WHITE SUMMER
(a sequel to Tales of Brave Ulysses)
This is the time and life that I am living
And I’ll face each day with a smile
For the time that I’ve been given’s such a little while
And the things I must do consist of more than style
- Love


Hunter could cut hair. I can not remember when I first became aware of this. Not just that Hunter could cut hair, but that he could cut hair well, better than any barber I had gone to as a kid . The guys on the floor swore he gave the best hair cuts using just a thin pair of scissors and a comb. I never had need of his particular talents. My nickname in the dorm was ‘hippie’, ‘ hippie’ Jase, short for Jason. My hair hung to my shoulders. I let my ‘freak flag fly’. I would never get it cut, not ever. My dad couldn’t make me. My high school principal couldn’t make me. Then I got involved with his ex, Suzy. They planned to get married in the summer but their passion was just a spring squall. And I was always around. She liked me, but my hair was too long to suit her. That’s how her convincing brown eyes finally put me in Hunter’s study chair in the middle of the gray tile floor of the Men’s restroom on the North wing of McNutt Quad on a Saturday morning in April; Hunter, clad in a pair of boxers, standing over me.
"Hey buddy, can’t believe this. You want me to cut your hair. Afraid those ‘townies’ will find you again? "
"No. It’s Suzy’s idea."
"Ah. Should have known." Hunter poked his pink face in front of mine, a wipe of blonde hair cruising just above his hard blue eyes. "Your shiner’s looking good. It’s gone from rotten plum to baby shit yellow. Quite an improvement."
"Fuck you."
"Charmed I’m sure."
" I’d laugh but my ribs still hurt. They kicked the shit out of me pretty good."
"‘Townies’ are always bad news. I feel for you, buddy. He snicked the scissor blades in front of my face. How short," he asked.
"Off my shoulders and out of my eyes to start. Say, you know who scratched my ‘Disraeli Gears’ album?"
"Probably you. You were stoned out of your gourd the last time you played it. You dropped the tone arm on it and it bounced. Remember?" I could feel the pull of his comb through my hair as he lifted it and snipped.
"Maybe. You sure you don’t mind about Suzy," I asked.
"What? You and Suzy? We’re over and done with, Jase." The snick of his scissors stopped as a clump of dark hair tumbled down my bare shoulder falling to the tile. " I didn’t have my head screwed on straight. Sorry her brother got killed in Viet Nam, but shit. Anyway, I’m seeing Joey now. She puts out without the hang ups. Besides Suze’s got no tits and a big ass ."
"Is that pretty much how you sum up everything, by tits and ass?"
"You got it, buddy." Snip, snip.
"God, you’re amazing. Well, she’s had it rough. They were pretty close."
"It’s too heavy for me, Jase." His comb and scissors continued to work in unison as he clipped his way through my hair.
Like a rifle report, the restroom door banged open.
" Hunter! Hey, hippie, how’re the ribs," Dundee barked, as he ambled in. He was built like a linebacker, his thighs and calves huge. He hibernated in a room down the hall, coming out only for pizza and beer and the occasional class. Oh yes, and to relieve himself.
"It only hurts when I laugh," I answered.
"You going to see that pussy, McCarthy when he comes?" He hung his beefy arms over the urinal partitions.
" C’mon don’t tell me you like Johnson?"
"I don’t give a fuck for any of them, including that Johnny-come-lately, or should I say Bobby-come-lately, asshole Kennedy . He wants to take away our draft deferment . I’m not going to get my ass shot off in Viet Nam for anybody." He was pissing like a race horse.
"Warlock’s band is going to play at the McCarthy rally in Dunn Meadow."
"No shit," he answered, unimpressed.
"Peter, Paul and Mary are going to be there too."
"I’m a Kingston Trio man, myself." He shook, closing his boxers and flushed. There was a scream from one of the shower cubicles as the water surged from hot to ice cold.
"Give a heads up before you flush, asshole!"
Dundee charged back and slammed the side of his fist against the metal door. "Shut the fuck up!"
He sauntered back over to us. "Suzy got you ‘pussy-whipped’ yet," he asked .
Hunter kept clipping ."We broke up," he answered .
"Well, shit the bed! Got her number?"
He scanned his bare stomach and the front of his boxers then looked up."Don’t seem to have it on me. "
"That’s a shame." He punched Hunter’s shoulder. " Catch you later," he said, then walked out.
"Asshole," Hunter muttered, rubbing his arm."Warlock’s band any good?"
"‘Orange Skies’? You wouldn’t believe. He can play some heavy shit. You gotta go."
"I think I have a psych test that day."
Someone flushed a toilet. The kid in the shower stall screamed again, but afterwards silence.
Hunter flicked his brush across my neck and shoulders and held out a mirror. My hair was short. Still brushing my ears, but shorter than it had been for a long time.
"You think Suzy will dig it?"
" Oh yeah, can’t miss," Hunter smiled.
I reached into my jean pocket to pay him but Hunter waved it away.
" Forget it. What are buddies for. You going back to the room,"he added.
"Yeah, I’m going to get my stuff and take a shower."
"I’m through here. I’ll follow you."
We entered the room, three other guys poured in behind Hunter. Two of them grabbed my arms, Hunter and the other guy fell on my legs. I started kicking. They wrestled me to the floor and yanked my pants down to my knees, shackling my legs.
" Hunter, you perverted prick! Not now! I don’t have time for this shit." I knew what was happening, I was going to be ‘tubbed’, a rite of passage that happened to everyone on the floor, at least those deemed ‘good sports’. Guys on the floor would congregate in some unsuspecting victim’s room, strip him to his underwear, pick him up and carry him into the restroom, heaving him into a tub in the back filled with cold water.
"Settle down, buddy. We have to get you ready for your date." I struggled at this, but white-knuckled hands clamped around my arms as Hunter and the other guy yanked down my briefs.
"Shit! What are you doing, you faggot!" I arched my torso. " Knock this shit off!"
