What She Saw... (14 page)

As if she had nothing to worry about.

By some miracle, they came to a screeching stop in front of the Big Boy sub shop.

Since being kicked off campus, Kappa Omega had set up shop in a sprawling apartment on the second floor of the Big Boy building. “Sorry about the mess,” Spitty apologized even before they'd gotten out of the car.

There was a stereo in one corner of the living room, an old plaid couch in another. Empty pizza boxes and beer cans littered every available surface. “I don't care about the mess,” Phoebe mumbled in as polite a tone as she could muster. “But it kind of smells in here.”

“It's better in my bedroom,” he said, leading her down a short hall into a shallow room with a narrow window overlooking an air shaft.

There was a Murphy's Law poster tacked to one wall, a PORSCHE—THERE IS NO SUBSTITUTE poster falling off another. A textbook entitled
Advanced Beverage Management
lay open on the floor next to a knee-high orange glass bong. Blue light-bulbs lent the room an aquatic feel. Phoebe was busy perusing Spitty's CD collection (the Doobie Brothers, the Allman Brothers, George Winston, Bob Marley, Ziggy Marley, the Steve Miller Band, Steely Dan, Boston, Kansas, Meatloaf, the Grateful Dead, the London Symphony Orchestra's
Hooked on Classics
) when he came up behind her, put his arms around her waist, buried his nose in her neck. Then he turned her around so she was facing him, her head tucked under his chin, her flimsy body pressed against his brawny one. “Phoebe,” he began in a hoarse whisper. “I swear I didn't do anything to that girl that that girl didn't want me to do to her.”

“It doesn't matter,” Phoebe whispered back, because it didn't just then, except insofar as she wanted Spitty to do the same thing to her.

He seemed to be reading her mind. He lowered her onto his futon. So she was just lying there, eyes closed, waiting for him to rape her. Well, maybe not
rape
her. But do what he had to do.

How was Spitty to know? He said, “Is this okay?” with every new body part he uncovered.

“Yeah, it's fine,” she told him even while she maintained the hope that he'd rip off her clothes, ask her if it was okay later.

But Spitty Clark wasn't that—or, really, any other—kind of date rapist. He kissed Phoebe on the eyes, the ears, the arms and legs, the stomach, and even between her legs. Then he took off his shoes, his socks, his cummerbund, his pants, his jacket, his shirt, his baseball hat, his boxer shorts festooned with tiny Santa Claus busts. Then he fell on top of her, wedged a knee between her legs—before he careened off to the side.

“Spitty?” she cried.

She sat up to the sound of retching. She found her formal date leaned over the side of the futon, a pool of vomit on the floor near his chin, a long string of semidigested cheese sauce swaying like a pendulum from his lower lip. It smelled so bad she had to cup her hand over her nose. But she wasn't mad. She wanted to do for Spitty Clark what Spitty Clark had done for her on the second night of Pledge Week. Thinking the least she could do was help him clean up the mess, she stumbled to the bathroom in search of a towel. She pulled a tattered blue one off the back of the door.

She found “The Weekend Lay List—Week of October 20” hanging behind it.

That's what it said at the top. Down the left side were the names of all the old Kappa Omega brothers: Spitty, Kenny, Balls, Brian C., Brian B., Fatty, Dukes, Scummy, and Scooter. There were check marks next to Kenny, Balls, Fatty, and Scooter. There were girls—“Suzy C”; “Can't Remember the Dingbat's Name”; “Jenn L.”; “Randi Rugoff”—in parentheses next to each check mark. Spitty's line was still empty. But for how much longer? Never mind the fact that he hadn't actually “gotten laid.” Phoebe imagined her formal date entering a nice fat check mark of his own tomorrow morning, and thinking that he was only having fun. And that there wasn't any harm in that.

There was to Phoebe.

She threw the towel down in disgust and stormed back into Spitty's bedroom. It wasn't clear he even heard her come in. He was bent over his own lap. He was staring at his dinner. She got dressed as quickly as she could.

She didn't see the point in saying good-bye.

A COLD, WET fog hung from the night sky like laundry on the line, occluding vision, portending danger. But Phoebe was past the point of being afraid. Her heels in her left hand, impervious to the pain prompted by the collision of stocking feet and poured cement, she started up the street in a jog—past the bagel place and the lesbian bakery, the Burger King and the bookstore, the Greek diner and the dry cleaner—DISCOUNTS ON FORMAL WEAR!—then onto campus, down the center of the humanities quad, past the Modern Languages building, the Music Library, and the Harold C. Pritchard Hathaway Hall for the Study of European Civilization and Culture, then left, in the direction of the biochemistry complex, the tennis courts, and the clock tower Spitty said he'd probably jump off if it came to that, her heart beating wildly, her head strangely clear. She could see now what she didn't want to be in life: a name on someone else's list. And it seemed like a first step—a step closer to figuring out what she
did
want to be.

