Some Luck (30 page)

He pushed away his empty plate and reached for the apple pie. The crust was good, like Mama’s. He thought he remembered Mama
showing Irma how to make a crust. The apples were good, too. Sometimes, by the river, Frank shot himself a rabbit, skinned it, and cooked it. He had also caught a couple of catfish and cooked those himself, over a fire. When he caught a fish or bagged a rabbit, he thought maybe his year hunting in Wisconsin might have been a better idea than this—he could have chosen a different college or a different life. He savored the crust of the pie. It was crispy and delicious. He estimated that he had about a month left in the tent. He was sure he would think of something, but he didn’t know what.

He left Ragnar a tip and walked out of the café. Then he crossed Lincoln Way and entered the campus. It was dark. The gymnasium was up to the left, and the student union was just to the right. Usually when he was looking for a bike, he walked along the road in front of the union, but this time he decided to try the gymnasium. The key was to remember where he’d found it, and then return it early in the morning. That way, he made use of the bike and also put one over on the hapless twit who had left it there in the first place. He was fond of his old bicycle, the cruiser he’d left on the farm, but this method had its attractions, only one of which was that he got to try out various models.

It took him about twenty minutes to head east on Lincoln Way to Duff, then south to 16th Street, where his very small and easily disguised tent was pitched in some bushes. He had stored other things in two trunks, also purchased at the Salvation Army, and they were pushed even deeper into the thickets (he had checked for snakes and poison ivy). The hoboes weren’t down here—they were east of downtown, in a wooded area not far from the Chicago and Northwestern tracks; a few younger ones hid out on campus. He was therefore extremely taken aback when he knelt down, opened the flap of his tent, and discovered someone in there. The person lit a match under his own chin as soon as Frank stuck his head in, and then lit the kerosene lantern Frank used for light. It was a guy about his own age, and someone he had never seen before. He was wearing nice clothes. Frank then remembered having seen a car, a REO Flying Cloud, maybe a 1936, on the bridge.

The person said, “So someone is living here.”

“Maybe,” said Frank.

The person laughed. He said, “Where do you shower?”

“There’s the pool at State Gym. Don’t you have curfew?” said Frank.

“Maybe,” said the person. “I’m Lawrence Field. Shenandoah.”

“Frank Langdon, Denby. I’m not in the seed business.” The Fields were famous nursery-and-seed purveyors, and that explained the car.

Lawrence grinned. “Are you in furs?”

“You must have come by before dark if you saw the rabbit skins.”

“That’s what I first saw—rabbit skins tacked to trees.”

“And you decided to snoop.”

“Wouldn’t you have?”

Frank had to admit that he would have.

Ten minutes later, they were in the car, and fifteen minutes after that, they were passing through Nevada, which was dark on both sides of the street. Frank said, “Nice car,” and it was—as smooth as advertised, sleek, cushioned, fast, and quiet.

“REO is out of the automobile business now—that’s what I hear. But my dad wanted one of the last ones.”

“Where are we going?”

“How about Chicago?”

Frank was a little startled, but he said, “I like Chicago. I lived there last year.”

“There’s a Cubs home game tomorrow. Against the Cards. The season’s about over. They aren’t going to get out of second place, but I’d like to see it.”

Frank shrugged. They shot out of the east end of Nevada, and the flat road stretched before them, as pale and straight as a string between the dark cornfields. Frank had never been in a car driven by another kid before. He said, “Let’s go.”

1938

F
RANK HAD KNOWN GUYS
who did whatever they wanted to, but Lawrence Field was the first he’d met who had the money and imagination to broaden his horizons beyond smoking cigarettes, drinking rotgut, skipping school, trying to feel up girls, and stealing things. Lawrence Field never stole anything—he had class—and was the reason Frank lingered around Iowa State through the first quarter and went back after three weeks on the farm for the second quarter. Frank didn’t see Lawrence much of the time, and Lawrence didn’t solve all his problems, but he did solve one of them—he found Frank a job, working in the horticulture lab, and so Frank could get himself a room, at least for a few months, until the snow stopped.