"Suzy likes your hair short doesn’t she," Hunter smiled. "We’re just going to give her more of what she likes." There were razors in hands now and Hunter had a can of shaving cream he was vigorously shaking; the foam pillowed over my pubic hair.
"Shit, Hunter. This is not funny," I screamed.
"Don’t struggle, Jase, we don’t want to cut you."
I exhaled rapidly as I looked down my heaving stomach. The first razor dragged across my skin, scraping away a gob of shaving cream and curly hairs. A blade nicked me and a tiny ruby of blood bloomed on my skin."
"Be careful, asshole! We don’t want the kid bawling," I heard Hunter say; and to another, "What are you a fag? Just the razor."
All my buried hurts and humiliations roiled to the surface. I squeezed my eyes shut and my stomach shook.
"‘Nuff, guys, he’s bare as a baby. Suz will love you now, buddy." He slapped my chest.
"Screw you! You don’t let anything go, do you?" I felt myself lifted up and awkwardly borne to the restroom. My head bounced off the door and my right thigh grazed a metal divider. "Watch the ribs, watch the ribs," I heard myself shout.
When my body hit the freezing water I let out a yell and they ran out laughing. Eyes and mouth wide, I clambered upright in the tub. I sloshed out of my sodden pants. From the bare space below my belly shaving cream and curls of hair trickled down my legs. I stood shivering, listening to their laughter fade. I twisted the water from my jeans and held them around my waist.
When I opened the door, Hunter was in our room gathering his books, a broad grin plastered across his face.
"You asshole!" I stomped dripping to my closet and let my drenched pants drop as I grabbed a towel.
"Get over it. Don’t be so hung up."He stood there books in hand. "Can’t you take a joke."
"This is beyond that, Hunter," I said, toweling off. "What is it, me seeing Suzy? You can’t be jealous!" I started pulling on dry clothes.
"Don’t kid yourself. Get your blow job. She does everybody."
"Is that it?"
" Jase, she’s bad news. Did you know she cuts herself?"
"What? What do you mean?" There was a block of silence between us.
"She hurts herself. You’ll find out. Listen, I’m already late for class." He turned and was gone. I stood there then finished dressing. I decided to go see Warlock. I needed a belt.
The hall was a rich stew of music streaming from doorways I passed on my way to his room. ‘The Supremes’ crooning blended into ‘Vanilla Fudge’ pounding from another room and they mixed with ‘The Rolling Stones’ onslaught further down. I tried to put the first part of the morning behind me.
Mike a red-headed kid from ‘da region’,Hammond/East Chicago, motioned me in from his opened door.
"Hey! You cut your hair! Hippie, you have to hear this!"
I perched on the end of his bed. He pulled the Beach Boys’ latest album ‘Wild Honey’ out of it’s paper sleeve and plopped it on his turntable, setting the tone arm down in the middle of the side.
"They cover, Stevie Wonder’s, ‘I was Made to Love Her’, but listen to the refrain! You won’t believe it!" I listened, but couldn’t quite catch what I was supposed to be listening for.
"Do you hear it!" He talk sang it. " ‘Hey, hey, yousonofabitch’ instead of, ‘Hey, hey, yes I was made to love her.’"
"Yeah! Oh, Yeah! Now I do." I laughed, rocking back. "Wow, I thought they were so straight."
He laughed and pounded on his desk. He picked up the tone arm and set the needle back down on the track and played it again. " Isn’t it wild! You just know they’re getting back at Brian for ‘Smile’."
" I never thought of that. Listen, I have to go. I’ll catch you later." I hopped off the bed and accidently stepped on his Business Admin. book.
"Later," he called after me, as the Beach Boys blared out of his cheap speakers.
I kept chewing on what Hunter had done to me, trying to figure him out, what he had said about Suzy, but gave up. When I reached Warlock’s room, I heard guitar runs.
"NARCOTICS," I yelled, pounding on his door. "OPEN UP!"
"Don’t need any, go away," a voice inside answered. I walked in.
How can I describe Wolfman and Warlock’s room? It was a cubist coleslaw of a room. A closet explosion, surreal like a Dali painting, except instead of flaccid clocks draped over dressers, it was limp socks and underwear dangling from desk tensor lights or chairs. Pants sprawled in soft sculptures across the room; shoe totems stood stacked in a corner. On his desk, Cheez Whiz perched next to a big red box of Ritz crackers, an open jar of Tang nearby. Books on folklore and sociology lay splayed open like wounded birds. Amid this soft riot, serene, centered in a swirl of white sheets on his bed, sat Warlock, a skinny half-naked Buddha in cut-offs, trying to attain Nirvana by strumming an acoustic guitar cradled lovingly on his crossed legs.
He looked up. "You cut your hair!"
"Yeah, you sure could say that." I plopped down across from him on Wolfman’s bed . My palm pressed on something clammy and small, I looked down and jumped up.
"Shit, a used rubber!" I threw a magazine on top of it.
He erupted in peals of laughter.
"Wolf is such a pig. How do you put up with him?" I pulled a desk chair out twirled it around, wiped a sock off the seat, and sat down leaning over the back.
"He’s mostly out." He strummed an idle cord. "You know he’s involved in S.D.S. and the Political Reform Party, passing out leaflets."
"He doesn’t seem the political type."
"He isn’t. It’s a way for him to pick-up chicks. Your eye looks better."
" You think so?" I touched my bruised face. "I got the shit kicked out of me pretty good."
"I noticed. Suzy dig it?"
" You heard? We’re going out tonight. I’ll be sure to ask ."
"I bet she does." He strummed a major chord. He smiled.
"Say, can I borrow your woven belt for tonight?"
"Yeah, sure thing. It’s under the chair."
I leaned over and there it was in a wide coil, interlaced strips of brown and tan leather with a big round copper buckle. It reminded me of autumn.
" Thanks, man. Listen. You believe in Karma? Because bad things have been going down around me lately."
"So you think your screw-ups are coming back to kick you in the ass?"
"Yeah, something like that." I sat back down.
"Hmmm, what would Buddha say? Maybe. Depends on the screw-up." He strummed some ringing chords. "Want to talk?"