But she wasn't finished with Spitty.

She found a pay phone on the corner of Thurgood and Rain-tree, diagonally across the street from the old Kappa Omega mansion, which had been refashioned into a graduate research center for the study of Native American arts and crafts.

“Hello?” Spitty picked up on the sixth ring.

But now Phoebe couldn't catch her breath, couldn't get the words out either. She felt the tears coming on again.

“Hello?” he croaked again.

“Sorry you didn't get laid this weekend,” she finally blurted into the receiver.

“Phoebe?!”

“What?”

“You sound like you just ran the Boston Marathon. Where the hell are you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Look, I'm sorry I got sick—”

“I don't care about you throwing up. I saw your stupid checklist in your stupid bathroom.”

Spitty groaned before he spoke. “Aw, jeeez,” he said. Then, “Listen, Phoebe, it's my fuckin' moron roommates. I swear I never touched that thing.”

“So how come your name's up there?” she asked him.

“Phoebe, you gotta believe me!” he pleaded.

“I'm sick of believing you. All I do is believe you.”

“So don't believe me. What do I fucking care?”

“But I thought you did,” said Phoebe, her voice shaking just a little. “That's the thing. I thought you cared about me.”

“WELL, I DON'T ANYMORE,” Spitty exploded. “THERE'S NO FUCKIN' POINT. I NEVER SHOULDA COME BACK TO THIS FUCKIN' TOWN. I FUCKIN' HATE EVERYONE HERE! I SHOULDA FUCKIN' STAYED IN MAUI!”

She'd never heard Spitty so angry. She hadn't known he had it in him. She was overcome with emotion, though for once in borrowed form. “So go back there,” she whimpered. “No one's stopping you.”

“Maybe I will,” grumbled Spitty, suddenly conciliatory, almost childlike. “Listen, I'm sorry I yelled. I just—I'm just not feeling so good. Maybe we should talk in the morning. Hey—I had a good time tonight. I mean, until the end. So I'll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Phoebe told him before she hung up.

But it was an empty promise. Everything had changed. She might have gotten past the Weekend Lay List. It was Spitty's display of fury that frightened her more than the list and the Maggie Green story put together. She wanted him to be the sunshine to her clouds. She couldn't handle the idea that he had weather patterns of his own, and that he contained within himself the makings of a downpour and possibly even a monsoon. She ran the rest of the way back—past the horses and the chickens, the stables and the coop, until she was standing on the back steps of Delta Nu Sigma, sweating and freezing and hyperventilating all at the same time, turning the key in the lock that separated her from home, as close to a home as she could find back then, back there, back when she was eighteen and three quarters.

SHE FOUND MEREDITH Bookbinder sleeping peacefully on the top bunk. Meredith hadn't even gone to the formal. She was the smart one, Phoebe thought to herself as she climbed into the bottom bunk. She fell fast asleep soon afterward, and dreamt she was skiing down the side of a steep mountain with Scummy, Dummy, Scooter, Dukes, and all the rest of the Kappa Omegas trailing close behind—with the exception of Spitty Clark. He was nowhere in sight. He was out of the picture—a piece of the past she had no trouble shirking. That's what Phoebe told herself the next afternoon when she heard the phone ring. She had a feeling it was Spitty calling to make amends, and it was. She had Meredith tell him she was out. He called a few more times after that.

Then he gave up.

She didn't know he'd skipped town until she ran into Scooter, a few weeks later, waiting in line in the bursar's office. (There were some student-loan forms that she needed to sign.) “Hey, I remember you!” he declared. “Weren't you Spitty's date at the Delta Sig formal?”

“That was me,” she confirmed his suspicion.

“Did you hear about Spitty?”

“Hear what?”

“He's gone AWOL from Hoover.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, he's down in São Paulo, assistant managing beverage services at the Marriott. Spitty really liked you, I think. Stein. That's you, right?”

“It's Fine. That's my last name, as in Phoebe Fine.”

