I Am Charlotte Simmons (91 page)

Read I Am Charlotte Simmons Online

Authors: Tom Wolfe

BOOK: I Am Charlotte Simmons
12.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“—so that the religious right chooses to stress the premise that marriage is all about children. But if we look at
their own holy text
, how often does
their own holy prophet
, Jesus, dwell upon children? He doesn't dwell upon
children …
at all.
In fact, he only mentions them once, and that's in response to a question. It's in what the religious right refers to as the New Testament, the Book—their name for a chapter—the Book of Mark, verse forty-two, in which Jesus says, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.' That's their own prophet on the subject of children. That's it! Let'm come shake hands with me here in public! That's it! It's a photo op! On the basis of
that
they're telling us their religion is opposed to same-sex marriage? They don't
know
their own religion! We've got a knowledge gap here, and we'd have to build a bridge for them to ever get across it!”
Whoops, howls of laughter, as the wise man outed the philistines.
“Now, my wife and I have two children, and we love them, we're extremely close to them, and we'd do anything in the world we could for them. But do we think our marriage is ‘all about' them? We both have careers, and we happen to think our marriage is also ‘about' our work. I'll go further. We happen to think our work is meaningful. My wife is an attorney, and she is always on call, by her own choice, for the court to appoint her to represent indigent defendants in criminal actions. I teach here at the university, and I happen to think—of course, I can't guarantee that my students don't think otherwise”—big smile, hearty chuckle—“I happen to regard teaching as—to use words I hope the religious right will be comfortable with—a ‘holy calling,' and our marriage is ‘about' those things, too. Is there any reason why partners in a same-sex marriage could not rear children, could not adopt and raise children from among the literally millions of children in this country who are without parents, with the same love and dedication my wife and I try to give our children? Of course not. The two things, the gender composition of the marriage and the rearing of children couldn't have less to do with each other! Couldn't have less! To have to deal with such a nonsensical argument at all … stuns the normal mind!”
That brought a burst of approval from the crowd of blue-jeaners and spurred the speaker on to greater heights.
“The sheer
ignorance
of it actively victimizes those who are the most vulnerable and defenseless, the children of this country! Victimizes them and subjects them to unspeakable abuse!”
A roar of approval, but Adam put the placard in front of his face again. He wasn't joining in. Whoever this old guy was, he was a foxy old bastard. He had just
happened
to have to divulge that he was married and had two children.
Oh, of course, to be gay was 100 percent terrific, maybe it was far, far
better
to be gay, but he just
happened
to let it out of the bag that he was a
straight
cat, he was, he was. Adam resented that. This faculty member, whoever he was, could score big points by appearing at the Stand Up Straight for Gay Day rally—but with a microphone to let the world know he
himself
was no fucking faggot … while Adam Gellin had to stand here stock-still and silent, holding a sign up over his head that said QUEER in big letters. Why couldn't he have a microphone, too, or at least add a line to his sign? Now it said,
FREE SPEECH
IS QUEER,
TOO!
Why couldn't he add,
AND NOT JUST
STRAIGHT
LIKE ME!
Damn, that was longer than what was already there … The damned placard by itself would have to be six feet high. With the stick … the thing would end up eight or nine feet tall …
The old guy was really soaring now, barrel rolls, outside loops, power dives, inverted spins … There was no holding him back …
Who was he, though? Overcome by curiosity, Adam sidled over to Camille, who was once more a Praetorian guard. He was careful to keep his sign facing front and his face behind it.
“Who is that?” he said.
“Jerome Quat,” said Camille out the side of her mouth. “He's one of the few faculty members with guts. The rest just sign petitions.”
“Jerome
Quat
?” Adam was startled. “Teaches
history?”
Camille nodded yes. A tremor went through Adam's solar plexus. His heart started banging as if it had an appointment somewhere else. Jojo's history professor!—the very one who had him and Jojo trapped inside a box like a couple of insects! This was
him
!