"No. Not really." I changed the subject as he tuned a string. " Learn any new stuff?"
" Yeah, finest kind. ‘White Summer’, I’m working on it now, off the Yardbird’s new album, ‘Little Games’. Want to hear some?"
"Yeah, I haven’t heard it yet, sure."
"It’s still a little rough, so bear with--"
Warlock fiddled with the tuning keys a little more and started playing. His wavy black hair curtained his eyes from me as he hunched over staring intently at his fingers as they tattooed across the strings. I watched the muscles in his forearm slide beneath his skin, the chords chiming gentle at first, then his fingers speeding up, invoking bare-foot girls’ frenzied dancing in cool grass. The tune slowed and he strummed deliberate minor chords and regret shimmered there too, like heat waves off a white-hot conscious sun; regret that summer never lasts .
He broke the spell abruptly, slapping the top of his guitar with his palm.. "That’s it so far." He looked up, a thin smile slicing across his face.
"That’s ‘tits’, man. What was that again?"
"‘White Summer’. I’d love to just stay in that groove forever. You know what I mean? That beautiful groove."
"Yeah, I can dig that. There are some paintings I’d like to wander off in. Are you playing it at the McCarthy rally?"
"It’s not ready yet. I’ve got some other stuff we’re rehearsing, Beatles, some Love, The Leaves." He shrugged his shoulders.
The room phone clanged by my ear and I jerked, knocking a picture off his desk. I flung the small wooden door on the phone box open and yanked the black receiver off the hook.
"Hello, what is happening and how have you been?" I threw out a lyric from a Love song to answer to see if he’d catch it. His guitar chugged right in rhythm. He was laughing. "Say, pig, pick up after yourself," I shouted into the phone. " I sat on one your used rubbers. Very funny! Yeah, your roommate’s here. Let’s see if it’ll reach." I pulled on the phone until the coiled black plastic cord sprung as far as it could go. Warlock put his guitar down and scrabbled to the edge of the bed. I handed him the phone.
"Yeah?" He started looking around the room searching for something.
I retrieved the fallen photograph. It was a picture of a young girl with long black hair, about twelve I guess, with big dark eyes, a cute round face. She looked like Warlock.
"Yeah, I see it. ‘English Literature Before 1900', it’s still here. Guess I could. Where are you? Okay. No hassle, man. Yeah. Groovy. Right on." He passed the phone back and I hung it up.
"Who’s this," I asked. I held up the photo.
"My kid sister."
"What, no picture of the folks," I joked.
"Hell no! I fucking hate them," Warlock responded without a trace of humor in his voice.
"Lighten up. Hey, they sent you here didn’t they?"
"I’m here because they want me out of their hair. You want to know how many boarding schools I’ve been in, including Culver, that fucking military academy. They sent me here so they don’t have to fucking look at me."
"Sorry, man, I didn’t mean..."
"My mom," he drew in a breath and couldn’t continue. "You want to know what my dad’s ‘pet’ name for me is? ‘Round-faced little runt’. Cute, huh?"
"I’m sure he...."
"I’ve got two brothers and a sister older than me, and all I ever hear is..." He held it in. "Just fuck them, you know?"
"Warlock, I - I’m sorry."
"Save your sorry, man. I’m cool. It’s just when I think about them I get--- Hey, I’m cool, I’m cool. My kid sister’s the only one I can stand. She’s got a beautiful soul. That’s why the picture. Say, I have to bring Wolf his Lit. book. You want to do a doobie before I have to split?"
"Wow, it’s too early for me, man. I’ve got to go over to the Fine Arts Building to pick up some stuff."
"Don’t cop out on me, Jase." He pulled a joint out of his pocket and lit up. "Take a hit. Finest kind!" He sucked in a toke and held it out to me, with his other hand he laid the guitar across his lap. "Kick Wolf’s jeans in front of the door."
I did as he asked, then said, "My mom always taught me manners." I plucked the joint from his fingers and took a deep drag , held it. "Nice," I exhaled, handing it back to him. I stood up. " I really do need to take off."
"Cool. Don’t forget the rally."
"Will do. Take it easy." I wiped the floor with the jeans as I opened the door. " Thanks for the belt."
He flashed the peace sign at me as I pulled his door closed. Finest kind I thought as I bopped along the hallway, the belt wrapped around my wrist. I dropped it off in our room then down the stairwell and out into the just hatched morning.
I took a detour into the main building and checked for mail. I twirled the combination on the dial of my mailbox, a letter from my dad, addressed in his florid penmanship, was leaning inside.
My stomach was raging for greasy bacon so I hit the dining hall and while I was at it, why not, those powdered eggs. I scooped them onto my plate, scanning the room for anyone I knew. I sat down with my tray and started feeding the bacon into my mouth while I ripped the top of the envelope open. It was stuffed with newspaper clippings, cautionary tales that I should take to heart. His letter detailed the weather and day-to-day doings. They both supported me and missed me. It ended as always with an admonition to put the past and hurt behind me, ‘hit the books’ and make the most of my days in ‘the hallowed halls of academe’. I folded the letter in half and stuffed it in my back pocket. I picked-up my tray and slid it onto the conveyor belt.
Today was the day I would paint Verlaine’s nude portrait like I promised. I was nervous and I shouldn’t have been. I had done enough sketches and paintings of nude women in my studio classes to not feel ill-at-ease. Yet this wasn’t going to be a class. I wouldn’t be rubbing shoulders with nuns and wigged-out coeds ringed around a bored model on a platform. I’d be one-on-one with a friend, a girl I enjoyed being around, whom I dug.
In the cool fragrant air, the slope of the cement sidewalk made my feet fly down Fee Lane to the Fine Arts Building. My lungs burning, I reached that lime-stone block with the vertical slits for windows. Scattered thoughts crowded my brain like a riot of sun-capped dandelions bashing together in a wind-skirted field. Through it all ran Verlaine naked .
The painting studio, bare and gray, was brightly lit by the morning sun streaming in. I retrieved my wooden paint box. Picking up one of my already stretched and gessoed canvases and my aluminum easel, I thought back to when Joey, Ingrid and I were here, high and happy.
