Baby Daddy (34 page)

Josh motioned toward the coach house.  “Sure, upstairs in the coach house on the right is a large meeting room.  No one should bother you there.  Most of the guys are on campus right now.”

“Thanks Josh.”  Jennifer smiled and walked toward the coach house door that opened to the staircase to the second floor.  About fifteen feet across the uneven, partly graveled parking lot she glanced back and called back to Josh, “If anyone is looking for Jennifer Kist or maybe asking for Brendan Harrigan’s attorney, send them upstairs, would you please?”  Don followed her, leaving Josh standing alone and confused in the parking lot.

From the outside, the coach house appeared to have undergone more renovations than the exterior of the fraternity house itself.  Don pulled open the door and allowed Jennifer to enter the building and climb the single set of narrow wooden stairs.  A wave of aroma from years of beer-soaked boards flowed down the stairs and hit them as they entered the building.  As Don walked up the fifteen steps, he automatically counted them.  The exact number had been a pledge test on oddities and trivia about the fraternity property.  He also recalled the number of windows in the house, the steps leading to the front porch and how many trees were in the backyard.  All critical knowledge needed to be recalled at times of duress like hell week and was, even after all this time, still stuck in his memory.

The stairs entered the second level through the center of the floor.  The old basketball half court remained on the left side and the right side had been carpeted since he had been here forty years earlier.  There were folding tables arranged in a giant rectangle shape for meetings.  The far wall was covered floor to ceiling with the signatures of all the seniors who had ever graduated Kent State as a Phi Psi brother.  Jennifer and Don gravitated toward it, drawn by all the voices from the past.

Together, they stared at the signatures written with scores of ball point pens, felt tip markers, colored pencil and even quill pens that had been the weapon of choice by those who had graduated from the very demanding architecture school.

“What’s this all about?” she asked as she walked along the wall.

“It was a tradition that all seniors had to come up here on graduation day and sign the wall.  As you could guess, there are hundreds more now than when I left.”

Don slowly shuffled his way along the wall, carefully touching the inked signatures with his fingertips.

“You’re looking at those names like you’re at the Vietnam memorial in DC.”

Don turned to Jennifer and blinked against the tears that welled up in his eyes. “You really get to know someone when you go through college, growing up with them.  Being with them as they met and lost girlfriends, pass and fail classes and especially the hell we all went through our senior year.  They were always there for me.  But we’ve lost touch.”

“Did Mr. Harrigan sign it?” she asked.

“Sure.  He’s way over to the left and toward the top,” Don said as he pointed her in that direction.  “He was in one of the first classes to live in this house.  I guess he bought it after he graduated and got rich.”

“Whose is this?”  Jennifer pointed to a mostly illegible autograph that included a rough drawing of the iconic
Playboy
bunny logo.  “What’s with the rabbit?”

“That was Cliff Baker.  His nickname was Hef.”

“Ahh, I see.  After Hugh Hefner, right?”

“Yeah.  Cliff used to be a photographer.”

One perfectly waxed eyebrow arched with the unasked question that would naturally follow such a confession.

“They were art shots,” he defended his brother without apology.  “Remember, it was the Sixties.  It was all about freedom and beauty and love.”

“Where’s yours?”

Don pointed to a spot about five feet off the floor and left of the window overlooking the parking lot.  “Right there.”

“The one with the little rocket?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”  He smiled at the memory that invoked.  He hadn’t thought about that in years.

“You’re living in Texas now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, for the last few years.  My wife grew up in Austin.  She had to stay behind with our daughter who’s expecting our first grandchild any minute.”

“That must be nice.”  Jennifer glanced at her watch, clearly moving her focus back to the meeting.  “Do you know who is planning on making it?”

Don shook his head and shrugged. “I have no idea.  I never even heard who was invited.”

Jennifer walked over to the meeting tables, and laid her briefcase on one of them.  “I didn’t send you the list?  My assistant must have forgotten to put that into your package,” she told him as she shuffled through her briefcase.

“I guess we’ll both know soon enough,” Don commented.

“I left my phone in the car.  I’m going to run down and call the office and make sure the food I arranged for is on the way,” she told him.  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Don turned back to the wall.  He moved slowly, looking for familiar names and stopping to touch the inked signatures with his fingertips.  With each one he recognized, he’d stop, smile and sometimes nod as he recalled his experiences with every brother whose name he found.

