The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (27 page)

 

 

"Oh, Yale," Cynthia said wearily. "This is no time to be a prude. I need
help." She fumbled with the zipper and finally undid it, letting her skirt
drop to the floor.

 

 

Yale hissed at her to please have a little modesty.

 

 

"Stop worrying," Mat said, looking in dismay at Cynthia. Her brassiere
and panties were stained brown with blood. Her entire body looked as if
she had been whipped with a lash embedded with thorns.

 

 

"Help me undo my brassiere," Cynthia said, wincing, as she took off
her blouse.

 

 

Yale looked at her amazed. He wanted to shout. No, no! Cynthia! Suddenly
all his emancipated ideas about nudity vanished. This was Cynthia,
the girl he loved. He didn't want her standing naked in front of Mat
Chilling. It was cheap, awful.

 

 

"Mr. Chilling," Cynthia turned her back to Mat, "if Yale feels so proper,
you do it!" She turned her back to Mat. "Please," she insisted.

 

 

Awkwardly, Mat undid the clasp and drew away from her.

 

 

Cynthia stepped out of her panties. She took off her bra. "Stop looking
so surprised, Yale. It was all right to be naked two years ago when we
played strip poker." Mat and Yale watched her go in the bathroom and
close the door. They heard the water running in the tub. Mat picked up
a book and fingered it nervously. "She should see a doctor. She may be
hurt internally."

 

 

"I suppose you think I tried to rape her," Yale's voice was pitched
with anger.

 

 

Mat shrugged. "I'm not asking questions, Yale. I'm just wondering what
you are going to do. She must see a doctor."

 

 

"Mat, I'm going crazy, I think. I don't know what to do. You know how long
Cynthia and I have been going together. There never has been a quarrel or
a misunderstanding. Then today, God . . . oh God . . . what did I do?"
He tried to explain to Mat what happened and found it impossible. It was
too private, too close to the actual act of love. How could he explain
why Cynthia had been naked? What explanation was there of her maniacal
running down that cliff . . . or her horrible "Rape me, go ahead, rape
me," words that weren't Cynthia's at all?

 

 

The door of the bathroom opened and Cynthia walked out. She was still
naked. Her eyes were hard. Her face almost ugly, with a harsh expression
grotesquely accentuating the bruises on her cheeks. Her breasts that had
been so beautiful to Yale were lacerated and bloody. Her body, from her
neck down, was inscribed with torn welts and cuts, some of which were
still bleeding.

 

 

"Mr. Chilling," she said. "I am afraid that Yale is quite shocked with
me. You see he still has a great deal to learn about women." She lay down
on Mat's bed, raising her knees and spreading her legs. "I have a thorn
badly imbedded here." she said, pointing to the inside of her thigh. "Will
one of you help me get it out? There's some tweezers in my handbag."

 

 

Yale shouted, "For Christ's sake, Cindar, have a little modesty."

 

 

"You see, Mr. Chilling," Cynthia said, speaking very coolly, not looking
at Yale. "Yale doesn't realize that many women are whores at heart. They
like to have men look at them. You better go, Yale. I'm going to ask
Mr. Chilling to do me a favor and let me stay here tonight."

 

 

Watching Cynthia, Mat was torn between his sudden amazement at seeing
a woman so intimately naked, sitting before him, revealing herself so
unconcernedly, and the fear that Doctor Tangle might return and hear
them. Good God, what would Doctor Tangle say? His career as a minister
would be concluded before it began. "You can't stay here," he muttered.

 

 

Yale pleaded with Cynthia to please get dressed. They both started to
talk at once.

 

 

"Stop it, do you hear!" Cynthia screamed. Mat jumped and held his hand
over her mouth. She bit his finger. He looked at her in dismay. "I've
got to stay here tonight, at least. I can't go back to the dormitory.
Mrs. Wicker and every girl in the place would know about me in five
minutes. I am very sure I wouldn't be welcome at Yale's home . . .
or would I, Yale?"

 

 

Yale stared at her in misery and said nothing.

 

 

"So, I stay here tonight. I've got to see if I can fix my face.
Yale, you go now. If you don't I'll scream again."

