Bells Above Greens (9 page)

He twists his handlebars but the bicycle does not turn.  It slides across the concrete with its wheel sidelong.  The fatboy upends and rolls gently several times in the grass, making a giant rounded marshmallow track as long as a car, and the bicycle speeds away from him as if thrown, finding a place to sprawl among the empty bicycle racks.  He sits up against the white, his hands palm-down on the grass, and shakes the cobwebs from his head. 

The school hallways were wind tunnels where framed photos of priests and professors of old watched with glacial lifelike eyes from the walls, as if they themselves stood behind the walls, and banners and trophies filled the glass cases that whistled with cold. 

Radiator heaters and student’s bodies alike heated the classrooms, but when the doors opened, the air would vacuum away and slam the doors shut.  There were many times when stamping feet would interrupt professor’s lectures, or the professor himself would set down the chalk and whip his hands back and forth while the students collectively trumpeted heat into their hands.  By the end of lectures the rooms would finally reach a comfortable temperature, only to empty instantly like a balloon through the puncture of a door.

Between classes I would sit in a commons area at tables against the windows and read.  The season for walking the icy trusses of housetops had passed, and I had attended every class session with the intent to surpass my professors in knowledge. 

An older gentleman, a tenured professor, dressed in a wool vest and bowtie, his white hair fingercombed to one side, passed me as I sat.  He was hard of hearing, his eardrums bludgeoned repeatedly by the sound of the cannon fire he operated in World War I, and he would lean into your bubble of comfort with his ear leading the way when you spoke. 

I watched him as he came near, a smile breaking out across his face and he lifted a hand to his shoulder to wave in an Indian caricature sort of way, his brisk walk never losing pace.

“Hi Peter, how are you doing?”

“I’m Sam, sir.”

He nodded as he walked away.  “I’m good too.”

I read ahead in my studies as far as I could, speed-reading chapters to increase my retention of the information when the time came to read them fully.  I also sat in the library and read literary works by authors like Charles Dickens, Rudyard Kipling, Alexandre Dumas, Theodore Dreiser, and John Galsworthy.  Many of these I did not finish.  I considered myself a decently read person, and yet I could not bring myself to close the final page of works considered to be of the finest in world literature.

Part of being a soldier included endless hours of watch and long hours stretched out on a cot with nothing to do.  When you weren’t carrying your rifle above your head in drills you were pulling the trigger.  When neither were necessary, you read.  Without a hammer to swing I found myself with a new book to read almost every other day. 

At the risk of coming on too strong, I took Liv to lunch twice the following week and twice after.  I always walked away from her with a buzz in my ears and an unstoppable smile.  There were times when I would forget to eat.  I would spend the lunch hour watching the snowflakes melt against the library window, looking twice at each passing girl making tracks in the snow to see if it was Liv, and I would fight off the urge to run across campus and see if she was up for a bite to eat.

I would stop by the practice field to say hello to Elle often, catching her once on a Monday as the players struggled for footing on the icy grass.  I also sat next to her in church out of a sense of duty.  I went only for Peter and for her.  I did not want her to be alone.  But I did not go to church for me, and I went through the motions of worship with little conviction in my heart.  I wanted to feel my spirit move again but I did not trust myself to give false witness before a God I was not yet fully reacquainted with.  I knew He was there, but I did not ask much from Him.

I went to church without fail and did my best to keep my legs from bouncing restlessly up and down in the pew, and I gave a devout smile each time I shook hands with Father Donnelly at the door.

Elle always had the warmest hands at mass, and once as a favor, after the Our Father, she did not release her hold on me until my cold hands pulsed with life once again.  It was also this, the familiarity of her hands, that led me through the steeple doors on Sundays.

I asked her once if she had a sister.  She had the most caring way about her, as if she had bypassed childhood play to take care of a younger sister.  Peter always seemed to be much more mature than I was whenever I reached the age milestones that I remember him at, and I attributed that to having to watch over me at a young age.

