Bells Above Greens (14 page)

With her warm hands still on mine, the crucifix of the rosary dangling below, I realized just how cold my hands were.

“You still have your calluses,” she said.

“From the roofing hammer,” I said.  “They should disappear soon.  I won’t be doing that again until Spring comes around.”

“What did you call it?  MacArthur’s Calluses?”

“Yeah, just a joke.”

She put my hand to her cheek and closed her eyes and then spoke of the way Peter’s hands used to feel until a tear came falling down her cheek.  It began in a normal enough fashion, a memory of hers suddenly brought to light, and I was not uncomfortable about it.  However, my hand together with those words put me an utterly confusing state.  Either way, I enjoyed her conversation and felt safe around her. 

It occurred to me one night, locked in a tender kiss with Liv on the dorm steps, a closeness that was both exhilarating and frightening, how I could be there so completely in a kiss when I knew I could not share the loads that strapped my shoulders, could not unburden my heart to her.  At least not yet, not yet as I already had to another so easily. 

After lecture one morning the professor called on me to stay after class.  His glasses were perched on the edge of his nose and his gray hair was blown back on his head. 

“Sam, I’m concerned about you.”

“Did my grade slip?”

He coughed a laugh and shook his head.  “Your midterm was the highest in the class and you seem to have a better handle on the subject than anyone.”

“What is it then?”

“Well, this is a journalism course and students are expected to make an effort outside of class.  You’ll get a passing grade in here without a doubt, but I’ve seen other student’s works submitted to the school paper.  Almost everyone has taken advantage of that except you.  It shows a lack of interest.  I wanted to ask you about that.”

“I’m just trying to pass the course.  I haven’t had the time to put in to the paper.”

“Have you taken a look?”

I shook my head.  “I haven’t.”

He pulled a copy of my study exam and pointed mid-page.  “Look here.  You have a very negative critique on modern journalism.  You pull it apart and make a convincing argument about the failure of objective reporting.”

“Yes.”

He looked at me from over his glasses, then cleared his throat and quoted from the paper.  “’It’s impossible to be objective and present a balanced report of both sides of the story without holding back assumptions of all facts.’  Then you go on to compare objective reporting to some form of communist propaganda.” 

I shrugged, amused at my own brash, possibly fabricated observation.

“If it wasn’t such an airtight exposition I would strike a red mark through it and send you to the principal’s office or have you write an apology on the blackboard a hundred times.  As it is, unfortunately, I can’t find a single fault in your logic.”  He held up the paper.  “Do you really believe this?”

“No,” I said.  “But it was an interesting opinion.”

His face tore between amusement and confusion.  “You have talent, Sam.  You have brains and talent.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He tucked the exam away, peeled his glasses off, and folded his hands in front of him.  “What is it that you want to do with all of it?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

“I pulled your transcripts.  You’re leading nearly all of your classes.”

“Yes sir.”

“You should be studying quantum physics or writing a dissertation on the fallacies of Newton’s theory of relativity. But none of your classes flow together.  You’re not on a path to a specific degree.  You’re all over the map.”

“I’m keeping my options open.”

“Why are you in this course?”

“It sounded fun.”

“But it’s not, is it?”

“It’s fine.”

He leaned back and studied me.  “What sort of articles do you read?”

“Sports.”

“What sort of books do you read?”

“Classic literature.”

“Not the entertaining throwaways?  Not Ian Fleming or - or - or Ray Bradbury?  Everyone else reads them.  Why don’t you?”

“I don’t know.  It doesn’t interest me.”

“I’ll tell you why.  Because you’re an intellectual.”  He pushed his chair back and stood to stretch his back.  “You don’t read for entertainment.  I could give you a stack of today’s bestsellers and you might blink in boredom at the final pages.  It may be entertaining but it doesn’t serve any purpose for you, does it?”

“Sir?”

He sat on the edge of his desk and rubbed his eyes.  “What do you find in classic literature?”

“I don’t know.  I just prefer it.”

“What did you find in Jean Valjean’s moral plight and final gift?  His inner turmoil to be somebody else, to escape who he was?”

I looked at him.

“Didn’t read that one?”

“I read it halfway, sir.”

“I find Hugo to be too wordy as well.”