I banged down the red marble stairs to the ground floor, stopping in the museum to see the sculpture of Salome’, her round naked form curled over the head of John the Baptist. Setting down my paint box, I touched her cold alabaster back before leaving.
Outside, I paused on the steps, gazing across at the fountain, Aphrodite forever rising. Bronze fish encircled her, sending jets of water arcing, splashing over her torso, gleaming wet, all save for one dry breast. I smiled .
Briscoe Quad poked into a faded blue sky as washed-out as the knees of my jeans. Frayed clouds drifted by overhead. I went inside and dropped my stuff in the lobby, my easel clattering to the tile floor as I called Verlaine’s room from the wall phone.
Her roommate, Ingrid answered, "Bonjour, Jason-vous venus a’ la peinture Verlaine?"
"Ingrid," I sighed, "it’s too early for this."
"Elle est nu, et vous attend." She laughed.
"Ingrid, I’m down here waiting."
" You are no sport. I am coming."
The elevator doors opened and there was Ingrid, fiercely intelligent, dark-haired, honest to a fault. She understood what I couldn’t tell her. The attraction between us was strong.
"Jason! Your beautiful hair! Why? I do not like." She motioned me into the elevator. I gathered my stuff together. "Oh, your eye. It is not good?" The doors closed.
"It’s getting better."
"You were so brave for us."
"Well, you were pretty brave yourself. But I’ll tell you, cussing sounds like a compliment when you do it in French."
"I will teach you."
" Hey. ‘A Man and A Woman’ is opening at the Von Lee this week? We could go if you want."
"Claude LeLouch, yes, I would like that, Jason."
"I’ll give you a call when I find out the times." The elevator jerked to a stop at the fifth floor and we stepped out.
When Ingrid opened the door to their room, Verlaine was brushing out her long sandy-brown hair in front of the closet mirror. It was not in her usual tight bun or pig-tails, but draped her shoulders. It glowed. She was barefoot, wearing a faded green shift. I could tell from the way the fabric fell across the subtle curves of her body, that she was naked beneath it.
She turned to me. Her crooked smile took possession of her face then snapped back . "Oh, Jase, your hair!" She held out her hands. "Look." They were trembling. "God, I’m nervous. Are you, a little bit?"
"Maybe." I set my stuff down and held out my shaking hands.
She grabbed them and squeezed, laughing. "I’m glad. Oh, your poor eye." Her finger tips traced my cheek . She pulled the ends of my hair. "Why?"
"Suzy thought it would look cool."
" Suzy? You’re going out with Suzy!? Jase, she’s so plastic."
"She’s okay, she’s had some tough times."
"I should go." Ingrid’s eyes, as bracing as black coffee, caught mine. She shouldered her purse and picked up some books. "I will leave. I will be at the library."
"You don’t have to."
"I’m cool," Verlaine said.
"I should not be here. Jase needs to paint. I will come back later." Her eyes held mine again as she left, the door clicking closed behind her.
Silence stuffed the room."Well, what do I do," Verlaine said.
"Um, let me set up my easel and palette." I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans. Pulling down the aluminum legs of the easel, I twisted the knobs to hold them in place then spread them apart on the floor. I opened my paint box and slid out the wood palette and took out some tubes of paint. Verlaine sat on a dark red blanket on the edge of the bed, her hands between her knees, watching me. Alizarin Crimson, Cadmium Yellow-Light, Cobalt Blue, Cadmium Red, Titanium White, I unscrewed each of them and squeezed out the colors. I poured the Linseed oil in the tin cup. I looked up at her and licked my dry lips."You can take your dress off if you want."
She stood and turned her back to me, her knuckles on her shoulders gathering the fabric, pulling it upward. My eyes followed the pink stems of her heels widening to her calves, her calves scooping inward swelling to her thighs, her thighs widening to the sculpted curves of her ass, her dimpled lower back, the sweep of her hips inward, her narrow waist, the delicate knobs of her spine laddering up between the wings of her shoulder blades, the sweep of her hair cascading as the curtain of her dress lifted over her head.
She turned clutching her dress, her eyes unsure. "How do you want me," she asked.
It was a moment before my tongue was restored. "You can lie on the bed."
"I guess I don’t need this,"she said, and let her shift fall to the floor. She laid down, looking at me for guidance. She was nude, sublime, there in front of me.
I swallowed. "Put your head more on the pillow," I said. She shifted her body. Now, cock your right arm," I motioned. "Palm up, your hand beside your head. Close your fingers just a little."
"Like this?"
"Yes. Now bend your leg. No, the right one. No. More to the-"
"Jase, you do it. Put me how you want me. I trust you."
I placed my hand behind her knee and pushed up on her lower leg. I positioned her foot under her left thigh. "Relax your left ankle."
"This way?"
"Yes, exactly like that. Is that comfortable for you?"
"I could fall asleep," she laughed.
"Good. Don’t. Can you hold that pose?"
"Yes."
I adjusted the elbow lamps on the study desks to eliminate the shadows.
"Too bright." She squinched her eyes shut.
I angled them down so the light was softer. "Better?"
"Yes. Thanks."
"Let me know when you get tired. But I work fast. I should have the main pose blocked-in, in no time.
"Can I talk?"
"Sure, as long as I’m not painting your face."
She laughed her throaty laugh. "Will I look like the Maja?"
"Yes, or maybe ‘Olympia’."
"Olympia?"
"Edouard Manet’s ‘Olympia’, another painting of a nude that blew quite a few minds in it’s time. "
"I remind you of her?"
"Kind of, yeah. Your attitude. The pose you’re in. Your, uh," I wanted to say breasts, "color."
"Color?"
"Yeah, your skin tone, you’re kind of pale."
"Guess I’m in the lab a lot. I don’t tan much."
"Well, that’s good. I mean your skin color is perfect."
"‘Olympia’ by Manet?"
"Ask Ingrid."
"I will."
