Fingers Through the Sand

By J J Garrett

About Fingers Through The Sand

Was it the era, or the errors of the times; was it the errors they made, or the error of their ever meeting? No matter now, for it was their era, during which they loved in their unlikely way, reaching to each other with passion and dream; too often touching only shadow. Daniel and Nicole: She a sorority favorite and he the anarchist come lately to the small Southern college where they meet. They both lose all when chanceful familiarity at a graduation night party spirals into love. Outcast by family, blacklisted by friends, they struggle to build a life for themselves. And success does come to the talented duo. Nicole, an artist and orchestra-grade pianist, builds a thriving teaching and design practice. Daniel, a natural for risk-taking, wins managements graces in the textile world. With a rambling Tudor house and Baby Mars, they showcase their lifestyle. But the rocky pastprecedent secrets, precedent loves, old ambitions, old rivalries, old friends and their agendasseep into their present. Through error after error, misconnection, and disconnection, their life begins to unravel. On the verge of too late, it is Nicole who sees where the omens have carried them and where they must stand in order to save their love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 23, 2008
• ISBN: 9781468521443

J J Garrett

About J J Garrett J J Garrett is a product of Georgia. He is a novelist, a poet, a researcher, and an educator. He holds a Ph.D., M.Ed., and B.A. from various Georgia colleges. He has lived in and traveled most of the U.S. and Central America. He has consolidated his search for lore into six novels and seven chapbooks of poem (now in anthology) with a resolve to return literary fiction back to Planet Earth. He is married; has too many animals around the house.

Book preview

Fingers Through the Sand

J J Garrett

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AuthorHouse™

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

©

2008, 2015 J J Garrett. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/30/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4343-8213-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-2144-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Dedicated To

Dr. Walter D. Jones

Dr. Max Estes

Dean John Love

David Shields

Carlton Humphrey

Ross Pead ● J. W. Biddle ● Walter Ware ● Christopher Austin

‘Nicole’

About the Dialects Of Fingers Through The Sand

Why I chose to employ dialectic dialogue in this novel, I am not certain. I guess I did so because the dialects of my fellow native Georgians—available to all of us, red, yellow, black, or white, rich or poor … or educated—have long enriched my experience of being a child of this place. I am aware that in these days of social correctness we are expected not to hear, nor to attend to, speaker dialects—all dialects being equal. So, I do not really expect any reader to make an issue of the various dialects employed herein since they are equal in terms of how they forward the plot. But for any reader who wants to take issue with the use of dialectics herein, I will be happy to provide reference to voluminous use of said in contemporary film and television footage. Further, if someone must complain about the use of dialect herein, and if that someone is you, please don’t call me and curse me out using a dialect! But, to close, if a reader has trouble understanding a dialect while wishing to participate fully in the lives of the people of dialect herein, I offer an interpretation of some of their (or our) speech below.

Yore Author

Alternative Georgia Dialects Across the Native Population

Generally-Accepted Cerca 1950 – To Date

Chapter 1

August 1969 • Mercy, Georgia

"’What’s here? A cup, clos’d in my true love’s hand?

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end:

O Churl! Drink all, and leave no friendly drop

To help me after? I will kiss thy lips;

Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,

To make me die with a restorative.’"

Juliet took Romeo’s head into her hands. She studied his cheeks, framed with rich dark curls. She read the masculinity of his lips, his chin, strong below. She peered into his eyes; those soft spots where she remembered green, blue, and gray played with equal delicacy; those eyes … which should have been closed but which stared, cross-eyed, upward into hers. She trembled with rage even as she leaned dutifully over his limp torso and kissed him.

’Thy lips are warm!’

A cemetery watchman called:

’Lead, boy: which way?’

Juliet snatched the dagger from Romeo’s sash.

’Yea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger!’

She eyed the dagger and wished she could ram the butt of it into his crotch—where, everyone had told her, he staked his reputation.

’This is thy sheath . …’

She lamented but a moment, then stabbed herself, the blade recoiling harmlessly into the handle.

’There rust, and let me die.’

She fell upon Romeo’s chest, her cheek upon his cheek.

The page of Paris entered with watchmen.

’This is the place; there, where the torch doth burn.’

Above the fled souls of Romeo and Juliet, the watchmen fell to ponder. Actors entered and exited. Confusion grew regarding the deaths of the prizes of the Montague and Capulet families.

How dare you look at me cross-eyed in the middle of a scene like that? Juliet hissed into the ear of her dead lover. Her breath arrived upon him hot with fury. "You are totally unprofessional. I can’t believe you!"

"But can you believe how I’ve enjoyed your breasts pasted against my ribs every night for the past three months?" Romeo asked.

I’m going to forget you said that! You’re stoned. Again! Your eyes look like every blood vessel is hemorrhaged. You smell like marijuana.

Friar Lawrence ended his lamentation.

"’And here I stand, both to impeach and purge

Myself condemned and myself excus’d.’"

So while you’re in a forgiving mood, Juliet, may I tell you how much I would love to screw you; to unsheathe you and draw you against me, me kissing the heat at your neck, at your breasts, massaging, then teasing you, until you beg me, beg me screaming—like I know you want to scream now, madly, but—

"You’re sick! Sick and disgusting, Daniel James! You’ll never, ever lay a hand on me after tonight!"