Larry Reed with a small baseball drawn over his name.  Stanley Freeman.  Jeff Tallmadge accented by the faces of comedy and tragedy.  Frank Pucci.  Ted McCoy.  Barry Smith next to a drawing of two sticks that no one but the class of 1970 would understand.  Ira Schwartz.  Rick Rogers.  Alfonso Garcia and a paw print of a monkey with the name Carlos, inked above it.  Someone, probably Jeff, must have added the tiny paw print after Alfonso signed because Alfonso and the monkey’s hatred for each other had been legendary.  There was Kevin Nash and Mike Anderson with an airplane drawn near his name.

Those guys had been his best friends, and yet he hadn’t heard from any of them for years, not since the day they closed the campus.  He was overcome with all the memories that flooded back.  It was as fresh as if it was.

Suddenly he heard the sound of a basketball bouncing, then something hit him in the back of his knees so hard his legs almost buckled.

“Hey,” Don yelled as he whirled around to see who else was there.  “Watch what you’re doing.”  He hadn’t heard anyone come up the stairs.

From the dimly lit basketball court about fifty feet away he heard someone yell “Come on, Don!  A little help here.  We want to finish our game before registration.”

Chapter One

“It’s Your Thing” – The Isley Brothers

Kent State University – September, 1969

“Ball, Don! You’re holding us up.”

Don picked up the ball and dribbled forward and made a shot.  The ball swooshed through the bare hoop and his team cheered.  The ball hit a warped board on the old wooden floor and rolled toward the tables on the other end of the room.

“Hey, Hef, throw it back.”

Cliff Baker looked down at the basketball and reluctantly picked it up.  Not being coordinated enough to dribble and walk at the same time, he tossed the ball toward the group of young men waiting on the basketball court.  It took an errant bounce, then shot out the open window.

All the guys who had been playing basketball rushed to the window and peered out.  “Shit!” Frank Pucci grumbled.  “Bet you couldn’t do that again.”

Cliff didn’t doubt that.  He had enough trouble getting it through the hoop.  Bouncing it out the window was a feat he could never replicate.

Frank, at five foot eight inches tall, shouldn’t have been much competition on a basketball court either.  But growing up in a large, male-dominated Italian family had made him a force to be reckoned with.  He tried harder, played longer and yelled louder than anyone else.  “Hey Stan,” he shouted out the window. “Can you toss the ball back up here?”

Stanley Freeman, an English major and self-acclaimed book nerd looked up at Frank and then across the potholes that were several feet wide to where the basketball was lying in the middle of the deepest one.  He knew he didn’t have the strength or accuracy to throw the ball back through the window.  Nor was he inclined to walk through the puddle to retrieve it.

“I’m on my way to the Hill,” Stan called back.  Everyone called the campus the Hill because the first dozen or so buildings built since the early part of the twentieth century were on a higher piece of ground compared to the rest of the town of Kent.

“Just throw me the ball,” Frank persisted.

Stan sighed and carefully inched his way between the small lakes to get the ball.  He turned and yelled up, “I’ll toss it up the stairs.”

Frank waited at the top of the stairs, and it wasn’t until the third throw that the muddy ball made it all the way to the second floor. “Thanks Stan.”

“We need another load of gravel dumped back here.  It’s a mess.”  Stan waved to Frank and then got into his car and left.

“Come on Frank, Let’s go.  It’s your out,” Fred called.

Nothing defined lake effect like the weather at Kent State, located about 30 miles south of the city of Cleveland which was on the south shore of Lake Erie.  A typical fall northeastern Ohio day could be hot, cold, sunny, rainy, snowy or even pelted with hail. Today rain poured down from the heavy, dark gray sky where clouds bumped against other clouds, rolling around in different directions.  After a few minutes the rains always created a large muddy mess in the parking lot between the Phi Psi Kappa coach house and the main fraternity house.  There was never enough gravel to avoid walking through mud.