I dabbed my brush in the pigment, trailing the bristles across the white canvas, my hand following my eye as it traced the contour of her form.
I thought of George Caitlin as I painted. He was the first white man to depict Native Americans. In the beginning they wouldn’t pose for him. They feared he would steal their souls with his portraits. With each gout of paint I pulled across the blank canvas, I felt I possessed her more completely than any lover; her delicate ankles, the upward trend of her legs, the slew of her thighs to the soft triangle, the curving plane of her belly, the contour of her breasts, the deep blush of her nipples. Her hair spread out on the pillow like a dream made tangible. All were touched and refined by my brush. Maybe the Sioux were right.
"I can’t believe you’re taking Suzy out," Verlaine’s words slapped against the silence, broke her body’s spell over me ."She’s just not you," she continued. "Oh, of course! I know why. I’ve heard she goes down on every guy she goes out with. That’s it isn’t it? "
"It’s not that at all."
"Don’t bullshit me, Jase. Come on."
"She’s easy to talk to."
" Bullshit. You can talk to me."
"You know what I mean. I like her. Her brother’s death hit her pretty hard. She needs-- We have things in common. I-I think I can help her."
"So you’re a shrink that isn’t in it for the ‘ head’. How does Hunter feel about you dating her?"
"Who cares what Hunter thinks. It’s Suzy’s decision. Besides, he screwed me over royally."
"How?"
" It’s personal."
"Jase, it’s me, Verlaine." Her eyes flared . " Tell me." She broke her pose and reached for her shift, bunching it in front of her. "Session over until you tell me."
I laid my brush down but continued holding my palette as if it were a shield. "He got some guys together. They held me down," my voice trailed away. " They shaved me."
"So." She scrunched her eyebrows together. "They shaved you?"
"My pubes."
"You’re kidding?! What a homo!" She leaned forward. "Show me Jase."
"No. It’s gross. I’d rather..."
"I’m naked and you won’t show me your shaved pubes? You’re so hung up. Come on, show me."
I set the palette by my brush. I unbuckled my belt, unzipping my jeans. I hooked the waistband down with my thumb.
"What a creep, bastard,"she said.
I zipped up my pants.
"Are you embarrassed by that?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"You’re worried it’ll freak out Suzy."
"Maybe."
" It won’t. What about you and Ingrid?" She crossed her legs, her eyes glittering in the light.
"How about us getting back to the painting?"
"Sorry." She dropped her dress and laid down again. After some minor coaching, she was back in the correct position. I retrieved my brush and palette.
"I still like her. I just asked her out." I dipped my brush into the turpentine cup and wiped it on a rag as I changed colors.
"That’s who you should be with, Jase. She’s a woman who doesn’t bullshit. You know she says you’re hung up. You think too much. She says your heart is a tight little fist."
"Don’t talk," I smeared some cadmium-red mixed with white and ochre on the canvas, "I’m painting your face."
How could I ever let go? An eyebrow, a knowing eye. It was my fault the car swerved out of control. A daub of vermillion to her cheek. My fault. I looked at her, her cute pink ear. Stroked her hair in with my brush. It was just a second. Eyes off the road, on her. Something stupid. And she is dead forever and I am still here. I sluiced on the Alizarin Crimson for the blanket that surrounded Verlaine. It held her in the center of the canvas, encircling her nakedness as if protecting her, from what; Ultramarine Blue, Mars Black?
I had to say something, anything. "Warlock’s band, ‘Orange Skies’ is playing at the McCarthy rally. Are you going?" She lay there motionless. "Yeah, you can talk now."
"To hear them. I’m not interested in McCarthy."
" Why don’t you want to hear McCarthy. He’s against the war."
" I like what Bobby Kennedy says more."
"Same thing."
" Not the same." Verlaine shifted position, her breasts jounced. I held my brush. "McCarthy is just another professor. I don’t need a lecture on the war. Bobby has the passion. He’s against poverty and racism. Did you read what he said in Indianapolis the day King was shot. Can’t you tell he feels it, feels the hurt, knows the hurt this war is causing because of what he’s been through?"
"He’s an opportunist. He let McCarthy test the waters."
"Bullshit." She raised on her elbow and her breasts jiggled forward. " He’s conflicted . He feels he needs to finish what his brother started." A fold of skin smiled across her belly.
"You want to stop for the day? See what I’ve got so far?"
"Yes, I’m dying to have a look."
She curled her legs beneath her and leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve her shift. I turned the easel around and sat beside her. She didn’t say anything. Then softly:"You’ve made me beautiful, Jase. Is that how you see me?"
"That’s how you are," I said to the canvas. I felt her head on my shoulder, her hair brushing my arm, the weight of her side against me. Her scent was pure, unleavened. I never got turned on painting nudes. I guess I was always more concerned with concentrating on getting the lines and angles, the proportions of the human form right to care that it was a naked woman I was staring at, even Verlaine. Just the same, my dumb body responded to her beside me.
"You can see that much of me?" I knew what she was looking at.
"Yes. I can smudge it with some paint, blur it."
"No." She lifted her head and looked at me. "I want this to be the truth. I want you to paint what you see."
I needed to get up; clean my palette, wipe my brushes, anything. I started packing up. "I’ll leave the painting and easel here, okay?"
"That’ll be great. I’ll see what Ingrid thinks of it."
" Tell her to be kind."
"Jase! She’ll see what I see."
"When next?"
"Maybe tomorrow or next week sometime. I’ll call you. We’ll work out a time."
I took in her face, her wide forehead and rounded cheeks, her plain country lips, the delicate curve of her neck."
"This means a lot to me."
"I know. I’m glad you trusted me enough to ask me."
"Jase, she’s not for you. You need Ingrid."
"I dig what you’re saying. I’m trying to work things out in my head." I put my hand on the knob and turned.
"Peace, Jase. Bye." Her words followed me as I walked down the hall to the elevator.
After dinner I took a shower. Hunter was positively mellow when I asked him if I could borrow his saddle shoes.
"My cordovans? Be my guest. What are you two going to see?"
