Yearbook (14 page)

Corky was engrossed only in the game. Going there, he sat with Petrillo, reviewing plans and plays. When Petrillo left to work on some other players, Corky climbed far inside himself, into some capsule of concentration he wouldn’t emerge from until after the contest.

On the ride home from both battles, each the easy victory anticipated, Corky curled up in the back, across from Guy, and collapsed.

Even asleep, Corky was studied from across the way.

The day after the second away game, Corky passed Guy in the hall, between classes.

“Hey, Guy! You catch that draw play, third and fifteen on their twenty yard line yesterday? I was in top form!”

The new Guy looked up at his mentor and slowly shifted his weight, letting one shoulder alternately dominate the other. With confidence, he calmly answered, “Sure. Already gave them to Leonard.”

“Terrific!”

“I’ll get a set to you.”

Corky was pleased. “You’re a real find, you know that, kid?”

Guy avoided the temptation to get gushy and sloughed it off. “We all gotta make a living, no?”

“Yeah, but you always catch my best moments.”

Guy wanted to smile but instead shifted in place again as if the weightier muscles on one side of his body needed a rest.

“See ya!” Corky poked Guy on the shoulder, jocklike, on his way down the hall.

“Bet’cha,” Guy responded, subdued.

Corky bounded on down the hall and Guy watched, step after step, fixing in his mind the cool rhythm of each movement.

It wasn’t until Corky had walked into Spanish, nodding and smiling at his teacher Seriora O’Brien, that he began to wonder if there hadn’t been something strange about the way the kid had just handled himself.

That night Guy printed the set of pictures he’d promised Corky of the Cold Spring Harbor game.

In the library the following day, during study period, he hid the photos inside the binding of his history notebook, planning to leave them in the senior class president’s mailbox after school. He was leafing through them when someone with gentle fingers suddenly put hands over his eyes.

A little girl’s voice asked, “Guess who?”

Guy felt the fingers.

“Three guesses!” said the little girl’s voice.

“Okay. Uhm … Amy Silverstein!”

“Drat!” Amy removed her hands. “How’d you know?”

“I’m psychic.”

“That’s okay. I’m not feeling well, myself. Can I join you?”

“Of course.”

Amy sat down. “What are you studying?”

“History. You?”

“French,” said Amy, casually turning Guy’s notebook toward her to see the cover. It spun on the table and most of the photos spilled out, onto the floor.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Flustered, Guy dropped to his knees.

Amy jumped down to help. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say you were hiding your famed collection of dirty French postcards?”

The librarian at the front of the room was checking out books when she heard chairs shuffling down at the other end. Without looking up, she stamped the inside of a book and in a loud, crisp voice warned, “Quiet, back there! This is the
library!”

“Shucks!” Amy winked at Guy. “I thought it was the Ova! Room of the White House!”

“Very funny!” Guy snatched the photos from her fingers.

“Easy!” Amy raised a hand in surrender. “Relax!”

“I am relaxed!” Guy insisted, banging his head on the underside of the table.

“What are they pictures of?”

“Corky at the Cold Spring Harbor game.”

“Can I see?” asked Amy, again in her little girl whisper.

Guy handed them back to her.

Amy scanned the photos, quickly placing one behind the other, making a strained point of not appearing too interested in the subject matter. “Nice photography,” she allowed.

Without her realizing it, the camera in her eye was doing its own focusing and clicking. Sighing sarcastically, she commented, “How ‘bout our number one jock? Sure has a nice set of calves, don’t you think?”

Guy grabbed the pictures away from her once more and again banged his head on the roof of the table.

“Ouch! “ Amy yelped, saving him the trouble of complaining. She sat down again. “Didn’t that hurt?”

“ ‘Course not!” shrugged the new he-man, taking his seat.

“Okay. Tell Aunt Amy everything. How’s fraternity life?”

“How should I know?” Guy whispered, reassembling his photos.

“Aren’t you
pledging?”
she asked in distaste.

“Nope.”

Confused, Amy switched tones. “But I thought…”

“Trouble with you,
Aunt
Amy … is you think too much. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Amy ignored the insult. “But why not?” she asked. “What happened? Change your mind?”

“Something like that,” Guy answered under his breath.

“Tell me,” Amy said with enough interest and sudden warmth that Guy could believe she cared.

