The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (30 page)

 

 

Yale looked at her, astonished. "You know something. That's a good idea.
I'll take you zippety-doo-dah up the river." He grabbed the arm of a
waiter who was passing near their table. "Do you know me?" he asked,
tipping his head sideways and looking at the waiter owlishly.

 

 

"Yes, sir, you're young Mr. Marratt."

 

 

Yale pulled him closer. "Now, look, do what I say and it'll get you ten
bucks. Just stick six bottles of that champagne, nice and cold, in a box.
Cover it with a napkin and follow us." The waiter shrugged as if to say
you're the boss.

 

 

"What are you going to do?" Marge asked curiously.

 

 

"You and I are going on a cruise . . . a sneaky champagne cruise up
the river." Yale watched the waiter walk toward the bar. He wondered
if he would ignore the request. No, he was going behind the bar. In a
few seconds they saw him in front of the tent carrying a box. "Come on,
Marge, follow me! Silent like a bunny. Don't pick up any strangers."

 

 

Yale led Marge around the back of the main tent and across the
driveway. As they slunk toward the boathouse, Yale knew that they must
appear to anyone who was watching them, like a couple of tipsy prowlers
out of some old Hal Roach moving picture. They were accosted several
times by equally happy revellers who demanded to know where they were
going. Yale shook them off. Finally, they reached the footpath in back
of the house that led to the boathouse. The noise of the party receded
in the distance. The quieter sounds of the river lapping against the
wharf and the honking of a frog seemed a pleasant respite to Yale.

 

 

Marge saw Pat's Chris-Craft tied against the dock. Gathering her evening
gown in her hands she ran toward it. "Say, this is a beauty. I think it's
bigger than Daddy's." She climbed aboard and sat behind the wheel. "I want
to drive it. I'm going to take you on a ride you'll never forget."

 

 

Yale tipped the waiter and took the champagne. Almost before he could
untie the boat and get aboard Marge had punched the starter. The engine
caught with a roar. Yale lurched into the seat beside her. Before he
could stop her the boat was leaping forward, leaving a white spray of
water behind them glistening in the moonlight. Yale thought he heard
someone yelling from the boathouse but it was too late to turn back.

 

 

"For Christ's sake, Marge. Watch out! There are a lot of rocks in this
part of the river."

 

 

She looked at him, laughing. "I love to go fast. Don't worry, little man,
I'll get you back safely."

 

 

Yale looked at her profile. Marge's hair was streaming behind her in the
wind. Marge Latham was pretty. There was no denying that. But she had
a cool sophisticated manner that was impenetrable to Yale and somehow
frightening. Yale wondered if girls like Marge ever stood aside from
themselves for a moment and observed the façade they had erected. Probably
not. Probably their very certainty came from the sure knowledge that
they were wanted. In Marge's case, wanted for her feminine aloofness as
well as her eventual inheritance.

 

 

Marge was driving the Chris-Craft at top speed. The trees edging the
river passed so swiftly they seemed blended into a solid dark mass.
It made Yale dizzy to look around.

 

 

"Slow down," he yelled. "Come on, slow down before we take right off
the water and start to fly."

 

 

She shook her head, and twisted the boat into a left curve, tipping Yale's
side up in the air. Yale heard the champagne bottles clink together. Drunk
as he was, he knew that Marge was challenging him. He flipped the key in
the ignition to the off position. The boat sputtered to a stop.

 

 

"That was a hell of a thing to do," she said crossly, smoothing her hair.
"What's the matter, scared?"

 

 

"You crazy little bitch, you don't know this part of the river. There
are a lot of outcroppings. You wreck this boat, and I'll never hear the
end of it . . . or will you. I'd like to see the expression on your
father's face if he could have seen you. He'd probably beat your little
bottom red, white, and blue. Big lady . . . just eighteen. You're just
a hoked up little kid."

 

 

She looked at him archly. "I'm big enough to have done anything you've
done, Mr. Brain."

