Hare in March (6 page)

Well, maybe she had no feeling in her breasts.

There had been a girl Charles had dated in high school, who always giggled when Charles touched her there: “I can’t
help
it! It tickles,” and another who gently reproved him once, “Too much of that can hurt like the dickens!” But Lois would look into his eyes very solemnly and say, “I won’t be able to stop you from doing anything you want to do to me if you keep that up,” which was not true, because she usually stopped him soon after she said it, if she were going to talk at all at a time like that, but he did not feel angry or foolish or clumsy; she was not an artless girl in any situation.

What they did in the park was listen to the songs on the radio and drink and talk; that was 85 percent of it; the 15 percent, the kissing and all that, came at the very end, the last half hour; it was their pre-Bluebird ritual, though there was no guarantee that Charles would get her to go with him to the motel each time. There were times (two) when she had astonished him by saying, “Can we go to the Bluebird?” as though he had not called in advance to reserve the room, and times when they had long arguments in front of the Bluebird, until Charles gave up and got out of the car only long enough to pay for the room; and there were the times he won the arguments, despite her insistence that she had to go back to the dorm immediately (“Now, oy haf to gow!”), when they would leave before closing hour at the dorm, and she would drop him off at Pi Pi, and blow him a kiss, and give her horn a little honk as she drove away, and he would go inside drugged with love, wondering what he could steal next.

• • •

She drank Southern Comfort, because she hated the taste of most hard liquor, and he drank the worst kind of house brand rotgut, which he always poured into a pint bottle of Haig and Haig, and the conversation began pretty much the way it did that night.

“The third song that plays after this one, has a special message for you.” Nancy Sinatra was singing “Boots” and the rain was falling against the windshield and splashing over the roof, and they had cigarettes going and shot glasses they had stolen from the 76 House in Old Tappan, for their drinks.

“A message about what?”

“The kind of man you’ll marry.”

“ ‘Daddy,’ “ she sang, “ ‘I want a diamond ring, champagne, everything — ’ “

“Wait and see what it is,” he said; they played this game over and over: the messages from songs. She sighed and wound her violet chiffon scarf around her hand and said, “You don’t even know where to buy a Pucci, do you?”

“In New York.”

“Where?”

“At their store.”

“See? You
don’t
know! They don’t have a store!”

“You said they had one on Fifth Avenue.”

“That’s Gucci! You’re really thick!”

“Okay, that’s Gucci.”

“You don’t even know what they sell!”

“Leather. Pocketbooks.”

“Pocketbooks? Where did you get that word?” “Pocketbooks?”

“You don’t say that anymore. You say purse or handbag.” “Oh.”

“You’re really a hick.”

“Where do I get a Pucci then?”

“You won’t get me one. I know that.”

“I said I would.”

“I wouldn’t accept it. It’s too much money.” “That’s for me to decide.” “You can get them at Sak’s Fifth Avenue.” “Them? How many do you want?”

“Lots! I want lots of everything expensive … Charles?” “What?”

“Do you think I’m grabby?” “No.”

“Yes I am.” “Okay, you are.”

“I’ve been told that I am, and I am.” “Did you ever see spiders mate?” “No.”

“I watched these Pisauras when I was home, at my dad’s lab. The male would take a fly and spin it into a round lump, and then he’d carry it with his chelicerae to the female. He’d be — “

“Is that what you’re going to be?”

“What?”

“A zoologist like your father?”

“I don’t know yet … Anyway, the male spider would carry the fly up to the female, with his hind end shaking and his feelers out, and she’d just sit there and watch him. And he’d be all worked up, and he’d present her with the fly, and
pffft,
she’d scramble away. The damn fly would fall, and the spider would have to go after another one. Eventually, the female would accept it, and then while she was eating it, he’d hop on her; but it all worked on whim. Her whim.”

“Do you
like
bugs?”

“It’s interesting work. My dad’s lab is one of the most beautiful rooms I’ve ever seen. These breeding cases are all lit up, and there’re a lot of green plants inside that make shadows on the white walls, and instead of a phone ringing, which would disturb things — the noise would distract — there’s a blue light that flashes when a call comes through.”

