Authors: Eugene Burdick
The Ninth Wave (3 page)
"What are you going to do in the fall?" Miss Bell asked. "Have you made
up your mind?"
"No."
"Why don't you go to college, Mike? You're a good student."
"But why go to college?. What good will it do me?"
"It will broaden your horizons, it will . . . " She saw the look on his
face, faltered a moment and went on. "It will help you to get a good
job when you get out of college."
"Did it broaden your horizons?" Mike asked. "Your dad went to college. Did
it broaden his horizons? He still got cleaned out on that Belgian hare
proposition."
"I never should have told you about the Belgian hare business," Miss
Bell said. "That doesn't mean a thing. Today you can't get a decent
job unless you have a college education."
She had told Mike about the Belgian hares several weeks before. During
the late 1920's, all of Southern California had been swept by an
excitement over Belgian hares and newspapers carried advertisements of
prize bucks and does. It was alleged that the skins of the hares would
sell for fabulous sums and thousands of the hares were bred all over
the state. Brochures were circulated which stated that the pelts would
be made into exquisite fur coats and much was made of the fine sheen and
long hair of the hares. Miss Bell's father had resisted for months, but
finally a man he knew made $2500 with the hares and Mr. Bell purchased
a matched buck and doe for $1750. They were beautiful creatures, with
huge soft eyes and moist noses and he carefully nourished them in his
bedroom. But a month later the excitement died, the brochures disappeared,
there were a few stories in the papers and Mr. Bell sold the hares to
a poultry store for seventy-five cents.
"I can get a good job without going to college," Mike said.
"Doing what?" Miss Bell said.
"In the studios, they pay big money there," he said tentatively. "Or
working out at the aircraft factories."
"Oh, Mike, that isn't big money, those aren't big jobs," Miss Bell
said. "Those are the little jobs. Law, medicine, business executives;
those are the big jobs. You can't get one of those jobs without going
to college."
"You can make money without going to college," Mike said. "I know that."
He puffed on the cigar, felt a drop of brown bitter juice gather in the
corner of his mouth, but let it stay there. "You can make money lots
of other ways without having a college degree. Did Henry Ford go to
college? Or Jim Farley? Or Charles Lindbergh?"
"There are exceptions, Mike," Miss Bell said. "I admit that. But they're
flukes. Most of the big jobs go today to men who have a college training.
Certainly most of the famous men in the United States have gone to college.
I can prove that"
"How?" Mike said. He took the cigar out of his mouth and looked over
at her.
She put on her glasses. Her eyes came sharply into focus; her face looked
thinner. She walked over to the bureau and opened the little night case
she had brought to the Western Motel. She took out a thick book.
"Now don't be angry, Mike," she said. "I brought this from the school
library just in case you raised the question. You never take what
I say. This is a copy of "Who's Who." It's a list of all the famous
people in the United States. Just name me one person, any person and if
he's famous he'll be in this book." She paused and added with triumph,
"And you'll see that most of them have gone to college."
"What if he isn't in the book?" Mike asked. "How do I know they've got
all the really famous people in there?"
He bent forward, took the cigar out of his mouth. The little trickles
of sweat ran down his chest, gathered around his waist, ran down between
his legs.
"If they're famous they have to be in this book," Miss Bell said and
laughed. "That is the definition of being famous . . . being in this
book. If you aren't in the book you aren't famous."
"Yeah, says who?" he said, but his voice faltered. He stared at the book
in her hand.
"It's just so, Mike," Miss Bell said and now she was speaking in the voice
with which she talked in the classroom: even, confident, assured. "This is
the book where they gather the names of famous men. They are experts at it."
"O.K., O.K.," Mike said. He took the cigar out of his mouth, threw it
toward the wastebasket in the corner. It fell in neatly and in a moment
a tendril of blue smoke came straight up out of the wastebasket. Mike
leaned back on the pillow and closed his eyes. "O.K. What does it say
about John Cromwell?"
He could hear her flick through the pages, run them through her smooth
expert fingers with a hissing noise. Her fingernail scratched down a
page. She came over and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Here it is, John Cromwell," she said. "Read it." She laid the book on
his chest. He opened his eyes and picked it up. Her finger was under a
name. He read slowly.