 

 

Yale pulled her away from the wheel. He slid into the driver's seat.
"What's all this Mr. Brain stuff?" he wanted to know. He started the
engine, and drove the Chris-Craft quietly down the river. He estimated
that they had come at least a mile. He heard her fumbling with one of
the champagne bottles. Just as it occurred to him what she was going to
do, it was too late. The cork popped off belting him on the side of the
head; followed by a shower of champagne. She kept shaking the bottle and
aiming it at him until he was blinded with the force of it striking his
eyes and nose. Dripping with champagne, he looked at her furiously. She
was choking with laughter. Angrily, he snapped off the engine again. He
grabbed another bottle, spun off the wire, popped the cork, and sprayed
her with the entire contents, finally pouring what wouldn't come out
over her head.

 

 

She continued to laugh tauntingly at him. "Look at my gown," she said
finally. "It cost me one hundred and fifty dollars. You've ruined it."

 

 

"Well," Yale said, grinning at the ludicrous appearance of her face.
Champagne trickled down from her hair, making rivulets in her heavy makeup.
"You started it. I don't think this tuxedo will ever go to another party.
Why do you keep calling me Mr. Brain, and why are you mad at me?"

 

 

"We've got four bottles left," she said, ignoring the question as she
tried to dry her face with a small handkerchief. "Do you suppose we
could drink the next two?"

 

 

Yale opened another bottle, losing only a little of its quick effervescence.
He handed it to her. She took a long swallow and passed it back to him.
In a few minutes they emptied it and started on another bottle.

 

 

Conscious that they were drifting, Yale's only concern was to keep the
boat as near to the middle of the river as possible. He flicked the wheel
occasionally to hold direction. Twisting in his seat, leaning against the
splash rail, he watched Marge trailing her fingers in the water. From the
noise of the orchestra and the confusion of the party to the wild roar
of the Chris-Craft's engine, they now seemed to have been reclaimed by
the black silence of the river, as it moved to the ocean. Marge's voice,
as she softly sang the words of "Stardust," reached into the deep pockets
of darkness on either side of the river.

 

 

Yale knew they had drifted at least as far down the river as the picnic
grounds owned by Midhaven College and he thought of Cindar and that day
nearly four years ago when they had met and got tipsy and had gone swimming.
Four years ago and he had known the wonder of love and being loved.

 

 

Not once had there been any denunciation of that love. A few months ago
Cindar had been reading Stendhal "On Love." She read parts of it to him.
He remembered her saying, "I used to like Stendhal until I read this
book . . . now I don't. Love isn't the cool calculating thing that he
describes, is it, Yale?"

 

 

But it had become a calculating thing, hadn't it, Cindar? Were all the
affairs of men destined to arc eventually like a skyrocket and plunge
back to earth? He couldn't believe it. If you were really in love there
was no peak, just a constant ascension, quieter and not so heady as you
grew older, but still never culminating.

 

 

"It's hot and I'm sticky from the champagne," Marge announced. She stood
up on the seat, unhooked her evening gown and let it fall in a heap.
To Yale's surprise the only thing else she was wearing was a pair of
shoes, and what looked like small pieces of adhesive tape across her
nipples. Yale roared with laughter. "What are those? Your underwear?"
he asked, pointing at the tapes.

 

 

Carefully she lifted them off her breasts, and flung them in the
water. "They're to keep my nipples from chafing, stupid. Are you
coming in?" She dove off the side. He could see her splashing in the
darkness. Quickly, he undressed, thinking that it was ironic that
once again he should be swimming nude in the Mamaputock River with
a girl. Only this time it was Stendhalian and there was none of the
feeling of wonder. Somewhere in the darkness there was a naked girl,
and she was available. In fact she was asking for it. But he wouldn't
touch her, because there would be no beauty in it. Just a coupling,
with no overtones. Nothing beyond the necessity of the moment.

 

 

When he struck the water, he knew just how drunk he was. The water was
surprisingly cold, still running with the cool rains from far off hills.