“Fine—that was it. Well, anyway, before he left, Spitty told me that if I ever ran into you, I should tell you—uh, shit, what was it? Oh, now I remember! He said to tell you he was sorry he was such a bad date. Yeah, that was it. He felt really bad about that night, I think. Oh, another thing. He was gonna miss you a lot. He said that, too. He said you were a really fun girl.”

“That was nice of him to say.” Phoebe smiled placidly, as if her interest in the whole matter was mild at best. In truth, she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about the prospect of never seeing Spitty Clark again.

Maybe in the back of her mind she'd been holding out the possibility that the two of them would eventually make up and get married and live in a little shack by the sea in walking distance of a well-lit supermarket.

5 . Jack Geezo

OR “Roberta's Advice”

NOVEMBER 30,1989

Bebe!

Apropos of our phone call this afternoon, I have some further thoughts
to contribute! It seems to me that you will not be attracted to the kind
of boys who frequent fraternities, where you cannot be totally yourself,
since so much of yourself is of a di ferent, brighter, less drinking-oriented, more sensitive, artistic nature, though obviously a part of you
is drawn to the glitter and gaiety of frat houses! The contrary sides of
you fight for your attention, and when you go to those frat parties you
find yourself acting like the others and of course that kind of boy
thinks you are that way! Then, as a relationship develops, both of you
discover that you are acting and not being yourself! The answer seems
to me quite obvious—that you may have all the friends you like
within the Greek System, but to find a boyfriend you need someone
who is not in the least drawn to that lifestyle and would never have
joined a fraternity! I think you have to give some thought to how to
get out of your rut—perhaps by joining a campus organization,
getting to know boys in your classes, or through nonsorority friends, on
blind dates or whatever, and stop trying to be what you are not—a
typical sorority girl! The answer is in your own mixed messages and
mixed priorities! Just because you are very chic and pretty does not
mean that bright, less social boys are not your style! Many of them
like bright attractive girls, but you probably seem so sorority-ish, even
though you aren't, that they're scared o f! Keep in mind that to the
average kid, not wealthy, beautiful, or particularly social, the Greek
system reeks of wealth, privilege, mindlessness, etc! That is what you
are IN, and how your image is construed, whether you like it or not!
It seems to me that the nonfrat boys probably think (untruly) that
you are beyond their reach! So the answer can only be for you to make
yourself less formidable, socially speaking, by hanging out with people
who are not necessarily the cutest crew team types around! And when
you do meet some shy people, help them out of their shells, if possible!
When I met Daddy he was VERY shy! (So by the way have many of
Emily's boyfriends been, and especially Jack Geezo who, as you may
remember, had a minor speech impediment!) I think the kind of boy
you ultimately will like will be a person you can feel comfortable
intellectually and emotionally with, and who is not necessarily that
sophisticated or drunk all the time! The fact is that you SEEM very
sophisticated, but your lack of experience doesn't fit that image!
Therefore, you need to meet a boy who shares your worldly-wise
brightness without having been and done everything! You are a deep
person, Phoebe—very insightful and very smart! But the average Joe
College is terrified of dealing with that! He will be flattered to have
you as a friend but not as a girlfriend! Therefore, look for someone
BRIGHT rather than cute, SENSITIVE rather than swaggering,
GENTLE rather than athletic, and you may find that the cuteness
and the swagger come later! That's my little sermon for today! I
think you have a very similar problem to what I had at Conservatory,
where I was constantly being told to be less quick with my tongue and
mind and to act sillier (à la your present-day sorority girls) so that
the opposite sex would like me! After a while I began meeting older
boys who did not feel so challenged by a smart, attractive violist like
myself, but young men sometimes found it daunting! According to
Emily, you are a real handful, probably the best-looking and smartest
girl out there (I'm quoting Emily), and that is NOT guaranteed to
put a shy or sensitive guy into a chase after you! (He might give up
before he started!) The opposite is also true—that the guys with a lot
of self-assurance but without the other qualities you like are the only
ones who are not frightened o f! Ultimately, you will probably find
an older guy more to your liking because you can be more yourself! I
hope you don't think this letter amiss! It is what I was thinking after
I hung up! So I suggest that you think about the campus literary
magazine, the political clubs, and even (God forbid) some of the shy
oboists!

Love and kisses!
Good luck with all your papers!
Call soon!
Love always!
Mom!

P.S. I had a similar conversation with Emily during her sophomore
year when she was very discouraged at not finding anyone she liked
who liked her at the same time, the only di ference being that she had
loads more confidence than you, and didn't find the boys her own age
sophisticated enough, which is why I suggested she date graduate
students!