Adam's every instinct told him to vanish—now. But he couldn't very well bolt in the middle of the guy's talk … Randy and the guilt factor … So
he just stood there with the QUEER placard over his face, thinking … Gradually his mind caught up with his amygdala …
Mr. Jerome Quat came down, at length, from the heights of oratory and stood at the podium accepting the applause and cheers—real cheers—and one of the current undergraduate chants of approval, which went, Wooo wooo wooo wooo! Camille had joined in and was going wooo wooo wooo wooo as she put her placard down and hurried from her post to go back behind the dais and congratulate him. Adam followed her. Quat had descended from the dais at last and was currently thronged by Fist leaders and fans … and seemed to feel no urge to hurry away from their flattery and gratitude and more flattery.
Camille was elbowing her way to the great man with typical Deng doggedness. Adam stayed on her heels, even elbowed his way past an odd body or two the way she did. He put his hand on her shoulder. She spun about angrily but then saw who it was.
“He's awesome!” he said to Camille. “He's the Man! I never heard him speak before! I gotta meet him!”
“I'll introduce you!” said Camille. “He's the only one with any fucking guts!”
When she reached Quat, she raised her hand to give him a high five, and he slapped her palm with gusto. “Mr. Quat, you're the only straight professor on the whole fucking faculty with any fucking guts!”
Far from being taken aback, Quat threw an arm around her, squeezed her to him and said, “It's Jerry, Camille … Jerry. You're the one with guts! The way you sent that bunch of frat boys packing—that was golden!”
They proceeded to do quite a duet in that fashion before Camille was aware Adam was planted right in front of them, barely thirty inches away.
“Mr. Quat—”
“Jerry.”
“—this is my friend Adam Gellin.”
“Adam Gellin … ,” said Quat, as if ruminating …
“I told you about the Millennial Mutants?” said Camille. “Adam's one of us. There's supposed to be all these liberal straight guys who are going to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Fist? A lot of them are going to—but they're dicks—”
“‘Dicks'? Camille, I love you, kid!” said Quat with a great chortle.
“—and they don't show, but Adam did. He was right down there in front of the podium with a placard.”
Quat shook hands with Adam and began ruminating again. “Adam Gellin … Why do I know your name? Just the other day …”
“Adam writes for the Wave,” said Camille. “He wrote the story about the trustees and their Buddy Club. You see that?”
“
Everybody
saw that! Congratulations,” he said to Adam. “The way you made those pompous—but that isn't what I was thinking about … It was something else … It was just the other day, too …”
Adam took a deep breath—and held it. Odds … evens. Acey-deucey … He thought of Charlotte … waiting for him. Damn it! This time he wasn't going to let himself be frozen with timidity.
“Mr. Quat,” he said, “I think I can tell you why. Until recently I was a tutor for the Athletic Department. I was the tutor for Jojo Johanssen.”
He pursed his lips and stared straight into Quat's eyes. He tried to resist swallowing, but he couldn't. He'd said it—and now he was in play.
Quat didn't say anything for a moment. Then he began nodding his head. “Ahhh,” he said. “I see.” More nodding.
He seemed as unsure of what was happening as Adam did.
 
 
Later that afternoon Adam opened his cell phone with such a feeling of elation that it even dispelled—for the moment—his fear of the Quat situation. He immediately called Greg at the Wave.
After keeping him hanging—for about five minutes, it felt like—Greg came on the phone and said, testily, “What is it, Adam? We're on deadline here.”
“This'll take two seconds,” said Adam. “You know the Skull Fuck story?”
“Holy shit, Adam!” said Greg. “How many times—”
“Just one thing, Greg, just one thing. I've got the angle! This makes it news! I just got off the phone with a source deep …
deep
… within the Saint Ray house. Hoyt Thorpe just took a bribe from the governor of California to keep quiet about the Skull Fuck story. And just thirty minutes before this call I got a call from Thorpe saying he's changed his mind, and we can't run the story. A bribe, Greg! A Dupont student gets fucking bribed by the likely Republican nominee for president! … Greg … Are you there?”
