WHITE SUMMER (Chap. 6)


We parted in front of McNutt. Ingrid hummed softly the theme to ‘A Man and a Woman’, her arms swinging lightly, as she left. I walked down the concrete concourse and up the stairs to my floor.
I unlocked the door, swung it open and snapped my wrist, sailing my notebook across the room like a Frisbee. It hit my bed and skidded to the floor. I needed to see Warlock.
When I knocked, the silence boomed inside. Next door, Seth’s room pumped The Stones’ ‘Satanic Majesties Request’, into the hall.‘Please come see me in the citadel, oh well...’.
I tried there and was greeted by Seth’s hoarse laughter, "Yeah, who is it?"
"Jase! Have you seen Warlock?" I heard rustling and scraping, Seth thudding to the door.
It cracked open, framing his fat acne-plagued face, his black hair hanging limp like frayed rope. "C’mon in, man."
The stench from his room pressed against my face like a dirty foot, the scent of marijuana overhanging it all like a thin moth-eaten blanket. Warlock was sitting on the floor, his arms braced against his knees, his chin balanced on his hands like a balloon, ready to float away, a ganja smile plastered across his face.
"God, Seth, don’t you ever scrape out this pit?"
"Can’t be bothered . What’s up? Dig the concert?"
"Yeah, it was far out."
"That prick screwed with my song," Warlock said, "Cut-off the freaking power."
"Yeah that was uncool. That cat was too uptight," I responded.
" Uptight," Warlock repeated, "They had no right! Outta sight. See the light. I’m rhyming ," like he was amazed himself. "Seth, write that down! It’s a freaking lyric!"
"Warlock, you have that ‘stuff’ I asked for earlier?"
"Yeah." He jumped to his feet. "Follow me."
In his room he pulled out a plastic baggie from under his mattress filled with grass and dangled it in front of my face.
"Five dollars, five dollars, ding, ding, ding." He swung it back and forth like a crossing signal.
I dug out Hunter’s five and gave it to him. He tossed the packet to me, and I stuffed it in my pants.
" I still have some acid left if you want some. It’s good stuff. Really, really good stuff. It took me to some groovy places in my music I hadn’t explored. You don’t know what’s inside your mind ‘til you try some, Jase. You just don’t know. If I could have played all of ‘White Summer’... It’s on me."
" I know. I know. I need to go. Anyway, It’s not for me. Hunter wants it."
"Wants what?" he said, as he locked his door.
"The grass. Hunter wanted me to get it for him."
"Hunter?" he asked.
"He wants it for Joey."
"Balling, balling, yeah, It’s great for balling. Ever try it?" his smile framing and answering his question as he pushed Seth’s door open, the reek scouring the hall.
"I have to go. I’ve got a date with Ingrid."
"Ooh, nice." He grabbed my forearm. "Stay cool, man. You’re a true friend. It’s all cool. I’m cool. It’s okay." Seth chuckled beside him, a lit doobie secreted in his beefy palm.
"Want a hit before you go?" he asked.
"No thanks. Not this time. I’ve got to hustle."
"See what I told you, man." The door shut.
Hunter wasn’t back. I stuck the grass under his pillow and scrawled a note, then took another shower. In the stall, as I lathered up, I thought of Ingrid, the night ahead. The shaved area was darkening now, the hairs starting to curl. It wasn’t so bad, not so embarrassing, the soap streaming off my body.
When I got back to the room, I yanked on a fresh pair of bell-bottoms and chose a short-sleeve shirt, the one with the fat horizontal stripes, burnt orange and brown. I bought it when I still liked the Beach Boys. Was that just a summer ago? I draped a necklace of wooden beads around my neck and called Ingrid to let her know I was on my way.
