and Tony about my good fortune.
When I arrived at the door that led to their stairwell, I noticed that a cigarette butt had wedged itself underneath, preventing the door from closing tight. I pushed open the door, pulled out the butt so it would close tightly, and went up the steps, two at a time. Just as I was about to knock, I heard raised voices inside, from the back of the apartment.
“Well, fuck you!” I heard Tony say. “I work my ass off all day and then come home to this shit.”
Claire’s voice was less distinct, but still audible. “I work all day, too, you know, Tony. It’s no picnic here, either.”
“Taking care of Jonah is a whole lot easier than tossing crates in the hold of ship, I can guarantee you that. You can have a picnic if you want to. You can get out in the fucking sun and play. I can’t do that.”
“But at least you get to talk to some adults while you work. It’s pretty boring hanging out with a six-month-old kid. He doesn’t have a lot to say.”
“Then you should be happy with the quiet. I don’t get that either.”
“God, you’re impossible! Your problems are always worse than mine.”
“Damn straight!”
“Look, Tony, we’re gonna have to compromise here. We both need to get out at night. But tonight is important to me. If you give in on this one, I’ll give in the next time, okay?”
“All right! All fucking right. I’ll stay with Jonah. But don’t pull this sudden shit on me. I hate it.”
I heard a door slam, then footsteps approaching the front of the apartment. I knocked. Tony opened the door. He was naked, except for a towel wrapped around his waist, and his hair and beard were wet.
“Hey, man,” he said, smiling amiably, “come on in.”
“Good to see you again, Tony,” I said.
We clasped hands.
“Likewise,” he replied, closing the door behind me.
“I’m afraid the plans for tonight have changed. Claire’s having dinner with her sister, Katie. I guess Katie called this afternoon and said she had to talk to Claire about some goddamn thing. So, it’s you, me, and a homemade pizza, I guess. Jonah, too, of course, but with any luck he’ll be asleep most of the night.”
I was hurt Claire had invited me and was going off to do something else.
“Why don’t you get yourself a cold beer while I put some clothes on.”
I followed Tony into the kitchen, pulled a beer from the refrigerator, and sat down at the table to read the Milwaukee Journal, lying there next to a pack of Benson and Hedges 100’s. One front-page story caught my eye immediately. It said that a right-wing industrialist named Benjamin Grob in Grafton, just north of Milwaukee, had initiated a boycott against William F. Schanen Jr.’s Port Publications for printing Kaleidoscope, Milwaukee’s only alternative newspaper. The boycott had been kicked off the night before with a mudslinging speech by Grob at a rally held at Grafton High School.
By the time I finished reading the article, I was steaming. Kaleidoscope had first been published almost two years before, when I was a senior in high school. Its appearance at the Focal Point bookstore in Whitefish Bay had led to a violent argument with my mother, when she joined a group of suburban mothers trying to get it banned as pornographic. Kaleidoscope had eventually faced prosecution for obscenity by the county D.A.’s office, due to pressure from these mothers.
One night, when my mother returned from a meeting of her group, I unloaded on her, accusing her of being a narrow-minded book burner. She, in turn, accused me of being immoral. I’d recently started attacking the hypocrisy of the Catholic Church and had brought home “obscene” books such as Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Herzog. She was convinced I was on the fast track to hell. Our encounter that night grew more and more heated, until she slapped me in the face. Not a smart thing to do to a teenager. I came close to slapping her back–which would not have been smart, either.
Ever since that night, Kaleidoscope’s right to exist had been a bone of contention between us. The trumped-up obscenity charges had been dismissed, of course, having no basis in reality, and the publicity ultimately helped the paper establish itself. But I knew Grob’s new boycott of Kaleidoscope’s printer would have the full support of my mother and her cronies. I half-expected to find the article pinned to my pillow when I went home that night, the opening volley in a new phase of our running battle.
Disgusted, I tossed the paper aside and pulled a cigarette from the pack on the table. I went to the stove and lit it on the gas burner, then returned to my chair, where I concentrated on my beer a few minutes. Claire came out of the bathroom wearing the same lacey white dress I’d first seen her in, two nights before. Again it struck me she looked both wraithlike and earthy, like an embodied angel.
“Hi, John. I guess Tony’s told you what’s happening tonight. Bummer, huh? My sister really needs to get away from her husband and kids and talk over some things. I couldn’t say no. I’m sorry.”
I raised my hand to indicate that no apology was necessary.
“I understand. No problem. It’s just … I’ll miss seeing you is all.”
“Will you stay over again? You’re welcome to.”
“I don’t know. We’ll see. Thanks.”