“No.  His digressions are the most interesting pieces.”

The professor looked surprised at this and began a rising chuckle that shook in his shoulders.  He sat back down in his chair, rolling backward on its wheels before walking it back to his desk.

“You hear of professor’s telling students to keep their noses in the books.  I’m going to tell you the opposite.  Look around and take some time to figure it out.  Figure out what you want to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Saturday was Notre Dame’s final game of the season.  They beat Southern Methodist University 26-14 on a snow-covered field.  Maintenance crews lined the sidelines with push brooms in their hands, running across the yard markings between plays while a cloud of frozen shouts hung overhead.

The Fighting Irish won nine of ten games for the season with an eight game win-streak to finish fourth in college football’s power rankings.  To say there was excitement ringing with each bell chime from the cathedral would be an understatement.  The game clock’s final countdown might as well have been a burning fuse.  The campus shook with cheers. 

The snow flurries became an icy sleet that clung to light poles and tree branches, weighing them down in a weary slump.  I was walking Liv to her dorm, both of us huddled low in our coats while the chants of the leprechauns ignored the cold, their flags held high as they ran by. 

“Let’s get hot chocolate.  Doesn’t that sound great?”

“I don’t have any cash,” I said.  “I don’t want to start a tab with Higgins.”

“I have a few dollars.  Let’s get ice cream.”

“It’s freezing outside.”

“I’m too excited to go back.  I’ll just sit in my room.  Let’s go do something.”

I heard Emery shout my name.  It sounded clear, as if he shouted in my ear.  When I turned to look, Emery was hanging out of the back window of a crowded Buick that was driving across the grass and over curbs toward us, the rear end fishtailing tire streaks in the snow, tailfins like a shark and a loud radio, a white swirl of exhaust behind it. 

The driver slammed on the brakes and slid sidelong in front of us.  Pat Carragher leaned out the driver’s window with a huge smile.

“Get in,” he said, sticking a thumb to the back.  His hair was still ruffled from his helmet.  “There’s room for at least a dozen more.”

The seats were jammed with bodies and it was dark inside.  Emery opened the back door and popped out as if loaded by a spring.  Claire was inside among the passengers, giggling hysterically.

“C’mon, let’s go.”  Without waiting for me, Liv climbed in next to Claire as a dozen other arms searched to make room. 

“We’re going to Blarney’s,” Emery told me.  “It’s a riot in there.”

I climbed in and filled what had to be the final spot available.  Emery climbed in after me and found more room, and tried three times to close the door before it latched.  Pat Carragher put the gas down and the car swung sideways before finding traction.  He went over a curb and continued over the grass, we bounced in our seats behind him and I hit my head on the ceiling.  Students in the lawns cheered us on with raised fists.

“Don’t mind the roads,” I said.

“Couldn’t find them if I tried,” Pat said. 

He accelerated, twisting the steering wheel back and forth for intentional swerves in the snow, eliciting an excited shriek from the girls, and drove fast toward the main road off campus, blowing over a final curb and nearly sideswiping a sedan before straightening out and following the flow of traffic.  The Buick seemed to thump inside itself with a never-ending protest. 

“Oh hell,” Pat Carragher said, checking his mirrors.  “I almost bought the farm for all of us on that one.”

In the back window I could see the driver of the sedan pounding his fist and honking.  I waved an apologetic hand to him over my shoulder.

“Get your arm down,” Emery said. 

My elbow was in his eye.

“Go faster,” one of the bodies said from the front seat. 

“Go slower,” someone said next to me.  There were nine of us altogether, crammed like sausages, three in the front and six in the back.  The windows were fogging.

“Sam,” Pat Carragher said.  “This is Dave and Evelyn up here, Marcus and Jackie back there.  Jackie is the pretty one.”  He looked at each one in the rearview mirror as he said their names.  Jackie was dark and slender, and Marcus was the opposite.

“Hey there.”  She held her hand to me and I shook it.  Marcus had his arms pinned so he gave me a welcoming elbow.

“I’d shake but I don’t know where my hands are.”

“Move your hands,” Jackie told him.

“I can’t.”

She turned halfway and enunciated each word sharply.  “Move your hands.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I said.  “I’m Sam, and Liv is somewhere under me.”