It was pouring when I reached the open concourse, the cloud-laden sky pulled low around the dorm like a dark gray sock. Bloomington was like that. The sky would cloud over and rain with little or no warning. You’d start out on a sunny day and by the time you got out of class, it would be raining cats and dogs. I went back for my umbrella. I rolled up my pants legs and slipped off my sandals. Hanging them over the hooked handle of the umbrella, I walked barefoot in the cold rain to Briscoe.
Ingrid laughed when she saw me standing outside the elevator. She stepped out and slipped off her sandals, too, draping them over mine. She had on a copper-colored mini-skirt and a silky brown top, a gold bracelet twisted around her arm. She took a moment to light one of her Gitanes, and we stepped onto the wet concrete, huddling under my umbrella to the sound of the constant rain, loud as pitched pennies. We were like two kids, stamping our feet in every puddle we came upon. Through the pouring night, water flowed, braiding together in the gutters, leaping through the iron grates.
On the way there was a moment when my carefully held thoughts spilled over. We kissed by the trestle that spanned Fee Lane. Our cold lips touched and I pulled back abruptly, remembering other colder lips. She had a puzzled, wounded look that slipped into silence.
"What do you think that means?" I pointed to new graffiti on the side of the gray trestle, a stenciled black triangle with three words: ART, MONEY, OBLIVION stacked inside.
"Money corrupts art," she answered tersely, expelling a shaft of smoke from between her lips, her cigarette at her side, scissored between her fingers. "You do not remember, ‘Contempt’?"
"Yeah. That’s one way of looking at it," we continued walking. "Or maybe it could be, without art there is nothing but oblivion, or better yet, from oblivion comes art."
"What do you do with the ‘MONEY’ in between?"
"Spend it."
She coughed, laughing, the smoke escaping her mouth.
We talked about the hypocrisy in America. She couldn’t understand why we wasted electricity on automatic doors in supermarkets, or our love of soft bread like cake. I learned she was a Catholic, but by her own admission, not a good one.
Kirkwood Avenue was like a beacon, The Von Lee’s bright white ping pong lights chasing around the illuminated marquee, the red plastic letters glowing. I dropped our sandals on the sidewalk and collapsed the umbrella, shaking it. I started to pull three dollars from my wallet then stopped.
"A dollar fifty," I asked.
She smiled, handing me her money. I purchased the tickets.
Inside was the familiar smell of mildew and the hot oil from the popping machine. The same but this time different, I thought. I bought a box of popcorn and a Coke.
"For me," I said, smiling at her, "but I share."
She laughed as I held open the narrow red door, and she passed through. We sat in the back, but not where we had sat before.
We settled in to a travelogue on Finland, the print faded and scratchy. I pushed a kernel of popcorn in her mouth. She reached in the box and did the same to me. A Hanna-Barberra cartoon about a fox flickered past. I tasted her salty, buttery fingers.
Then the screen was blue with white letters, ‘Un Homme et une Femme’, fog and Anouk Aimee by the seaside with her small daughter, an electric piano softly keyed. Ingrid’s body sighed into me. I put my arm around her as one evocative image replaced the other on the screen. It was good, her warmth beside me. Her gentle breathing, enough.
Ingrid leaned over and whispered, "The words at the bottom of the screen, I do not like. They annoy me." I drew back and frowned, she laughed.
The movie was now in black and white, the wipers going on Jean Luis Trintignant’s Mustang, the rain washing over the windshield as he drives. They are both married. He asks about her husband and flashback images supplant their faces on the screen, a movie set, her husband is an actor, no, a stunt man. The cool, lulling story line is broken by cars crashing into each other, the sound of metal scraping, rending, cars colliding; cars bursting into flames on the screen in color. It was that night again. The overwhelming smell of gasoline, oil, the acrid odor of burned rubber. I felt ill in the pit of my stomach.
I squeezed Ingrid’s arm. "I have to go," I whispered, " It’s okay, I’ll be right back."