She got a cigarette for herself and went to the stove. Before leaning over, she reached behind her head and gathered her long, straight hair in one hand, to keep it from the flame. Then she lit the cigarette and stood upright again.
“I’ve got to get going. I hope you’ll help Tony with Jonah. He’s not real happy being left with a baby tonight. I think he had a rough day at the docks.”
I assured her I would. She retrieved her purse from the bedroom, called goodbye to Tony, who grunted in return, and left.
Tony came out of the bedroom in what I was beginning to think was a uniform for him: a black t-shirt and black jeans. He got a beer from the refrigerator, opened it, and sat down at the table with me.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“I’m okay.”
“Good. I’d just like to sit and drink a couple of brews before we put the pizza together.”
“You pissed at Claire for taking off?”
“What? Naa. It’s no big deal. The kid’s asleep right now, anyway. He may not wake up until after we–”
At that moment, displaying the perverse timing of small children, Jonah let out a wail.
“Oh, shit,” said Tony.
I was up immediately.
“I’ll go to him. I’d like to.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay. That’s cool. Just try to calm him down and get him back to sleep. If that doesn’t work, bring him out to me.”
I went into Jonah’s tiny bedroom. The shade was pulled and the room felt cool and humid. I smelled baby powder and a pail of diapers soaking in detergent. Jonah was on his belly, crying like a lost soul. I wanted to pick him up, but decided that it made more sense to leave him where he was if I wanted him to get back to sleep. I felt his diaper, to make sure he wasn’t wet. Then I massaged his back through his thin white t-shirt, feeling each of his tiny vertebrae beneath my fingertips. What an astounding little creature he was. I envied Tony and Claire for having him, though I knew I wasn’t ready to take on such a responsibility.
The massage began to take effect. Gradually, Jonah’s cries became whimpers, then ceased entirely. He flopped his head back and forth a few times, his eyes still open, but glazed-looking. Then he was asleep. I pulled my hand away and he stayed still, breathing gently. I tiptoed out of the room.
Tony was on his second beer and had gotten another for me. It sat on the table, in a little pool of condensation.
“Thanks, man,” he said, raising his beer to me. “You handled that like a pro. Claire tells me you’ve had some experience with babies.”
“Some,” I said, sitting down. “Jonah seems like a real trip.”
Tony nodded. I drained the last couple swallows of my first beer, which was room temperature, then started in on the fresh, cold one. I noticed Tony had part of the newspaper spread out in front of him.
“You see that article about Port Publications?” I asked.
“It sucks, doesn’t it? I bet Grob is a real asshole.”
“No doubt. My mother will think he’s a hero, though.”
“No shit?”
“We’ve been arguing about Kaleidoscope for years, now, ever since they started selling it in ‘Whitefolks Bay.’”
“Hard to believe you’re from the Bay.”
“It’s not what you think. We’re not rich. My dad’s a bureaucrat with the county water department, and with seven kids—”
“Hey, my dad’s with the county, too! He works for the park commission. But he’s just a laborer.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said.
Tony’s eyes flashed.
“Hey, man, I don’t need you or anybody else to tell me there’s nothing wrong with it. Just because your dad wears a fucking white collar!”
I was taken aback. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Take it easy.”
He rose abruptly and slammed his empty bottle into the big white plastic wastebasket beside the stove. Then he took a deep breath to collect himself. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I used to take a lot of shit about my dad from guys in Mequon. They’d see him cutting the grass when they went golfing at Brown Deer Park or something and then razz me about his being a glorified janitor. I punched out a few of them.”
“Look, I don’t care what your dad does. One job’s as good as another. Besides, it’s you I want to be friends with, not him.”
Tony smiled, picked up his beer and held it toward me. “I’ll drink to that,” he said. “To the new generation. Fuck the old standards.”
We clinked bottles and drank.
“I’m really hungry all of a sudden,” I said. “Let’s down these beers and make us a pizza.”
“I’ll drink to that, too,” said Tony. “Last one to the bottom of the bottle has to cut up the onions!” He tipped his head back and started guzzling.
“Hey, no fair! I’ve got a lot more beer left than you do!”
He ignored me and drained the bottle.
“Sorry, man. You lose. The onions are in the bottom of that cupboard and the knives are in the drawer above it. It’s your party, so you can cry if you want to …”
“You bastard.”
“Uh-uhhh! Don’t let your mother hear you say that! I’ll go put on some sounds. How about Joe Cocker?”
“Perfect.”
“I thought I’d start out with ‘Cry Me a River,’” he said dryly.
I snatched up a folded section of the newspaper and threw it at him as he scurried out of the room.