CROMWELL, John W., lawyer, b. San Francisco,
1895. Stanford University, Stanford Law School.
m. Susan Donner; s. John Jr.; Timothy; d. Maria;
Assemblyman, 1928-32 Sixth District; Congressman
1932-35, Ninth District; Phi Beta Kappa, Sigma
Kappa Alpha, Beta Sigma Chi, Bohemian Club, Pacific
Union Club. Articles various law journals.
"Torts and the Common Law," "Hobbes and Natural
Law." 2323 Hyde St., San Francisco.
"See?" Miss Bell said. "He went to college. Stanford."
"Yeah," Mike said slowly. He ran his eye down the page, read other
brief biographies.
"Why did you pick him?" Miss Bell asked.
"I heard him talk once in Exposition Park," Mike said. "God, could
he talk. He was talking to a Mexican picnic. They were celebrating a
revolution or something. Or the anniversary of a revolution. Something
like that."
"What did he talk about?"
"I don't remember. It doesn't matter. Something about the glorious
revolution." Mike slowly sat up in the bed. "But Jesus he had 'em. Really
had 'em in his hand. I was standing in the crowd and they said he was
the son of a real old rich California family. He looked crummy. His suit
all covered with cigar ashes and he scratched all the time. It made them
laugh. I even laughed. He was comical. He just stared out at the crowd
and let them laugh. But when he talked. By God, they stopped laughing
quick enough."
"Don't say 'God' so often, Mike," Miss Bell whispered. "It's just a
habit. Doesn't sound nice."
"When he started to talk he was like a preacher," Mike went on. "Just
like a preacher, except that he made you feel bad. As if you'd done
something wrong. God, half those Mexicans were crying by the time he
finished. I never forgot him."
"Well, name anyone else, Mike, just anyone at all that is famous in his
field. He'll be in this book and nine times out of ten he will have gone
to college. You just can't get into an important job if you don't have
a college degree. Name another person."
"O.K., O.K.," Mike said. "That's enough. I'll go to college. I don't
know how or on what, but I'll go."
"You will?" she said uncertainly.
She licked her lips and took off her glasses. Suddenly she looked
disappointed, the sort of dull surprise of a person who pushes against
a door he thought was locked and finds that it is open.
"Where will you go?" she asked. "Stanford, U.S.C., California?"
"Stanford," he said although he had never thought about it until a
moment ago.
"That's out of town. I'll miss you. You'll be gone for a long time."
"Sure. I'll take Hank and go to Stanford."
"Hank Moore?" she said. "I thought he didn't like you. You're always
arguing. I don't think he likes you."
"Doesn't like me?" Mike said. He leaned up on his elbow and stared at her.
Then he laughed. "O.K., maybe he doesn't like me. But he'll go with me. We
get along all right. Even if we're not best friends we got . . . we got
respect for one another." Then, because his last words made him suddenly
shy, his face went hard. "Don't worry about Hank. He'll go with me."
Her eyes misted as she looked at him.
"I'll miss you," she said. "You were my best student. I guess you're the
best student Manual Arts High has had for a long time. Everybody says so."
"Sure, everybody says so," Mike said ironically. "What do they know?"
I ought to be good at Manual, he thought, there aren't many good ones
there. That huge sprawling school was designed for the production
of mechanics, printers, welders, typesetters, linotype operators,
bookbinders, molders and auto repairmen. The same families that insisted
that their sons take a training course for a trade also insisted that
the school offer a college preparatory course. So there were always
a few tiny classes which studied Greek, Latin, English composition,
modern languages and the other college preparatory courses. Among this
little group Mike was the undisputed leader.
"Those lunkheads. What would they know?" he went on. "The competition
isn't very tough at Manual," he said.
"Will your folks be able to help you at Stanford?" Miss Bell asked.
"Are you kidding?" Mike laugtled. "They don't have a penny. I've had
to earn all my clothes money and spending money since I entered high
school. You know that."
"Look, Mike, I'll help," Miss Bell said. "I've still got some money left
from what Father left when he . . . died." Her father had committed
suicide the day after he sold the two Belgian hares to the poultry shop.