Finally, wearily, Greg said, “Yeah. I'm here.”
“Greg, this source is ironclad. We're talking iron-fucking-clad.”
A
dam assumed a role completely foreign to him. He became Charlotte's “bad” camp counselor, the one who couldn't care less about being known as “a good guy,” the one who insists that the campers not only obey the rules but also realize that the rules have the force of righteousness, which is to say God, behind them.
Charlotte was like many another depressed girl before her. Come the dawn she would still be wide-awake, all too alert, all too alarmed by the thought of having to get out of bed. There was the drag of inertia and the fatigue of insomnia and, worse than either, fear. The insomniac's period of sleep, whether she falls asleep or not, is like Charlotte's eight-hour, ninehour, ten-hour interstate bus ride. In that period she has no duties, no obligations, no responsibilities, no one to confront, because there is no one to confront. She has official permission from God to take care of
nothing
for the duration.
The morning of Charlotte's modern drama exam was the worst. Adam had set the alarm for eight, because the exam was at nine-thirty and he intended to make sure she took a shower, yes, in the hall bathroom, and did her hair, and dressed neatly. The alarm went off, and Charlotte didn't budge, even though she was clearly not asleep. She responded to Adam's exhortations with indecipherable grunts. He climbed over her and got up and
turned off the alarm. She lay there the next thing to comatose; her eyes were open, but the lights were not on.
“Damn it, Charlotte!” said Adam. He stood before her in T-shirt and boxer shorts, elbows akimbo. “I've gone to a lot of trouble for you! I didn't want to get up at eight, either, but I did. And you're going to, too. You've got an exam ninety minutes from now, and you're going to take that exam, and you're going to arrive at that classroom looking like a person who cares about herself, and you're going to eat enough to provide enough blood sugar to be able to concentrate on that exam. So let's …
hop—to
it!”
Charlotte didn't move a muscle, but her lights turned on dimly. In a tiny, groggy voice she said, “What difference does it make? I stay here, I go there … either way I get an F.” With that, she moved a muscle, two muscles, in fact, the frontalis muscles, which enable a girl to lift her eyebrows in a shrugging manner.
“Oh, really?” said Adam. “Now, why is that? And please provide some pity for yourself in your answer.”
The little voice said, “It has nothing to do with self-pity. Mr. Gilman is absolutely—I don't
think
the way he does. I
can't
think the way he does. He thinks this poor all-messed-up little woman, this ‘performance artist,' Melanie Nethers, is the most important thing there is in modern drama. Shaw, Ibsen, Chekhov, Strindberg, O'Neill, Tennessee Williams, they're all passé? They're not cool? He thinks ‘cool' is a
concept
? What am I supposed to—”
Adam wouldn't let her finish. Gesturing at her inert, horizontal form with both hands, he said, “Charlotte—this is not right!”
“It's not a matter of—”
“It's simply not
right
! Do you hear me?”
“Whether it's right—”
“You can't just
blow off a final exam
! Who do you think you are? How
dare
you be so thoughtless?”
“Well, the plain truth is—”
“You have
no idea
what the plain truth is!” This time Adam clenched his teeth and gestured at her with both hands, fingers curled as if they had claws on the tips. “WHAT YOU'RE DOING IS PLAIN WRONG! YOU'RE THROWING AWAY A GREAT MIND AND A GREAT OPPORTUNITY! WHO GAVE YOU THE
RIGHT
TO DO SUCH A THING! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”
“I think—”
“THIS IS NOT RIGHT!”
“I—”
“GET UP! GET UP! THIS IS NOT RIGHT, YOU JUST LYING HERE LIKE THIS!”
“Will you—”
“NO! I WON'T! THIS IS NOT RIGHT! IT'S WRONG!”
“Will you let—”
“NO! I WON'T! WE'RE ON THE EDGE OF A KNIFE HERE AND WE'VE GOTTA JUMP ONE WAY OR THE OTHER, THE RIGHT SIDE OR THE WRONG SIDE! THERE'S NO MEDIAN STRIP!”