“I never even got to pledge. They didn’t acccept me.”

“But why?” she asked, bewildered.

“Why do you think, egghead? Look at me!”

Amy snapped open her briefcase and removed her eyeglasses. Putting them on the bridge of her nose, spinsterlike, she reviewed Guy up and down as if appraising a statue. “All right. I’m looking. Now tell me what happened with the fraternity.” She tapped her fingers on the table.

“Isn’t this where I came in?” He sighed.

“Probably. Why don’t you stay and see it again?” She smiled when she said it.

“You’re really quick, you know that?”

“Greased lightning! What happened?”

“Nothing. They didn’t want me. “

“But what about Corky?”

“What about him?” Guy removed Amy’s glasses and placed them on the table.

“Well, if the Greek god put you up, wouldn’t that practically guarantee your canonization?”

“Apparently not.”

“Pourquoi, mon cheri?”

“English, Amy. I’m a simple peasant from central Long Island.”

“But why, my dear?”

“Who knows? Let’s say I’m not athletic enough.”

“Balls!” declared Amy. “That’s the trouble with the world. Each man wants bigger balls than the next. You hurl your little leather testicles around baseball diamonds, bigger ones around football fields, basketball courts. Even cannon balls are enormous balls of war!”

“Hold it!” said Guy, before paraphrasing Corky. “Save the soapbox for your smart friends.”

“All right. I do get carried away. But I mean it. If those jerks measure acceptability by your performance on an athletic field, then all I can say is I’m glad I’m a girl!”

“ So am I, or else you’d understand how right they are.”

“All right, Guy. You asked for it. What are you doing Friday night?”

“This Friday?”

“I do not mince words.
This Friday/”

“Nothing. Going to the movies. “

“Forget it. Plans canceled! You’re coming with me. The Gadflys are having a Thanksgiving party at Leonard Hauser’s—though I can’t imagine what we have to be thankful for—I want you to meet some of
our
people and find out there’s more to a man than how well he fills a jockstrap.”

“Wanna feel my muscle?” Guy popped his arm up in front of Amy.

She looked at him, puzzled. “Sure. Want to feel my pulse?”

Guy stood, collected his books and photos and slapped Amy on the back. The husky-voiced caveman then growled, “See ya Friday night, kid. We’ve got a date. “

That night, alone in the dark of her bedroom, Amy mentally developed the photos she had fast zipped through in the library that afternoon. Reviewing them in the privacy of her head, she could now take the time to linger over each shot.

Her subconscious soon had the pictures moving in her mind and she saw Corky coming to life in slow, graceful motion. Eventually, the static film dropped its celluloid limitations and found a life of its own.

Floating into an ungoverned sleep, Amy hardly realized her hand had drifted down between her legs. It was another Amy who directed her fingers to comb their way through the curled hairs until they arrived at the sensitive membranes inside.

The football player in her head raced through a sunny field of flowers, wearing not a stitch of clothing.

Across her mind he ran, a naked animal.

No doubt about it. She was in love.

TWENTY
 

WHEN EVELYN SILVERSTEIN heard the front doorbell, she ran to the hall mirror, fluffed her hair and straightened her dress. She opened the door excitedly, and promptly tried masking the letdown she felt that her daughter’s escort for the evening turned out to be not a Robert Taylor, but a Mickey Rooney.

“Guy!” She half-smiled. “Nice to see you. Here—give me that ridiculous coat. Must weigh more than you! Amy’s not quite ready; you know women, ha-ha, so you’ll just have to put up with me for a while.”

“My pleasure,” said Guy, following her into the living room.

“Well?” Evelyn stretched her arms in presentation. “Don’t you just adore French furniture? Every piece a genuine copy of Louis the Fourteenth. Such an elegant style, you agree?”

To make certain Evelyn understood interior decorating was not his field, Guy shrugged his disinterest.

The tour continued. Evelyn pointed out her precious porcelain collection—dainty cups and delicate vases; pointed out her impressive display of crystal ware—wine glasses and water goblets; and then pointed out her husband, prematurely gray, sitting in a corner, hidden behind the current TV Guide.

“And this is Amy’s Daddy!”

“Hello, Dr. Silverstein.” Guy extended his hand.

Dr. Silverstein sat up straight and shook hands. “Amy’s mentioned you.”