I ran to the lobby and punched into the men’s restroom. It was vacant. I burst into heaving sobs, my eyes welling over with tears. Pressing my back to the white wall, my legs shaking, gave under me. I slid to the cold tile floor. Shivering uncontrollably, I wrapped my arms around myself. Why does that night always come back, that image of Karen. Clutching my shoulders, my fingers dug into my flesh, the tears coursing down my cheeks in crooked traces. If anyone came in... snot was trailing from my nose. Please forgive me, please, please, please, forgive me, forgive me, please forgive me. I rocked back and forth mouthing silently my miserable mantra, not knowing anymore who I was asking forgiveness of, Karen, her parents, God, Ingrid? Everyone, all of them? I pushed myself up off the floor. I leaned over one of the porcelain sinks. I cranked the spoked handle. The water surged from the faucet. Cupping my hands, it bubbled and effervesced through my fingers. I slapped my face with the cold water, my mouth and eyes sprung wide. Dripping, I yanked on the thin cotton towel looping down from the wall dispenser. I rubbed my face hard. I blew my nose. In the mirror, my eyes still burned red. It was dark in the theatre, she wouldn’t notice. I took a deep breath and licked my lips, wiped my palms on my jeans and opened the door. Ingrid was standing there, a concerned look on her face.
"I was worried." She looked me in the eyes. "It is a sad movie, yes? You think Anouk Aimee beautiful?" When I was silent, "We can leave if you do not feel good."
I shook my head.
"Then let us go back to our seats and watch the rest of the film. Please." She gathered my hand in hers.
We sat down. Her fingers tentatively massaged the back of my hand. We shared the popcorn, but separately, silently, watching the images unfold on the screen, the rain drenched scenes, the seductive music. Jean-Louis Trintignant’s character was a test car driver, a race car driver. The film continued to spool out and when he held Anouk Aimee’s hand on the screen, I took Ingrid’s hand in mine. She looked at me. I gently squeezed her fingers. I leaned over and kissed her. There was a scene in a hospital with a critically injured driver and his distraught wife. My mouth went dry as paper. I motioned for the Coke. But it was okay. It was over. I had pushed it back once more. On the screen they finally made love, bittersweet and in black and white. I imagined us together, her naked body under mine, how it would be. The lovers part, she boards the train. He stands alone. "Crazy to refuse happiness," the subtitles read. He gets in his car and races to the next stop, meeting her at the station, they embrace the camera swirling around them. And then the theme music, haunting and sweet. Ingrid was wiping her eyes. I pulled her to me and patted and rubbed her back. She laughed sighing through her tears.
"I am so foolish."
"No. Not at all. You were right. It is a sad movie."
"But, beautiful, yes?"
"Yes, very. Let’s go get something to eat, a snack. What do you say?"
"I say, yes!"
We dropped our trash in the white bullet-shaped canister in the lobby.
Outside, it was still raining. We slipped off our sandals under the marquee. I popped open my umbrella . Ingrid lit a Gitanes.
"I know just the place," I said, "and it won’t be crowded."
"Oui?" She expelled a thin stream of pale smoke as we stepped under the curtain of rain, our feet splashing on the wet pavement, the lights of Kirkwood haloed and shimmering before us.
"And they serve Coke!"
She laughed and hugged close to me. It was just a couple blocks, the blue and red neon of ‘Ladyman’s Café’ pulsing brightly, the daily specials painted on the window in slanting fat white letters.
"Here we are! If you want ‘American’, this is the place." I folded the umbrella and opened the door. We stepped in.
"Uh-uh, you can’t eat here," The waitress in the rumpled pink and white institutional dress informed us, looking up from the table she was wiping with a cloth. "You have to..." our sandals dropped to the floor in front of us. We slipped them on. She turned back giving the table a final swipe.
"Counter or booth?" she asked.
"Booth,"we answered in unison. We laughed. Ingrid slid into the nearest one, the bench seat an overstuffed orange leather, fat round buttons punched into the rolled cushions.
"I’ll give you two a moment," she said and clopped away.