“I hate my father for being a dentist.”

“I’d love you to see the lab.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Would you really?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I think you’d be fascinated by some of the experiments. Do you know, there are some Mexican lizards which reproduce themselves without male partners. What’s their name again? It’s on the tip of my tongue. They’re about ten inches long, very quick-moving lizards. Their way of reproducing themselves is called parthenogenesis. The egg’s developed from a virgin female without fertilization by spermatozoa.”

“You know a lot about zoology, don’t you?”

“Sure. My dad brought me up on it. My brother wasn’t interested in it. Parthenogenesis isn’t as rare as you might think. Certain insects and — “

She said, “What does he do, just lie there all day?”

“Who?”

“Your brother.”

“He’s a vegetable. He just lies there. Certain insects and crustaceans and worms reproduce themselves — “

“It’s depressing,” she said. “Doesn’t it depress you?” “I don’t think about it.”

“If anything like that ever happened to me, I wouldn’t want to live.”

“You wouldn’t know the difference. He doesn’t know the difference. Let me tell you about these lizards. What’s their name? It’s on the tip of my — “

“Here’s my song, Charles! Listen!”

She said, “Turn the dial. I hate it!”

“You know something about that song? My roommate — ”

“Please! Turn the dial, Charles!”

“If you’d just listen a minute, I’ll tell you something very funny that Dan Thorpe did with this song and — “

“No! It’s a depressing song, and you said it had a special message for me!”

Charles turned the dial; he got Nancy Wilson singing “More.”

“That’s better, isn’t it?” he said.

“I’m nowhere.”

“Oh, stop, Lois.”

“I’m a real nowhere girl, going nowhere. I’ll probably end up in the suburbs going to Hadassah meetings.” Charles laughed.

“Don’t laugh. It’s not a bit funny! Do you think I’ll meet any rich men
here?”

“I’m
going to buy you a Pucci,” Charles smiled.

“No you’re not. I know you’re not.”

“I’ve never broken a promise to you yet.”

“I’m nowhere, and I’m making nowhere plans for nobody.”

“The name of that lizard is Cnemidophorus tessellatus. I just thought of it. Cnemidophorus tessellatus.”

“I wish I were like you, Charles.”

“Why?”

“You don’t care. It doesn’t bother you not to have things.”

“I’ll get you things. Then it won’t bother you. Okay?”

She gave him one of her wistful smiles and put her cigarette out the window. She looked at him a moment, and then she said, “What’s taking you so long to touch me.”

Charles smiled back while his stomach flipped. “I thought it was too early.”

She said, “It isn’t.”

He started to reach for her, but she caught his hands in hers, brought them to her lips, and said, “Not here.” She kissed his hands and put them back in his lap. “We’ll go to the bluebird of happiness.”

“All right,” Charles said, trying to sound cool.

She started the car. “Do you like Nancy Wilson?” she said.

“Yes.”

“So do I. This is a pretty song. ‘More.’ “ “Very!” Charles agreed.

They swung onto the winding road leading out of Grand view Park.

She said, “But I do not like lizards. I like Barbra Streisand, and I like the dress I’m going to wear to the Rabbit Hop. It’s a Dior.”

“Is it?” She was probably crazy, Charles decided.

“No.”

“What’s it like?”

She told him, in great detail, while he sat watching the rain, trying to contain his excitement. He sneaked a look at his wristwatch, wary now of anything he did or said, for fear she would change her mind. It was only quarter to nine, the earliest they had ever been to the motel; that gave them three and a half hours. Dazzled, Charles shut his eyes and saw on the screen of his thoughts all they would do, heard all they would say, and planned to pick up his stereophonic phonograph when he went home for Easter Sunday, stay on until Monday to sell it, and buy the Pucci before he came back…. That still left a good day’s work finding the money for the Rabbit Hop, and tomorrow was the start of the damn Divine Comedy. He decided to try and hit the Coke machines and laundromats in the Pi Pi basement when he got back to the house; they would probably be good for fifteen or twenty dollars, if he could get into them.