"‘The Graduate’."
"You’ve seen that."
"Suzy, wants to see it again."
This got him going. He was in fine form. "Oh man, I’m telling you! You’ve got it in for yourself tonight!" He made a pistoning motion with his fist in front of his pants. "Here I’ll give you some of these boys, just in case." He threw a couple foil wrapped condoms at me and stuffed the rest into his pocket. "Doubt if you’ll need them, but you never can tell." He pulled off his shirt and slipped a fresh one on and whipped a comb through his hair.
"I’m looking for more than that, Hunter. It’s not everything."
"Then you’re as screwed up as she is." He looked at me. "You’ll make a fine couple." He picked the packets off the floor and stuffed them in my slacks. "Just don’t be stupid, stupid." He grinned at me and slapped my shoulder. "I’ve got to shove." He thrust his hips forward and grunted. "Got a date with Joey, can’t be late." He slipped a pair of wine dark loafers on. "See ya, buddy." He opened the door, "If you can’t be good, be careful," and left.
I looked at myself in the mirror. What was I doing? I had on a buttoned-down madras shirt, khaki slacks and cordovan saddle shoes, and a cool belt, at least there was that. Who was I putting on? This wasn’t me.
I called Suzy’s room from the foyer of McNutt’s main building. Minutes later, she walked through the double doors from her wing toward me, wearing a long-sleeve white satin blouse and navy blue pleated skirt, dark knee-length argyle socks and loafers. Her frosted hair framed her soft features in a delicious curve, every hair in place. She was wearing pale lip gloss and some scent probably by Yardley.
"Jason, your hair looks great!" Her soft brown eyes reflected mine. "Do you like it?"
" I’m still getting used to it. You look fantastic."
"Thanks. Are those Hunter’s shoes?" She nodded her head.
"Yeah. I borrowed them."
"Why?"
"I don’t have any good dress-up shoes. You want me to go back and change them?"
"No, it’ll be all right. Just-- don’t wear them again." She shifted her purse and sweater to her right arm. "Shall we go," she smiled up at me, entwining her fingers through mine.
"Yeah, let’s."
The night was moist and cool studded with points of light, rushing cars and distant echoing noises. We went the way we had gone before when we were all together. And we talked. We talked, but not about the subject we each held at arm’s length. The things that drew us together and kept us apart were never broached.
There was a line down the block when we reached the Indiana theatre even though ‘The Graduate’ had been playing for weeks.
When we got in we forgo the snack bar, to find a place to sit. Suzy led us to a corner in the back. People were still edging down the aisle searching for seats after the lights dimmed and the shorts began. It wasn’t long before Dustin Hoffman slid across the screen like so much luggage on the people mover at the airport to the sounds of Simon and Garfunkel. Suzy squeezed my hand. She really liked Simon and Garfunkel. In the dark, we were alone with the movie, an impersonal wall of people seated around us. I slipped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward me. She rested her hand on my leg, rubbing it back and forth thoughtfully before she slipped it down and wedged it between my thighs. I glanced over. The gleam from her eyes fastened on mine. I felt her hand cup the front of my pants, kneading me, rubbing. Mrs. Robinson was up on the screen in a black bra bending over Benjamin. I placed my hand on her soft thigh and traced the hem of her skirt. She repositioned herself and with her other hand she guided me. My hand was like some blind thing seeking the thin membrane of her panties. She manipulated my fingers. The movie soundtrack boomed from the screen, but a stillness enveloped us, only our two hands betraying it. I pushed each breath out. My lidded eyes staring at the moving images took note of nothing. Suzy soon achieved what she wanted from me. I held my breath and my muscles went taut. I didn’t look, but I knew she was smiling. Her grip tightened over my hand and her body shivered. Her hand relaxed and she placed my hand back on my lap .
"I’ll be right back," she whispered to me as she stood stooping and sidled out into the aisle.
I pulled my handkerchief out of my back pocket and stuffed it down the front of my pants.
Up on the screen Mrs. Robinson’s face flared into white hot hate as she forbid Benjamin to take out her daughter. I remembered another woman’s face flaring that same white hate at me, her daughter dead.
Suzy soon returned and settled back into her seat. She pressed her lips to my ear .
"We can leave if you like?"
"If it’s cool with you."
We stood . "Make up your mind," someone muttered, as we stumbled past.
In the lobby I ducked into the Men’s room and tossed my handkerchief in the trash.
Outside, looking at me, Suzy squeezed my hand. "That was delicious," she said.
"I think I was ambushed," I replied.
She laughed. "Let’s walk." She snapped open her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I saw her panties, pink, bunched up inside. "Cigarette," she offered.
"I don’t smoke."
"Jase, you smoke pot."
"That’s different. I smoke grass to get high."
"Why, do you need to?"
I searched for the words and failed. "Didn’t you see my poster? ‘Pot is fun’! I feel lighter, happier on it. Everything is more so." I pushed away from the thoughts that were gathering. " Let’s go get something to eat."
"‘Solly’s’," she answered, lighting up.
"That deli?"
"Yes, they have the best Borscht."
"What’s Borscht," I asked as we started walking. I draped her sweater across her shoulders.
" Russian beet soup. It’s good. With some sour cream, mmm. During Russian studies some of us went out and sampled the cuisine. Ever had corned beef on rye?"
"No, but that sounds better."
"Good, then we’re set. You’ll try some Borscht and we’ll share a corned beef." She looked at me and smiled.
Solly’s was on Washington, just off Kirkwood. It was small and dark except for the glass-cased counter that displayed rows and rows of meats and cheeses brightly lit. A kid with curly black hair, all Adam’s apple and elbows waited on us. I ordered and we took our tray to an uneven table in the corner.
Suzy dipped her spoon into the Borscht and held it out to me. I leaned over and she tipped it into my mouth. The soup was hot and rich. I bobbed my head in approval.
" See!" She lifted a spoonful to her mouth. "There’s hope for you yet."
I took a bite of the corned beef and washed it down with a gulp of hot coffee that was extremely bad .
"Did you like-- what we did in the theatre?"