We spent the next half-hour constructing a magnificent pizza, drinking more beer and growling along with Joe Cocker. Tony rolled out the pre-made crust Claire had bought from Glorioso’s, down the street. I cut up the onions, as well as black olives, green peppers, and mushrooms. Tony found pepperoni in the refrigerator and grated mozzarella and parmesan cheese. When we put it all together on a cookie sheet, the thing must have weighed three pounds, and we were ready to eat every ounce of it. We put it in the oven, and Tony went in to flip over the Cocker album.
We sat back down at the table and made small talk, and by the time the flip side of Cocker was over, the pizza was done. We cut it up, carried it into the living room, along with fresh beers, and put on Joni Mitchell’s latest album. Then we settled onto the floor, our backs against the couch.
“Now, this,” said Tony, rubbing his hand together, “is the life. Eat hearty.”
The alcohol had made us ravenous, so, for a while, we just ate pizza and listened to Joni croon.
“Hey,” I finally said, between slices, “I went to the draft counselor at UWM today. Nice guy. He says it’s true about no higher numbers being called this year. He told if I drop my 2S I’ll be home free, come the end of the year.”
“You lucky bastard. I wish I didn’t have such a low goddamn number. It pisses me off.”
“You ever do anything to protest the war?”
“I’ve been to a few demonstrations. You?”
“A few. Usually on the fringes, though. I’d like to do more. This draft counselor runs something called the Social Action Center on Brady and Farwell. I’d like to stop in and see what’s happening there.”
“Count me in, if you do. I’m surprised I’ve never noticed the place, if it’s that close by.”
“I walked by today and saw a big peace symbol in a second floor window. I assume that’s it.”
In short order, we’d eaten the entire pizza. Joni was done singing and the evening traffic sounds were beginning to pick up on Brady Street.
“God, I’m stuffed,” said Tony. “How about a ‘j’ to smooth things out?”
He retrieved the rosewood box from the mantel and pulled out a baggie of cleaned grass and some yellow wheat straw papers.
“Hey,” I asked, “does that fireplace work?”
“Hell, no. The landlord would probably double the rent if it did. It would be nice in the wintertime, though, wouldn’t it? This place gets cold.”
Tony deftly rolled a joint for each of us, using the top of the little box as a platform. Then he took out some matches and set the box aside. He handed me a joint, lit it for me, then lit the other one for himself. We leaned back, savoring them quietly for a few minutes.
Eventually, Tony got up and, without a word, put on a Moody Blues album. Truly stoned music. We closed our eyes, drew on our joints and let our minds travel with the music. Soon, I was out among the stars. To paraphrase the Byrds, “I could see for miles and miles and miles.” Unfortunately, my pizza-filled gut kept reminding me that, in reality, I was still earthbound.
After what seemed like hours, the music ended. The apartment was dead quiet. Even the street was quiet. The silence was deafening. I had to break it.
“Wow,” I said.
“Far out,” said Tony. “Don’t you think that if everybody could hear those sounds stoned, they’d see the world a lot more clearly?”
“Definitely.”
“I mean, who’d want to kill people if they knew they could experience something like that?”
“Nobody.”
“Damn straight.”
We were quiet again, listening to the mild whoosh of cars passing by, below the window.
“You know, something, Tony,” I said, “I like you. You’re an easy guy to be with. I like a guy I can be quiet with.”
“Thanks. You, too, man.”
“Remember what Louis says to Rick at the end of Casablanca?”
We said the line in unison.
“‘This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”
When we realized what we’d done, we started laughing. And once we’d started, it was hard to stop. Every time we looked at one another, we’d crack up again. Tony ended up flat on his back, howling at the ceiling. It reminded me of when we lay on the beach together, earlier in the week, laughing together over the Water Tower Park incident.
Once we’d recovered, Tony put on WTOS, Milwaukee’s progressive rock station. Jonah woke up, and Tony made him a bottle and brought him out to the living room to feed him. We started talking about ourselves, then, one of those new friend raps where you cover your whole life in a few hours. I noticed that Tony stuck pretty much to the facts, not revealing much about his deeper feelings. That made me wary, so I followed his lead. We had a lot in common, though. We were both proletarians who hated the greed and injustice in our culture. But we were also sensualists who wanted to enjoy some of the good things in life. We were determined to have a career we enjoyed, but also one that helped people. We both thought being committed to a woman was important, but wondered if traditional marriage was too restrictive. In short, we looked at life in pretty much the same way.
After Tony had fed Jonah, he put him on the floor on a blanket. We both stared at him for a long time, totally focused on him in that intense way that weed focuses you. It was so hard to believe he was there, alive, a tiny version of Tony created from his body and Claire’s. It was awesome.