“Nothing she can’t print, I hope. “

The Silversteins chuckled politely.

“Have a seat. I’ll tell Amy you’re here.” Evelyn left the room.

Guy sat on a pastel blue pristine couch. He and Dr. Silverstein smiled at one another. At last the doctor spoke, “Been reading about Ed Sullivan.”

“Oh?”

“Imagine putting that show together every week?”

“Hmm,” Guy agreed.

“One thing I don’t like. “

“What’s that?”

“Animal acts. Dogs dressed up like people. Bears on trampolines. There’s no dignity, the Royal Ballet following tumbling penguins.”

“Are you boring this poor boy, Howard?” Evelyn returned.

“We were talking about ‘The Ed Sullivan Show.

“Leave it to Howard to go on about most any topic in the world. You never met anyone who likes to talk so much.”

Guy searched for something to say.

“So!” Evelyn patted her knees as she sat next to Guy. “You two kids just running off into the night like a pair of gypsies?”

“No. We’re going to a party. Didn’t Amy tell you?”

“Amy tells me nothing!” Evelyn hit the side of the couch with an open hand.

Guy hoped he hadn’t divulged classified information.

“You’ll know what it’s like someday, Guy, when you’re a parent.”

“No kids for me.” Guy shook his head. “I’m raising puppies.”

Evelyn smiled wryly. “It’s easy to see why you and Amy are friends.”

Amy saved the day, rushing in with her loden parka. “Sorry to keep you waiting!” she said, and Guy knew she really meant it.

“No need to worry,” Evelyn was calm. “Your father and I have been very entertaining.”

“Well, good night.” Dr. Silverstein got up from his chair.

“Howard?” Evelyn questioned in a surprised tone.

“Seven-thirty.” Howard pointed to his watch. “ ‘Wagon Train.’ “ He looked at Guy and Amy. “Have a good time,” he said, and left the room.

“Nice meeting you!” Guy called after him.

“Guess we’ll be off,” said Amy.

“Just where is ityou’re going, darling?” Evelyn inquired.

“To a friend’s.”

“What if we should have to reach you?”

“Why should you have to reach me, Mother?”

“Who knows? A million reasons. An emergency.”

“Like what?”

“A fire in the apartment.”

“If there’s a fire in the apartment, Mother, don’t take the time to call me. Run!”

“Who was it always said children would be a comfort in my old age?”

“I don’t know, Mother. Who said that?”

“Amy, if I could remember, I swear I’d take them to court!”

“I wouldn’t blame you. Good night.”

Amy led Guy through a light snow flurry, down Vesper Street, into an old Victorian house alive with noise and activity.

They stumbled through the crowded living room, over to a corner where Leonard Hauser, their host, was holding court. Bringing the newcomers into the conversation, Leonard told them, “I was just saying how our quagmire of social amenities weighs us down and retards our progress.”

“And?” Amy asked.

“And that perhaps even obviously secondary graces couldn’t withstand the test of time.”

Amy exhaled impatiently. “How about an East Coast translation for us non-polylinguals?”

“Sure.” Leonard puffed his unlit pipe. “I’m suggesting that we all take our clothes off right now, break down these walls and see which of you girls has the best tits!”

“Trust Leonard to bring any discussion down to basics,” said Marge.

“Trust basics to bring themselves down,” answered Leonard, very smug.

“This is supposed to be a Thanksgiving party, Leonard. Let s be a little more festive.”

“What shall I do, Amy? Fart ‘The Lord’s Prayer’?”

Amy would not be intimidated. “Don’t bother. With your rhythm you’d be flat and off-key.”

As this battle of wits went on, Guy looked around, taken with the lack of good looks in the room. He knew these kids. Knew them well. Outcasts.

With few exceptions, these were the students everyone else made fun of as they walked to school, these brainy types who were always dashing to violin lessons or spending hours studying. These oddballs with thick eyeglasses and acne who never went to football games or the Sugar Bowl; never joined sororities or fraternities, these valedictorians and merit scholarship winners.

In one circle someone was reading aloud a poem and in another a heavy political argument raged. Occupants of a third circle were locked in some Zen yoga trance.

Guests drank spicy cider and munched on home-baked cookies. Had Guy but known, he could have had Birdie cater the entire affair.