Romeo frowned and stared into the stage lights above. He listened as Juliet’s father and the Prince of Verona sent the play to its close and the curtain dropped to applause.

Nicole Dupree sprang from the body of her co-star, sent him a glance of disdain along with a kick into his midsection, and pretended to vomit upon him. But the other characters flooded the stage and she hurried to her central position behind the closed curtain. Daniel pushed himself to his knees and joined her.

The curtain drew up for the finale. The audience rose to its feet. The applause swelled. There came cries of bravo. The cast of the Summer Theater troupe of Mercy College bowed before the acclaim as Professor Lavall Melton strode gaily from the wing onto center stage. He paused before his Romeo and Juliet. The plaudits surged. He bowed and motioned more broadly his sense of indebtedness to his student corps.

Not bad for stoned non-professionals, Daniel whispered.

Humph, Nicole replied through the smile she sent the audience.

The troupe bowed once more with their professor and the curtain descended its last time. The play was ended; the summer quarter done. Daniel James was officially graduated from Mercy College.

The stage boiled with activity as the crew dismantled the set. Daniel remained by himself upon the center point of the planking. Impervious to the sound and movement that whirled around him, he stared into the curtain and pondered a future as blank as when he was born.

As her co-star considered the vacuum of his future, Nicole spoke to Heidi Nicholson outside the dressing rooms.

"I told Clay two weeks ago—and I told you, too—that it was done, finished, Heidi. Phi Alpha Gamma has assigned me to him for three years now—and I don’t intend for him to drag me around during my last three quarters. She worked at her costume lace. So, if I attend Professor Melton’s party tonight, it will be with you—not Clay."

But Clay is the past president of our brother fraternity. And he’s expecting to be with you.

Fine. He can be with me, but I’m not going to be with him.

But—

I’m riding to the party with you and Roger. Please tell Clay so before I finish changing.

But Roger and I might leave early. It will be our last … date … until Fall Quarter, you know.

I’ll find a ride back to campus. There will be plenty of people there.

"Plenty of brothers and sisters," Heidi corrected with the wave of a finger.

Yes, yes. Brothers and sisters. Nicole sighed.

Heidi eyed her sorority pal.

Is something wrong, Nicole? You act agitated.

Nicole forced a smile.

I’m sorry, Heidi. She pulled the earrings from her ears, loosened the bun of her hair, and moaned as her brown mane dropped to her shoulders. Final exams. Pressure from Clay. This play every night—which includes working with that ass of a Romeo. I’m so frustrated I could explode!

Heidi took Nicole’s arm and walked with her toward the dressing room.

You don’t need to tolerate Daniel James any longer. The only reason he got the part is because he’s the son of The Voice of Mercy—

And he was the only reader who could lift the body of Paris in the last act.

That’s what Clay says, too. Heidi spoke authoritatively. Thank God that Clay is older, more mature, than most of the brothers. He’s tolerated you kissing the creep in public every night.

Nicole pushed a breath through tightened lips.

But he’s using Daniel as the reason I broke up with him—which is crazy.

"That much is crazy. Heidi leaned to her friend’s ear. With that long hair and hippie clothes … I bet the boy stinks, doesn’t he?"

Only occasionally—and mostly from marijuana smoke.

Yuck! Heidi spat. Anyway, I’ll give Clay your message and absorb the nasty comments he’ll make; and Roger and I will meet you on the student center patio in half an hour. She paused and tried a motherly face. But you should let him drive you up to Atlanta tomorrow. Your flight—

No! No, no, no. I’ve arranged for a ride already.

Then, just do something to make an Iota Pi Phi boy feel important tonight. Remember, this is your last—

With a wave of disinterest, Nicole went to her dressing room. Heidi, nodding dismay, stepped toward the exit.

Whoa! a burly youth called as he collided with her.

Freak! Heidi hissed impulsively. She brushed the filth from where his body contacted her signature starched dress shirt, then hurried away.

Damnit, Jon, stop pushing! Buster Biddle shouted at the giant behind him.

I’m not pushing. You’re sleep walking. You and Gil both. Jon squinted behind him at Gil Totenberg. Gil ran his fingers through his fine, shoulder-length hair as if he prepared to step before a camera. Where in hell is Daniel, you chemical retards?

The three tracked through the maze of dismantled props backstage, dodged the prop crew that came at them from every direction carrying some portion of a scene, then stepped onto the stage.

There, Buster said and pointed, staring into the curtain.

Geeze! Jon gasped. What kind of sense does that make?

Jon, a bear of a youth with the muscle tone of a dish rag, pushed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses up his nose as Daniel turned to the familiar voices.

That’s the problem with the world, Jon! he snapped. A person can stare into a microscope for a lifetime looking for two-headed hydrozoans; he can stare at a machine launching tennis balls at him for twenty years; or, like you, he can stare into a mirror for two hours every day trying to make a crop of wiry hair lay down; but let somebody like me stare at a plain old curtain for two minutes while for once in a lifetime he tries to gather his wits, and he’s labeled crazy as bat shit! Daniel’s face reddened. Damn! What would you think if you caught me writing a poem?

