And Yesterday Is Gone (15 page)

Teddy joked, but beneath her frivolous words ran an utterly foreign undercurrent, the need of reassurance. For the first time in twenty years, she found herself sharing Sara's love.

Sara turned a shocked face. “What a strange question.”

Then with the realization that Teddy's words stood out in bold type, she answered, “That throne is set in concrete, 'til death do us part.' ”

Teddy hugged her tightly.

“Tell Mrs. Mackey to put on an extra place setting. There will be three of us.”

M
a had called and found out that there were two days left for registration, so we left the next day.

Ma was ecstatic, Sis never stopped talking, and I was excited, scared, overjoyed and a long range of other mixed emotions.

Oakdale didn't seem like the small town I had pictured in my mind when Alfie had described the college to me. In reality, it was a smaller version of the big city across the bay, but there was something appealing about it. Maybe it was the trees that lined the streets or the neat, old-fashioned houses that made me feel comfortable.

The college, with its stately brick buildings built on a knoll, was easy to find. The old faded bricks, mostly hidden beneath the ivy that crawled over them, gave one the feeling that they had been there forever—perhaps had grown out of the ground just to keep the eucalyptus trees company.

A sign read “Oakdale Community College, established in 1850.” The campus was large and seemed like a moving multicolored carpet. Students hurrying in every direction in their bright clothing looked as though some giant hand had indiscriminately scattered a bucketful of confetti into a strong wind.

I found the sign pointing to a line, growing longer by the minute and moving with the speed of a crippled snail that led to the registrar's office. A couple of fellows stood in front of me discussing their classes. One turned around and asked me what subjects I was taking.

“Journalism,” I answered.

They both laughed.

“Dowd's class. I took a semester from her last year and then transferred to English lit. Dowd knows her subject, inside and out, but boy is she rough. Got a tongue like a razor blade and loses about a third of her class the first semester. Who needs it?”

I finally reached the desk, got the paperwork and enrolled in one journalism class and six units of general education classes. When I registered, I wrote “undecided” as my major in the little box on the right. Who cared that I took only three classes? Journalism is the one I wanted, I exulted. I was a college student.

I wandered the maze of corridors in the huge building until I found the door with the right number on it. I wanted to know exactly where to go tomorrow and be there early enough for a front-row seat.

That student's comment came back to me as I stood in front of that magic door. “Who needs it?”

My inner voice answered: “Someone who wants to learn from the best and has got enough guts to do what it takes.” I resolved to be that one.

Ma and Sis had been looking through the rental ads and found a little light housekeeping room above a garage. It was furnished with a hot plate, a bed that made Ma shudder, and a chest of drawers to match.

The good news? It was only a mile from campus.

My experience at the Haight-Ashbury house forever discouraged communal living—no more linen closets for me.

My first weekend home, Ma sent me back with enough stuff to furnish a three-bedroom house.

•  •  •

My first day in class was a complete disaster.

I was up early, did a quick shave. Not much came off, but I liked the smell of the aftershave. I grabbed a roll, a cold cup of coffee, and was out the door, excited and impatient. I moved fast even though I knew there was plenty of time.

I'd washed the old Buick the day before. Apparently the shock was too much because, as I turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. Jiggling the key brought the same results—not even a sigh. I lifted the hood, pounded on the cables. Nothing. Shock waves swept over me as I realized that the battery was way beyond the last rites.

I hit the road running. Hell, I could make it easy—only a mile.

Arriving breathless, I flushed. I swiped the sweat with the back of my hand and tried to slick down the windblown curls that stood in defiance of the Brill Cream that I had slathered on them such a short time ago.

I eased the door open as quietly as a burglar, hoping to slither in unnoticed and find a seat in the back.

The room was crowded. No one would give me an inch.

Her eyes pinned me against the wall. I stood there as if glued.

She was a tall, bleached-blonde woman whose roots were the same color as the long black eyebrow that stretched above the piercing steel- gray eyes and dipped over a nose that was way longer than necessary.

A great shuffling of feet and muffled laughter arose as though my classmates were anticipating my demise.

“Mr. McClusky, I presume? We are so pleased you could join us. Roll call was ten minutes ago.”

“Steve McAllister,” I answered. “I apologize for being late. My car wouldn't start and…”

“We are not interested in discussing your transportation problem, however fascinating it may be. Perhaps another time. Seat yourself, Mr. McDuff.”

I felt my face go crimson with embarrassment as I heard the room explode in laughter, and a hot flush of rage at the sarcastic put-down triggered an instant response.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dowdy,” I said, finding a seat on the aisle.

A dead silence smothered the room.

Her face was a thundercloud as she stalked toward me and firmly stated, “I'd enjoy your company after class tomorrow, Mr. McDuff.”

“Of course, Mrs. Dowdy.”

The dressing down she gave me got my attention, but I had a mother and a sister who could have given her lessons.

The next morning the old Buick with a new battery didn't fail me. I was in class early and sat in a front row.

“Good morning, Mr. McNeil. How nice to see you.”

The smile on her face never reached her eyes.

“Good morning to you, Mrs. Dowdy.”

“After class?” she questioned.

“After class,” I responded.

I'd come a long way—the hard way—since I'd cringed under the whiplash of ridicule and humiliation and I'd never accept that again. It was cheaper to pay the piper.

As the last of my classmates filed out, she walked over to me. Standing tall, she studied me for minutes that seemed to stretch into hours.

I returned her look with one of my own and the message passed between us.

“You do know my name, do you not, Mr. McAllister?”

“As you know mine, Mrs. Dowd.”

With those words, the line was drawn and peace was declared.

“I want a fifteen-hundred-word essay on the proper, most productive way to interview the president of the United States. Due in two days. You are excused.”