"I'd be glad to do it."
Mike watched her soft, nearsighted eyes search for his face, her lips
twitching as she tried to read his expression. He smiled at her and
her eyes widened and his smile was echoed in her face. No, Miss Bell,
not this, he thought. For months I've taken hamburgers, malted milks,
gabardine slacks, small change for rubbers, movie tickets, your car and
books from you. But this is different.
"No, I'll do it alone," Mike said.
"Don't be silly," Miss Bell said. Her voice was a little desperate. "I'll
make it as a loan."
"It's not my conscience," Mike said. "I just don't want help from anyone."
He sensed that this was the first loop in a snare. It came across the air
of the hot room, rested about him with a thin delicacy that he knew could
become a tough web of obligation as it was joined by dozens of other
loops of the snare. Her smooth plump face worked as she tried to read
the expression on his face; her lips smiled tentatively, then collapsed.
"Please, Mike, I'd like to help," she said.
Mike sat up, reached over to the table for a White Owl. He slid the cigar
out of its cellophane wrapper, put the band around his little finger
and lit the cigar. He opened one side of his mouth, let a thick white
curl of smoke float up past his eyes. Miss Bell's eyes squinted as she
tried to see through the smoke.
For a moment he thought of asking her to come to Stanford; to teach
up there. He could have the Buick, the hamburgers, the free food. And
she would always be waiting, her lips ready to tremble, her hand ready
to guide him to her body. Always ready. And then, for no reason that he
knew, almost by instinct, he rejected it all; became protective.
"No. I don't want your help or anyone's help," he said sharply. "First
I'd take the money and then I'd take the Buick and pretty soon you'd
want to move up to Stanford to be close to your investment and protect
it. I don't want to be anyone's investment."
Miss Bell felt the loop of the snare draw tight and snap. Her face grew
hard, her eyes narrowed to hard black points, she sat up as if she were
in front of her class.
"God damn you, Mike," she said. "You owe me something. You can't talk to
me like that. Sitting there naked and talking like that; it's just not
right. Pull something over yourself," she finished with a shrill voice.
"I don't owe you a god damn thing, Miss Bell," Mike said. "Not a god
damn thing."
Mike reached forward and pulled her gown down over her shoulders so that
it fell down her arms and she was naked to the waist. She raised her arms
once to cover her round full breasts and then, the hard look fading from
her face, stared at Mike and in confusion at her breasts. She took her
glasses off. She let her arms fall.
"You don't even care," she whispered. "I've almost ruined myself over
you and you don't care. If they ever hear about this at school I may
lose my job and still you don't care. Not the least bit."
"They know about it," Mike said. "But they won't fire you. They won't even
mention it. They'll try to cover it up, ignore that it ever happened. You
don't have to worry."
Miss Bell seemed numb with despair or boredom or shock. She stared down
at her breasts.
He caressed her absently, for he was thinking of the family. He was
thinking what they would say about his going to college. Especially
what his father would say . . . his tather who had only three moods,
none of which Mike had understood.
In the first mood his father locked his legs around the polished wood of
the cello and his stubby fingers suddenly became light on the bow. As the
rich fat music flowed through the house his eyes became soft and remote
and seemed not to see the dirty wood stove, the half-empty milk bottles
on the sink, the grease-soaked papers containing chunks of food, the
leanness of his children. Almost invariably it was Bach that he played,
over and over, working with a ceaseless patience at revising the suites
for the violin and cello. Occasionally he would stop, bend forward and
with a tiny sharp knife scrape a note off the page and with a beautiful
round hand draw in another.
Always he would practice in the kitchen and then everyone must leave
the room. Sometimes he would begin to practice late in the afternoon and
continue until it was eight or nine and the four children and his wife sat
on the back porch waiting for the notes to stop so they could eat supper.
He had taken pupils, but none of them lasted long. The operator of the
ice plant down the street sent his daughter and Mike's father had given
her three lessons. She had grasped the bow in her fat fingers and sawed
resolutely at the strings, her frightened eyes following Mike's father
rather than the music.
"Do you have no ear for the music? Are you not aware that you are breaking
the notes?" his father would shout at the girl. "This is not chopping
chips from a log, this is making music from a bow and gut strings. Try
again, but for Christ's sake go easily."
up your mind?"