Lawrence turned out to be twenty, but he looked younger than Frank. Even though his father had put him to work around the nursery and on the family farm from an early age, he was still “waiting for his growth.”

“It’ll come,” he said. “Everyone in our family lives forever.” Frank had been back at school after Christmas for a week when Lawrence showed up. Outside, the Flying Cloud accelerated up the street—its motor had a distinct sound—and then stopped below his window. Frank looked out, put up the sash. Lawrence called, “Wear something nice. I’m feeling restless.”

Frank didn’t mind hurrying when Lawrence was feeling restless—he
was down the stairs in five minutes, dressed in a suit and a camel-hair coat that he’d found in a pawnshop in Des Moines. Lawrence loved pawnshops. Frank got in the passenger’s side, noted that there was no one else in the car, and said, “Back to Chicago?” They’d been to Chicago three times since the Cubs game (a win, 5–1).

“Better,” said Lawrence. “Rock Island.”

“Rock Island!” exclaimed Frank. “Rock Island is a dump!”

“Just wait. Anyway, I need a drink.”

One of the “responsibilities” that Lawrence took seriously as the son of a famous family was not drinking in Iowa, which was still dry.

The Flying Cloud did, indeed, fly—eight cylinders and all of them powerful. Straight through Nevada, on to Colo, then south of Usherton, and through the Indian lands around Tama and the dips—an area of hills that reminded Frank of a roller coaster. Then they angled south through Tipton, and east again, through a hillier and more wooded area that Frank wasn’t familiar with—he had never been to Iowa City, though he’d meant to go. The car ran so smoothly that Frank drifted into sleep, and only woke up when Lawrence made a turn. He woke up to a big lighted sign: “Roadhouse.” Lawrence turned into the parking lot, which was large and full of cars. The Flying Cloud was the only one of its kind, though. Lawrence pulled up toward the rear of the longish building and opened his door. He said, “Not that cold here. I doubt you’ll need your coat.”

The building had two stories, four doors, and no windows. Men were entering and exiting through all of the doors, but Lawrence headed toward one of the ones near the center of the shingled wall. Frank jogged to catch up to him. Lawrence said, “This is Little Chicago. Heard of it?”

“Maybe,” said Frank. This time he meant it.

The bar was long, shiny, and well stocked. It ran in an elongated horseshoe among scattered tables, and the brass foot-rail glinted in the multitude of lights that both drew him toward the bar and accentuated the darkness. The stools were attached somehow, had red leather seats, and spun. Lawrence settled his backside onto one and leaned toward the bartender like he’d done it plenty of times. Frank, who’d only visited two bars in Chicago the previous spring, imitated him. As he put his elbows on the bar itself, he noticed a metal trough beneath the brass rail, and dipped his head to get a better look at it.
Lawrence said, “You piss into that. I never have, but some fellows don’t like to give up their spots.” Sure enough, as he spoke, a dark but glistening stream of water trickled past. Lawrence said, “The bartender flushes it every fifteen minutes or so.”

Just then the bartender said, “Can I get anything for you gentlemen?” He leaned close to peer, not at Frank, but at Lawrence. Lawrence said, “Old Fitzgerald and soda, I think.”

Frank had to admire the ease with which he said this, but, then, Lawrence made every transgression look as easy as you please. The bartender looked at Frank. “You?”

“I’ll take the same, but straight up with a beer chaser.” Then there was the long moment while the bartender made up his mind. Finally, the drinks appeared. Frank, who had never drunk whiskey before, tossed his shot back the way he saw Gary Cooper do it in the pictures, then held his head perfectly steady as his throat burned. After a moment, he took a swig of the beer. Grandpa Otto gave all the kids beer, so he was used to that. Even so, it was a good thing the place was dark, because his eyes were tearing. Lawrence took a sip of his whiskey and soda, an experienced sort of sip. He said, “You always seem older than you say you are.”