During our talk, the only place Tony and I seriously differed was over spirituality. We’d both been raised Catholic and we’d both left the Church, but I admitted I was always looking for something to fill the spiritual void that had left. For me, even experimenting with drugs had a spiritual purpose. Tony felt no such need. He was glad to be quit of the Church, and he used drugs only to deepen his enjoyment of things.
“Life as it is—that’s enough for me,” he said. “I like things I can see and touch and taste and smell. Looking for something more behind it is bullshit. You’re born, you live, you die, and then you’re gone. That’s all there is to it.”
I disagreed, but at that point in my life it was difficult to articulate what else I thought there was, so I only tried half-heartedly—and unconvincingly, I’m sure. I tried to explain I wasn’t looking for something beyond life as it is, but something deeper that is part of life as it is, something we don’t usually take into account as we go about earning our daily bread. Tony couldn’t see it, but I even enjoyed disagreeing with him. Though he didn’t understand my point of view, he really listened to what I had to say.
Tony and I were feeling so tight with one another by the time Claire returned that I was almost disappointed to see her. It had been too long since I’d had a good male friend, and I didn’t want anything to break the spell. Jonah had fallen asleep on his blanket.
“You two look pretty mellow,” she said, standing over us. “So does Jonah.”
“I’d say we’re pretty mellow, wouldn’t you, John?”
“Pretty mellow just about sums it up.”
“We gave Jonah a few hits, too,” said Tony, smiling impishly, “so he’s mellow, too.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Claire.
“How’s Katie?” asked Tony.
Claire tossed her keys and purse onto the sofa and sat down on the floor, across from me. Her dress rode up onto her lap as she positioned herself, giving me a glimpse of her pale thighs and light-blue panties before she pressed the material down between her legs. Suddenly, I was not so unhappy that she had returned. Blushing, I looked down at my own lap.
“Katie’s not so good,” she said. “Al’s been slapping her around again— in front of the kids, too, the bastard.”
“Does he actually beat her up?” I asked incredulously.
“No, not really. He doesn’t hurt her badly. He just humiliates her.”
“Just,” said Tony. “She should have left that asshole years ago.”
“He’s not always that way, Tony—you know that. You like him yourself, most of the time.”
She addressed me. “Most of the time Al’s really generous and warm, but he has these moods. Mostly when he drinks. I don’t know. She loves him. And I think he loves her, too. What can I say …? I’m gonna put Jonah to bed and get myself a beer. Either of you want to have one with me?”
“Not me,” said Tony. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got the docks in the morning.”
“John?”
“I should hit the road, if I’m going to go home.”
“Why don’t you just stay over again? C’mon, I don’t want to drink alone.”
“Well, if it’s okay …”
I looked at Tony.
“It’s fine with me, man,” he said. “Have a beer and crash on the sofa again. It’s a long way to Whitefolks Bay on the bus, and we sure as hell aren’t going to drive you there tonight.”
I reached behind me and patted the couch cushion. “Sold,” I said.
“Good,” said Claire.
She got to her feet and leaned over to pick up Jonah. The low-cut bodice of her dress revealed her full breasts. Again, I had to look away.
“Come on, Jonah,” she said softly, as she lifted him. “Let’s put you somewhere more comfortable.”
Tony got up, too, and offered me his hand. We shook warmly.
“You’re okay, Meyer,” he said. “I like having you around.”
“I like being here. Good night, buddy. It’s been real.”
When Tony and Claire left the room, I turned off the radio and put on Raw Sienna. I was still pretty stoned and the sensual music got to me immediately. I sat down on the floor again, leaned back against the couch, and closed my eyes. Waves of sensual energy flowed up and down my body. The touch of Claire’s foot startled me.
“Are you awake?” she asked, standing over me, her hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
Her thighs were inches from my face.
“Do what? You mean stay up with you? But I want to.”
“Okay. I set your beer down next to you.”
She sat down and lit a cigarette, then held the pack out to me. I took one. She lit a match and leaned toward me to light it. It felt inordinately thrilling to have her do a small thing like that for me.
We talked easily together. She told me more about her sister, and we started talking about love relationships in general. I found myself relating the entire history of my relationships with women—short as it was at that point in my life. Claire seemed to soak up every word I said, which made me want to tell her more.
We were halfway through our second beer together when Jonah woke up.
“Oops,” said Claire. “Feeding time at the zoo. I’ll be right back.”
She returned quickly, Jonah squalling in her arms. And, once again, I watched her feed him from her beautiful breasts. But this time I was stoned, and the music of Raw Sienna was reverberating in my body. Claire chatted away, and I tried desperately to hold up my end of the conversation, but all I could think about was how much I wanted to make love to her. Later, all by myself under a thin sheet on the couch, my imagination carried our encounter to an imaginary erotic conclusion.