Loss of Innocence (18 page)

Eleven

As days passed, and Whitney did not see Ben at Dogfish Bar, she began to feel childish and cowardly. After yet another solitary morning at the beach, Whitney got tired of herself, and went to find him.

He was sitting on the deck of the guesthouse, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, a folded letter on the table in front of him. He looked up at her without expression, as though her absence, and now her presence, was unremarkable.

“How are you?” she asked.

“I’ve been better,” he said, and handed her the letter.

It was headed “Order to Report for Armed Forces Physical Examination.” Shaken, Whitney absorbed the contents—in one week, Ben was to be given a draft physical on the Cape. In a muted tone, she asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Not much I
can
do,” he said in a dispirited tone. “I called one of my professors, a guy who counsels kids about draft problems. One week’s notice is no time at all—he’s never seen a draft board move this fast.” His voice became bitter. “When Jack dropped out of Pratt, it took them nearly a year to call him in.”

“Why didn’t he go?”

“Asthma,” Ben said with palpable disdain. “They classified him 4-F, and then he returned to the womb of Martha’s Vineyard. Hard for a man to do any less with such good fortune. But now I’m on the fast track. If they re-classify me 1-A, I can’t get back to Yale. Instead I’m in the Army.”

Whitney felt shock morph into anguish for him, and then a second fear she had only felt for Peter. “I’m so sorry, Ben.”

He gave her a long, appraising look. “I guess you’ve been avoiding me. Or is planning a wedding more stifling than I imagined?”

Whitney had no good answer. “I’ve been wondering how you are.”

After a moment, Ben smiled a little. “Now that you know, feel brave enough to risk going with me to a beach party?”

“When?” she asked in surprise.

“Tonight—in Gay Head, near Dogfish Bar. A couple of guys I know from high school are doing something with a crew of kids from off-island—the usual mix of music and pharmacology. The way things are, this may be my last experience with the counterculture before they shave my hair off. So I’m going as an observer”

“And you want company?”

“I asked, didn’t I? A draftee’s last request.”

Whitney hesitated, then had the superstitious fear that he would vanish—not just from her life, but from life itself. “Okay, then.”

He gave her a sideways look. “How are you going to explain this to your parents?”

Whitney did not know. Shamed by her worry, she said, “Leave that to me.”

Closing the door to her bedroom, Whitney called Clarice. “I need your help,” she began.

She could hear the tension in her own voice. “Sounds serious,” her friend responded. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Worse than pregnant. I’ve decided to go with Ben to a beach party.” Hastily, she added, “He’s been ordered to report for a draft
physical, and I feel terrible for him. But I can’t imagine Mom feeling all that sympathetic.”

“So you’d like to say you’re with me.”

“In a word, yes.”

Clarice hesitated. “You’re really putting me on the spot, Whitney. I’m not sure a best friend should help you sneak around your parents with this particular guy, five weeks before you’re getting married.”

“This isn’t about betraying Peter,” Whitney said defensively. “It’s just something I need to do. You’ve said it yourself—parents don’t need to know everything.”

Clarice sighed audibly. “No matter what you say, I feel something bad coming on. But yeah, okay. My parents are off-island, so you can meet him here.”

The Barkley’s home was a rambling white-frame structure not dissimilar to the Danes’, with roses and a festive garden, the assiduous work of Clarice’s mother and grandmother. When Ben arrived, she and Whitney were waiting on the porch. Clarice gave his beat-up truck a jaundiced once-over, then regarded him with a small, appraising smile. Seeing his expression, her smile vanished quickly.

“I’m sorry about the draft, Ben.”

“Yeah,” he said curtly. “A shame, isn’t it?”

Remembering Jack’s comments, Whitney watched his face for signs of interest in Clarice. Instead he turned to her. “Let’s go,” he said, and opened the passenger door.

Embarrassed by his rudeness, Whitney murmured, “Thank you,” to her friend, and got inside the truck. As they drove off, Clarice gave them a demure wave of benediction.

Ben’s face clouded. “So Clarice is your beard.”

“It seemed better than fighting with my parents over nothing.” To change the subject, Whitney added, “I guess you know that your brother’s attracted to her.”

Ben turned down South Road toward Gay Head. “Where did you get this insight?” he asked.