“What a wild ride,” Liv said.  Somehow I ended up sitting on her lap.  She wrapped her arms around me. 

“Go faster,” Dave said again.

“I’m not that crazy,” Pat Carragher said.  “I’ll get kicked out of school.  I want to play next year.”

I pushed my head forward to a more comfortable position and situated myself to hang between the front seats with my head next to Pat Carragher’s.  He had a massive head and he hadn’t showered from the game.  His fingers were still taped. 

“Good game today,” I said.  “Did you carry the ball?”

“Ah, hell.  Only in the fourth quarter.  Garbage time.  Coach plays the seniors.  Blasted seniority politics.”

“You’ll get the ball plenty next season.  The sportswriters are already talking about you.”

“Are they?”  He straightened up.  “I haven’t seen.  What’d they say?”

“Just that you’ll score twenty touchdowns next year.”

“Twenty?  That’s it?  I’ll go for thirty.”

“You’ll go for a thousand yards easy next year,” Emery said.

Evelyn was leaning forward, messing with the radio.  She tuned in and Rosemary Clooney was singing
Mambo Italiano
. 

“…
Mambo Italiano go, go, Joe
…” Pat sang along.  Liv picked it up.

“
Shake like a Giavano hey
, see if you can find
Shake, Rattle and Roll
.”

“This is the only station.”

“I just love that song.”

Up ahead, the traffic light went from green to yellow and Pat put the gas down.  He held the steering wheel casually with one hand.  We passed under the red light and Dave yelled out the window.  Evelyn smacked him in the arm. 

“You’ll get us pulled over,” she said. 

“I’m not the one driving.”

“Nope,” Pat said.  “Police are busy ushering people out of the stadium parking lot still.  You could hold up a bank right now and get away scot-free.”

“What’s that kicking sound?” I asked. 

“Kicking?”  He reached up and adjusted the mirror, angling it so he could see us without moving his head.

“That thumping.  There it is.  Hasn’t stopped since you blew that curb.  Is our bumper falling off?”

“Oh, right,” he looked at Dave in the passenger seat and laughed.  “I forgot.  Holy Mother. That’s our extra passenger.”

“Your what?”

“In the trunk.  One more passenger in the trunk.”

“Jesus.”  I hit my head against the ceiling. 

“No, not Jesus.  There was no room so he got in the trunk.”

“Sounds like he was thrown in there.”

“You boys are so mean,” Evelyn said. “Scoot over.  You’re on my side.”

Dave tried to press himself away.  “I can’t move either way.”

“Mind if I cut a hole in the top?” I asked.

“Whatever makes you happy,” Pat Carragher said.  He looked at Dave.  “Whose car is this?”

Dave shrugged.  “Had the keys in it.  We’ll put it back with extra gas in the tank.”

“And an extra passenger in the trunk.”  They laughed.

“You boys are rotten.”

“Claire,” Emery said.  “Show Sam your finger.”

Claire was beaming with delight.  She wrestled her arm loose and held her ring finger out.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said.

“Oh, Claire,” Liv pulled her hand close to inspect it.  “Why it’s gorgeous.”

“Nicely done,” I said.  “It sparkles.”

“You should see it in the church,” Claire said.

“Church light is the best for diamonds,” Liv said.

I turned and tried to put Emery in a headlock but only managed to elbow his eye again.  “Not a bit too soon?”

“No,” Emery said.  “Put your arm down.  Why not?”

“I meant to say congratulations.”

“Thanks.  You know what Father Donnelly says about marriage?”

“Emery,” Claire whispered sharply.  “Don’t say it.”

Pat Carragher looked in the mirror.  “What did he say?  I know.  To stay celibate and become a priest.”

“No.  He says-“

“Emery.  No.”

“-he says to marry young when your urges are at their peak.  Otherwise you’ll go and spoil it in sin.  The younger the better, he said.”

“He said that?” Liv asked.

“Yes,” Claire said.  “I was shocked to hear it from a priest.  I was so embarrassed.”

“Never marry in the morning,” Pat Carragher said.  “You never know who you will meet at night.”

“That’s terrible advice.”

“But it’s advice.  Girls don’t like that one but the guys always laugh.  Alright, what’s good advice?”