"No."
"Why don't you go to college, Mike? You're a good student."
"But why go to college?. What good will it do me?"
"It will broaden your horizons, it will . . . " She saw the look on his
face, faltered a moment and went on. "It will help you to get a good
job when you get out of college."
"Did it broaden your horizons?" Mike asked. "Your dad went to college. Did
it broaden his horizons? He still got cleaned out on that Belgian hare
proposition."
"I never should have told you about the Belgian hare business," Miss
Bell said. "That doesn't mean a thing. Today you can't get a decent
job unless you have a college education."
She had told Mike about the Belgian hares several weeks before. During
the late 1920's, all of Southern California had been swept by an
excitement over Belgian hares and newspapers carried advertisements of
prize bucks and does. It was alleged that the skins of the hares would
sell for fabulous sums and thousands of the hares were bred all over
the state. Brochures were circulated which stated that the pelts would
be made into exquisite fur coats and much was made of the fine sheen and
long hair of the hares. Miss Bell's father had resisted for months, but
finally a man he knew made $2500 with the hares and Mr. Bell purchased
a matched buck and doe for $1750. They were beautiful creatures, with
huge soft eyes and moist noses and he carefully nourished them in his
bedroom. But a month later the excitement died, the brochures disappeared,
there were a few stories in the papers and Mr. Bell sold the hares to
a poultry store for seventy-five cents.
"I can get a good job without going to college," Mike said.
"Doing what?" Miss Bell said.
"In the studios, they pay big money there," he said tentatively. "Or
working out at the aircraft factories."
"Oh, Mike, that isn't big money, those aren't big jobs," Miss Bell
said. "Those are the little jobs. Law, medicine, business executives;
those are the big jobs. You can't get one of those jobs without going
to college."
"You can make money without going to college," Mike said. "I know that."
He puffed on the cigar, felt a drop of brown bitter juice gather in the
corner of his mouth, but let it stay there. "You can make money lots
of other ways without having a college degree. Did Henry Ford go to
college? Or Jim Farley? Or Charles Lindbergh?"
"There are exceptions, Mike," Miss Bell said. "I admit that. But they're
flukes. Most of the big jobs go today to men who have a college training.
Certainly most of the famous men in the United States have gone to college.
I can prove that"
"How?" Mike said. He took the cigar out of his mouth and looked over
at her.
She put on her glasses. Her eyes came sharply into focus; her face looked
thinner. She walked over to the bureau and opened the little night case
she had brought to the Western Motel. She took out a thick book.
"Now don't be angry, Mike," she said. "I brought this from the school
library just in case you raised the question. You never take what
I say. This is a copy of "Who's Who." It's a list of all the famous
people in the United States. Just name me one person, any person and if
he's famous he'll be in this book." She paused and added with triumph,
"And you'll see that most of them have gone to college."
"What if he isn't in the book?" Mike asked. "How do I know they've got
all the really famous people in there?"
He bent forward, took the cigar out of his mouth. The little trickles
of sweat ran down his chest, gathered around his waist, ran down between
his legs.
"If they're famous they have to be in this book," Miss Bell said and
laughed. "That is the definition of being famous . . . being in this
book. If you aren't in the book you aren't famous."
"Yeah, says who?" he said, but his voice faltered. He stared at the book
in her hand.
"It's just so, Mike," Miss Bell said and now she was speaking in the voice
with which she talked in the classroom: even, confident, assured. "This is
the book where they gather the names of famous men. They are experts at it."
"O.K., O.K.," Mike said. He took the cigar out of his mouth, threw it
toward the wastebasket in the corner. It fell in neatly and in a moment
a tendril of blue smoke came straight up out of the wastebasket. Mike
leaned back on the pillow and closed his eyes. "O.K. What does it say
about John Cromwell?"
He could hear her flick through the pages, run them through her smooth
expert fingers with a hissing noise. Her fingernail scratched down a
page. She came over and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Here it is, John Cromwell," she said. "Read it." She laid the book on
his chest. He opened his eyes and picked it up. Her finger was under a
name. He read slowly.