When they pulled into the Bluebird and stopped before the office, she put her hand on Charles’s arm as he was about to get out and pay the clerk. “No!”

“No?”

“You heard me.”

“Don’t pull this, Lois. My God!”

“Can’t I pay for a change?”

“What?”

“For you have a gambling debt,” she said. Then she opened the door on her side and got out, and walked through the rain to the entrance of the office.

Dumbstruck, Charles watched while she stood at the counter inside, and opened her handbag, and passed bills across to the man. She had the flimsy, violet-colored chiffon scarf over her hair, and a shaggy llama coat, and the smell of her perfume, Celui, was there in the car.

During those few moments, Charles Shepley fell in love with her.

When she got back inside the car, she said, “Here’s a quarter for the ice machine.”

She pressed the quarter into his palm. “You prefer your Scotch with ice, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“We’re in Number Six, Charles. Watch for Six. I think I ran a stocking.” “Six,” he managed.

The radio played while Charles fixed his drink in the glass from the bathroom, and she hung up her dress on a hanger. She sat on the bed, in her slip and stockings and heels, and lit two cigarettes, one for Charles. He took it and sat on the footstool near the bed, not to hurry things; he didn’t take off his tie or his coat. He would do it all at once in the bathroom before a quick shower. It was a sticky, warm March night.

She said, “Don’t you want to sit here?” patting the bed.

“Sure.”

He moved up and sat beside her, almost touching but not touching.

She said, “I like this tacky old place. I always have.” “So have I.”

“Even the stains on the wallpaper.” “Yes, even that.”

“You’re very good for me, aren’t you, Charles?” “I hope I am.” “You are, you know.”

She took his hand again; she brought it up and put it near her neck, rubbing her chin against it. When she let go of it, he put his arms around her and for a long time they kissed. He slipped the straps of her bra down and touched her and both of them were getting excited; she was catching her breath and whispering “oh” and murmuring “ssssss” and finally Charles told her, “I’ll be right back.”

“Shall I fix you another drink?”

“That’s still pretty new, but thanks.”

“Do you think you’ll
love
the dress I wear to the Rabbit Hop?”

“Yes. I’ll love it.”

“I know you will. You’ll love it a lot. It’s a very expensive Balenciaga purchased for me at great cost by my wealthy family.”

Charles laughed, “I’ll be out in a second.”

“And I have many, many like it,” she said, “I have tons of Norells and Balenciagas and St. Laurents and — name it!”

He was not going to take a shower. He stripped off his clothes and wiped his body with a wet towel, soaping his hands and face and under his arms, and rinsing off his feet.

As he dried himself he decided he would cut off his legs for her; anything …
anything.

He wrapped a clean towel around his waist, combed his hair, and gave his reflection a smile and a wink.

The room was empty.

He went to the door and called her name. Then he saw that the car was gone.

There was a note on the bed.

This here Pisaura spider scrambled down the web — pffft — and ran away. What do you know about that?

She had even spelled Pisaura right.

Charles Shepley fell face down on the bed, and pounded the pillow with his fist.

“Every pledge in the place is signed out for Easter Sunday,” said Hagerman.

Burroughs only nodded. He was sitting on his bed in his Hawaiian Perma-prest pajamas, holding a tube of Crest and his Py-Co-Pay, but not making a move to go down the hall and use them. Hagerman knew he was still brooding over their plans for Shepley and Thorpe the next day; Hagerman wanted to get off that subject before Bud changed his mind, and ruined the Inferno.