“A sister?” she said.  “Are you looking for a girlfriend?”

“Oh, no.  I was just curious, I guess.  Seems like you would have one.”

“Isn’t that the way it always goes, though?  Guys asking their friends if their girls have a little sister just like them?”

“That sounds about right.”

“You must have your hands full with girls these days.”

“Not really.”

“Classy dames.  Is that what you call them?”

I laughed.  “Just girls.”

She buttoned her coat a little higher at the top and crossed her arms for warmth.  “No, I don’t have a sister.”

“I just thought, what luck a little sister would have had to have you watching over her.”

“That’s sweet, Sam.”  She poked a finger to my elbow.  “What luck in your case too.”

“To have Peter?  I know.”

She looked at me.  “No, I mean what luck for Peter to have such a sweet little brother to watch over.”

I was feeling especially giving and complimentary, and with the exchange of compliments, I felt that I had crossed into another level of friendship with Elle.  The level where sweet flattery can be given and taken.

“Well, what luck for Peter to have the most beautiful girl in Indiana to wait for him.”

I was in between the library bookcases one night, staring at the floor in mindless wonder when a small dark flash of light went past my aisle and caught my attention.  It came back on backward feet and smiled at me, a pen above his ear.

“I might have known you prowl these aisles at night,” Myles said.

“No.  Just tonight.  I was looking for something to read.”

He came close and looked at the shelf with his hand on his chin.  He was never without his camera.  “Let’s see.  What are the choices we have?”

His hand shot out and he plucked a book, top first by its spine with a flick of his pointing finger.  He walked away with it in his hands, not showing what he chose.  He spoke over his shoulder.

“Come along.”

I sat across from him at a table in the darkest, quietest corner of the library.  He was already cross-legged with the book in his hands.  There were many students in the room with us but they were spread out and occupied lighter, more inviting tables.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked.

“I suppose so.”

“Good, because this will change your life.”

He shoved a book across the table at me with a slight giggle, looking at me as if he was handing over a safe-kept secret that only he knew about.  I opened the hardcover and read it as E.M. Forster’s
A Room With a View.

“If you can’t connect with that in some way then you aren’t human at all.”

“I’ve read this one,” I spoke into the hardcover, the smell of an old book.

“You’re joking.”  He slapped the table.  “I’m not at all surprised.  Give it here then.  What did you think of it?”

“I didn’t finish it.”

His mouth fell open and he nearly laughed his reply.  “Come on now.  Why not?”

“I don’t know.  I guess it just didn’t interest me after a hundred pages.”

“You should be burned and thrown in the lake.  No, that would be a contradiction.  You should be set afire and placed in the wind.  People who aren’t interested in the types of books that you read are searching for something.”

He reached over and pulled the book close to him.  Then he sat small in his chair and looked at me.

“Remember, I’m just like you.  I know about searching.  Tell me, Sam.  What are you searching for?”

I shrugged and leaned back in the shadow, sticking my hands under my arms.  “I don’t think I’m searching for anything.”

He looked at me for a moment before speaking, his eyes carrying over my face.

“You’re not lost anymore,” he diagnosed me.  “When I first saw you I thought you were a day away from making some terrible choices in your life.”

“Like what?”

“Like giving up school.  Giving up trying.  Giving up the effort and thought and just becoming another brainless lump that you see so much of in the world.  It scares me to death to imagine I might turn out that way.  You’ve changed.  I’m glad to see it.”

“What does change look like?”

He leaned in closer and pointed at me the way a child points out the ducks in a pond to his mother.

“Like that.  There it is.”  He pulled his camera up, twisting the lens to focus on me, but I did not hear the shutter click. He dropped it to bounce at his chest.  “You’ve changed and yet you’re still searching, still confused.  Now what would confuse our young Sam?  You must have met a girl, have you not?”

“Sure.”  I was grinning.

