Fool on the Hill (15 page)

“Just give it time,” Hamlet advised him. “Women have a way of coming around.”

“Uh-huh. Now who’s being chauvinistic?”

Hamlet laughed.

“
Realistic,
Puck,” he said. “Just realistic. And besides, my fellow chauvinist, I didn’t say that
men
were any more sensible in handling their emotions, did I?”

VIII.

Wednesday, 12:10
P.M
.

“Check
her
out, partner.”

Preacher looked across the Arts Quad at the woman Ragnarok pointed out. Blond, medium height, with a Tri-Pi blazer.

“Decent,” Preacher granted him. “Plastic, but decent. But you can keep right on dreaming, cuz.”

“Why?”

“That flash on her wrist. Even if it’s costume jewelry, it cost. And you see how the bottom of her ear winks every time the wind blows her hair back? That look like a diamond earring to you?”

“So she comes from money. So what?”

“So what is what’s she need
you
for? Must be a whole line of nice white fraternity boys just waiting for a chance at her. You’re nothing new, except you drive a bike instead of a Porsche, and you don’t have a tie on. She’ll probably figure that’s ’cause you don’t have money, and poor, my friend, is a
very
old story. Now if a man came along who could offer her a real change of pace . . .”

“They have black people in the Greek system too,” Ragnarok informed him. “And Hispanics, and Asians, and Saudi Arabians.” Ragnarok smiled. “You’re nothing special either, Preach.”

Preacher smiled back. “Well that’s true,” he said, “but I guess I wouldn’t be going after that particular chick anyway.”

“Oh, of course not.”

“I mean it. Why don’t you check her letters one more time before she gets away?”

Ragnarok shook his head, puzzled. “What’s wrong with Tri-Pi?”

“Oh, nothing. Sweet little sorority, the Pis. But why don’t you rummage around in that steel trap mind of yours and see if you can’t remember who their brother fraternity is?”

“Brother frat . . . Oh! Oh, shit.”

“That’s right,” said Preacher. “Good old Rho Alpha Tau.”

“The Rat Frat. Shit.”

“Not just that,” Preacher continued. “Now that I think about it, I remember her from around the dance clubs. Guess who she goes high-stepping with on Saturday nights?”

“The Chief Rat?” Ragnarok made a wild guess. “Jack Baron?”

“The man himself. Still think she’s cute?”

“Miles Walker!” a shrill voice called out to them. “Miles Walker and Charlie Hyatt! Hey there!”

Both men turned, knowing already from the sound of the voice whom it

belonged to. Ginny Porterhouse, an Orientation Counselor of truly enorrnous
proportions, jounced up to them like a tugboat coming into port over stormy water. She pulled a much smaller woman in tow.

“Miles, how nice to see you!” She swept Preacher into a clumsy embrace before he could duck away. Ragnarok was quicker, escaping with a mere handshake. Both Bohemians were, as usual, impressed by her display of affection—for though they knew from experience and observation that she had no real patience with weird cases like the Bohemes, Ginny always managed to act civilly toward them. For a brief period.

Ginny’s charge for the day was a diminutive Asian lugging a huge shoulder bag, which looked as though it might tip her over at any time. Still, Preacher could see in her eyes that she was strong, and perhaps Ragnarok saw it too, for they both began to care for her—or at least lust after her in a friendly manner—at the same moment.

“Ginny P.!” Preacher burst out. “How’s it goin’?”

“Oh, we’re having a wonderful time today,” Ginny replied in her most matronly tone. “Boys, I want you to meet Jinsei. Jinsei’s a transfer student from Penn State, but before that she was born in mainland China, of all places!”

“No shit?” Preacher said, winking discreetly at Jinsei. “And here I had you pegged for an Australian.”

“Jinsei,” Ginny continued doggedly, “this is Miles Walker and his friend Charlie Hyatt.”

“Hi,” said Ragnarok. “We’re from mainland America.”

“The low-rent district,” Preacher added. “Say, are you sure you’ve never been in Sydney?”

Jinsei smiled bemusedly at both of them. “Actually,” she said, “I grew up in Pittsburgh.”

“Yeah?” Preacher turned to Ginny. “Here’s your chance to take some serious English lessons, Gin. Bet she could cure that California accent of yours in no time.”