Cool it, man. Cool it, Gil replied nervously. He held his hands, home to delicate sets of fingers, over his ears while his dilated eyes searched for the presence of campus security.

Jon lifted his hands in apology.

I’m sorry, Daniel. I didn’t mean—

To hell with it! Daniel hissed.

He strode toward the dressing rooms. Buster called after the departing figure.

Meet us on The Quadrangle, Daniel. And hurry. Jon has us scheduled to crash Holly Hamilton’s debutante party before the professor’s gig heats up.

Daniel disappeared behind the rack of movement, motion, and color that made the stagehand’s toil.

What’s his problem? Jon asked.

He acts as normal as ever, as far as I can tell, Buster answered.

Nah.

No?

Yeah—probably something to do with the costume. It makes him look like a fruitcake.

Well … you make a point there, Jon, Buster replied.

Dig it. Just dig it, man, Gil whispered.

- - -

The highway that led from Mercy—past the rail yard and the textile mills that bordered it so closely there was no room for sidewalks—appeared deserted. The blacktop twisted around magnolia-studded knolls that hosted a sprawling sub-town of factory workers. A full moon cloaked the hills with phantom-like light that silvered the leafing of the hardwoods. Hedgerows of azalea waited lucklessly for a breeze. There had been no breeze for a week—only heat, daylight, and dark, and the ever-increasing strength of the moon. This Friday was no different.

A stray dog, lanky and knobby, sauntered from an alley entranceway to seek a fresher bed across the road. He angled into the middle of the highway at the base of a hill, paused. He pushed his back legs rigidly behind him like posts and pressed his front paws out to make room for the downward arch of his backbone as he stretched.

From the crest above him, its wide tires brawling against the pavement, a Transam catapulted, took air for a split second, and landed upon the center line. It cut through the cast of moonscape like a wildcat through a silk shroud, its metallic blue finish flashing against the glare of street lights.

Watch out for the dog! Buster cried.

Jon swerved. The hound scampered, yelping, into a hedge of camellia.

Damnit, Jon! Slow down! Buster yelled. You’re going to kill us. What’s your hurry?

I’m celebrating, man. I’m celebrating. Hey! As a matter of fact, Daniel and I are both celebrating, aren’t we, my friend?

Jon glanced into the back seat where Daniel sat, wide-eyed, staring at the rate by which the front of the car gobbled up the pavement.

Great God in Heaven! cried Newton Toombs as the Transam shot past his squad car. Who is that?

You don’t want to know, Toombs, the officer at the wheel replied.

He let go a raspy sigh before he drove the vehicle from its roadside hideaway and gunned it in pursuit of the Transam. Newton fell backward into his seat against the automobile’s acceleration.

So, you know ‘em?

Yeah. You do, too.

Who?

Jon Melton, Daniel James, an’ Buster Biddle. Drunk, stoned, possibly hallucinating, an’ lookin’ for pussy.

Not of—

Yep. Of the fame of Judge Benjamin Melton, Newspaper Editor McRae James, and the Biddle family—founders of our fine town.

My God! Newton stammered. And we’re gonna bust ‘em?

Not on your life, the other officer answered. "But we are gonna scare the shit out of ‘em."

He thrust the accelerator pedal to the floor in pursuit of the disappearing car.

What happened? Daniel asked, peering over the backseat of the car.

Jon nearly hit a dog. Buster turned to his friend. Haven’t you finished rolling that joint yet? What have you been doing? You look dopey as hell.

"I’m not dopey. I’m trying to roll a number while Jon bounces me around like a ping pong ball and you scream complain to me like a school girl. That’s not cool. So groove, Buster. I can roll a joint and Jon can drive."

You’re damned right I can drive! Jon shouted.

He eyed Buster with disdain. The car reeled forward. Buster turned back to Daniel.

But he’s going to kill us in this tin can just because he’s pissed!

And you’re damned right I’m pissed! Jon shook his head in frustration. "I’m trying to set up a future for you guys. So I take you to Hamilton Manors, to Holly Hamilton’s debutante party—just the biggest bash in the world that two white-trash jerk-offs like you could ever attend—with her daddy, Butler Hamilton, a future governor of Georgia … hell! maybe a future president of the United States … sitting there; with some of the best looking and richest pieces of ass south of Atlanta parading around looking for a mate to take home to their mommies; and you two, there at the door to the ballroom, me having pulled it back for you and wearing a face of authority, and you won’t walk inside! You won’t even step inside!"

Jon popped a breath mint into his mouth. Daniel searched the floorboard for bits of marijuana fallen from his rolling paper.

"If there is not the word Hamilton in your name, or you never saw your picture in Golf or Tennis Magazines, or you don’t have a picture on your desk of shaking the hand of a president, then you are what is commonly called dirt by people at that resort, Buster countered. Yet you think you can drag Daniel and me who are wearing bellbottom jeans and T-shirts into a ballroom to pretend we’re one of the gold."

Or platinum, Daniel quipped.