I pulled two plastic covered menus from the chrome rack on the table."Let me know if you need me to translate anything," I said, handing her one. She laughed.
The waitress returned with two scratched plastic glasses of ice water. Her hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red, strategically pierced with bobby pins. She wore more than enough make-up, and it looked as if there was a portion of every dish she had served during her shift smeared on her apron.
"I will have a Coca-Cola. You have this?"
"Sure ‘nuff. And you honey?"
"We want separate checks," Ingrid interjected.
Her pencil poised above her green pad, the waitress raised an eyebrow.
"Flip the page. I’ll have a slice of apple pie and coffee."
Ingrid smiled.
"Be right back."
"Jason, the film, you did not like?"
"Yes, I liked it, the foggy early morning seaside with all the ocean spray, the silver- gray beaches. Just some scenes..."
"Some scenes?"
"The guy always seemed to be in his car driving in the rain, the wipers going. Does it rain that much in France?"
"Not in Nice, just a little."
The waitress returned with our order.
"Here you are, sweeties." She set the curved glass of Coke and a straw in front of Ingrid and placed the thick cup of coffee by me as well as the pie. "Enjoy. You can pay at the register."
"Thanks," I offered.
The paper shaft sailed across the table lightly bonking me on the forehead. Ingrid plunged her straw into the Coke, averting her eyes. She finally looked up and laughed.
"Cute." I wadded up the wrapper and tossed it back at her. She deflected it with her hand. I cut into my pie. "Ummm, you’ve got to try this. It’s really good!" I lifted a forkful and held it out to her. She leaned forward, looking in my eyes as her lips closed over the tines. She sat back.
"Ummm, yes, this is good, sweet."
I sipped the hot coffee.
"Jason," she looked at me, a serious cast to her face. "The cars in the film, they upset you? You left, after the montage of car crashes."
"Yeah, They made me think of something bad that happened to me." I tipped the cup to my lips again.
"You were in a car accident?"
"Yeah."
"You were hurt?"
"No." I shook my head.
She took a long sip of her Coke. "Someone else is hurt? Did you drive this car?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I did." I stuffed a piece of pie in my mouth.
"Who was hurt? Was someone...tue’? Killed."
"Yes. Listen, Ingrid, I’d rather..." I held the hot cup in both hands the steam obscuring my eyes. I squeezed them shut, opened them, breathed out and set the cup down.
"It was my girlfriend." I stopped. "It happened two years ago..." I couldn’t continue. "It was my fault. I shouldn’t have...stupid." I stood up. " Let’s go."
"I am sorry, Jason, I do not mean to... I do not want... Sit. Please." She looked at me.
I sat down. I could feel the heat gather behind my eyes. I held it in.
"Please forgive me," she said, her fingers locked with mine.
I had to stand. I laid a dollar on the table trying not to look at her. "Forgive you?" She was beside me. "Ingrid..." Under the florescent glare I hugged her, crushed her to me, held her hard against me.
She hugged me back . "Let it go," she said, softly, "let it go."
I paid at the counter, the full bill. Ingrid didn’t protest. When we left, the waitress turned the sign in the window, CLOSED. I pushed open the umbrella and we removed our sandals, by now it seemed a ritual of sorts, the rain spattering in waves across the pavement.
I peered in the window at the wall clock. "Eleven-thirty. She must have stayed open for us."
"Jason," Ingrid’s face close, "do not blame yourself. Please, live for you. In the film, remember? The train station? What Jean Paul said? ‘Il est fou de refuser le bonheur.’ ‘It is crazy to refuse happiness.’ You must not."
"I’m trying. But what’s it all worth? What’s any of it worth?"
Her dark eyes glistening. "Me," she said .
As we walked hand in hand huddled under my umbrella back down Kirkwood toward the campus, the bell tower in the old Student Building tolled the quarter hour.
"Jason!" She grabbed my arm. "I want to be a co-ed!"
"What?"
"The Well House! The tradition. You do not know?"