“I’m sure,” Ginny said. She took a not-too-obvious glance at her watch. “Well my, look at the time. And we have a really busy schedule today. . . .”

“Don’t let us hold you up,” said Preacher.

“I don’t think we could if we tried,” Ragnarok pointed out.

“Nice meeting you both,” Jinsei said pleasantly, following as Ginny began to walk away. Preacher and Ragnarok bowed deeply to her.

A moment or two passed. Then Ragnarok called out. “Hey! Hey!” Both women, already some distance away, looked back.

“Don’t believe a word she tells you!” Ragnarok shouted cheerfully to Jinsei. “She doesn’t know the first thing about: life at Cornell!”

“She doesn’t even go to this school!” Preacher added. “She’s an Ithaca College spy!”

Ginny dropped all pretense and glared at them. Jinsei favored them with another smile, catching both their hearts.

“She likes you,” Preacher observed.

“She likes you,” Ragnarok replied.

“So what do we do, cuz?”

“Guess we take turns falling for her,” said Ragnarok. He spoke jokingly, but as it turned out, he was more right than he knew.

IX.

Wednesday, 6:15
P.M
.

The bus bearing the Cornellians for Christ to their first fall picnic arrived at Taughannock Park shortly before sunset. It pulled up by the shore of Cayuga Lake, where an assortment of tables, a wooden shelter, and a ready-made bonfire were waiting. The Christers—as they were popularly known, like it or not (though the
Sun
was careful to use a different nickname)—piled out onto the grass and, after getting dinner started, chose up sides for frisbee football.

Aurora passed on the game, and while Brian and Michael Krist flipped steaks over a charcoal fire, she crossed Route 89 in search of Taughannock Falls. A footpath led her alongside a wide stream, and she paused frequently along the bank. The water seemed alive; from time to time the Falls would dry up to a mere trickle and the stream would suffer with it, but not this season. It roared, turbulent and jubilant, but for all its ferocity, the melody it made as it crashed over the stones in its bed struck Aurora as distinctly feminine. So did the song the wind pushed through the trees.

All this was part of a delightfully unorthodox world view that would have pleased her father to no end, had he known about it. For despite the cross that hung above her breast, and all the dogma that went with it, she had always thought of God as being female (or rather, Female). The image that came to her mind when she bothered to conjure one was of a not-quite-old, not-quite-matronly woman with the universe set out before her like a floor plan on a drafting table. It was a romantic conception, one Aurora could never have explained, much less justified, to Brian and the other Christers. So she simply believed in it, quietly and to herself.

Across the stream at one point she spotted a peculiar fall of logs that, combined with the oncoming darkness, gave the illusion of a cottage. It reminded her of a scene from George’s book, in which the White Rose Knight and his Squire stopped for the evening at a cabin in an enchanted forest. The beautiful occupant of the cabin turned into a grizzly bear with the rising of the moon, and the Knight was very nearly torn in half before effecting his escape. Aurora didn’t know about that part, but the earlier descriptions of the forest and homestead very much caught her fancy. It would be nice to live in a magic wood, she thought, with an occasional wandering Knight for company.

I just don’t want you to wake up thirty years from now and realize that your chance to have more of a life has gone fry .

More than once in the past two weeks Aurora had given thought to her father’s words on the morning of her leaving. Far from unraveling the meaning of everything he had said, she had nonetheless begun to understand the basic gist of it, in particular his fear of Brian Garroway and how Brian might influence her. Walter had made no mention of her boyfriend, but no mention was necessary.

Her feelings about this were varied. Above all she was touched that her father should care so much for her, for she knew that at the very root it was love rather than selfishness that motivated him. Oh, no doubt Walter dreamed of having a norm-breaker for a daughter, but the concern in his voice on that last morning had been more than that of a man losing a dream.

She was also amused at this further confirmation of her world view. God was supposed to be omniscient, but Aurora had never met a man with any talent for mind-reading. Her father had apparently decided that, since she showed no outward signs of radicalism, her capacity and desire to be “different” had somehow vanished. Here Walter was dead wrong. True, she had grown up peacefully enough, with little show of rebellion or deviation. Aurora did not bother with such displays; while she had a certain admiration for those who made argument their daily bread, she herself avoided confrontation except when absolutely necessary and kept more to herself than most people ever realized. But her dreams were vast.

