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“Envy” Ch. 4
1985
That Tuesday morning two days before Thanksgiving dawned cloudy and cold. As though on cue, as though roasted turkey and pumpkin pie would be incompatible with mild weather, a cold front lowered the temperature just in time for the holiday.
Roark’s alarm clock was set for seven-thirty. By seven-forty-five, he was shaved, showered, and dressed. By ten minutes to eight, he was downstairs in the residence dining hall, drinking coffee, glancing through his manuscript, and wondering how much abuse Professor Hadley was going to inflict on this creative effort into which he had poured his heart and soul.
The quality of his Thanksgiving holiday depended upon the outcome of the conference. He would either spend the long weekend relaxed and comfortable in the knowledge that his work had met with his professor’s approval or foundering in the lake of misery called self-doubt.
Either way, he didn’t have much longer to wait. The verdict would be read soon. Whether Hadley’s remarks were good, bad, or ugly, hearing them would be a relief. This anticipation was hell.
“Sweet roll, Roark?”
He glanced up to see the house mom standing beside his chair. “Sure, Mom, thanks.”
Soon after pledging, Roark had ordained the fraternity house mother the most long-suffering woman alive. Mrs. Brenda Thompson had given up a peaceful widowhood to voluntarily move into a three-story house with eighty-two men who behaved like miscreants sent away to a nine-month summer camp.
They respected nothing, neither persons nor property. Nothing was sacred—not God or country, one’s hometown, one’s pet, one’s sister, or one’s mother. It was open season on anything an individual held near and dear. Everything was subject to ribald ridicule.
They had the decorum of swine. As male Homo sapiens tend to do when gathered in groups of two or more, these eighty-two had regressed to the level of cavemen not nearly as refined as Neanderthals. Everything their mothers had forbidden them to do at home, they did in the fraternity house. Zealously and with relish, they celebrated rude behavior.
Mrs. Thompson, a soft-spoken and dignified lady, tolerated their language, which was foul, and their personal habits, which were fouler. Her maternal nature invited their confidences and earned their affection. But, unlike a parent, she exercised no discipline over them.
She turned a blind eye to the drinking, cussing, and fornicating, in which they participated with wild abandon. Without a complaint from her they could play their sound systems as loudly as they wished. They could sleep on their sheets for a semester or longer before laundering them. When they shaved the fraternity letters into the fur of a cat belonging to a girl who had jilted one of their members, Mom’s only comment was on how nicely they had lined up the letters.
In her presence, particularly on Wednesday evenings during their one formal meal of the week, where jackets and ties and some semblance of civilization was required, they apologized for their expletives, belches, and farts with an obligatory and questionably sincere, “Excuse me, Mom.” With a patient little smile, she always pardoned the offender, even though a similar offense would be forthcoming seconds later.
In her they had the Dream Mom.
Roark suspected that she favored him over some of the others, although he couldn’t imagine why she did. He’d been as crude and badly behaved as any. After a toga party his sophomore year, he had passed out under the baby grand piano in the downstairs parlor and woke himself up choking on Jack Daniel’s-flavored vomit.
Mrs. Thompson appeared in a long flannel robe and slippers, patting his shoulder and asking him if he was all right. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, although clearly he wasn’t.
Without censure and with the dignity of a nun, she removed the blanket that someone had tossed over an inflatable doll, the anatomically obscene, unofficial house mascot, and carried it back to Roark. She covered him with it where he lay, miserably cold, sick as a dog, and stinking to high heaven.
From that night forward, Mom seemed to have a special fondness for him. Maybe because when he had sobered up, he thanked her for the kindness and apologized for disturbing her sleep. Maybe because he’d had the rug beneath the piano cleaned at his own expense. No one else in the house had noticed—either that he had soiled the rug or that he’d had it cleaned. But Mrs. Thompson had noticed. He supposed these nods toward common decency demonstrated to her that he was redeemable, that he had at least some breeding.
“You’re up earlier than usual, aren’t you?” she asked now as she placed a jelly doughnut on a paper plate beside his coffee mug.
Ordinarily she didn’t serve the boys food. They served themselves from a cafeteria-style line, taking what they wanted from the fare a surly cook put out for them in the manner of a farmer filling the feed trough for his herd.
“I’m meeting with my senior advisor this morning,” he explained. In deference to her, he remembered to use a napkin instead of licking the doughnut’s sugar glaze off his fingers.
She motioned to his manuscript. “Is that the book you’re writing for your capstone?”
“Yes, ma’am. What I’ve got so far.”
“I’m sure it’ll be very good.”
“Thanks, Mom. I hope so.”
She wished him good luck with his meeting, then went over to say good morning to another boy who had just straggled in. He was the most handsome member in the house and attracted girls like moths to flame. His brothers wanted to hate him for his unearned good fortune, but he was too nice a guy to hate. Rather than exploit his movie-star looks, he downplayed them, seemed almost embarrassed by them. He glanced over at Roark and raised his cleft chin in greeting. “What’s up, Shakespeare?”
“What’s up, RB?”
Everyone had a nickname, and the accepted house greeting was, “What’s up?” To which no one ever replied. That’s just what they said.
Roark’s nickname—to everyone except Todd—was Shakespeare. His fraternity brothers knew he liked to write, and William Shakespeare was the one writer that most of them could possibly call to mind if a gun were held to their heads. He had never tried to explain that Shakespeare wrote plays in blank verse, while he wrote stories in prose. Some concepts were just too complex to grasp, especially for individuals like the fraternity brother who, upon being asked by his English lit teacher to identify the bard by his portrait, had responded, “How the fuck you expect me to know all the presidents?”
