Love and Glory

Chapter Twenty-Five

I had a studio apartment on Revere Street and that night I went over my outfit for the next day. I’d never been to a faculty club. But I’d seen a lot of faculty. My wardrobe was sufficient. I polished my cordovans, washed and dried and ironed my chinos, and went over my blue blazer with Scotch tape to get off any lint there might be. I had two clean shirts: blue and white. I chose the white one and put it out on the bureau. Tie selection was easy. I had a black knit and blue and red rep. I took the rep. I tucked a pair of dark blue socks into the cordovans, and put them on the floor at the foot of the bed. Then I stood back and surveyed, dressing myself in my imagination and, I realized, making slight indications of the dressing motions as I went through it: socks, pants, shirt, shoes, tie, coat. Belt. I had forgotten a belt. I had only one, a dark brown alligator belt. I got it from the closet and hung it over the hanger throat where my pants and blazer were. A pocket handkerchief would be a touch of class, but I didn’t have one. I checked my wallet. It would be awkward if I couldn’t afford the lunch. There were nine dollars in my wallet. I got out the checkbook and wrote a check for cash. I’d cash it at the bursar’s office after class. Tomorrow I had a nine and a ten. I’d be free at eleven.

I checked out the wardrobe again, then I got undressed and read Piers Plowman until I got too sleepy. Reading Piers Plowman does not impede sleepiness. When I put Piers Plowman down and turned off the light I was sleepy but I couldn’t sleep. I hadn’t expected to and I didn’t fret. I lay as quietly as I could and kept my mind as empty as I could. I thought about what I’d do if I had all the money I wanted. And what I’d eat if I were to create my absolute perfect menu, and what kind of car I’d drive, and what kind of house I’d buy, and what kind of wardrobe I’d create. I thought about the all-time greatest ballplayers by position (I spent time deciding if Stan Musial would be a first baseman or an outfielder.) The all-time greatest ballplayer poll stopped somewhere in the mid-nineteen fifties because I didn’t know anything about the players in the second half of the nineteen fifties. After Jennifer had married John Merchent, I’d lost half a decade. I moved on, listing the ten most desirable women I could think of, but once again those lost years hampered me, and always there was the steady tension that centered in my solar plexus. The night seemed shorter than it should have, had I been continuously wakeful. Morning came.

I brushed my teeth carefully, showered for a long time, and shaved closely, lathering twice and going over it again. I dried my hair by rubbing it with a towel, and toweled the rest of me dry. I sat on my bed, put on my dark blue socks, stood up, unwrapped the white shirt from its laundry package, and put it on. I buttoned it from the top button down, and then put on my pants, right leg, then left leg. I tucked in the shirttail, smoothing it all around, and buttoned the pants and zipped the fly. I slid my belt through the loops and buckled it and lined up the buckle with the line of my shirtfront and the line of my fly. Then, using a shoehorn, I slipped into my shoes, and tied them with one foot on the floor and one foot resting on the edge of the bed. I tied the tie in a simple four-in-hand knot and shaped the knot after I had drawn it tight. With my thumb and forefinger I smoothed the roll in the button-down collar. My hair was dry. I had a very short haircut so it dried quickly. Looking in the bathroom mirror, I made a part with my comb and then brushed the hair. Back out in my bed-sitting room, I took the blazer off its hanger and slipped into it. I didn’t have many clothes, but what I had were good. The blazer was all wool with a full tattersall lining.

In the bathroom mirror I tried the jacket buttoned and unbuttoned and decided I’d arrive with it buttoned and unbutton it as we sat down. I held a small tietack against my tie and decided instead to tuck the shorter end inside the label loop.

I didn’t have a topcoat, so I went with no coat and shivered some waiting for the elevator at Charles Street Circle. But I’d spent too much time on my appearance to set it off with an army surplus field jacket. (Not mine. Mine had disappeared long ago during the years of exile somewhere west.)

I took notes in my medieval literature course, but automatically, listening only with my hand and pencil, and my U.S. history class went by unrecorded. After class I left my books on a windowsill in Memorial Hall and cashed my check at the bursar’s. I had fifty minutes until noon. It was too cold to walk outside. So I began systematically to pace the corridors in the Student Union, ascending the stairs at the end of each corridor and walking back on the next floor in the other direction. I wanted to smoke. I hadn’t in more than a year. I wouldn’t now. I kept walking. In my head the refrain to the Four Freshman version of “Take the A Train” reiterated without volition, over and over and over. Control, I thought. Control. You’ve been shot at in Korea and you’re afraid of this? Control. The faculty club was on the top floor of the Student Union. At five of twelve I was waiting outside the door. In the hall, near the elevator. I knew she’d be late. She was always late. But I wasn’t. And I wouldn’t be.