The first sentence of my essay read, “The most important step in establishing a good relationship with any person is to make sure you spell and pronounce his or her name correctly.”

After a pause, I added, “A man's name tells you more than who he is. It tells you, in time, what he is.”

I handed Mrs. Dowd my completed essay one day later. I was groggy from lack of sleep, but proud of the job I'd done.

She gave me a B minus, a grade unheard of in her class, where a C was rumored to be the equivalent of an A given by any other instructor.

“Well done, Mr. McAllister,” she added.

After class I stared down the guy in the hall who called out “Ass- kisser” just loud enough for me to hear. I laughed.

•  •  •

Although our peace had been negotiated, life in her class was not meant to be easy. She challenged me in every possible way; her brilliant brain woke my sleeping mind to things I'd never even dreamed about and I absorbed it like a thirsty sponge.

That long black eyebrow would rise slightly on one side in a quirky gesture that would have been interesting on anyone else. But with Dowd, it was like a Doberman showing its teeth, a red flag preceding an off-the-wall question or assignment. I would brace myself for the look when her eyes finally came to rest on me.

I studied late into the night. I rewrote, researched, listened and learned—and seldom ever forgot. I truly had a photographic mind, and it had its rewards.

Once in a great while, I could best her. Then the closest thing that ever came to a smile would surface, momentarily, and leave me wondering if I had just imagined it.

As I was the scapegoat, I was also the hero—occasionally.

I heard later that there was a fair amount of wagering going on in that classroom and I cost some of those sports their allowances.

She did once say in a moment of generosity that a few of us had promise. I thought she looked at me.

I
'd gotten pretty well adjusted in my second semester, but occasionally I would wake at night to the rough sounds of Carlos' snores, Juan's soft breathing just an arm's length away, and the horrific memories of that time of my life would try to push through the wall that Alfie had built. Not only the night he had rocked me in his big black arms, but the many hours we had spent talking together with the flower children at the Diggers' hangout.

I resolved once more to check the University of California, San Francisco medical school. I never knew Alfie's last name or if I did, it had long since been forgotten. I don't think he ever knew mine.

Hoping to get lucky and catch Alfie carrying a tray, I lunched at any opportunity in the cafeteria where the medical students hung out. The food was good, the room was crowded, but Alfie would be hard to miss at six feet three inches. That made him a marked man.

I used to kid him, asking, “How come you aren't pulling down the big money by playing basketball instead of ruining your eyesight trying to decipher all those big words and overloading your brain?”

His ready answer was always, “How come you ain't still shoveling shit, Cowboy?”

Giving up for the day, I stood to leave and noticed four black guys having lunch at a nearby table. Walking over, I introduced myself and asked if they might know of a big guy named Alfie, explaining that I thought he might be in his last year of medical school. I even told them that Alfie and I had worked together as volunteers at the Diggers drop-in some time ago.

Their expressions were perfectly blank.

Then one of them spoke in an exaggerated drawl, saying, “Y'all mean a big black nigga with a flat nose and kinky hair? All us niggas look alike, ya know.” His companions grinned their appreciation, then shook their heads.

“Naw, ain't seen no nigga like dat,” one added.

It didn't take an Einstein to see where this was going, so I said, “Thank you, gentlemen, for your time.”

They laughed as I walked away, then conversed among themselves.

“Wonder what he wants with Alfred?”

“Probably one of those leftover hippies looking for a handout.”

“Guess that big old boy graduated at the top of his class and is working in a big hospital on the other side of town. Now
there's
a uppity nigga.”

I was pissed as I drove home. But when my anger cooled, I wondered how many times they had been humiliated—even in this upscale university where people are expected to know better.

I hated to give up my illusions, but I discovered time and again that life in the big city was hell on illusions.

•  •  •

My self-confidence blossomed and I matched it with a little half- hearted swagger as I walked. After all, I was a college man now.

I had gained weight eating my own mac and cheese—all I knew how to cook—and all the goodies that Ma sent back with me after stuffing me every weekend.

I hadn't seemed to stop growing. I was now pushing six feet tall and a hundred seventy pounds.

Sis said it was all in the right places, and I declared I was downright handsome now that my ears had shrunk to fit my head and my feet fit the rest of me. Of course, in the next breath Sis would ask to borrow ten dollars, so I didn't get too excited.

My experience with Lupe had educated me far beyond my years, but my sexual feelings now lay dormant beneath the excitement and commitment of college.

I thought far more about the intractable Mrs. Dowd than I did about the pretty girls who caught my eye for a fleeting hello-goodbye.

•  •  •

It was Friday afternoon. Classes were over and I was hurrying, wanting to get started for home.

The parking area was pretty well thinned out. As usual, I was parked at the far end because I never seemed to take the time to look for a closer space.

The Buick was at the base of a slight incline when I'd come in, so I was surprised to see a little orange Volkswagen perched at the top level. I remembered thinking, “I hope the brakes are on.”

As I neared my car, I saw the two of them in close embrace—the Volkswagen had rolled back and the rear fender was in intimate contact with the Buick's bumper. Joined at the hip, you might say.

A girl with her back to me was vainly trying to pull the VW's fender loose, but the Buick held on tenaciously.

I was more than a little irritated, but rose to the occasion when I saw how incredibly lovely she was. Something jiggled in my mind, but I couldn't say what it was.

When she raised her hand to brush back the shiny black hair that swung in her face, I saw she wore a ring on the third finger of her left hand. Just my damn luck to rescue a beautiful damsel in distress who was wearing an engagement ring.

We stared at each other a moment. She looked vaguely familiar, but I knew I'd never seen her before. How would I ever have forgotten her?

Then she said, her eyes wide and disbelieving, “Cowboy? You can't be Cowboy. He was puny. But, yes, you are Cowboy. I hardly recognize you with your clothes on.”