The basketball game continued and the noise could be heard well out into the yard.  Men’s voices combined with an occasional female scream and a variety of profanity rolled through the open windows.  The north end windows had been broken out by any number of games or other events over the years.  The south end windows remained intact as that was the party room and where weekly chapter meetings were held.  The volume of the meetings often exceeded that of any basketball game.  On more than one occasion the Kent city police had walked up the stairs on a Monday night to quiet the lively discourse. That was also the area used by the brothers who needed table space for large projects ranging from architecture to aerospace to photography.

Cliff was taking advantage of the space now as he worked on his final junior class project of a photo layout, trying to ignore the noise and the girlfriends, pin mates and fiancées of his brothers who wandered over after dropping out of the game.  The girls rarely lasted long in the games because the guys played for blood, and it took only a broken fingernail or a knock to the floor to discourage all but the most determined young woman.  Besides, the girls found Cliff’s photos more interesting.

The basketball again bounced his way and rolled under the table on which he had carefully placed his photos.

“Throw it back!”  The plea came across the floor from one of the players.  “And keep it in the building.”

Cliff yelled back, “This is my last time guys. I have to get this done today.  Its 40% of last spring’s course grade that I got an incomplete on.”  Cliff picked up the ball and quickly carried it over to the other side and tossed it back yelling “I’m not officially a senior until I get it turned in. And they’re going to draft my ass if I don’t get a passing grade this week.”  He knew journalism wasn’t exactly one of the anointed protected degrees and career choices like teaching and engineering, so keeping his class credits above minimum was critical.

Soon the yelling, dribbling and clapping died down and the players ran down the steps.  First out the door to run through the rain and mud to the rear porch was Ted McCoy, a tall muscular blond-haired man with a very bloody nose. “I think you broke my fucking nose, Pucci,” he yelled.  “My dad’s law firm is taking pictures next weekend.  He’s going to kill me.”

“Pictures?”  Frank couldn’t imagine such a stupid reason to be concerned.  He still had the remnants of a black eye he had gotten when his brother had cold cocked him last week.  He kept pace with Ted as they walked briskly across the parking lot in the cold rain.

“Senior year all the partner’s sons who are graduating get their picture taken for the wall of shame,” Ted answered somewhat unenthusiastically.

Frank had to ask, “What happens if you don’t get your law degree?  Hell, Kent doesn’t even offer a law school.”

They reached the dryness of the back porch where they paused for a moment to drain off before entering the kitchen.

“Haven’t you heard?  I’m the fifth generation and my father is the senior partner.  He’s still pissed I didn’t go to Penn State on a football scholarship. I don’t have a choice but to become a lawyer and join his firm.”

Frank considered Ted’s plight for a moment. He always thought Ted was an interesting study in 1960s’ materialism.  Locked into his parents’ view of his future to join the family law practice, Ted also had what was one the prettiest girlfriends back home in Pittsburg.  Country club-raised, Elaine was, unfortunately, only sixteen.  But she had the blessings of both sets of parents who were determined to co-mingle their families.  So Ted was forced to miss college social life by driving home almost every weekend and all holidays.

Next to cross the growing mud lake was Ben Martin and Fred Thomas.  They bolted up the steps and stopped next to Frank and Ted who was still trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.

Fred studied Ted and chuckled.  “Now your nose looks sort of like mine.”  Fred knew he wasn’t a pretty boy, but it hadn’t affected his self-confidence.  Back home in Aurora, he had had the distinction of being both smart and popular.

“Not funny,” Ted muttered.  “I’m going to go to Pill Hill and get this looked at.”  Pill Hill being the on-campus infirmary, it was the place to go for free medical help.

“You’ll probably catch a terminal disease in there,” Frank quipped.  “Last quarter Pill Hill was under investigation by the health department.”

Kevin Nash and his girlfriend Donna sloshed up onto the porch as the rain had grown even heavier.  “Christ Ted, what the hell happened to you face?”  Kevin wrinkled his nose and stepped back as if Ted’s sudden ugliness was contagious.

“Kevin, why don’t you re-break Ted’s nose and get it straightened up?” Frank suggested.

“Kevin?” scoffed Ted.

“Why not?  He’s studying to be a chiropractor.  What difference does it make?  How different could it be?  Adjust a back, a shoulder . . . a nose?”  It made perfect sense to Frank.