Something about Adam's avalanche of implacably moral stuff got to her, resonated with some of Christ's Evangelic creed she had brought to Dupont without meaning to, sewn, as it were, into the very lining of her clothes. There was also, unbeknownst to either of them consciously, a woman's thrill!—that's the word for it!—her delicious thrill!—when, as before, a man expands his chest and drapes it with the sash of righteousness and …
takes command
! … upon the Heights of Abraham.
That moment was a turning point. Charlotte pulled herself together, did as she was told, and made it to the exam with time to spare. She returned to Adam's apartment convinced that she had butchered this exam, too, and complaining about the weird, warped mentality of Mr. Gilman. She did not break into tears; she did not despair. Scorn, contempt, and hatred were her métier. She registered not woe but anger, a deadly sin perhaps but a positive sign in this case.
Adam continued to go to bed with her every night. He pressed his body upon hers every night, at her bidding. As the night wore on and Charlotte finally drifted off into two or three hours of sleep, he slept with her—ever more bitterly conscious of the irony of that little phrase. If he had ever uttered such a thing in the company of, let's say, Greg or Roger or Camille, any of them would have assumed Charlotte was draining his testicles for him every night. “Draining his testicles” was Camille's term for a girl's “living with” some boy. Camille wouldn't say, “That little idiot has been living with Jason for a month now.” She would say, “That little idiot has been draining Jason's testicles for a month now.” If the truth be known, the kinetics of Adam's “living with” Charlotte hadn't changed in the slightest. He still embraced her like a mother holding a five-foot-four baby on her lap. Charlotte never lay facing him in bed. He held her from behind, not as a lover,
but as that vapid soul, the loving friend who sees to it that a poor troubled girl feels protected and secure—and not alone in this trough of mortal error where all mortals must abide. Many was the time the loving friend had an erection beneath his boxer shorts. Many was the time that stiffened giblet had the urge to thrust itself forward—two or three inches would have been enough—and let her know it was there … that was all … merely acquaint her with that pertinent fact. But how could he risk it? What had chased her into his bed but … somebody else's mindless, wandering erection, a battering ram who had knocked her door down and ravaged her.
Irony, irony, all too exquisite, the irony—and then one night something entirely unexpected happened. Charlotte fell asleep within one minute after they had climbed into bed and he had put his arms around her.
She had her first full night's sleep in six weeks or more. She awoke refreshed and even betrayed signs of optimism. The same thing happened the next night. The next morning she wanted to get up. The end of insomnia was pretty solid evidence that she was pulling out of her depression.
After a few days, Charlotte suggested that they return to the original arrangement, with him on the futon and her on the bed, or vice versa, since she felt much better and was no longer afraid at night. Adam was of two minds. How could he give up the tantalizing, if so far frustrating, prospect of having her body next to his every night and in the fullness of time sleeping with her in the metonymical meaning of the expression? At the same time … it was damned uncomfortable, two people in that one narrow bed; and besides, playing nurse without compensation in kind or in money was impossible to enjoy much beyond ten days.
 
 
And so there came a day when the second semester began, and Charlotte decided she should return to her own room in Edgerton and rejoin her clothes and other belongings. She and Adam were by no means splitting up. In fact, Adam walked her back to Little Yard and went up the elevator in Edgerton with her right to the door of her room on the fifth floor. She opened the door—it wasn't locked—and invited him in. So he went in.
A big blond-streaked head of hair—filled up the room. Spectacular! Such a tall, slender girl! On second thought, the word was … skinny … and her nose and her
chin
—Charlotte's roommate. Adam knew immediately from Charlotte's description.
“Hello, Beverly,” said Charlotte. It was about as cold and wary a greeting
as Adam had ever heard, especially in light of the fact that this was a roommate she hadn't seen or spoken to, so far as he knew, in ten days. Then Charlotte added in the same cold voice, “This is Adam.” Still looking at her roommate, she said in the numbest of tones, “Adam, this is my roommate, Beverly.”