The four sugar cubes which Bud had brought from the lab were sitting on Hagerman’s desk, wrapped in aluminum foil. The Pi Pi refrigerator was kept locked to prevent raiding parties, but Hagerman had his own key. Mother Varner had given him one, so he could keep his medicine there. He kept it in a pigskin Mark Cross zipper case; there was a lock on that too. Hagerman never said what his medicine was, beyond the fact that it was for his nerves. He would rather die than admit that the case contained Compazine suppositories. They were tranquilizers, not laxatives — that was some comfort — but Hagerman was one of those people who would often allow himself to become constipated rather than use the bathroom when others were using it; he was the sort who had managed to make anything to do with that part of his body into a taboo that loomed as large in his thoughts as sex did in the thoughts of an adolescent boy. He seldom used the Pi Pi john; he drove in search of Shell signs and the flying red horse, and he frequented the seedy rest rooms of road stands and sandwich shops. He suffered from bouts of colitis and hid tubes of Preparation H under his socks in his bureau. On bad nights he worried that he had cancer and a colostomy would be performed on him. The only one who knew his guilty secret was Burroughs, to whom he had made a drunken confession. He had regretted it ever since. On rare occasions when Burroughs did not accept Hagerman’s word as gospel, Hagerman took that thread and wove it into a tapestry depicting Burroughs’ growing disrespect for Hagerman, dating back to that rainy afternoon downstairs in the Pi Pi Pub, when Hagerman had whispered the truth about his physical condition.

Burroughs seldom crossed Hagerman, though; if he lost his temper with Hagerman, he was quick to pacify him minutes later, and in the process of pacification, to make promises he would not normally make. That was the situation Hagerman had him in that night; that accounted for the dejection, the mutism, the unbrushed teeth, and for Hagerman’s desire to get Burroughs’ mind off the sugar cubes on the desk, onto anything that might propel him back to the routine tasks of an evening and allow Hagerman to secure the treated sweets in his Mark Cross case downstairs.

Said Hagerman, “Most of the actives are signed out for Easter Sunday, too.”

A grunt for an answer.

“That doesn’t surprise me, but it does surprise me about the pledges.” “Uh-huh.”

“We don’t have that many from around here. Just Shepley and Kent and Gaelen.” “Ummm.”

“The rest are all from New England or the Midwest. They’ve all found a place to go, though.” “Ummm.”

“Is it a big day at your house?” Burroughs only shrugged.

Hagerman said, “I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do.”

Burroughs had never asked Hagerman to his house; he lived right in Far Point, a ten-minute drive from the college, and he went home every Sunday, and sometimes for dinner on a week night, but he had never suggested that Hagerman come along. It had been Hagerman who had gotten him into Pi Delta Pi. The fraternity was not at all keen on “townies.” Townies were invariably druggists’ sons or opticians’ sons or sons of Thom McAn shoe salesmen; they did nothing to enhance the fraternity in the eyes of National. National liked a good geographical distribution, as well; National was always after its local chapters to “put a pin in every state.”

What had impressed Hagerman about Burroughs was Burroughs’ eagerness. The style these days at Rush was to play it cool — not quite as cool as someone like Shepley might play it, but loose, unruffled; you didn’t walk around saying, “Gee, this is a
great
house!” as Burroughs had when he’d gone through Rush; you said, “Nice place,” if you were going to say anything at all — never, “This is the best house I’ve seen,” as Burroughs had, because that told anyone that the Dekes were not rushing you. The other frat houses were outhouses compared to the Dekes’ palace on Palisades Road.

But Hagerman argued before the brothers that a fraternity needed men who were really impressed by it; such men sparked a fraternity; they were the men who volunteered for the prosaic offices like Treasurer, Recording Secretary, Housemother Escort, “and,” Hagerman had finished dramatically, “Pledge Director. I am proud to say that I was every bit as enthusiastic as Burroughs when I came up that Pi Pi walk for the first time. And it’ll be the likes of me, and a Burroughs, who’ll send our checks to National long after we’ve gone down that front sidewalk for the last time!”

Burroughs had demonstrated his gratitude to Hagerman in every way possible but that one: asking him to his house.

Hagerman was not surprised; he was always riding Burroughs about being a son-of-a-cop, but Hagerman was secretly angry with Burroughs for not realizing that Peter Hagerman, were he ever asked to Burroughs’ house, would be charm incarnate.

Hagerman had never asked Burroughs home with him either; it was a thirty-minute drive across the George Washington Bridge, down the West Side Highway, and across to Sutton Place. There, in a three-story yellow-brick town house with tan shutters and an attached garage which housed a green Morgan, Leonard Hagerman held forth on the virtues of Hagerman Advertising Incorporated, which boiled down every time to a testimonial to Golden Boy himself. Old Len. Len Lovely, the Man.