CROMWELL, John W., lawyer, b. San Francisco,
1895. Stanford University, Stanford Law School.
m. Susan Donner; s. John Jr.; Timothy; d. Maria;
Assemblyman, 1928-32 Sixth District; Congressman
1932-35, Ninth District; Phi Beta Kappa, Sigma
Kappa Alpha, Beta Sigma Chi, Bohemian Club, Pacific
Union Club. Articles various law journals.
"Torts and the Common Law," "Hobbes and Natural
Law." 2323 Hyde St., San Francisco.
"See?" Miss Bell said. "He went to college. Stanford."
"Yeah," Mike said slowly. He ran his eye down the page, read other
brief biographies.
"Why did you pick him?" Miss Bell asked.
"I heard him talk once in Exposition Park," Mike said. "God, could
he talk. He was talking to a Mexican picnic. They were celebrating a
revolution or something. Or the anniversary of a revolution. Something
like that."
"What did he talk about?"
"I don't remember. It doesn't matter. Something about the glorious
revolution." Mike slowly sat up in the bed. "But Jesus he had 'em. Really
had 'em in his hand. I was standing in the crowd and they said he was
the son of a real old rich California family. He looked crummy. His suit
all covered with cigar ashes and he scratched all the time. It made them
laugh. I even laughed. He was comical. He just stared out at the crowd
and let them laugh. But when he talked. By God, they stopped laughing
quick enough."
"Don't say 'God' so often, Mike," Miss Bell whispered. "It's just a
habit. Doesn't sound nice."
"When he started to talk he was like a preacher," Mike went on. "Just
like a preacher, except that he made you feel bad. As if you'd done
something wrong. God, half those Mexicans were crying by the time he
finished. I never forgot him."
"Well, name anyone else, Mike, just anyone at all that is famous in his
field. He'll be in this book and nine times out of ten he will have gone
to college. You just can't get into an important job if you don't have
a college degree. Name another person."
"O.K., O.K.," Mike said. "That's enough. I'll go to college. I don't
know how or on what, but I'll go."
"You will?" she said uncertainly.
She licked her lips and took off her glasses. Suddenly she looked
disappointed, the sort of dull surprise of a person who pushes against
a door he thought was locked and finds that it is open.
"Where will you go?" she asked. "Stanford, U.S.C., California?"
"Stanford," he said although he had never thought about it until a
moment ago.
"That's out of town. I'll miss you. You'll be gone for a long time."
"Sure. I'll take Hank and go to Stanford."
"Hank Moore?" she said. "I thought he didn't like you. You're always
arguing. I don't think he likes you."
"Doesn't like me?" Mike said. He leaned up on his elbow and stared at her.
Then he laughed. "O.K., maybe he doesn't like me. But he'll go with me. We
get along all right. Even if we're not best friends we got . . . we got
respect for one another." Then, because his last words made him suddenly
shy, his face went hard. "Don't worry about Hank. He'll go with me."
Her eyes misted as she looked at him.
"I'll miss you," she said. "You were my best student. I guess you're the
best student Manual Arts High has had for a long time. Everybody says so."
"Sure, everybody says so," Mike said ironically. "What do they know?"
I ought to be good at Manual, he thought, there aren't many good ones
there. That huge sprawling school was designed for the production
of mechanics, printers, welders, typesetters, linotype operators,
bookbinders, molders and auto repairmen. The same families that insisted
that their sons take a training course for a trade also insisted that
the school offer a college preparatory course. So there were always
a few tiny classes which studied Greek, Latin, English composition,
modern languages and the other college preparatory courses. Among this
little group Mike was the undisputed leader.
"Those lunkheads. What would they know?" he went on. "The competition
isn't very tough at Manual," he said.
"Will your folks be able to help you at Stanford?" Miss Bell asked.
"Are you kidding?" Mike laugtled. "They don't have a penny. I've had
to earn all my clothes money and spending money since I entered high
school. You know that."
"Look, Mike, I'll help," Miss Bell said. "I've still got some money left
from what Father left when he . . . died." Her father had committed
suicide the day after he sold the two Belgian hares to the poultry shop.
"I'd be glad to do it."