“From Jack. I visited his shop the other day.”

He looked surprised, and then laughed softly. “Jack was born to spend his life on the sidelines. Why expend emotional energy on a girl who’s that entitled? He might as well decide to become a cosmonaut.”

Whitney wondered if this remark was also directed at Ben himself. “What if you were the one who liked her, and not Jack?”

Ben shrugged. “I didn’t ask her to the beach party, did I?”

Considering this remark, Whitney found several possible implications. She let the subject drop.

In the failing light, the beach had the dusky softness of an impressionist painting—the sea grass was darker, the sand dung-colored, the clouds wispy and indistinct in a blue-gray sky. Young people in twos or threes were gathered around a sputtering bonfire—the women with long flowing hair, most of the guys sporting beards or mustaches. A few passed around joints as a yipping dog sniffed at a couple of small, towheaded children, a boy and a girl, playing with plastic pails and shovels near a metal keg of beer. Ben and Whitney sat at the edge of the group, greeting no one. “Who are they?” she asked.

“Rich kids, mostly—they don’t invite too many locals. What you’ve got is one of your parents’ summer parties through the looking glass.”

“I don’t see anyone I know.”

“Maybe you won’t. A lot of these kids are trust fund babies who figure it doesn’t matter if they screw up. So now they’re dropouts and druggies—still your class, but not your type.” Taking a bottle of wine from his knapsack, he continued in the same dispassionate tone. “Some of them play at being hippies. But instead of living off the land, they’re living off Mom and Dad. A make-believe Eden I could never quite buy into even as an escape.”

Whitney looked around. Nearer the sea grass she saw sleeping bags, some occupied; a few more couples under blankets; a lone man strumming his guitar so lightly that it made no sound. “Aren’t they worried about the draft?”

“I doubt it.” Pouring Whitney some Chianti in a plastic cup, he nodded to indicate a stringy guy limping toward the keg of beer. “I know him from high school, and what you’re seeing is a war wound. He chopped off his toe to avoid the army.”

Whitney winced. “All of them can’t be maimed.”

“A primitive method, the last recourse of the underclass. I’m sure most of these people found an easier way out.” He glanced around, then stopped to stare at something. “See that couple screwing in the sleeping bag? For the purposes of draft, I’d expect the guy’s probably gay.”

Embarrassed, Whitney laughed uneasily. Then she recalled Ben was here not as participant but observer, recording his impressions of a slice of life before he lost the freedom to do so. “I hope you don’t have to go,” she said quietly.

Ben gave her an oblique glance. “I know you do.”

To Whitney’s relief, his tone was free of sarcasm. They settled into companionable silence, sipping wine as night closed around them. The fire cast flickering light on the group closest to it. Some of the women were topless now; two more, naked, danced in vague association to the beat of an invisible drum. Others swam in the moonlight, their heads bobbing shadows. At the edge of the sea grass, a couple made love, the woman on top of the man, long hair rippling as she moved. Whitney’s first instinct was to look away. Instead, she took a deep swallow of wine. “Not much like Winter Carnival at Dartmouth. At least people closed the door first.”

Ben nodded. “At Yale, too. Another bourgeois hang-up.”

Nearby someone turned on a transistor radio, its sound thinning as it reached them. “WBCN,” he told her. “Used to be a classical station in Boston, and then one day it went rock—Joplin, the Airplane, the Dead, the Stones, even political stuff like Phil Ochs. Used to listen to it all the time.”

From the darkness came Joni Mitchell’s distinct voice. Straining to hear, Whitney caught a song about a woman who leaves one relationship after another to avoid being consumed by men.

“You know that song?” Whitney asked.

Ben nodded. “It’s either an anthem for female liberation or an ironic warning. Maybe both.”

Backlit by the fire, a tall, lanky guy came up to them, squinting in the darkness. “Ben?”

“None other. How are you, Huck?”

Huck looked from Whitney to Ben. He was squinting, she guessed, because he was high on something. “Good, man. You were at some Ivy League place, right?”

“Yale. But the Army may have other plans.”

“Shit. How’d that happen?”

“Bad karma, I guess.”

Huck shook his head in commiseration. “You heard what happened to Johnny, right? Got wasted in Vietnam.”

A coolness entered Ben’s face and voice. “Yeah. I heard.”