Peter Hagerman had a little weasel face with beady eyes which were too close together, very small lips which were practically not there at all, and the kind of complexion yellow journalists often attributed to sex fiends — red-faced. His father had one of those faces which showed everything he was thinking, and sometimes when he looked at Peter, when he deigned to look at Peter, Hagerman could tell his old man was wondering how a handsome son-of-a-bitch like himself had ever spawned such a nebbish.

Hagerman had spent last weekend at Old Len’s and Peg Beauty’s, and near midnight of that Saturday, Len Lovely had cracked the Greek tourist account nut with another hot Hagerman special, in honor of which he had popped open a bottle of Mumm’s to toast his creation. He had swept into the observatory room, the room where he kept his telescope, and while Peter and his mother sat on the window seat waiting for the unveiling, he had clutched a piece of large white cardboard to him, and delivered a ten-minute lecture on how hard his work was and how impossible it would really be for him to excel without their support.
Their
support. There were not two of Hagerman’s mother. But he was a big man, Len Lovely, and a generous man, and his son was sitting right there; he must have figured he could afford to include the creep. It
was
Academy Award night, after all, wasn’t it? He had just won an Oscar, right?

Peg Beauty said, “Please show us, Len!”

Len the Man said, “In a minute, in a minute — ”

“Please, Len!”

“In a minute!”

“Dying!”

“One … two …
three!”

And there it was: a huge white space with a little tiny picture of the Acropolis in the center, and in big bold letters the word:

Underneath, the legend:

There was applause from Peg Beauty, and Hagerman managed a smile and a “Good,” and Peg Beauty rushed into Len Lovely’s arms and planted noisy kisses on his cheeks and mouth and neck.

“Do you really like it, Peg?”

“Oh, Len, yes. Yes!”

“I think I targeted right in on it.”

“You did. You targeted right in on it.”

“Greecemark. Greece will leave its mark on you. It won’t rub out. Should it be ‘it won’t
come
out’?”

“No rub. Rub’s perfect.”

“It won’t rub out.”

“It won’t rub out.”

“Greece will leave its mark on you. It won’t rub out.”

“Greecemark! Beautiful, Len.”

“You really like it?”

“I swear. I swear. It’s stunning.”

“I think it says it.”

“It does.”

“Greecemark.”

“Greece will leave its mark on you. It won’t rub out.”

Hagerman never would ask Burroughs home with him either, for fear Burroughs might ask, “Are you
sure
you live here?”

Last Sunday as Hagerman was leaving Old Len’s and Peg Beauty’s, Peg Beauty had said, “I’m giving a big party for your father at the Sign of the Dove next Sunday. He deserves a reward.”

In the second that followed, Peter Hagerman decided first to refuse to attend, and then to what-the-hell accept.

Then his mother said, “Enjoy your Easter, darling.”

Hagerman lit a cigarette and went across the room to retrieve Ursula Andress from the wastebasket, where she stood clutching her pistols. He carried it over to the wall and began pushing the nail attached to it back into the hole. “I’ve never really understood all the fuss over Easter,” he said.

Burroughs was like a dummy; he just sat there, frowning.

Hagerman said, “Guys like Blouter flying all the way to Saint Louis. Would you fly all the way to Saint Louis for Easter?”

“Hmmm?”

“I said, would you fly all the way to Saint Louis for Easter? Blouter flew all the way to Saint Louis.”

“I don’t know … I might … Listen, Peter, I don’t want to go through with it.”

Hagerman had been waiting for this, steeling himself against this.

“You made a promise, Bud.”

“I don’t feel right about it. We don’t have the right set-setting for one thing.”

“Don’t be an old maid, Bud.”

“The set-setting is very important. I explained that to you, Peter. Set and setting determine the direction of the whole LSD experience.”

“Let’s not get bogged down in the jargon, Bud … There … your girl friend’s back up on the wall.”