 

 

"You better go, Yale," Mat said. "No one will know she is here." Fearing
that Cynthia would actually scream as she promised, Mat edged Yale to
the door. He walked down the stairs with him. On the porch Mat looked
at Yale. Tears were streaming down his face. Mat patted him on the
shoulder. "I'll find out what it's all about, Yale. She's not pregnant,
is she?" he whispered, embarrassed at using the word.

 

 

"I don't think so," Yale mumbled, wiping his tears on his shirt sleeve.
Of course, Cynthia wasn't pregnant, he thought bitterly. They hadn't
had intercourse since February. It was rotten having to discuss Cynthia
like this, revealing their private wonderful love to a stranger. Oh,
my God! Cindar, what has happened to us? Yale started back up the stairs.
Mat grabbed him. "Yale, Yale, go back to the dormitory. I'll take care
of her."

 

 

Yale looked at him, unable to speak. "All right, Mat, I'll go but I'm
coming right back. You've got to help us figure out something to do.
I'll see if I can get a car."

 

 

Cynthia was in the bathroom sitting on the toilet and vomiting into
the tub.

 

 

"Mr. Chilling, forgive me," she sobbed. "I had to do it. Oh, God,
I had to do it, and I'm so sick." She slid onto the floor, crying
uncontrollably. Mat picked her up and carried her to his bed. He soaked
a towel with the coldest water he could get, wrung it out, and gently
patted her face. Finally, she stopped crying, and stared at the ceiling.

 

 

"What happened, Cynthia?" Mat asked and his deep voice was soothing.

 

 

"I'm a Jew, Mr. Chilling. Do you know that?"

 

 

"Please call me Mat, Cynthia. I'm only about four years older than you.
I know you're Jewish. So does Yale, I presume."

 

 

"Well, we can't ever be married. Not ever, do you understand. . . ."
Cynthia got off the cot. She pulled on her panties and put on her skirt.
Mat snapped the hook on her brassiere. He helped her button her blouse.
As he helped her he felt her skin. It was hot and dry to his touch.

 

 

"You've got a fever," he said, alarmed.

 

 

"I've got to go. Yale will come back." Cynthia tried to smile. Her lips
moved, forming the words "I'm sorry." Mat caught her as she fainted. Thank
God for a flash of inspiration! There was one person who could help . . .
Sarah Cohen. He would take her there.

 

 

 

 

Mat sweated through the graduation ceremony. The walls of the little
chapel were damp with moisture. Outside an intermittent drizzle of rain
flicked against the stained glass window. The rain had brought no relief.
The air in the chapel was heavy and humid.

 

 

Dr. Henry Twidell was receiving an honorary degree for his work with
a mission in Africa. As Dr. Twidell mouthed the graduation platitudes,
Mat looked around as much of the chapel as he could see without turning
completely around and being obvious. He recognized Pat Marratt and what
must be Mrs. Marratt sitting beside him. Yale was there somewhere lost
in the front rows among his fellow students in their caps and gowns.

 

 

But Cynthia wasn't there. Cynthia very definitely wasn't there. She was
in Sarah Cohen's bed with a temperature of 102. He prayed that she was
better, then shook his head worriedly. Instead of seeing her pitifully
small beneath the white sheets while the Doctor whom Harry Cohen had
called examined her . . . instead of remembering her as she shuddered with
feverish chills . . . the thought of her stretched out on his cot, naked,
kept recurring to him. It was the first time he had been alone with a
naked woman. He had been surprised at the tenderness that welled up in him
when he had patted Cynthia's poor, bruised body with his damp towel. What
had caused the feeling? Was it because she was a woman and hence unlike
him? Was it strictly a sexual impulse? No, it was more than that. Over
and beyond any characteristics of Cynthia as a sexual object he had found
her body, bruised and swollen though it was, to be beautiful. It was
trite. It was certainly not good theology. But it was true, nonetheless,
that seeing Cynthia's body had been a definite religious experience for him.
Woman really was an incarnation of God. Something to lead a man not only
to sexual fulfillment but to inspire him with the awe and inexpressible
feeling that woman was not evil but a lovely, nourishing receptacle of
life. Mat grinned to himself. He was really writing a sermon to contradict
the idea of the Fall.