If you guys would quit your hippie routine—wear some decent clothes and cut that hair—you’d get along in this world a hell of a lot better! What’s the problem with you two? Especially you, Daniel? You’re the kind of product that Mercy College would love to put in one of those photos of Do-Rights standing on the front steps of the administration building. You’re smart; you’re good looking; you could get anything you want. Yet here you are. You look like some kind of freak from a circus. Why can’t you make yourself buy an oxford button-down, a pair of wool slacks, a pair of tasseled Weejuns at Dodd & Don’s Men’s Shop, and take the world by storm? But, you won’t. Never will, will you? So, fine! But, hey! At least, cut that hair!

Daniel licked the rolling paper edge above rigidly positioned fingers and smoothed the seal. He winked at Buster.

You need to get over missing the debutante thing, Jon. Anyway, I have no taste for debutantes.

You don’t eat them, butthead. You screw them.

They’re underage.

They’re rich. They get sex education and birth control pills at age thirteen and their parents definitely do not want to know what they do!

Jon sounds convincing, Daniel. Maybe we should have given it a try. After all, you graduated tonight. Maybe you would have impressed one of the chickadees.

Daniel slipped the joint between his lips. He struggled with his lighter.

Yeah, I graduated, Jon flunked out, and with only Fall Quarter to go, you dropped out to become a rock star.

That’s right! Jon responded. We’re all free! Free at last!

On the way to the first bash of our new lives, Buster joined. He watched Daniel’s cigarette grow an ember and extended his hand to take his turn. Why don’t you make a play for your Juliet tonight, Daniel? Like, it will be your last chance, man.

Nope.

I dare you.

Juliet was a debutante. I told you, I don’t do debutantes.

Cops! Jon shouted in a voice high with surprise, his eyes suddenly glued to the rear view mirror. Oh, hell!

The blue light of the squad car blipped through the back window of the Transam. Daniel bolted upright, blew out two lungs-full of magic smoke, and stuffed the still-burning joint into his underwear. He searched the back seat for the bag he and Buster shared. God help us, Buster! I can’t find the bag!

It’s almost up my asshole, Buster cried, his forearm disappeared into the front of his bellbottoms.

We gotta be cool! We gotta be cool, Daniel mumbled. Our dads would—

Tell them your father is the judge, Jon, Buster hissed.

Cool it! Jon order crisply.

The blue light swept every surface and, from every angle, pummeled the eyes of the occupants of the Transam.

Jon spit the remains of his breath mint against the dash. It fell into the dark of the floorboard. He tossed his arm through the opened window. He motioned his pursuer to pull alongside.

He’s not slowin’ down! Newton shouted to his partner. He’s wavin’ for us to pass. What the hell is his problem?

Maybe he wants to race, the officer at the wheel replied. Put on that bad-assed face of yours, Toombs. Here we go!

He gunned the engine. The squad car swerved from behind the Transam and leaped forward. Side by side the two automobiles shot through the night like lasers.

Newton rolled down his window and clutched his pistol behind his car door. He eyed the Transam driver angrily. The driver of the sport car grinned at him. The other two occupants stared at him with widened eyes framed by long and stringy hair.

At that instant, Jon rammed the brakes to the floorboard. In the parallel lane the squad car responded in kind. The screaming of tires locked against hot pavement ripped through the night. Daniel and Buster and Newton braced themselves against the forward momentum of the braking. They emerged from their terror with Jon yelling across the six inches of space that separated the two cars.

I’m saying that we have a sick man here! We’re rushing him to the hospital! He’s real sick. He must have eaten something at Holly Hamilton’s debutante party. Butler told us to rush him over here. I tell you, he’s sick! Really sick! Butler said—

Follow us! the senior officer shouted past Newton.

The squad car jumped ahead, its blue halo frequenting before it. Jon pressed his foot against the gas pedal and the Transam shot forward.

The two cars made the quarter mile to the hospital emergency room in moments. Jon brought the Transam to a halt, rammed it into reverse, and, with much shrieking of tires, punched it into an open ambulance carousel. He threw open his door and got out. He bent over and peered into the vehicle.

Someone has to play sick. I’ll take care of the cops.

Daniel squeezed out of the backseat through Jon’s door. He hurried to the opposite side of the car and opened the passenger door. Buster sat laughing.

Get out. Play sick. We don’t need to get busted, Daniel ordered.

Buster continued to laugh.

Daniel let go a huff of frustration and threw a fist into his friend’s chest. He grabbed a frizzy lock of chestnut hair and jerked Buster from the car. Buster cried in pain. He tried to stand. Daniel sunk a second fist into his stomach.

Buster coughed and doubled.

You son of a—

More! Like that! Daniel ordered.

He grabbed a pinch of fat at Buster’s ribs and twisted it. Buster howled all the way to the double doors of the emergency room.

There, he resisted. Daniel twisted his friend’s ear with a force by which he would close a jar of olives. Buster cried and fell forward. Two orderlies appeared. They tossed the chunky youth onto a gurney.

I can’t breathe! Buster cried.

A nurse appeared. She listened to Buster’s moans, his eyes alternately squinting and bulging, his knees curled up to his chest. She shook her head frightfully and rushed to find the shift physician while the attendants pushed the gurney toward a cloth-walled cubicle.