“Bad times,” Huck said sententiously. “At least out there in the world.”

“Hardly a new development. So what about you, Huck? You look like a fighting man to me.”

“No fucking way, man—I’ve got a
serious
hiatal hernia.” Huck jerked his thumb in the direction of the fire. “Some of the others and me are starting a commune on some farmland in West Tisbury. We’ll grow our own food, do something more creative than being cannon fodder or working for the man—writing or painting or photography. Me, I’m finally going to have time for my music.”

Ben nodded solemnly. “Good to see you slowing down a little, Huck. I envy you the creative freedom.”

Whitney repressed a smile. Though she knew Ben well enough to detect his utter disbelief that this man would accomplish anything, Huck heard only approval. “We’re going to change the world,” he said with ponderous certainty. “End wars, legalize pot, save the earth, make abortion free for everyone, liberate women, and demand equal rights for all people of color.”

“Impressive,” Ben said. “I can’t even memorize all that. Must be terrific weed you’re smoking.”

Huck laughed a little. “The best.” Belatedly acknowledging Whitney, he asked, “You guys together?”

Ben shook his head. “More like a one-night stand. Whitney’s into sport-fucking.”

Huck gave them both a dubious look. “Cool,” he murmured, and wandered off.

Whitney felt amusement tugging at her indignation. “Thanks,” she said to Ben. “You just ruined my reputation.”

“Here? That would be impossible. Anyhow, in a couple of hours Huck’s synapses and dendrites will start misfiring, and he won’t even remember meeting you.”

“Too bad. It felt like we really connected.”

“Oh, well,” Ben responded philosophically, “You can always invite him to the wedding.”

Near the fire, Whitney saw a short, ponytailed guy reeling spastically, struggling to stay upright. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Mescaline, I’d guess. Your limbs start feeling like spaghetti, except twitchier. Colors get more vivid, and start combining with other colors. The last time I did that I was listening to Dylan’s ‘Highway 61 Revisited,’ and every note and lyric was a revelation.”

Laughing, the guy pointed at a dog trying to shit near the fire. Suddenly, he folded up, falling to the sand, his eyes staring and unfocused. “He looks catatonic,” Whitney said.

“He’s passed through the elation stage. All in all, mescaline is a bad idea.” His voice turned sober. “I had a roommate who thought
he’d use that stuff to ‘break through to the other side.’ The other side turned out to be driving a taxi. I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t think Jim is ever coming back. So all I do anymore is pot.”

“When I was younger,” Whitney confessed, “my mom told me it was the gateway drug to heroin. Later there was the honor code at Wheaton—no alcohol or drugs. So I’ve never even tried it.”

“No harm in it. In fact, the Surgeon General has certified that pot is good for you. Told me so himself, the last time I smoked some.” Reaching into his windbreaker, Ben took out a perfectly rolled joint. “Up to you, Whitney. But I’m driving, and I know my limits. If you want to experiment, you’ll be safe with me.”

Though he did not seem to be pushing her, Whitney felt embarrassed by her lack of sophistication. “Maybe a puff.”

Ben lit the joint, taking a deep drag before exhaling. “That’s how you do it,” he told her, and passed the joint.

Taking it between her fingers, Whitney tried to remember smoking a surreptitious cigarette with Clarice when they were both sixteen. Then she took a hasty puff. “A little deeper,” Ben advised. “Just not too much.”

With the second puff, the hot, acrid smoke made Whitney cough. Determinedly, she took another, holding it in as Ben had. Taking the joint from her hand, Ben said, “I admire your commitment to research.”

For awhile, they passed it back and forth, quiet. Whitney’s sensations began merging—the bonfire, the strumming of a guitar, the lapping of surf, the riot of stars in a black sky, the cool, gentle breeze on her face. Everything else—her family, Peter, the wedding—felt very far away.

She was floating, Whitney thought. Mute, she took Ben’s hand. He did not seem to notice. Hours passed, or maybe minutes. Ben appeared lost in his own thoughts.

Then someone was touching her shoulder. “Time to go,” he told her gently. “Before you turn back into a pumpkin.”

Whitney wished she could stay.

As Ben drove, Whitney laid her head back against the seat. “Still stoned?” he asked.

“I’m just wondering where I was. No one seemed connected to what’s going on.”