"Yeah, of course, ...wow, but, I mean. I don’t know, I--
"I like being spontaneous. I think you’re someone special, Jase."
"You too, but...What music do you listen to?"
"What? What music do I like?" She stirred the soup.
"Yeah, I don’t even know what music you dig. I don’t know so much about you." I shoved more of the corned beef into my mouth and crunched the dill pickle.
"Well, you know I like Simon and Garfunkle. You like them?"
"Yeah, they’re okay."
"I have ‘Distant Shores’ by Chad and Jeremy. Jackie DeShannon?"
"‘What the World Needs Now’, is love sweet love," I answered .
"And I like Eddie Gorme’ and Barbra Streisand. My suite-mate and I do a routine to the song, ‘Free Again’ off the ‘Je m’appelle Barbra’ album. You should see us. It’s really funny."
"Cool." I didn’t know what to say. The music she liked I definitely wasn’t into.
She reached her hand to the middle of the table. I put my hand on top of hers and the table wobbled. The soup sloshed. She laughed. Her hand was slender, fine boned like...I shoved that thought back into the corner of my mind .
"Let’s walk some more," I said after the meal.
"We can go back to the dorm," Suzy replied. " My roommate is gone for the weekend."
"That’s cool, but let’s walk. We can talk some more." What was I afraid of? What Hunter had done to me? I forced down some more coffee. "This is awful!"
"Their coffee is never good," she laughed as we stood.
I held the door open. Outside she took my hand. She clung to me like an exhausted swimmer. Her lips pressed to mine, our tongues meeting. I opened my eyes in her eyes. I saw she needed something that I didn’t have to give.
We walked down Washington, the sidewalk dark and uneven. Her cigarette flared next to me. Our shoulders bumped together like two coupled train cars, her hand in my back pocket, my arm circling her waist. She yanked me over to Sullivans’ display window.
"You’d look good in that, Jase. She was looking at a blue and white striped Lacoste knit short sleeve shirt.
"That’s ‘frat rat’ stuff."
"Why do you have to label everything?"
"I don’t they do!" I pointed to the little curled green alligator on the front.
On Kirkwood, we slipped in, ‘Go for Baroque’ to look at the posters.
"I have this in my room." She pointed at a black-light poster of Kama-Sutra positions illustrated in day-glo orange and green.
"That’s pretty wild," I said, letting her statement slide, thumbing through some Fillmore prints.
"Do you think this is valid art?" She held up a poster of a naked woman in vibrating red and blue advertising Moby Grape in barely decipherable lettering .
"Yes. It’s not all that different from what Toulouse-Lautrec was creating in fin-de-siecle Paris."
More posters lined the walls, cork boards displayed buttons in eye searing colors stamped with pop philosophy. Sandals, beads, incense burners, tie-dye shirts all crowded in as we roamed the narrow isles. When we left, tiny brass bells above the door tinkled.
Down the block we tripped down the stairs to ‘The Other Side’. The Steve Miller Band’s, ‘Quicksilver Girl’ thudding within the confines of the cramped record store. Suzy didn’t like the heady atmosphere thick with incense. Psychedelic posters were plastered across the low ceiling. The glass counter displayed pipes, rolling papers and bundles of joss sticks for sale as well as 45 adapters and phonograph needles.
"You need to listen to this." I held up Love’s ‘Forever Changes’ album. " Not many people know about it. It’s really heavy. I’ll loan you my copy."
" Here, I like this." She held up the Association’s, ‘Insight-Out’ LP.
"Yeah, they play that to death. ‘Wendy’, right? You like Dylan?" I held up, ‘Highway 61 Revisited’.
"I hate him! Sorry, but he can’t sing."
I dropped the album down in the bin in front of ‘Bringing It All Back Home’.
"Jase, let’s leave. I’m getting a headache."
"Sure." I put my hand on the small of her back and guided her through the beaded curtain doorway.We climbed back to street level.
"Hippie! Hey, Hippie! Jase, my man!" The Wolfman stood on the opposite side of the street in front of the ivy draped Café Pizzeria, his upraised arm waving over his head like a crossing signal."Hey man! What’s happening?" He had his arm around a skinny blonde. They both wore identical olive drab army fatigue jackets.
"C’mon." I grabbed Suzy by the hand and ran interference for her as we crossed the street.
"Who scalped you," Wolfman asked as he clamped my arm in a soul shake. "You playing ‘Narc’ tonight?" He pinched my collar between his fingers.
"Wolf, what’s wrong with the way Jase is dressed. He looks nice," Suzy interjected.
"Whoo-hoo. I get the picture now."
"Okay, Wolf, lay off. Are you going to introduce us?" I nodded to the blonde, silent by his side. Up close her hair was stringy. Acne peppered her cheeks and forehead, her eyes were planetary blue, wide and unfocused. She must be good in bed for Wolf to be with her.
"Where are my manners! Jase, Suzy, this is Andmoreagain."
"What," Suzy smiled. Her brow wrinkled.
"Like the song," I replied. I began singing in my off-key voice, ‘and if you’ll see Andmoreagain, then you will know Andmoreagain, for you can see you in her eyes."
She opened her mouth in awe, tilting her head. "Wolf, he digs Love!" She grabbed him by the arm. "Far-out!"
"Andmoreagain works for the Spectator. She’s a poet."
"Yeah? I may have read some of your stuff," I answered.
"Oh, wow! Did you dig it?"
‘Where you two headed," Wolf interrupted.
"Just out walking." I laced my arm around Suzy’s waist.
"The pigs are out thick tonight. Just stay cool. I’ll catch you later, man."
"Will do."
He started walking, his arm hooked around Andmoreagain’s neck, then stopped and turned."Let the hair grow," he called.
"Wolf’s stoned, Jase, don’t you think."
"Yeah, likely conclusion. C’mon."
We shrugged past the cold stone shoulder of the First Christian Church, severe in it’s angles.