“I wouldn’t do that no matter how polluted I was,” insisted Ted.  “Anyone raiding the house refrigerator has seen what Kevin does to his lab partners.”

“You’re just jealous because I get to cut things up,” answered Kevin. “And besides, I flunked out of cat anatomy, so I have to retake it this year.  Plus I get to tear apart a rat next quarter.”

Frank moved his hands to sweep across the sky as if reading a newspaper headline. “Dr. Kevin Nash leads the way in the development of a rat chiropractor program at Kent State.  Rats with back problems all over the world are rejoicing.  Members of The Weathermen rush to protest this new breakthrough discovery.”

Everyone laughed except Ted who was still pinching his nose to stop the blood.  The comment was even funnier because The Weathermen were a small group of leftist college student radicals that had gained a foothold on the Kent Campus known for their daily protests about any and everything, but particularly the Vietnam War.

“I’ll drive you there,” Donna volunteered.  “I’ve got to go anyway.  I’ve got a volleyball game tonight.”  She turned to Kevin.  “You coming?”

Kevin shook his head.  “Nah, I’m staying in tonight.”

Donna didn’t try to hide her look of disappointment.  She was majoring in physical education and was a good match for Kevin except that Kevin had fallen two years behind in his classes.  This and other evidences of what she perceived was his lack of initiative had, over the two years of their on-again/off-again relationship been the source of several of Donna’s attempts to break up.  She felt that Kevin never treated her like he loved her except when he was lonely.  And he was so moody.  His emotions spiked up or plummeted, depending on how things went at the house or at home or the weather or the way his hair looked or a hundred other variables.  But whenever they broke up, he had always managed to talk her into coming back to him.

Don was one of the last out of the coach house along with Sam Douglas and Susie Parks, Barry Smith and his girlfriend, Carolyn, and Mike Anderson.  Their trip across the thirty yards from coach house was less hurried as the downpour had slowed to a drizzle.

“It’s good to have you playing ball again with us, Sam,” Don said.

“I figured Mom was out at one of her afternoon teas, so the coast was clear.”

Everyone still remembered Sam’s run-in with the house mother, Mabel Brown two years earlier.

The third floor, at the time, had been used as one large dorm room.  It wasn’t heated and the practice had been to use electric blankets.  When the electric blankets had become worn, electric sparks could be seen flashing in the dark of night whenever the bed’s occupant would roll over.  That one quarter saw more sparks coming from Sam’s bed than a small town Fourth of July fireworks show.

None of the brothers really minded that Susie had sneaked in and slept in that third floor dorm room with Sam . . . and twenty five other men.  It was only for one cold winter quarter when she had lost her lease for making too much noise.  But when Mom found out, all hell broke loose.

There was a long list of behaviors that violated the house, college and fraternity rules.  Alcohol and girls sleeping over were the most frequently challenged, but seldom broken.  And while Mom never shared the information, she had never quite forgiven Sam for the position he had put her in.

“Yeah Mom is really big on the answers to her questions being truthful more than the acts themselves,” Frank said and everyone nodded in agreement.

Sam knew he should have owned up to it as soon as she found out.  The consequences were that he was now sharing a trailer in a lot across from the campus with Susie.  He was missed at the house, but their trailer had become the location of some wild parties and as a hang-out spot between classes.

The last couple to arrive, Barry and Carolyn, was sort of the accidental couple of the fraternity.  She was considerably taller than Barry and inch-for-inch more serious. If there was a negative point of view, Carolyn had it and could bring any party to a screeching halt.  Barry, on the other hand, was the life of the party and would grab his guitar and lead a sing along or parody of a popular tune that he made up as he went along.  From week to week no one knew if they were still together or not, and with Barry sharing a room with Kevin, few guys hung out there if they didn’t have to.  Since neither of them had anything positive to say about the females in their lives, it was pretty painful to listen to them bitch and moan.

Frank stomped the excess water off his shoes.  “We’re going to be late to our registration.”  That reminder sent most of the brothers charging into the house through the kitchen door while Sam and Susie headed toward Sam’s VW bus.

“Come on Ted,” Donna said.

“Can you drop me off on campus?” Carolyn asked.  “I don’t want to wait for Barry.”

Donna agreed and they all ran through the increased downpour to Donna’s Dodge Dart.