Adam forced a big grin, a very big one, and said, “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
Beverly gave him as dead a smile as he had ever seen in his life. Her lips extended about ten millimeters on either side, but the rest of her physiognomy was having no part of it. In that same half second her eyes gave him the once-over, head to toe and back up to his head.
Enough of him—
she devoted the rest of that second to Charlotte.
“So … the roommate returns,” said Beverly. Her expression said, My, how you do amuse me. “I thought you must have turned right around and gone back to North Carolina. But then I saw you on campus a couple of times during finals. So then I figured you must be staying out on Ladding Walk or someplace.”
Charlotte's face turned absolutely scarlet. She was speechless. Adam was afraid she might cry. The silence stretched out out out out before Charlotte responded. “I've been staying at Adam's.”
“Oh,” said Beverly. Her voice struck
le chant juste
of fake sarcastic surprise and interest. She gave Adam another flick of the eyes, going head to toe and back to his head again with an expression that couldn't have said A PERSON OF NO CONSEQUENCE any louder if she had shouted it. Adam felt wounded and furious before his mind could even process the particulars.
Pretty soon, in due course, at the doorway, Charlotte gave Adam a hug good-bye, but it wasn't the hug he had come to cherish—and live for—the one in which she threw her arms around him and laid her head on his chest. In fact, it wasn't much more than a social hug. She gave him a kiss, but he could only imagine it touched his cheek. It was definitely not more than a social kiss. Whispering, she said, “Call me? Or I'll call you? Promise?”
As the Edgerton House elevator descended, Adam weighed the pluses and minuses and decided the result was very much in the plus column. Of course she hadn't given him an ardent embrace as he departed … not with that
snobbish bitch—
the bitch had deigned to look at him exactly twice and speak to him not even once and clearly found him A PERSON OF NO CONSEQUENCE—no preppy pink button-down, no creaseless Abercrombie & Fitch khakis—was
that
it, you
bitch
?—no fratty swagger, no fratty
smirk?—no inchoately flirtatious fratty twist of the lips and significantly toolong eye-lock, as if to say if the circumstances should happen to change,
let's
fuck?
—was that it, you
bitch
?—you sorostitute … you
Douche
in the larval stage, you cum dumpster for Saint Rays and Phi Gams only—
discriminating
anorexic bitch, aren't you—you pus-boil lump of conventional thought, conventional taste, and stillborn conventional passions selected like one of those whatthehellsthename handbags from some giddily expensive purveyor—too true, isn't it!—
that's
what we have here, isn't it!—and ten years from now, as you sit in your summer place in … in … in Martha's Vineyard with your Saint Ray clone consort watching a
60
Minutes
segment with Morley Safer—he'll be about a hundred, it occurred to him—Morley Safer interviewing Adam Gellin, creator of the New Matrix of the Twenty-first Century—that will be the title of the segment—you'll turn to the big cloned jut-jawed titanium head—big but very light—sitting beside you and say, “Oh, I've known him for a long time—he was my roommate's boyfriend at Dupont”—not with
that
snobbish bitch looking on was Charlotte going to demonstrate the depths of her … her … her feelings for him. That would be too much to expect.
But
!
—
she had said frankly, openly, “I've been
living
with Adam
—and I don't care for a minute if you know … you snobbish bitch … I'm proud of it! That's the way things are! Get used to it!” And she had whispered—he could
feel
that angelic whisper of hers as well as hear it—“Call me? Or I'll call you? Promise?” Promise, oh yes … promise me, promise me.
Adam departed Edgerton, the Little Yard, and the Mercer Memorial Gate with visions of loamy loins dancing in his head.
 
 
The telephone exploded, and Charlotte woke up from way down deep, wondering where she was. That became clear soon enough.

Other books

Rancher at Risk by Barbara White Daille
Burning House by Ann Beattie
Jesse's Christmas by RJ Scott
The Heiress Companion by Madeleine E. Robins
Sandstorm by Lee, Alan L.
Thorn Jack by Katherine Harbour