I returned to Boston for my Sophomore year, still driving the shit box. It was falling apart, and I didn't have the skill or the wherewithal to save it. That might be taken as an objective correlative for the entirety of life as I was about to experience it. It began brilliantly enough with great plans. It was the plan, for example, to get out of the dorm and get into an apartment with two other people. I didn't move far, just down the street. I was still on the Fenway next to the fens, still an inhabitant of Back Bay Boston. I'd gotten out of living with the priest and the buzzard, but not quite out of being a queer "I" as "straight guy." I found a man I thought I could tolerate as a sex partner. I figured that I should take the time right now, to sort it out. Was I gay? Straight? Bi? This was the time in life to know the final answer. He was, as I had wanted, a fair haired, lithe young thing. (Well, not any younger than any of us, but it helped to maintain my role in the fantasy that he was subordinate.) The other member of the new triumvirate was an Asian. It was a great plan on the surface of it. Beneath the surface, it contained the seeds of its own undoing.
And as for Mara, how could I have not understood the damage I would do by preaching free love and demanding fidelity? As I bounded up the steps to someone else's brownstone flat that crisp summer morning, how could I have been more wrongheaded in my flirtation with disaster, albeit of the inconsequential sort? The apartment was rented by none other than Xenia and Rod. They had graciously allowed me access as my own arrangements were still in process. That is to say, I had all of my shit in the car while I sought a place to have that meeting with Mara that she'd requested by letter. Her previous epistle I'd ducked out of answering after many failed attempts. Her last had not been sent by mail. It came via courier. The courier was a willing friend, and she nabbed me as I strolled the halls of the BCM.
"Cal!"
"Yes?"
"Here. This is from Mara."
"OK, I'll have a look see. Thanks."
In an empty classroom at a cockeyed desk, I unfolded crisp sheets of lined newsprint and read my lover's felt-tipped pleading.
Boston, Now.
Dearest, most confused, Cal,
You let me die on the vine, and for this I should not forgive you. I wish that I had that much sense and strength. I gather by your silence that you did not approve of the chance I took with Stan. Fair enough. I was fool enough to believe you when you said I was free, that we were all free, and that only a fool could not be sold. You said it, I believed it, and yet I knew in my heart it was a bill of goods. Still, I had that beautiful body in front of me, quivering and vulnerable, and I had your words of daring whispering in my ears. I did not resist temptation and listen to that tiny voice in the back of my head that suggested that I should think first. What is done is done. What is done is also over, over and done. What I want is...you. I want you. What do you want me to do? Jump off the roof yelling that? I've already shot myself in the foot. You want me to shoot myself in the head?
I'd say 'fuck you,' but there's too much truth in it. The truth is that I want to fuck you up one side and down the other. Can't stand a liberated woman throwing herself at your feet? How about a horny woman exposing her ass? Ok, ok. I think you get my point. It's not just sex. I know your words are casual and improvised. I know that you speak first and then, if ever, think things through. The words you use are words I might have put there. I have a head full of New England bullshit. Does it surprise me then that they come flying out of your mouth, sweet kissable mouth, and wing me? Where's my Catholic restraint? Eaten alive by my Italian hot blood. If you don't fuck me, and soon, somebody else will. Soon.
Ok, I'll take a more subtle tack. I can't say I'll worship the ground you walk on. I won't let you walk all over me endlessly. I only want...to talk to you. You can stay out of sight for just so long. We go to the same school. Remember? There I'll be. There you'll be. What are we going to do? Pretend we've never met? Let's just meet somewhere and have a civil discussion. We can work this out. We must. I must. You should allow me. Give me a dignified retreat if that's what you insist on. Don't be such a shallow pond. The pond! You took me down to the river, believing I was a maiden. Remember? Lorca! Who needs Paris (or Boston) when we have Lorca. You taught me SO MUCH! Do you want to take back all the poetry? Adonis? Whoring? Golden liquid from a leak? What does it take to get through your thick skull that I love you, you shit head?
Mara Monetti
I can't convey the race of her pen over this page. She had all of this emotion all pent up and it poured out without crosshatch or proper punctuation. It took me all of a minute to read it. I might have seen only the part where she said she'd broken up with Stanley the manly. I might have skipped the fuck me part and gotten right to the civil talk part. That's me. I know nothing else like I know myself. It took me even less time to know I wanted this meeting. I had my eternal notebook full of blank staves. I ripped out a page and wrote:
Mara,
tomorrow, 70 the Fenway, 7 AM. Ring the bell twice.
Cal
Now where in hell was that courier? Just a ponytail already halfway down the block. Sprint, my good man, sprint!
So there I was ringing the bell ahead of my anticipated bell ringer. The door opened and there was Rod in the altogether.
"Cal."
"Rod. I see now why they call you Ramrod."
"Offended?"
"Nope. Just impressed."
"Well, get your skinny ass inside, before somebody outside sees my hide."
In we went. I had a half an hour to clear some room for the big meeting.
"Rod, Mara's on her way over."
"Mara! Mara, Mara, no to Mara!"
"That's her. No tomorrow."
"You two done the nasty yet?"
"Nope. She's a nice Catholic girl."
"You're full of shit, man."
"Maybe so. But as I say, she's gonna ring that bell twice and we'll be having a meeting of the minds right here, if you don't mind."
"Not at all. In fact, you two can have the place to yourselves. I've got a meeting myself over at the lair of Laird."
"I keep hearing about this Laird. When do I get to meet him?"
"Oh, very soon. He's been hearing about you, and he keeps saying the same damn thing. But be that as it may, I've got to put on some threads and hit the highway."
I was in the hall at the door before the second ring. She was in my arms before the door had the chance to close.
"Cal, are we going to do it right here in the hall?"
"I suppose not. There's a bed up there."
Trying to walk up the stairs with that stiffie was a bit iffy.
"Jeez, Cal. Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me."
"I'm very glad to see you."