Mike watched her soft, nearsighted eyes search for his face, her lips
twitching as she tried to read his expression. He smiled at her and
her eyes widened and his smile was echoed in her face. No, Miss Bell,
not this, he thought. For months I've taken hamburgers, malted milks,
gabardine slacks, small change for rubbers, movie tickets, your car and
books from you. But this is different.
"No, I'll do it alone," Mike said.
"Don't be silly," Miss Bell said. Her voice was a little desperate. "I'll
make it as a loan."
"It's not my conscience," Mike said. "I just don't want help from anyone."
He sensed that this was the first loop in a snare. It came across the air
of the hot room, rested about him with a thin delicacy that he knew could
become a tough web of obligation as it was joined by dozens of other
loops of the snare. Her smooth plump face worked as she tried to read
the expression on his face; her lips smiled tentatively, then collapsed.
"Please, Mike, I'd like to help," she said.
Mike sat up, reached over to the table for a White Owl. He slid the cigar
out of its cellophane wrapper, put the band around his little finger
and lit the cigar. He opened one side of his mouth, let a thick white
curl of smoke float up past his eyes. Miss Bell's eyes squinted as she
tried to see through the smoke.
For a moment he thought of asking her to come to Stanford; to teach
up there. He could have the Buick, the hamburgers, the free food. And
she would always be waiting, her lips ready to tremble, her hand ready
to guide him to her body. Always ready. And then, for no reason that he
knew, almost by instinct, he rejected it all; became protective.
"No. I don't want your help or anyone's help," he said sharply. "First
I'd take the money and then I'd take the Buick and pretty soon you'd
want to move up to Stanford to be close to your investment and protect
it. I don't want to be anyone's investment."
Miss Bell felt the loop of the snare draw tight and snap. Her face grew
hard, her eyes narrowed to hard black points, she sat up as if she were
in front of her class.
"God damn you, Mike," she said. "You owe me something. You can't talk to
me like that. Sitting there naked and talking like that; it's just not
right. Pull something over yourself," she finished with a shrill voice.
"I don't owe you a god damn thing, Miss Bell," Mike said. "Not a god
damn thing."
Mike reached forward and pulled her gown down over her shoulders so that
it fell down her arms and she was naked to the waist. She raised her arms
once to cover her round full breasts and then, the hard look fading from
her face, stared at Mike and in confusion at her breasts. She took her
glasses off. She let her arms fall.
"You don't even care," she whispered. "I've almost ruined myself over
you and you don't care. If they ever hear about this at school I may
lose my job and still you don't care. Not the least bit."
"They know about it," Mike said. "But they won't fire you. They won't even
mention it. They'll try to cover it up, ignore that it ever happened. You
don't have to worry."
Miss Bell seemed numb with despair or boredom or shock. She stared down
at her breasts.
He caressed her absently, for he was thinking of the family. He was
thinking what they would say about his going to college. Especially
what his father would say . . . his tather who had only three moods,
none of which Mike had understood.
In the first mood his father locked his legs around the polished wood of
the cello and his stubby fingers suddenly became light on the bow. As the
rich fat music flowed through the house his eyes became soft and remote
and seemed not to see the dirty wood stove, the half-empty milk bottles
on the sink, the grease-soaked papers containing chunks of food, the
leanness of his children. Almost invariably it was Bach that he played,
over and over, working with a ceaseless patience at revising the suites
for the violin and cello. Occasionally he would stop, bend forward and
with a tiny sharp knife scrape a note off the page and with a beautiful
round hand draw in another.
Always he would practice in the kitchen and then everyone must leave
the room. Sometimes he would begin to practice late in the afternoon and
continue until it was eight or nine and the four children and his wife sat
on the back porch waiting for the notes to stop so they could eat supper.
He had taken pupils, but none of them lasted long. The operator of the
ice plant down the street sent his daughter and Mike's father had given
her three lessons. She had grasped the bow in her fat fingers and sawed
resolutely at the strings, her frightened eyes following Mike's father
rather than the music.
"Do you have no ear for the music? Are you not aware that you are breaking
the notes?" his father would shout at the girl. "This is not chopping
chips from a log, this is making music from a bow and gut strings. Try
again, but for Christ's sake go easily."
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