"Sorry, that’s so square."
"No! No! I want this! At midnight you kiss me in the Well House and I am a co-ed. It is tradition. I want this! Yes! Please?!"
"Okay. Okay."
"We must hurry!"
Our feet flashing over the wet pavement, we spotted it’s red-tiled dome, the carved limestone pillars, half-hidden by the undergrowth, the dark dripping trees.
We ran inside. I threw down my open umbrella, spinning like a broken top, as we collapsed on the smooth, stone bench. We laughed as we caught our breath.
"There is a fountain." She was looking at an ornate iron pedestal in the middle of the floor.
"Why," I breathed. "You need a drink?" I flipped her with water. She laughed .
Then the bell, pendulous, chimed, it’s notes, sonorous with the weight of decades, a prelude before it tolled the hour.
"Jason."
I clasped her fingers and we stood. "Do we kiss in the center, sit under the stain-glass, where?"
"I do not know."
"Or just this." I kissed her as the tower bell tolled, the first strike toward midnight. Her hands slid around my waist, hooking together at the small of my back. I cradled her head, her dark luminous hair in my hand and kissed her again. The bell reverberated through the drizzling night. Again and again our lips met in tender kisses, hungry kisses, then our tongues, hesitant, then hungry, thrusting, anxious. Her hands released, slipped lower pulling me closer as the bell tolled unrelenting, pushing lives, moments, irrevocably behind us. All we had, all we would ever have was now.
The dim light in the domed ceiling flickered above us. She let my fingers fumble her buttons, massage the front of her blouse, then slip inside to cup her cool breast, her nipple hard beneath my palm. The bell tolled and the rain faded; sounds from deep in her throat. I felt her heaving heart. The bell tolled, our bodies glued together. Kiss after kiss, twelve kisses, the bell tolled, the last tone, decaying through the mist veiled night. Our lips held, then parted.
She buttoned her blouse.
" It’s not raining now," I stuck my hand out from the enclosure, " just dripping from the leaves. Come on."
We stepped from the dry shelter to the damp pavement. I led her into the dark undergrowth, the cloak of night, the thick twining of leaves and vines, new twigs laden with water, spraying us as we passed.
"Ou’ prenez-vous de moi? Where are you taking me?"
"Shhhh."
Our bare feet stepped upon the spongy ivy that carpeted the ground. I stopped at a wide oak, far enough in to be secluded in the glade. I turned to her and pressed her gently to the corrugated trunk, my cold toes touching hers. We kissed, my fingers softly on her cheek; the silky folds of fabric under my hand, her breast; her skirt a different texture; her leg, cool. I slid my hand up, pushing under the hem of her skirt, seeking the tenderness between her thighs.
She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "Jason, que faites-vous?"
"Shhhh... shhhh."
Her words fell like beautiful stones to the forest floor. My lips pressed to hers, my hand caressed higher. She wore no panties. My fingers surprised, laced her curls. She opened to me, yielding, warm, wet as the night enveloping us. Her arms encircled me, her fingers hard, insistent. She pulled her lips from mine, laying her head on my shoulder, her breathing, hard. I was a blind man, lost, my fingers seeking some meaning, some reason. She made small sounds indistinguishable from the night. Her teeth found my ear, her bites tender at first, then her breathing grew clipped. She bit hard, as she shivered beneath me. I bore the pain, kept plying her, until her teeth released and she exhaled, "Jason!"
Her arms uncoiled. My hand slipped away. I stepped back. Her face and limbs glistened pale in the darkness.
She placed her hand on the front of my jeans and softly squeezed. She smiled, turning me stumbling around, a twig snapped, poked my heel. She positioned me against the tree.
"Ingrid you don’t ha..."
"Shhh," she hushed.
Using both of her hands she unbuckled my belt, popped the metal button and pulled my zipper down. She pressed her body to mine, her breath hot on my cheek. I felt her cool hand slip under the elastic waist band, her slender fingers encircle me. She held me gently, firmly.