I don’t know what happened! Daniel stammered in response to the inquiries of the orderlies. He ate a lot of sushi at Holly Hamilton’s debutante party. It didn’t seem to bother any of the debutantes. I guess they’ve developed stomachs of steel by now. As for my buddy here, I could only hope that he tolerated the stuff. But after the last eight or nine really stinky rolls—eaten off a left-over tray—he dropped like a hog at his trough. And he’s my … my lifelong buddy!

He thought he sounded tearful.

The first orderly braked the gurney in the cubicle. With one hand he held Buster immobile while, with his other hand, he swept the privacy curtain around the four of them. The second orderly ignored Daniel’s emotion and persisted.

Have you fellows been drinking tonight? the second orderly asked.

Drinking? Daniel looked at him blankly.

Have you been taking drugs?

Daniel swallowed.

The orderly peered deeply into Daniel’s eyes.

Daniel looked away.

I think we have a drug overdose here! the orderly shouted. I’ll prepare the stomach pump.

He swept back the drape and rushed from the cubicle. Daniel took a breath and enjoyed how the tiled walls and hallway floor beyond Buster’s holding area shined starkly under the bright lights of the emergency room. He discovered chrome everywhere—spotless and brilliant—eye-piercing, he thought—kind of nice. He took a moment to savor the hemp in his veins.

What’s going on here? the physician, arrived, hissed into his face. Behind him, the nurse trembled.

My friend got sick at Holly Hamilton’s debutante party. The food was rank there. I mean, honestly, past rank. It was all raw—the fish, even the roast beef! And with a bunch of vegetables, they said, that had been fertilized only with cow shit and sanitized human shit dredged from the sewers of New York, or some city up north.

Shitty! Oh, God! Shitty stuff! Buster cried.

And there, as you can see, he got sick. He could have cholera.

And this took place at Holly Hamilton’s debutante party? the physician asked. Daniel again tried to withdraw from the gazes. Dressed like that?

Buster groaned more loudly and writhed under his captor’s hold.

From the end of the hall the entrance doors swung open. Jon adjusted his glasses as he strode forward. To the medical team he delivered an appreciative salute, then moved his attention to his companions.

It’s clear, men. Let’s go!

Buster swatted away the arm at his chest and sprang from the gurney. He joined Daniel and Jon in a brisk walk toward the exit. They paused to wave regards to their foils before they pushed through the doors.

The emergency room team stood frozen in disbelief. Only the wheezing of a wino and the droning of the motors in the plasma refrigeration equipment could be heard until the physician regained his senses. He struck a finger in the direction of the retreating youth.

Get them!

The Mercy College veterans broke into a run, dived into the Transam, and screamed from the parking lot in time with the vehicle’s powerful roar.

The physician joined the nurse and orderlies on the emergency deck.

Crazy boys! No sense of decency! he huffed.

No sense of principle! an orderly added.

No respect! the other orderly said.

Typical males, the nurse whispered to herself.

- - -

Above and beyond them in the darkness the twin lakes emptied into a channel bordered by a swamp of cattails. Jon swept the angled approach to the bridge recklessly, as he always did—its abutments barely seen before gone. A blip in time thereafter, he wheeled his car off the road. The machine lurched along a sandy thoroughfare.

I don’t believe I did that! I don’t believe myself! Jon cackled hysterically. "But I do believe that I can get away with anything!"

You’re crazy to think so, Jon, but you were crazy enough to do so tonight. Buster howled. He hammered out the beat of a song from the radio upon the dashboard.

Daniel toked a joint in the back seat. He chuckled.

I’d rather do that than grow up! Jon shouted. And I would—if I could. He cocked his head back toward Daniel, then eyed Buster. Notice how my maturity always overcomes my lunacy. There’s a lesson there for you two fruitcakes.

"I guess there is a lesson there, Daniel replied. Not everybody can deal maturely with their insanity."

Well, by God, you had better believe what I can do, my friends. You are with the best! I can out-lie, out-bullshit, and out-brag any man I ever met. There is nowhere for me to go in life but up!

A cabin came into view—of glass and vaulted ceilings from which extended decks all around. Lavall had rented the place for the end-of-summer bash he traditionally sponsored for his beloved theater troupe. Jon hammered the brakes and the car brought its passengers to a stop. From the front of the car the three inspected the setting. Jon adjusted his glasses and pulled the sleeves of his golf shirt down upon his doughboy biceps. His eyes then assessed, first, the apparel, then the hair, of his companions. He groaned, then set his voice in a tone of apology.

Let me go in first, guys.

Buster moaned and slapped himself in the face. Daniel loudly exhausted a lung-full.

Really, men, you gotta understand me. I need to maintain my reputation with the frats.

We don’t want to embarrass you, Jon. He winked at Buster. But you always say that; and you offend Buster and me every time you do.

Why worry about the frats, anyway, Jon? You’re beyond being a frat now, Buster said.

Yes. You’re a frat dropout, Jon. Your standing nowadays has been lifted into the transcendental community of humankind.

That’s possibly true, but irrelevant, my smelly associates. What will always be important is that I am an Iota Pi Phi member in good standing.

So, you’re a fraternity dropout who pays dues, you say? Buster said.

No! I’m a fraternity dropout who is versatile! Jon shouted, his mouth arrived suddenly only inches from Buster’s nose. Shave your face before next month gets here and listen to this: I get along with everybody!

