Tide King (14 page)

But he still sat in the family pickup in the parking lot, watching the young men with pressed slacks and quick steps enter the arts building. Their faces were smooth, their smiles as light as their consciences. The girls were lithe and graceful, and he could not imagine going to the drug store to socialize, drink egg creams. Not when his hands felt too awkward and his tongue too big and his left leg not quite his. They probably thought he was a chump, a stupid farm boy who couldn't get a college deferment to keep out of the war. And he wanted to knock all their blocks off. Why had he thought this a good idea? He drew his books toward him, so important to him the night before, now seeming like cheap imitations.

Maybe he just wouldn't go. He could drive across town, to where Eva Darson lived. She had written him during the war; he'd responded once or twice. But Europe had opened his eyes, the women, the cities, the culture, and he thought he was better than her. No, it wasn't that. It was just that he was young, and there was a lot to see before having to settle on the known. But maybe he was no better, deserved no more, than Eva Darson. She would be wearing the slip that he liked and would put lots of lime in his gin to conceal the fact she could only afford the cheap stuff, and they'd sit on her couch that had been clawed to shit by her cat and make out a little, maybe more. She would be grateful. Maybe it was all they deserved.

He imagined the slightly smug smile that stretched his father's lips rubbery, the touch of relief in his mother's, the wrinkle in her forehead unfurling, as he returned that night, no longer a student. He got out of the truck and walked to the humanities building.

The classroom for Introduction to British Literature smelled like chalk; the fluorescent lights scrutinized every pimple and discoloration on the student's faces. He spotted a seat in the back and kept his head down, aware of his size, his age, and awkwardness. He felt the desk scrape his knees as he watched the professor, a man in his sixties with neat silver hair clipped close to his skull. His brown wool suit jacket stretched across his waist; he looked like he'd made it through the rationing okay. He thought of the pot roast his mother had made with the few scraps of chuck she'd gotten from the market. Where she had gotten that extra dollar, he didn't know. But cooked with carrots, potatoes, and barley from their own farm, it was a godsend, a rich fur that nestled in his stomach like a bunny rabbit in a hutch.

“Welcome, ladies and gentleman, to Introduction to British Literature.” The man wrote on the blackboard in light, quick strokes. “I'm Professor Shillings. This is an introductory requirement for bachelor degree programs at Bowling State. If you feel you are in the wrong class, please leave now and do not interrupt us by your departure later.”

She was in the third row, to Calvin's right. Her long, dark hair was exotic to him, at least in Ohio, where bloodlines ran brown and blonde. She wore a light blue sweater that hugged her shoulders and elbows lovingly. He watched her milky arm rise, her hand flick through her hair.

He opened his notebook and began to take notes, afraid to look at her again. His fear, his embarrassment was slowly replaced by anger. He had dug out foxholes until his fingers bled and he'd huddled aside fucking Stanley Polensky in them. He'd shat, had diarrhea in the same holes while Stanley laughed until it was his turn to shit, too. He knew more about Stanley's bowel movements than his father's. And he was supposed to take this know-it-all professor in English class seriously.

“I'm going to ask a question, and I need a volunteer.” Professor Shillings raised his head, his forehead wormy, and scanned the class. His gaze settled on Cal. “How about you, young man?”

“Tell me the question first.” Cal gripped his pencil in his fist. “And then I'll let you know whether I'll volunteer.”

“Hmm.” Professor Shillings frowned, then smiled. Boys snickered, letting their crossed legs unfurl. The girl with the dark hair looked back at him, and he froze. “Things don't work quite this way here in my class, Mr….”

“Johnson. You wanted a volunteer. I didn't volunteer.”

“Very well, Mr. Johnson. I choose you to answer my question. What do you think all literature, through the centuries, has in common?”

“I don't know.” He felt the veins in his neck inflate, an area in the back of his head boil.

“Is that your answer, Mr. Johnson?” Professor Shilling raised his fist to his mouth, coughed. He leaned over his podium and examined his fingernails.

“Well, I suppose I wouldn't have to take the class if I knew.” His pencil snapped, one half of it rolling to the floor. He trapped it under his foot, his church shoes. They weren't as smart as the shiny, soft leather loafers that tapped, slid on the floor around him.

“Mr. Johnson, if that is your attitude, I suspect you won't do very well in my class. And that you may as well save yourself the embarrassment of dropping out later by leaving now.”

“My attitude is that if you're going to try and make me look like a fool, I'm not going to let you. I'm no fool, and I'm here to learn.” He sat up in his chair. “I'm here to learn what all literature, through the centuries, has in common,
sir
.”

“Veteran?” Shilling raised his eyebrows slightly, and then nodded. “How about someone else? You in the second row.”

Johnson stole glances at Professor Shilling when he thought he wasn't looking. He copied Professor Shilling's words into his notebook and he avoided his sweeping gaze when he asked questions. After class, he let everyone file out before he walked to the front of the classroom.

“Sir, I apologize for my behavior this evening.” Johnson stared at his hands, grasping his books. “I don't want special treatment. I served, and I want my education so I can get a job. I follow orders well, so if you tell us what we need to know, I'll work real hard to get it right.”

“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Johnson.” Shillings snapped the locks of his briefcase shut. Cal could see the top of Professor Shilling's balding head, oily crown. He stepped back. “But this isn't the Army. You may have taken orders there, but in university you cultivate independent, critical thinking. And our opinions, your thoughts, are much more important, much more interesting to me than rote—er, following orders.”