"Mmmmm. You like this?" Her hand began slipping rhythmically up and down.
"Yes," I breathed.
"I think you need this."
The black pools of her eyes close to mine, her breasts pressed to my heaving chest, she quickened her motions.
She felt what was happening. "Yes, yes. This is good. Let go, Jason, let go."
I expelled my breath like my very soul. I found her lips. I kissed her as if it were the end of the world.
Her lips broke from mine. Her hand withdrew. She raised her arm to her head. "Ooh, my hair, it is so wet."
"Yeah. My-- pant legs-- they’re soaked."
I zipped up and buckled my jeans. I put my arm around her and held her for just a moment before we slipped out of the leafy den. My umbrella still lay defeated, tipped crazily on the floor of the Well House.
"I need to get you back. I think your carriage has already turned into a pumpkin." I retrieved the umbrella and snapped it shut. I laid it across my shoulder like a rifle, our sandals dangling from the handle like hunting trophies; hunters, home from the hills.
"Oh, Jason! I am so sorry!" She clasped her hand to her mouth.
"What? Why?"
"Your ear. There is blood."
I touched my fingers gingerly to the sore part and held them out, the tips dark.
I smiled. "It’s all right. You know I..." What? What did I know? Was I going to say, ‘I love you’? She would think it phony, lust talking, hear the impossibility in it. "Let’s go," I said.
The campus lamp posts were a dim refrain as we traversed the washed sidewalks curving around the illumined back side of the Memorial Union. It wasn’t until we had passed Beck Chapel and crossed the trickle of the Jordan River that I noticed the thicket of pale leaves fringed in flickering red light, heard the bull horn.
When we cleared the over-hanging branches, I saw at least three police cars angled in front of the Quonset hut that housed the Spectator office. No sirens, just the silently rotating beams of the police cruisers bathing everything in red. There were men milling around, some in uniform, others in rain slickers or trench coats. One held a red and white bullhorn at his side. A white box truck and a jail van were parked near by.
We had to get a better look. Cutting across the rain slick street, we headed for the side of Woodburn Hall. It had jutting limestone corners and shrubs, sticky shadows that would cling to us.
The bull horn burped , "You are now in violation of University sanctions. You are now committing trespass on university property and in danger of being put on probation or expelled."
We scooted around a low bush and hugged the rough block wall.
"You need to vacate the premises at once, no negotiations, no further time extensions will be acknowledged or accepted. If you fail to vacate, all equipment will be liable to seizure and you will be subject to arrest. You must come out now." The bull horn squawked off. Several of the police officers conferred with the man with the horn. He lifted it again. " We also have information you are harboring a runaway. She must be surrendered immediately." There was a long pause. "We will be coming in if you do not accede to these demands."
"Ingrid, they’re talking about Andmoreagain."
Now, there was an axe, the man in the trench-coat had a long handled fireman’s axe. He cocked it back in his hands and swung hard. The blade bit into the door splintering the wood with a loud ‘thwack’. There were muffled shouts from inside that I couldn’t make out. Rocking it back and forth, he squeaked it free, and again the axe head slammed into the door. They were trying to break the lock. One of the police opened the back of the jail van.
The door took another hit from the axe and splintered. The hollering from inside was louder. Then the scene exploded. It was like knocking down a wasp nest. Those holed up inside swarmed out from behind the shattered door. There was chaos as The Spectator staff broke from the Quonset hut. Men, women; I craned my neck, I thought I saw Wolfman. There was Andmoreagain, cutting loose from the tangle of bodies. She started to run, but was tackled from behind by a burly officer slamming her hard to the pavement.
"Get your hands off me, motherfucker!" Andmoreagain screamed as her arm was violently wrenched behind her back and the cop snapped a cuff on her wrist. "Motherfucking pig! Hands off, pig!" Her other wrist was cuffed. "Owww! You’re hurting me, motherfucker! Wolf! Wolf!"