Then get along with us, too, Jon, Daniel answered. We’re humans. We harbor feelings, too—regardless of how ugly Buster looks.

Buster agreed with a resolute nod.

And this is nineteen sixty-nine, Jon, not nineteen fifty-three. Everybody wears bell-bottom jeans and grows hair everywhere!

And this is Georgia, my friend! Not Atlanta, Georgia, but Mercy, Georgia! And here you are a minority! You’re no better than women, Sambos, and faggots! And that’s not me being prejudiced—that’s just fact! You know that I have a faggot uncle in my family and I’ve gotten my taste of prejudice from that all my life. I don’t need any more of that kind of bias out of Mercy—which is to say that I don’t need to add two freak friends to the faggot. Give me a break!

Daniel and Buster turned from Jon and with lingering gazes between themselves, weighed his discourse. They turned again to him, their expressions thoughtful.

That makes sense to me, Jon, Daniel said. Does it make sense to you, Buster?

I would have said it with more enthusiasm, Buster answered. But, in large part, it made sense to me, too.

Then, after you, Mr. Melton, Daniel said and motioned.

Jon eyed them both, then laughed, at first uncertainly, then fully.

Thanks, guys! he cried.

He hurried for the house. Daniel and Buster sprawled themselves in laughter upon the hood of, until then, Jon’s perfectly polished Transam.

- - -

After a while—which included the time required to search the cars parked around and about in the darkness in order to establish, by the presence of Gil’s Corvette, that their personal dealer was already inside—the friends entered the cabin. The front door slammed behind them, unheard over the crescendo of music produced by a stereo somewhere beyond. Past the embraced bodies that lined the walls of the darkened foyer, they entered the den, paneled with glass for the breadth and width of both stories that faced lake-side. They squeezed through the crowd of dancers and made their way to the kitchen. Daniel dug beers for Buster and himself from the refrigerator. They popped the tops, toasted, and studied the crowd.

I need some distance from these juice freaks, Buster whispered. I need a smoke.

Daniel emptied the contents of his beer can into his throat to quell the dryness there. He crumpled the container in his hand.

This is pretty good juice, if you ask me.

But you operate at a low moral level, Daniel. You should reject booze in favor of weed-induced enlightenment.

So you say as you hold a beer can, Daniel countered.

I’m not flawless, man—just principled.

Daniel withdrew another drink from the refrigerator and, as he consumed it, directed his attention toward the den. A screen of bodies gyrated erotically within the room. He watched with some combination of curiosity and discontent until the screen abruptly parted and, at the far side of the dance floor, she appeared. She spoke with Clay Ruben. Daniel studied the way her hair fell around her temples and swept downward toward her shoulders, the even line that made the bridge of her nose, her chin, formed only a couple of degrees short of an angle that might have made it sharp. But her chin did not hold him in that moment as much so as did her cheekbones which, so familiar to him, balanced the curve of cotton cheeks below with the two almond-shaped eyes above.

He did not realize that the intensity of his gaze produced a signal sufficient to draw her attention. She turned, and, when her eyes met his, he could not help but linger upon hers. It was during that linger that she lowered her chin demurely, a wisp of a smile—or taunt—at her lip.

Dancing bodies breached the moment. Daniel eyed Buster.

I would love to lay Nicole Dupree.

Twenty minutes ago you told me you didn’t do debutantes.

If I were doing her, I wouldn’t be thinking about debutantes.

Oh, so. But what after that, Daniel? You wouldn’t know what to say to her. Have you ever gone to one of her piano recitals?

No. I’ve been too busy attending my own recitals.

Your own recital?

Yes. You know: The surreal. The ephemeral. Sometimes called life.

Christ, Buster said. You gotta stop worrying about the war and getting drafted. You can hide-out in Canada, or Mexico—or California like we’ve planned.

"Sure. Or maybe I can gain sixty pounds to get myself rated obese—with high blood pressure, at risk for diabetes—and then find a bulldozer to run over my feet."

There’s nothing wrong with my feet, man, his friend complained.

- - -

Nicole focused her attention to Clay. He chattered endlessly in his guttural, know-all way. She focused upon his lips. She studied the meaningless movement there as he detailed events from the last party with the Iota Pi Phi brothers at Cheatham College. She wondered if he were a natural leader or an overage preppie running out to the end his self-contrived history as a war hero. She thought of the times she had placed her cheek against one of the acne-scarred cheeks that dwelt beneath his laconic mind. She thought of the cheek of Daniel James upon hers just that night, his mind intelligent, his attitude bold, his verbiage filthy while, nevertheless, he somehow tempted her.

The drink she had held for a half hour untouched, she lifted to her lips and quaffed.

I’ve heard this story, Clay. I’m going to circulate.

Sure, babe, he replied, unattendingly.

She edged into the crowd. With Heidi hurried from the festival to spend the final hours of the quarter in her lover’s arms, and Clay not bearing down upon her, she felt strangely alone. She dared to confront the sensation, and moved more deeply into the current of bodies that celebrated there.

- - -

Buster sniffed audibly, sensing a familiar odor.