He almost fell off his chair at having guessed correctly, but he rearranged himself, sitting upright and tense.  “What is she like?”

“She smells nice.”

“And?  And you’ve told her everything about yourself?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“Why?”

“Because she would run the other way.”

“Gah!  You boys don’t know a thing about girls.  They
want
to know all those things.  You boys walk around like Neanderthal’s, bashing each other over the heads with clubs to get a girl’s attention and then you don’t know what do to with it when it throws itself at you.”

“Girls want to hear nice things.  Heroic things.”

“Shows what you know.  They want to see the bleeding hearts of men.  You carry around this load, looking to pour it on something, but when a girl shows up to take it from you, you hide it away.”

“I would think that you know the least of all of us when it comes to girls.”

“You
would
think that.”  He smiled and leaned backward with his hands behind his head. “The truth is, I know more about girls than any boy on campus, and I have more girlfriends than any of you boys put together and they tell me everything about you.” 

He dropped the front legs of his chairs and leaned across the table at me.  He touched his nose.  “Deep, dark secrets that nobody else knows.”

“Why would they tell you anything?”

“Because they don’t think I’m a threat to their wedding night.”  He winked.

I leaned forward and whispered for effect.  “You’re not, are you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think not.”

“You’d be wrong.”  He moved sideways in his chair, crossed his legs again, and put his arm over the back.  “I’ve done more damage on both sides than you could do in a lifetime.”

I looked at him and he must have seen both surprised amusement and disbelief. 

“I’m not going to walk through life with one eye in a blindfold,” he said. 

“Great God,” I said.  “Which eye is in the blindfold?”

He waved it away as if it was a gnat passing too close in front of him.

“Come on, then,” he said.  “What’s her name?”

I did not tell him Liv’s name.  I simply sat there with a grin.

“Well, if you won’t tell me her name, then tell me how you feel about her.”

“I feel fine about her.”

“Poor girl.  She doesn’t know a thing about you.  If she has half a brain she
would
run the other way.  You’re hopeless and she’s a dupe.  I’ve seen all this before.”

“A dupe?”

“Yes, a dupe.  The type of girl who throws herself hopelessly at the first boy to give her some attention.  But it’s all in vain.”

I tried to keep my smile from not widening too far.  I stayed silent.

“You devil.”  His eyes went from narrow to big, first to match his accusation and then his offer of guidance. “Do you want my advice about relationships?” 

I laughed.  “I’m afraid to ask.”

He looked me straight in the face, taking a moment to flatten out his expression.  “Honesty.”

“That seems like something you don’t adhere to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re not exactly honest with girls and your intentions.  Using this…
disguise
to get close to them.”  I waved a hand at him.

Myles faked a frown.  “I said that was my advice on
relationships
not girls.”

“How many relationships have you had?”

“None that lasted through the week.”  He smiled.

“Then why do you give out advice for them?”

“Because it’s the truth.  If you don’t have honesty then there’s nothing else that matters.  Don’t tell a lie up front or your entire relationship after that is based on it and you have to bend over backward keeping that lie alive.”

I sat back and watched him. 

“But sooner or later the lie is uncovered and then your entire relationship is questioned.  And I’m not talking about the big things like changing your religion for a day just so you can get close to someone.  I’m talking about the little things like where you were born, or where you went to school, or what type of music you enjoy.”

“Why would someone lie about that?”

He cocked his head.  “To impress the other.  People do it all the time.  Then it comes out that you weren’t born in the city, you were born on a farm, and then you have some explaining to do and some honesty to repair.  Tiny lies turn into huge chasms of death.  Death to the relationship.  There’s only one thing you should lie about.”

“What’s that?”

“The number of people you’ve been with.”

I leaned forward.  “Only a lothario like you would worry about that.”

“I’m just telling you.  Protect that.  Hold it close to you and deny everything.  Only hurt comes from that number.”

“That sounds like terrible advice.  People see more than one person in their lifetime.  It’s the way of the world.”