The Corner Newsstand on Walnut hadn’t closed yet, it’s door propped open by a rack of newspapers to let the cool spring night inside. We crossed the street to the courthouse. Before us the grey stone War Memorial thrust impotent from the concrete. Rectangles of greening lawn sloped to the curb as spears of spring flowers poked through the softening earth. The purple and white blooms were imploded with the night, patiently waiting for day to open. We sat on the cold stone balustrade. Suzy lit another cigarette. I watched the random cars like chrome pinballs circuit the square then shoot off past Whitesides into the night.
"Where do you think they’re going, all those cars?"
Suzy rubbed her shoulders, her knees clamped together. "Parties, home, a hot date."
" Look at that cop car. I bet they’re looking for freaks to hassle."
" You’re so negative. Maybe they’re checking up, keeping tabs on the bad guys."
"Dig, those guys are the same bullies that picked on us in high school. They get their rocks off hassling people."
She pulled on her cigarette thoughtfully. "Perhaps." She stood up. "Make room." She put her arm on my shoulder and sat on my lap. " This is much better, don’t you think?" She kissed my cheek.
"Definitely." She was getting the reaction she wanted from me."Look," I nodded to a squad car making the grand tour, "another one. I bet he’s following his buddy, safety in numbers. Lookin’ for Spudnuts. Hey!" I leaned forward, straining my eyes. "I know that guy! He’s the cop that hassled us at Showalter Fountain."
"When was this?"
"That night I was beaten. Yeah," I snorted, "where were Bloomington’s finest then. I met you and....," I couldn’t say Hunter’s name.
" I remember. Your chest had paint all over it."She stopped. "Pay attention to me."
"I am." I kissed her nicotine lips. " Why did you and Hunter spilt, anyway?" I watched to see if that cop car would come around again. When the silence grew too great, I looked at her. Her eyes locked on mine.
"Ask your roommate."
"I did. I just wanted to hear your side."
Her lips twined a plume of smoke spun from the moon. "I wouldn’t sleep with him."
I watched the traffic. "That’s all? He said you hurt yourself."
"Is that what that bastard told you?" She sprang from my lap. I stood. "He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!" Her lips thinned . "I think you need to take me back to the dorm."
"Suzy, I didn’t mean..."
"He doesn’t know shit. My brother didn’t have to go, you know. My dad pushed him, always push, push, push." Her cigarette glowed fiercely.
"What? I-I don’t..."
"Be quiet Jase. Just walk." We crossed the street. " They let Army recruiters into high schools. Why do they do that? Aren’t schools supposed to protect children? Of course he signed up. Everyone was so Goddamned proud." She wiped her eyes. "I was at swim practice. I saw my mom at the far end of the pool talking with the coach. I wondered why she was there. We had just started laps. They motioned me out of the pool. I didn’t even change. I bundled up in my towel and we hurried to the car. I knew something was wrong. Then she said it was Perry." She sighed. Her voice trembling, " The funeral tore my parents apart. They became two more stones in that cemetery. My dad has never been the same. My mom tried but after that I was a ghost in our house. I didn’t exist for them."
Beneath the now darkened marque of the Indiana theatre, in the stucco walled alcove, I stopped her. I hugged her. She squeezed tight to me. Her sleeve rode up. I saw the band-aids on her pale arm like patch-work, scattered over angry red welts. She pulled down her sleeve.
"It’s something I do. Leave it, Jase, just leave it." She looked hard at me.
I couldn’t say anything. After that our feet followed the sidewalk. Suzy lit another cigarette. Our shadows were as thin as tracing paper, overlapping, worrying our steps as we walked. We passed Trinity Episcopal Church, closed and dim and silent. My hands were stuffed in my pockets, my thumbs pointing up to the limitless void littered with stars. Ladyman’s Café, Redwing Shoes, the drug store and clothing stores, they all fell behind us. The Book Nook was still bright, honeycombed with paperbacks and a few lonesome readers milling about. We left Kirkwood, skirting the campus library, comforted by the blots of shadow between streetlights. The tower bell tolled, it’s hollow tone ineffably sad, filling the night. The Memorial Union rose flood-lit, pale beside us semi-obscured by islands of Dogwood and Redbud, drained of color. The blank limestone expanse of the field house wall pressed in on us. The sharp elongated shadows of the spear-tipped iron fence opposite, prodded us on. At 10th.Street, our hands grappled for each other as we ran across. On the other side they clamped together, our fingers locking. Our footsteps did not slow, although my legs ached, as the sidewalk inclined toward our dorm. Suzy’s trail of cigarette butts marked the way we had come.
We reached McNutt stopping at the gate to her wing and folded into each other and then like petals we opened. I looked at her.
"Suze, this is not me." I pulled at my button-down collar. " I cut my hair for you. That was a big deal for me. I dig you. But this won’t work."
"Jase, I just..."
"I know but..."
" Give us a chance." Her eyes searched for mine in the mask of shadow. "Come up with me. We can help each other."
"Suze, that won’t take away the hurt, only add more. I should go."
" No, you don’t have to. I’ll... Okay, I understand." Her hand tightened around mine then fell away. She opened the gate. "Jase, you’re a good guy. I had fun with you." Her lips wavered into a smile. "I’m sorry I spoiled it."
"Suze don’t." She turned away. I watched her until the white gate banged shut and she opened the glass door to her wing. A carton of light spilled across the consuming night of the courtyard, erasing her figure.
I climbed the lengthening stairs and snapped the switch on in our dorm room, no Hunter. I turned the overhead light off, undressing in the orange glow from the parking lot. I unbuttoned my shirt, letting it drop to the floor. I unlaced Hunter’s shoes, kicking them away. I laid my pants over the back of a chair. Peeling off my underwear, I slid my tired legs between the cool sheets of the bed. It had been a long day.
In the dreamless backwash of night the door clicked open. I heard the soft slap of my roommate’s cast off clothes, his bed springs complaining as his hulk hit the mattress.
Much later, brushing against the dawn, the sounds of sirens drove behind my eyes. They were at the front of the dorm. It must be Sunday by now. My idle hand startled at the stubble it touched below before sleep slipped back over me.

.