Students were being handcuffed and hustled into the van. Others were struggling under thick knees jammed into their backs. There was Wolf! A policeman lunged for him, grabbing at his shirt. Wolf bobbed and weaved and squirted away. The man wearing the trench-coat tried to stop him. He braced himself and held his axe out, horizontal, like a bar. Wolf rammed into him, knocking him down, the axe skittering across the asphalt. Not breaking his stride, Wolf stooped, grabbing it’s handle.
The cop was dragging Andmoreagain contorting and kicking toward the jail van.
Wolf swung toward them, wielding the axe high over his head, yelling, "Let her go, you Fascist pig!"
The officer pushed Andmoreagain to the pavement, unbuckling the safety strap on his holster.
She whipped her head around, "Wolf! "
Wolf seized both ends of the handle and hurled the axe broadside at the officer’s face. It smacked his head like a steel pancake, hard, knocking him dazed to the ground.
Wolfman stood there for a frozen second, staring at her.
"Run, Wolf," she shouted.
He turned, dashing toward us, shadows among shadows.
A policeman pounded after him.
Andmoreagain, still cuffed, struggled to her feet. The groggy cop hooked his arm around her ankles and yanked. She fell flat on her ass. He pounced on her.
I still don’t know what made me react. I was there, my back pressed to the cold stone of Woodburn Hall. Then I was moving, running. Wolf saw me, his eyes fried with confusion and fear, his cheeks shiny with perspiration, his curls tattooed to his forehead. As he rocketed past I collided with the officer hot on his heels. We both hit the pavement hard. The world was roaring, spinning. I saw Wolf dash down the sparsely lit trail, twisting around he raised his arm in the power salute, his fist clenched, before he disappeared into the heart of the campus.
The officer was instantly on me, wrapping his iron arms like a pretzel around my neck . I was choking as I struggled beneath his weight.
Ingrid was calling out, "Descendez-le! Laissez-le tranquille! Il est innocent! Innocent! Innocent!"
Andmoreagain was crying, "Let him go, you motherfucking, pig!"
Another officer rushed over; shiny black shoes with thick soles.
"Shit, Frank. He’s not one of them. Look," his head jerked toward Ingrid, "there’s his chickie. Let him go. Hell, what did you do to him? There’s blood on the side of his face."
The officer broke his hold, shoved my head hard and stood up. "I didn’t do shit. It’s just a scrape."
I doubled over, seized in a coughing fit. Ingrid crouched next to me, holding me, cradling my head.
"You two need to get lost or I’ll slap you with interfering with an officer," the cop said.
"Vous ne sont rien mais une truie."
"French, huh?" Then he addressed me. I didn’t look at him. "You think you’re the big hero, kid, helping your buddy escape? He won’t go far. We’ll catch him, and he’ll have some stiff charges waiting. How ‘bout child molest and assault and battery on an officer for starters. You Communist punks! If I had my way..."
"Come on, Frank. Chuck needs help with that blonde bitch. She won’t shut up."
They double-timed over to the officer struggling with Andmoreagain. She was all elbows and knees, kicking, spitting, screaming profanity, trying to scratch anyone who came near.
One of them clamped hold of her shackled wrists, another grabbed her jerking ankles, hoisting her up. As she squirmed in their grasp, her left breast popped out.
"Well, looky here," one of them chuckled, "a little bonus. You need to wear a bra, sugar."
The other officer ran to the police car and sprang the rear door open as they awkwardly trundled over her bucking torso. They heaved her in like a sack of potatoes and slammed it shut. Her feet kicked at the side window, as the two officers slid into the front from opposite sides. I heard them laugh as they revved the engine. The car violently lurched forward then screeched to a stop. Andmoreagain’s feet flailed upwards, then disappeared as she was hurled from the seat to the floorboards. The squad car sped off down Seventh Street toward town.
"Jason," Ingrid looked at me, " you are all right? Why does this happen? Pourquoi?" She helped me up.