If Aurora could have stepped inside the world of George’s book she would have done so in a moment. Why not? Cross the magic stream and enter a world of enchantment. And if a dragon or two had to be faced, then that was a worthwhile price of admission. But in real life there were other things, stronger even than dragons, to keep you from crossing that stream. Love, for instance.

Aurora loved Brian Garroway Someone knowing the full scope of her dreams might not have understood this, but love kept its own secrets. To Walter Smith, Brian’s bad points seemed all too obvious: impatience, his inflexible sense of law, general intolerance. Closer in, Aurora saw good as well. She had been witness to scenes Walt would never know: impatient Brian spending an entire Sunday afternoon on an elaborate funeral and burial service when his younger sister's pet rabbit had died; law-abiding Brian running countless red lights on the way to the hospital when the same younger sister fractured her ankle skating; intolerant Brian walking a mile to a friend’s house to apologize when he realized he’d been too hasty in an argument. Such moments were touchstones to her, keys to really
seeing
Brian as opposed to just judging him.

And of course he loved her too, however poorly he sometimes demonstrated that love. This was perhaps the strongest compulsion of all; true love is hard to turn away, especially first love, even if the cost is high.

I don’t want you to feel that loss. . . .

She would think the whole thing over yet. Carefully. She still had time to think. Not much time, for Brian would be proposing officially to her before long, but hopefully time enough. Time to weigh the good against the bad, time to balance what she would gain against what she would have to give up.

Aurora walked the rest of the way to the waterfall, stunned, as always, by her first glimpse of it, a hundred-foot silver cascade that turned the last rays of the sunset into a light show. She stood on a stone bridge and lost herself in the music of the flow. In its day Taughannock Falls had seen explorers, tourists, lovers, and, in 1903, a pistol duel. It whispered her a song of magic past, and magic yet to be.

X.

Friday, 5:30
A.M
.

At an hour when no sane student or professor would wish to be awake—even the
Sun
deliverers had, after a week of classes, decided to sleep a bit later—better than a hundred dogs were gathered on the Arts Quad. Sergeant Slaughter, a Bulldog who served as mascot to the members of Cornell’s ROTC, had been padding about the campus since four in the morning, waking Purebreds and mongrels alike for the Dog’s Convocation.

They stood, sat, lay, rolled over, tussled in a rough semi-circle before Ezra Cornell’s statue: Pointers, Retrievers, Hounds, Shepherds, Terriers, Spaniels, the odd Toy Dog, other more exotic breeds, and a tight knot of mongrels who clustered at the far edge of the crowd, watching defiantly for any sign of condescension from the Purebreds. Luther, Blackjack at his side, looked anxiously for his sire as well, but Moses was nowhere to be found.

As they waited for the ceremony to begin, Joshua and Denmark argued fervently with a Collie bitch named Bucklette.

“Explain to me again,” Denmark said, “how the Fourth Question is supposed to be ‘perfectly acceptable.’ “

“It
is
,” Bucklette insisted. “You dogs"—here Joshua bristled—"just don’t understand the educational process.”

“I guess I don’t,” Joshua agreed. “How about teaching it to me?”

“Look,” said Bucklette, “it’s not as if you were the only ones who had a right to be upset—
if
there was anything to be upset about. The Fourth Question implies prejudice against everybody.”

“It implies prejudice against
you.
Maybe. Me, it doesn’t even consider.”

“Well then that’s all the more to the point. The Fourth Question is an absolutely marvelous example of reverse cogitation.”

“Reverse cogitation,” Denmark repeated.

“Reverse cogitation?” Joshua queried.

“Yes, yes! Here, let me give you another example. Suppose a dog came up to you and asked, ‘What’s the best way of losing your left foreleg?’ “

“My leg?” replied Denmark. “I guess any way would be pretty horrible.”

“It’s a stupid question,” Joshua added.

“Exactly. And you answer it by attacking the foolishness of the idea behind the question—like the idea of prejudice.
That’s
reverse cogitation.”

“It’s still stupid,” observed joshua. “How can you . . .”

And so on. Luther paid little attention to what was said, although the argument, and the general tension between the mongrels and Purebreds, disturbed him. It had been a long week of discovery, and despite the joy he had felt on encountering George, he had seen a great many other things that shook his faith in what they had found. Blackjack, sensing this, had begun gently to prod him in the direction of reality.