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“Look at him,” Du
Faint waves of band music beat toward them. It was warm. There were bees in the grass. The first miniature formations of cadets, bayonets glinting, began to move into view. Above, against the sky, a lone distinguished building, and that a replica, stood. The chapel. Many Sundays with their manly sermons on virtue and the glittering choir marching toward the door with graceful, halting tread, gold stripes shining on the sleeves of the leaders. Down below, partly hidden, the gymnasium, the ominous dark patina on everything within, the floor, the walls, the heavy boxing gloves. There were champions enshrined there who would never be unseated, maxims that would never be erased.
At the picnic it was a
“Not counting Klingbeil!”
“Okay, one seventy-six plus a possible Klingbeil.”
“An impossible Klingbeil,” someone called out.
There was a brief cheer.
The tables were in a large, screened pavilion on the edge of the lake. Reemstma looked for Kit Walker. He’d caught sight of her earlier, in the food line, but now he could not find her. She seemed to have gone. The class president was speaking.
“We got a card from Joe Waltsak. Joe retired this year. He wanted to come but his daughter’s graduating from high school. I don’t know if you know this story. Joe lives in Palo Alto and there was a bill before the California legislature to change the name of any street an All-American lived on and name it after him. Joe lives on Parkwood Drive. They were going to call it Waltsak Drive, but the bill didn’t pass, so instead they’re calling him Joe Parkwood.”
The elections were next. The class treasurer and the vice president were not ru
“Let’s have somebody different for a change,” someone commented in a low voice.
“Somebody we know,” Du
“You want to run, Mike?”
“Yeah, sure, that would be great,” Du
“How about Reemstma?” It was Cramner, the blossoms of alcoholism ablaze in his face. The edges of his teeth were uneven as he smiled, as if eaten away.
“Good idea.”
“Who, me?” Reemstma said. He was flustered. He looked around in surprise.
“How about it, Eddie?”
He could not tell if they were serious. It was all offhanded—the way Grant had been picked from obscurity one evening when he was sitting on a bench in St. Louis. He murmured something in protest. His face had become red.
Other names were being proposed. Reemstma felt his heart pounding. He had stopped saying, no, no, and sat there, mouth open a bit in bewilderment. He dared not look around him. He shook his head slightly, no. A hand went up, “I move that the nominations be closed.”
Reemstma felt foolish. They had tricked him again. He felt as if he had been betrayed. No one was paying any attention to him. They were counting raised hands.
“Come on, you can’t vote,” someone said to his wife.
“I can’t?” she said.
Wandering around as the afternoon ended Reemstma finally caught sight of Kit Walker. She acted a little strange. She didn’t seem to recognize him at first. There was a grass stain on the back of her white skirt.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
“I was looking for you.”
“Would you do me a favor?” she said. “Would you mind getting me a drink? My husband seems to be ignoring me.”
Though Reemstma did not see it, someone else was ignoring her, too. It was Hilmo, standing some way off. They had taken care to come back to the pavilion separately. Friends who would soon be parting were talking in small groups, their faces shadowy against the water that glistened behind them. Reemstma returned with some wine in a plastic glass.
“Here you are. Is anything wrong?”
“Thank you. No, why? You know, you’re very nice,” she said. She had noticed something over his shoulder. “Oh, dear.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It looks like we’re going.”
“Do you have to?” he managed to say.
“Rick’s over by the door. You know him, he hates to be kept waiting.”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
He turned. Walker was standing outside in the sunlight. He was wearing an aloha shirt and tan slacks. He seemed somewhat aloof. Reemstma was envious of him.
“We have to drive back to Belvoir tonight,” she said.
“I guess it’s a long way.”
“It was very nice meeting you,” she said.
She left the drink untouched on the corner of the table. Reemstma watched her make her way across the floor. She was not like the others, he thought. He saw them walking to their car. Did she have children? he found himself wondering. Did she really find him interesting?
In the hour before twilight, at six in the evening, he heard the noise and looked out. Crossing the area toward them was the unconquerable schoolboy, long-legged as a crane, the ex-infantry officer now with a small, well-rounded paunch, waving both arms.
Du
“Look who I’ve got!” Klingbeil called back.
He was with Devereaux, the tormented scholar. Their arms were around each other’s shoulders. They were crossing together, gri
“Hooknose!” Du
Klingbeil threw open his arms in mocking joy.
He was the son of an army officer. As a boy he had sailed on the Matson Line and gone back and forth across the country. He told stories of seduction in the lower berth. My son, my son, she was moaning. He was irredeemable, he had the common touch, his men adored him. Promoted slowly, he had gotten out and become a land developer. He drove a green Cadillac famous in Tampa. He was a king of poker games, drinking, late nights.
She had probably not meant it, Reemstma was thinking. His experience had taught him that. He was not susceptible to lies.
“Oh,” wives would say, “of course. I think I’ve heard my husband talk about you.”
“I don’t know your husband,” Reemstma would say.
A moment of alarm.
“Of course, you do. Aren’t you in the same class?”
He could hear them downstairs.
“ Der Schiff ist kaputt!” they were shouting. “Der Schiff ist kaputt!”
AKHNILO
It was late August. In the harbor the boats lay still, not the slightest stirring of their masts, not the softest clink of a sheave. The restaurants had long since closed. An occasional car, headlights glaring, came over the bridge from North Haven or turned down Main Street, past the lighted telephone booths with their smashed receivers. On the highway the discotheques were emptying. It was after three.
In the darkness Fe
Outside, the trees were like black reflections. The stars were hidden. The only galaxies were the insect voices that filled the night. He stared from the open window. He was still not sure if he had heard anything. The leaves of the immense beech that overhung the rear porch were close enough to touch. For what seemed a long time he examined the shadowy area around the trunk. The stillness of everything made him feel visible but also strangely receptive. His eyes drifted from one thing to another behind the house, the pale Corinthian columns of the arbor next door, the mysterious hedge, the garage with its rotting sills. Nothing.