" It was just a newspaper!" I gasped. " Was it that dangerous?"
"I do not know. Je ne comprends pas."
"Ingrid. What they did to Andmoreagain? She’s just a kid. And Wolf. What’s going to happen to Wolf? I can’t understand any of this."
We just held each other. I remembered the stupid umbrella and our sandals cast off by the side of Woodburn and retrieved them. We started on our way back to Briscoe, giving the area of police activity a wide berth. I looked over and the curb in front of the Quonset hut was piled with desks, chairs, filing cabinets, typewriters, a mimeograph machine, even a couch. They were in the process of loading it into the truck.
The reality of it all truly smacked into me when we were opposite the Little ‘5' track.
"We’ve got to find a phone. I’ve got to call Warlock!"
We found a phone booth on Tenth Street. I was shaking from the adrenaline rush and the cool of the night. We wedged ourselves inside, the umbrella was a comedy routine. Ingrid accordioned the glass door panels closed. I lifted the receiver and thumbed a dime into the telephone slot and dialed, Ingrid holding close to me. The phone at the other end started to ring. The long night was beginning to weigh on me. It rang and rang and rang. I wasn’t looking forward to the upward trek on Fee Avenue to our dorms. Where was he?
"What?" Warlock’s voice sounded thick as wool, a county away. "What time is it? Who is this?"
"It’s me, Jase, listen carefully. The cops raided The Spectator office. Wolfman is in serious trouble. He assaulted a cop. He’s run off. Are you still there?
"Sure. Yeah, I’m here. I’m with you." His voice bobbed up and down like a cork on the surface of consciousness.
"If you have any stash in your room you need to get rid of it. I’m sure the cops will get a search warrant and go through his stuff. They’ll be looking for him."
That woke him up. "Where’s Wolfman now?"
"I don’t know. He took off!"
"They’ve arrested Andmoreagain."
"What?! I can’t fucking believe..."
"Listen, I’ve got to hang up. I’m cold and tired and... Just do what I said."
"Don’t worry. I owe you, man."
I clacked the phone back in it’s cradle. I managed to turn, Ingrid’s soft warmth pressed against me, concern and worry in her eyes. "I wish the circumstances..."
"Oui." She wedged the door open with her heel.
We hiked back to Briscoe, our arms around each other.
In the deserted foyer we held hands and kissed again, something so chaste.
"Jason, what can I say?" She hugged me. "Je vous l’amour peut aussi facilement."
I wrinkled my brow and looked at her.
"If I wanted you to know, I would have used English. Good night, Jason." She kissed me and stepped into the elevator. The doors slid closed.
My feet led my tired body back to McNutt. All I wanted now was my pillow and blanket.
The scallop roofed concourse pulled me to the stairwell, the stairway to my floor. It never seemed so long. I limped down the hall and there was my pillow and blanket piled in front of the door to our room. I knew what the Scotch-taped note would say, but I read it anyway. HAUL YOUR STUFF TO THE LOUNGE. PLEASE!!! TANX, H. He still couldn’t spell thanks. Hunter had Joey with him. They were probably too stoned to drag their sorry asses over to her apartment. I juggled the umbrella as I gathered up my bedding and made my way to the lounge, not my favorite place. Then inspiration struck. I knocked on Warlock’s door.
"Jase. Come on in. I’ve taken care of it. Thanks, for the lowdown. What happened to your ear? It’s all caked with blood."
I touched it and smiled.
"Cops?"
"Warlock, big favor. I’m about to collapse, can I sleep in Wolfman’s bed? I don’t think he’ll be back tonight."
"Sure. Tell me what happened."
"It’s all too much. Here have an umbrella." I held it out to him. It dropped to the floor. I unfurled my blanket, tossing my pillow to the head of the bed. "I’ll tell you tomorrow." I shucked my bell-bottoms and burrowed under the blanket.
"Tomorrow’s already today, man."