 

 

His thoughts returned to last night. Using Doctor Tangle's telephone he
had called a taxi and then carried Cynthia down to the street. The cooler
night air had revived her and she looked at him in consternation. He
explained that he knew a family where he thought she could stay.

 

 

"I've got to call my father," she said. Paying no attention to his worry
about her fever, she made him stop at a drugstore. He had watched her
in the telephone booth talking frantically. Finally she came out. Her
face was dripping with perspiration. The clerk in the drugstore was
watching them curiously. Back in the taxi, tears in her eyes, she said,
"He was leaving with Aunt Adar tomorrow at seven. That's the worst thing
I have ever done. But, God, he couldn't come and see me like this.
Oh, Daddy, forgive me -- forgive me." She sobbed against Mat's shoulder.

 

 

"What did you tell him?" Mat asked.

 

 

"I told him . . ." Cynthia paused. "I told him that I had met a man I had
fallen in love with . . . not Yale . . . I told him we met two months ago.
Oh God, I told him I was pregnant . . . that I was running away tonight
to be married. Oh, Mat, he didn't believe me. I just kept talking, saying
crazy things . . . I told him I would call him in a few days, that I
would be home in a few weeks with my new husband. You see, he couldn't
come here . . . he just couldn't come here tomorrow. Do you understand?"

 

 

"No, I don't see, and I don't understand."

 

 

Cynthia closed her eyes and turned away from him. "I can't tell you any
more than that . . . please don't ask me.

 

 

Mat held her hand. It was hot. He touched her forehead and urged the
cab driver to hurry.

 

 

Harry Cohen peered through his front door, opening it but an inch in
answer to Mat's impatient knock.

 

 

"For God's sake, let me in, Harry! It's Mat Chilling." Harry opened the
door, Mat looked at him disgustedly. "It seems to me, Harry, it's too
damned much trouble to go around naked if you have to be so infernally
cautious."

 

 

Harry grinned. "You're using rather violent language for a minister,
aren't you?"

 

 

Sarah Cohen, naked also, had seen Cynthia. Sarah ran to her. "Mat, what
have you done to this poor girl? You poor thing." Sarah's arms went out
to Cynthia. She held Cynthia's head against her breasts. Mat knew they
must feel cool to Cynthia's feverish face.

 

 

Mat stayed with the Cohens until one-thirty in the morning. They helped
Cynthia upstairs into Sarah's bed. Mat had been embarrassed at the
doctor's questions. He knew that the doctor had not believed him when
he told him he knew nothing, not even how Cynthia had got into this
condition. Cynthia refused to talk.

 

 

"She's had a bad shock, I would guess," the doctor said. "Keep her in bed
for a few days." He gave Sarah a prescription for a sedative and an
ointment to soothe her bruises. As they were leaving, Cynthia grabbed
Mat's arm. "You must tell Yale I've gone home. Promise me, Mat. You
helped me get on a bus to New Jersey. That's the way it must be."

 

 

Mat could never remember telling a deliberate lie. When he got back to
the campus, Yale was sitting despondently on the front porch of Doctor
Tangle's house. He demanded to know where Cynthia was, and looked at Mat
incredulously when Mat told him that Cynthia insisted on going home.
"She wouldn't go home looking like that," Yale had said.

 

 

"She did," Mat said softly. "She told me to tell you that I helped her
get on the bus. Yale, I think I should know why she did this to herself."

 

 

"I don't know. Honestly, Mat, I don't know. It had something to do
with her being Jewish and my being God-knows-what . . . certainly not
a Gentile. We discussed religion hundreds of times. She must know that
I have no infantile prejudices."

 

 

Mat felt very hypocritical when Yale thanked him. He began to worry when
Yale said he would call Cynthia tomorrow. Suddenly Mat remembered that
Cynthia had told her father that she was eloping with another man. What
was Yale going to think when he discovered what had really happened?

 

 

 

 

Listening to Doctor Twidell make his concluding remarks, Mat wondered if
Yale would accost him after the ceremonies. If Yale had called Cynthia's
home, he would know the truth. Would Yale make a scene? He wondered what
had happened to him in the past twenty-four hours. From almost getting
drunk, to asking a colored girl for a date, to getting involved in what
might be a sex tragedy, was too much for him to encompass.