Hey! I smell hash, Daniel. There must be a pipe lit behind every door upstairs. Let’s join in—think some more about how we’ll get ourselves away from Mercy.

"Right now I think the best cure for my misery is to not think about why I might need to go to California to pal around incognito with you nor how I would finance myself without giving into my father … and Jon … who are pressuring me to man-up and get a job."

You’d be happier to pal around with me—even without money.

Daniel motioned toward the bedrooms. Go ahead. I’ll find you and Gil later.

Alright. Go ahead and work off your preppie dreads. I’ll see you again when you get back to reality, Buster said as he stepped into the crowd.

- - -

Daniel went to the back deck. The structure protruded high above the slope that formed the watershed for the upper and lower of the secretively populated twin lakes. He leaned against the railing. From there he peered through the forest. Into whatever was his rumination, from behind him slipped a voice. It arrived softly, familiarly, soothingly.

’O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo?’

Daniel wheeled to the voice. He met the eyes of her to whom he spoke. Automatically, his arm took her waist.

"I have night’s cloak to hide me from their sight;

And, but thou love me, let them find me here:

My life were better ended by their hate

Than death prolonged wanting of thy love."

Daniel did not wait for a reply. He drew her to him. She let him. As her breasts fell upon him, her arms enwrapped his shoulders; her hands grasped his neck. As she anticipated—as she desired—his lips met hers. She pressed her own upon his; her nails drove into his flesh as her heart rose into her throat; bolted into her abdomen. She thought to pull away from the romantic fiction she made with him. But his embrace came as actual; consumed her; his strength at her waist, his mouth upon hers, deeply, his passion feeding hers, her passion overwhelming of her, she found only in the tips of her toes upon the rough-hewn base of deck her only connection to logic."

Oh … I … ! she cried, his arms relaxed. She took a soft breath; quick. Her eyes found his. Again! she whispered.

And before the word was out he took her lips once more. She sensed her fingers entwined within the hair that fell upon his shoulders; her breasts drawn taut at their point against him; a dampness surged secretly within her abdomen; shame; but shame rejected—in such did she find herself so hungry for the love of her shameless Romeo.

- - -

That’s enough, damn you!

The blast tore the pair apart.

I’ll kill you, you dirt-haired hippie freak! You dope-smoking scum of the earth! Clay bellowed as Nicole spun from Daniel’s clutch and Daniel dropped against the deck railing.

Clay, a host of fraternity brothers at his back, pointed his finger into Daniel’s face.

You’re messing with our little sister, he shouted. His friends growled concurrence. And nobody messes with an Iota Pi Phi sister.

Beat his ass, Clay, Gordo, the closest of the brothers, hissed.

The stereo inside the cabin went dead as the beastly scent of confrontation filled the air. Those guests non-committal escaped through the front door. Others pressed their faces to the expanse of glass that separated den from deck.

Let’s not fight, Clay, Daniel said, working for calm.

Why don’t you say that you’re afraid I might stomp your ass, you freak!

Nicole sprang to Daniel’s side.

Leave him alone, Clay! We … we were just teasing … remembering the play.

And, yes. I am afraid you might stomp my ass, Daniel answered.

Nicole’s mouth dropped with surprise. Clay faltered.

Oh, yeah! A smart ass! Gordo yelled. Gordo orchestrated a rumble of hateful phraseology from the press of brothers in the pack. He lifted a liquor bottle and, shaking it, won them over to exhortations of violence. Beat his ass for being a smart ass, too, Clay!

Compulsively, Clay sprang upon Daniel. He locked his fists upon Daniel’s shirt, lifted his adversary erect, and jerked him before his face.

No! Nicole cried and lunged forward, only to find herself restrained by a fraternity brother.

Ah ha! And you need a woman to defend you, too, eh, freak face?

Daniel lifted his hands and rested them upon Clay’s. He stared stubbornly into the eyes that peered senselessly at him.

You have two years of military experience, Clay, he whispered as he tightened his grasp. I never learned any of the martial arts you learned as a chef’s orderly. He tightened his fingers. He watched Clay’s eyes grow round with surprise as the man’s clutch upon the knot of fabric weakened. Clay’s closed knuckles opened into palms. Daniel moved the palms, then Clay’s arms, downward and outward. He jerked Clay forward into his chest. Murmurs of surprise rose from the ranks. Nicole fell faint against the railing.

I’m trying to be a peace-loving hippie, man. Don’t force me out of role, he hissed, his response close, moistening Clay’s face.

He took the moment to return his adversary’s fists to their starting place at Clay’s side and, daringly, released them.

Clay jerked his palms up and wrung them before his chin as if he prepared for assault. He glared and growled and wondered what to do amidst the warlike noises of his brothers.

Jon, his belly bouncing beneath his golf shirt, burst through the crowd. He threw his arms around the fraternity chief, drew himself tight against his side, and pressed his face forward.

Clay! My biggest buddy! Hey! What is all this? Jon blathered with radio-talk-show expertise. We got things to do; places to go, my man! Do you plan to waste the best hours of your manhood on hippie slime like James here! No! Hell, no!

The oversized mouth and thick lips that operated upon Jon’s face added another dimension of saliva to the face of Daniel’s antagonist.