 

 

"Hey, Marge, where are you?" he yelled. There was no answer. Treading
water, he listened. The silence was ominous. Supposing she had got a
cramp? Supposing she drowned? He felt a sick chill of fear spread over
him. Suddenly he realized that the boat was adrift. He swam after it,
yelling, "Marge! Marge!" No answer. Swimming after the boat, he caught
a glimpse of her boarding it. Her behind was white in the moonlight.

 

 

"Goodbye, Yale old dear," she screamed. He heard the zing of the
self-starter, and the roar of the engine. In a second the boat was gone,
leaving behind a greenish white wake of waves.

 

 

He yelled at her to come back. You utter damned fool, he thought, you'll
run that boat into a rock and kill yourself, too. "To hell with you,
go ahead. Kill yourself, you dumb bunny." He swore at the disappearing
boat. Boy, what a mess, he thought grimly, as he tread water. He was
going to have to walk home naked. He started to swim toward the shore when
he heard the roar of the engine returning. She had turned the spotlight
on. She was obviously looking for him. Leaning out the side, still naked,
steering with one hand, she waved at him. "Hi! Want a lift?" she asked,
grinning at him. She cut the engine.

 

 

"What happened, did you get cold feet?" Yale demanded as he climbed
awkwardly in the boat.

 

 

She shook her head. "I took pity on you. The thought of you having to
walk home in those dark woods without any clothes touched my maidenly
heart. Even if you are a stuck-up bastard I couldn't do that to you."

 

 

Yale climbed aboard. He started to look for his clothes, thinking he
could dry himself with his underwear. He had left them on the deck just
above the windshield. They weren't there.

 

 

"What did you do with my tux?" he asked, peering in the darkness and
fumbling along the floor.

 

 

"I think they blew overboard," Marge said, giggling. "At least something
went flying above my head. I thought it was a bat or something."

 

 

"You absolute jerk," Yale yelled angrily. "How do we go back to the party
now?" He grabbed the wheel from her hand. "Turn this damned boat around.
I've got to find them."

 

 

She swung the boat around in low speed. Yale, hanging over the side,
swinging the searchlight from side to side, searched for his tuxedo,
praying by some miracle that it was still floating. He could hear her
giggling. She made some remark about how funny he looked. He was in
a murderous frame of mind; ready to take hold of Marge and shake the
living daylights out of her. How in hell had he got tangled up with such
a crazy dame?

 

 

"I see my pants," he yelled suddenly. "They're still floating. Over to
the right."

 

 

Marge stood up and asked where.

 

 

"Over there, stupid. Hurry up before they sink!"

 

 

Before Yale could ask her what she was doing, Marge gunned the Chris-Craft
engine. In horror Yale saw his pants disappear from sight as the prow
of the boat hit them. He yelled. Marge swerved the boat and Yale fell
against her.

 

 

"Thought they might get caught in the propeller," she said, straightening
the boat out and grinning at him.

 

 

"You stupid little bitch!" Yale snarled. He grabbed her by the shoulders
and started to shake her. Then he had what seemed, at the moment, a better
idea. He reached in the back of the boat; took her evening gown that she
had dropped there in a heap; rolled it in a ball and flung it in the water.

 

 

"Now," he gloated, "laugh that off. I believe in the code of Hammurabi,
an eye for an eye."

 

 

Marge had stopped laughing. "Well, you just forget your code, and get this
boat over there before that dress sinks, or we'll both be dead." In the
reflection of the searchlight they could see the dress drifting rapidly
downstream, and slowly submerging. Marge tried to start the engine which
had stalled.

 

 

Yale grabbed her arms. "Not on your life, chum. You can kiss that dress
goodbye."

 

 

"Let go of me!" Marge hissed in his ear. She bit his shoulder and clawed
at his back. Feeling the sharp sting of pain, Yale clutched her in a
wrestler's hug. She went limp in his arms. He started to kiss her face.
Half-lying, half-standing, her legs a vise around his middle, he was
deep within her. She moaned from hunger, and taunted him, calling him
Mr. Brain, and egged him on, saying that intellectuals didn't know how
to make love. Within minutes she reached a violent climax and clawed at
him while he met and equalled her ecstasy.