Frank said, “I was never young.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I was always up to something, according to my folks.”

“Must’ve been fun.”

“Sometimes.”

“Maybe,” said Lawrence.

Frank laughed. “How about you?”

“Wasn’t up to enough, according to my aunts and uncles. They are all well known to be very industrious. My mother is said to have spoiled me, and I am said to be spoiled. When I flunk out, all of their suspicions will be confirmed.”

“How can you flunk out?”

“You are truly asking. That’s one of the interesting things about you, Langdon. You have no talent for idleness.” He finished his drink, and said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

“What’s upstairs?”

“The women’s college.”

Each of the whores had a room of her own, but at least some of
them were sitting in a large hall at the top of the stairs. As he climbed, he heard one of them say that she had been to Chicago to see a Cagney picture about dancing. When Lawrence got to the top, he walked over to an older woman who looked like the madam, and kissed her on the cheek. She said, “Barney, my boy! Are you well?”

Some of the other whores called out greetings, all of them smiled, and two put down their knitting. Frank wiggled his shoulders to loosen them, then stepped up onto the landing as if he knew what he was doing. Yes, he had lived in Chicago, but as far as he knew, communists did not go in for this sort of thing. Lawrence said, “Hi, Butterfly. I’ve been missing you.”

The madam said, “I’m sure you have, sweetie,” and looked Frank up and down. She said, “Who’s this?”

Frank said, “Rolf.”

“Rolf? Rolf what?”

“Rolf Silber.” He thought, There you go, Julius. This put him in a good mood.

He ended up with Pixie. Pixie could not have been called a girl, but she was tall and slender, even without the high-heeled shoes. She walked him down the hallway almost to the end, to what might have been her room, or what might have been just a room. She opened the door for him, and followed him in. The room had electric lights—a small chandelier made of glass flowers hanging from the middle of the ceiling. There was a yellow chair, a green-and-yellow spread on the bed, and a sink over in the corner. Frank had no idea what to do, but he tried to look relaxed. He put his hands in his pockets. She stepped toward him. The surprising thing about that was that, even though she was pretty in her way, he didn’t feel very good. It took him about five seconds to remember that girl at the state fair—he sometimes remembered that night, but he never remembered the girl in detail. Now he did—the light across her cheek making her look very sad. Her sigh of disgust. The shine of his stuff on the fabric of her skirt. He must have stepped backward.

Pixie said, “You’re a pretty boy to be looking so worried. What are you, twenty or something?”

Frank decided for once to be honest. He said, “I just turned eighteen at New Year’s.”

Pixie put her finger into his belt. She said, “Take your jacket off.”
He did so. She set the shoulders together and laid it over the back of the chair.

“Now the tie.”

He pulled the end through the knot of the tie, and she took it out of his hands and smoothed it over the jacket. Then she slipped out of her shoes, went to the sink, and put her foot on the rim. After a moment, she started washing herself. She said, “No, look. You need to watch. You don’t have to do anything else.”

Frank watched. He was glad she went slowly. Maybe that was what had gone wrong before—too fast.

“You’re staring at the wall. Look at me.”

He looked at her.

After she finished washing, she took off her top. Her breasts looked strange in the light. His eyes closed. He opened them. She was sitting on the bed with a cigarette between her fingers, unlit. She said, “Look, your friend paid, but he didn’t pay for any special thing. Anything you want is fine.”

What was that girl’s name? he thought. She was from Muscatine. Muscatine was right around here. This thought made him dizzy. He closed his eyes again.

But his cock was hard, and Pixie was touching it. She must have unbuttoned his fly. Then he felt a much stranger sensation than touching, and opened his eyes. The top of her head was at his stomach, and he realized she had his cock in her mouth. Moments later, he came, and she pulled away. She got up and went over to the sink, where she spit his stuff into the drain and washed it away. Frank sat down on the bed. It was late, and he wanted to fall asleep. Pixie said, “You like boys, then?”