But he’s messing with a sister, Clay protested.

What? What? Jon cried. He bounced to his tiptoes and strained an ear in the direction of the cabin. They phoned the sheriff anyway? After my order? he called to no one in particular. His voice rose angrily. Then put the word out! I’ll be looking for the son of a bitch that did it! He whipped to Gordo. Gordo! We gotta get Clay out of here! We can’t let our man go down with a stooge like James. He sensed the wave of jitters that rushed the ranks. No! So, Gordo; men! Save Clay! Get him out of here before he kills this hippie sausage!

Right now! Gordo roared.

Twenty hands grabbed Clay. Clay let them coax him away.

If Nicole the bitch traitor wants a freak, then let her get her a freak, he yelled. But she’ll never again date an Iota!

And I don’t care, Clay! Nicole answered hotly.

Well you’ve chosen a real chicken-shit!

A drugged-out sewage scumbag! Jon added and, with an upward adjustment of his glasses and a wink back at Daniel, pressed Clay and his attendants from the cabin.

- - -

Buster and Gil watched from the balcony before the bedrooms as Jon rushed Clay and his rumble-squad from the house. With the sound of automobiles departing, they came alive and ran down to the main floor. Gil sprang for the stereo and cranked up a heavy-metal tape that launched him into confrontation with the dancers who wanted to grind upon each other to the tunes of Memphis soul. That argument held no prospect of early end as friends of Gil emerged from the shadows and joined his side. Buster ignored the conflict and, instead, forged his way through the crowd and onto the deck. There, he threw his arm across Daniel’s shoulders and pounded his friend’s chest with the flat of his free hand.

What a rush, Daniel! You! Facing off with Clay Cro-Magnon. What a paradox. You! You … like a Hare Krishna … blocking a sidewalk before a banker late for work. Wow! You were fantastic. Fantastic! I loved it!

So, why didn’t you come down to help me kick some ass if I needed you?

Because I’m anti-violence, anti-war, man. I can’t break my promise to our emerging society. Anyway, the basis of the problem was really not of Clay, but with your inability to communicate with Clay.

My inability to communicate with Clay?

Society’s inability to allow you to communicate with Clay, I should say.

Nicole, her eyes moving back and forth between the enigmas of Daniel and Buster, giggled. Buster dropped a hand into his pocket and withdrew a familiar bag. He handed it to Daniel.

"I see that Nicole has never experienced higher thought—even if, I heard, she is the President of the Honor Board Mortar—"

President-Elect, Nicole answered smartly.

Maybe she needs some enlightenment of an intrinsic kind rather than of capitalist-driven scholarship. He pretended an expression of dissatisfaction, before he whispered to Daniel. The right-most room from the head of the stairs … empty.

To the lakes! To the lakes! Gil shouted to a complement of long-haired companions attired in T-shirts, bellbottoms, and sandals as they spilled onto the deck. He stepped between Daniel and Buster. The Future Bomb Shelter Owners of America denied us our music rights and kicked us out of the party, he grumbled. He called out again to the larger group. So! To the lakes! With hash to heat, mescaline to metabolize, and the promise of tomorrow as an out of this world day!

He ran for the steps. Buster sent a salute to Daniel, and rushed after him.

Daniel listened as the group crashed through the darkened woodland toward whichever of the two lakes’ shore they might arrive. He devoted his attention to Nicole and breathed a deep breath. He let it go apologetically and peered at her as if he were confident about something. He stretched out his hand to her. She took it.

Alright? he asked.

Yes, she whispered.

- - -

After he guided her away from the deck, through the celebrants that remained in the den, up the staircase to the candle-lit bedroom Buster had specified, Daniel closed the door behind them. He walked to the center of the room. Nicole stepped back and pressed herself against the door.

He pulled his shirt over his shoulders and tossed it aside.

Curious, wary, Nicole studied her Romeo. She marked the way the strikes of moonlight that survived passage through the hardwood arbor and over the window sill caressed the smoothness of the skin at his shoulders and marked the masculine taper of his waist where, she imagined, his muscles rippled over his rib cage and his abdomen below.

What are you doing? she asked when dropped upon the end of the bed and commenced to empty a portion of material from Buster’s bag onto a white flicker. He twisted the white thing around the material with precision of finger, then sealed the instrument with his tongue.

A joint. I just rolled a joint.

He lifted the self-fashioned cigarette to his lips and lit it. He took a deep breath and held it. After a while he exhaled, then grimaced.

This isn’t exactly Jamaican Red, he said apologetically.

He extended the marijuana tool to her.

Would you like a toke?

I don’t use.

You’ve never put a joint in your mouth?

Once. But I didn’t get stoned. I ate a bag of Oreo cookies instead.

Then, you were stoned.

No, I wasn’t.

Yes, you were.

I wasn’t. I know myself. Nicole felt embarrassed. You’re so stupid, Daniel James.

I’m stupid? Me? Romeo?

Yes. I wasn’t serious with you there on the deck. I wanted Clay to leave me alone, so I teased you. I planned for him to catch us kissing. I even hoped that he and the brothers might beat you up so you could taste the consequences of that stupid ego of yours. That didn’t happen, but at least he’s gone. I got my way. Didn’t I.