“Well, I haven't done too much thinking about literature, Professor Shilling, but I'll give it my best shot. I promise.”

“Well, that's all I ask, Mr. Johnson.” Professor Shilling smiled slightly and turned. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Shilling put on his hat and nodded before walking out the door. Johnson looked around the classroom for a moment before following, not wanting to leave. The walls of these buildings harbored great secrets, he surmised. Why men fought wars. What they did once they were over.

“I hear he's a bit of a rat.”

The girl from the third row stood a few feet away in the empty hallway, her books pressed against her chest. Her eyes, wide and brown, smiled at him.

“He seems all right.” Johnson kicked at the linoleum. “A little stuffy, maybe.”

“I'm Kate.” Her hand, small and delicate, raised, her fingers slightly outstretched.

“Calvin Johnson.” He took it. He could not remember the last time he'd held something so delicate. Maybe the hatchlings on the farm. Soft furred, chirpy hearts. He removed his hand quickly, not understanding the danger he felt. She was not holding a grenade, a revolver. They walked side by side by the classrooms, opening and expelling their students. Their chatter swirled between them; his neck felt hot.

“Are you a freshman?” She seemed unperturbed by the commotion.

“Yeah, kind of. I mean, I'm not from high school. The Army.”

She nodded as well. A pause stretched into awkwardness. “Well, I'm sure my father is waiting. I just felt bad…Shilling giving you a hard time like that.” They stood at the entrance. Johnson spotted a man near the parking lot, hands in his wool trousers, his sports jacket open casually. He sized up Johnson with a disinterested nod as Johnson quickly closed his jacket over his tie with the duck. “I'll see you around, Calvin.”

“Sure.” He nodded, and he watched her legs move away from him, her hand in her hair, the way it splayed over her back. As they moved together toward the car, a green Ford, new off the lot, it seemed, she turned her head toward him and waved.

“How was class?” His mother sat on the edge of the glider while he scraped the last of the glazed apple off his plate.

“Good. Pie's perfect.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Everything's perfect.”

They looked at the moon, the same moon he'd seen in Africa, Normandy, Germany. The moon that betrayed them, their movements. The moon that hid the sun. That night, it was just the moon, maybe a little more.

From the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
, he read about the great kings of England, Henry and Richard and Edward. He read slowly at the kitchen table, sometimes aloud to his mother when she wasn't listening to the radio. In the living room she sat on the couch nodding, her mending resting between her hands, a baby of brown and blue threads, mostly his father's shirts and sometimes his uniforms from the force. Sometimes she lay her head back, eyes closed, and he could not tell whether she was listening, and sometimes he'd change his voice to differentiate between the characters and his mother laughed, a half sigh and half giggle.

He read
Beowulf
and understood the horror and beauty of the battles in a way he had not in high school. He could not wait to read
The Iliad
and
The Odyssey
again. And maybe his mother would listen and they would have something else since the war that they could share.

“Worried about class, Calvin?” his mother asked one morning, serving him waffles. He had spent most of the night in the bathroom, bathed in a cold sweat, his heart humming in his ears. It had been something practically undetectable, unthreatening to civilian life—an unusual sound outside, a foot snapping a twig. Or so he had thought. After he'd checked the barn and the surrounding ground, he sat on the porch smoking a cigarette. In the corner of his eye, he'd see a shadow move, but when he turned to focus, it was no longer there. It reminded him of nights on foxhole duty, trying to detect a shadow, an outline, in blackness, back in the months before the snows. Was it one of their men, a Kraut? Should he risk shooting into the night, giving away their position? He smoked another cigarette on the porch, and the shadows were everywhere—in the corn, by the barn, behind the truck. There were hundreds of men swarming like silent wasps, a swirl of lost souls, but when he ran out into the middle of the yard, daring them to take a first shot, no one fired. He ground out his cigarette and went back inside to the bathroom. His balance felt off; he thought he might vomit. His father almost stepped on him at five-fifteen, when he stumbled in for his shower.

“I've got a paper to write,” he answered, cutting the waffles along the squares. He tried to keep the syrup contained within the spaces, but the knife was dull and his precision clumsy and many of them bled onto the plate. “About war in early English Literature.”

“You were never much of a writer,” his mother said, joining him at the table, patting his hand. She put her hand on his shoulder as if in apology for the truth. She'd never diminished him or his accomplishments in his life (
if you'd concentrated more on sacks, you would have been starting at Ohio State
was a scrap of wisdom his father liked to hurl at him on the weekends, when they listened to the games on the radio), and he was hurt that she'd start now. But perhaps she thought it was cruel to be kind, lest he muddle too far along and drop out, become bitter.

“I'll figure it out,” he answered. His plan was a bit disingenuous. Each class he had sat a seat closer to Kate, and although she said hello to him and smiled, he didn't know how to approach her under any premise, except perhaps to appeal to her greater intelligence, which she displayed modestly when Dr. Schillings called on her. Once or twice, Johnson had raised his hand, in response to questions so easy some didn't even bother, but he wanted Dr. Shillings to know his intentions, to acknowledge his earnestness and motivation. Still, he was carrying a C minus and needed a good term paper grade to ensure his passing the class.