“Thanks, but it won’t work. You’re so damn obvious, Peter!”

“Why won’t it work? You said you’d agree if we had a controlled situation. Now, Buddy, I promised you we’ll do it up real nice for the boys. Didn’t I set it up like a picnic? Didn’t I? We’ll have a campfire and music and a quiet spot — hell, they’ll have themselves a ball.”

“You don’t believe that for a minute.”

“You convinced me.”

“Sure I did…. Peter, it
can
be a dangerous drug. If I take it, that’s one thing: I know what to expect, but Shepley and Thorpe don’t know anything about it!”

“We agreed to tell them, right? We’ll tell them as soon as it’s down inside their little tum-tums. ‘Fellows, that was not just soda pop you drank; that was an elixir which will turn you on as you have never before been turned on, so fasten your seat belts, gentlemen, you are about to take a trip.’ “

Burroughs groaned. “It just isn’t funny, Peter.”

“I won’t clown it up when we get there. I’ll be as serious as a priest. I’ll be Timothy Leary, I promise. I’ll be Aldous Huxley, I give you my word.”

“No … I can’t give it to them unless they want to take it.”

“Well, they’re not goint to
want
to take it, Bud! Use your head, Buddy! They’re probably as brainwashed as I was about LSD before
you
enlightened me, hmmm?”

Sometimes when Hagerman soft-soaped Burroughs, he was amazed at how gullible Bud was, and they were the times he felt tender toward him, as though it were all right for him to put Bud on, but he would kill anyone else who took advantage of Bud’s ingenuous nature; other times, not many, but times like this, when Bud seemed strong, Hagerman felt the beginnings of a landslide inside him, the first stirrings of something loosening, about to give, and his heartbeat seemed to pound right into his flesh, because he expected it from others, but not from Bud. He had stood up in chapter meeting and fought to get Bud in Pi Pi; he had gone way out on a limb for that boy, way out on a goddam twig.

Burroughs said, “I didn’t enlighten you. You still think the way you did; you’re just hoping for the worst…. It’s off, Peter.”

“Bud, you made a promise.”

“I can’t keep it.”

“Thanks, Bud. I’ll remember this. I’ll remember this for a long time.”

“You’d have worse memories if something went wrong tomorrow.”

“You said nothing could go wrong! You SAID that!” “I meant if I take it, Peter.”

“You SAID we could do it if we had a controlled SITUATION!”

“It isn’t controlled if they don’t know what they’re taking
before
they take it.”

“What the HELL am I supposed to DO with them tomorrow?”

“You talk about control.
Look
at you. Jesus!”

“I CARE about The Divine Comedy!”

“If you do, think it through. What do you think Blouter will say when they tell him that we gave them LSD?”

“They wouldn’t tell Blouter. They wouldn’t go running to Blouter like little tattletales.”

“You’re not thinking, Peter. If their trip didn’t turn out well, they’d sure as hell high-tail it to Blouter. Peter, I can’t get it across to you, can I? A lot of things could go wrong. For instance, Peter,” Burroughs stood up and waved his Py-Co-Pay to make his point, “we don’t know if a hundred and fifty micrograms is too much or too little. There’s a hundred and fifty micrograms of the stuff in each one of those sugar cubes. I say that’s about right for me, but I’m only guessing. If I were going to give LSD to you, I’d give you less — about a hundred micrograms — because you’re smaller than I am. Don’t you see? It’s not a simple matter.”

“Shepley and Thorpe are your size.”

“Their tolerance could still be different; their dispositions are different. Shepley’s the quiet type; we don’t know what the hell goes on inside Shepley. Thorpe’s got a thing about his body — did you ever see him put sun lotion on himself, up on the roof? He’s a narcissist or. something. Peter, don’t you get it? The stuff does strange things to people, particularly people who don’t know beans about it! Thorpe could think something was happening to his body — he’d go ape, Peter! He’d go ape if that happened. He hasn’t got anything to go by that’ll help him understand what would happen to him; neither has Shepley. I wasn’t thinking, Peter. Can’t you accept that? I just wasn’t thinking when I agreed to this.”