It’s really cold tonight! Cold night winds gusted extreme then soft, in his face, from behind, and around his legs, waist, and face as he returned to the House from his long walk around Green Valley. Timothy had decided to think out a few problems so he walked through Green Valley to the quarry, ambled around it, threw stones into the cold water and approved of the choppy surface, covered with uneven waves, beaten into violent rhythms by capricious night winds.
        He thought about Marly, their evening together and wondered where either of them would be in ten years. He turned away from the quarry and walked slowly back toward the main part of campus into Green Valley’s town square. Mannequins were silent in darkened department store windows, his eyes didn’t see any merchandise, instead he thought about his life: what he was doing at DeLong, what he had accomplished, what it was he wanted to accomplish, and where he wanted to go or to live.
        He left downtown and finally shuffled slowly up the sidewalk, along Delta Street. Winds were still cold against his body, he kept his hands inside his pants pockets, felt his belly and his thighs, recalled other events of the day and evening and looked up at the House. It seemed more than a structure to him. For the first time, I think, it looks like something more than just a building. Perhaps it really is something more than a place to hang my hat. It really looks comforting and inviting considering what has happened between Danny and me and Marly and me.
        Ceiling lights illuminated the card room and living room. He stretched his neck to see that the basement dining room and bum room lights were out, but some study room lights on the second floor were still on. He looked at his wristwatch. It’s eleven-thirty. All lights should be out.
        He turned up the gravel that was the driveway up the hill toward the rear of the House. He kicked at the gravel stones, felt himself again, held himself closely, pulled his trousers tightly forward and thought about the evening with Marly. What do I make of her? If I date her it will always be the same thing every time. She as much as told me that there would be other men she would have to have.
        He stepped up the two concrete stairs into the back hall, saw three actives reading, each comfortable in a high-backed chair. Two of them smoked cigarettes, and he heard his voice from when he was a child: “Don’t worry about me, Nanny. I’ll never smoke. I hate those cigarettes.” He heard his grandmother response as she put another pie in the oven. She checked the position of the oven handle and checked the level of flames in the burners. “And I hope not, my boy. I hope you never, smoke. You’re smarter than that Timothy. Lands’ sakes, my boy, You’re smarter than anyone I know, and you hadn’t started hardly growing yet.”
        Timothy pushed open the door that lead upstairs to the second floor and the study rooms. He felt and heard his Grandmother put her arms around him, hold him tight, rock him slowly first in one direction then the other. She said, “My Timothy. Lord, how precious you are to me.” Timothy saw her bend down and kiss him and say, “Come on now. Scat! Are you going to the pool today or is it baseball at the park?”
        “Both, Nanny!” he shouted.
        “Need money?”
        “No. I took back some bottle deposits to the market this morning!”
        “Hurry home then,” she said, as he ran out the screen door, down the stairs, and jumped on his bike. His memories of other days vanished and were replaced by the sight of the dimly lighted, silent hall, of the second floor, the scent of polished wood, and the pungent aroma of beer. He shook his head and wondered which brother had beer. It’s forbidden you guys! Brothers! Whoever you are! He turned on the overhead lights in his study room.
        He slid his closet door open, pulled his jacket off slowly, and hung it on a hanger. He sat down in his overstuffed chair, took off his saddle shoes and argyle socks and alternately rubbed first one foot then the other. Everything’s cold tonight. He sat looking out at the night sky. The moon’s really big tonight. Bright too. He watched tiny snowflakes come to rest against the leaded panes of his windows then quickly disappear. He rubbed his feet, warming them and heard a soft moan; it sounded like someone had said, “More, more.” He fell asleep.
         The voice sounds passionate! Man or woman? Girl or guy? Who’s in the hall? He listened; heard the sound of footsteps attempting to be quiet: secretive, as though someone, maybe it’s two people, stepped rapidly down the long, polished tile hall: slippery for feet wearing socks or stockings.
        Timothy pushed himself out of his chair and walked into the hall. He looked first through the small window pane in the door that lead to the rear stairwell, and crept across the hall into the bathroom, and finally searched down the long, dark hall toward the front of the House. He heard the front hall door creaking as it swung shut, Someone went through it. Whoever it is, is either going upstairs to the dorms or downstairs to the first floor. He listened but heard no sounds of footsteps or movement.
        He turned and walked back into his study room and sat down again in his overstuffed chair, stretched his legs out in front of him, and began rubbing his aching genitals again. He also massaged his legs and thighs, his arms, his chest. He sat up in the chair, straightened his back, and massaged his neck. My tool is still sore from the manhandler. Marly’s really a neat gal. Just screwed up. Has the right money and the right amount but the wrong teachers. Timothy was uncertain about Marly’s reaction when he told her he couldn’t date her as a steady. He sat in the chair, looked out into the dark night sky and recalled their parting conversation as he massaged his feet.
        “Why not?” she asked.
        “We’re two different types, Marly!”
        “You’re not pre-theo are you?”
         I’m not studying to be a minister. “No, Marly, I’m not certain what my major is going to be. It’s just that I would worry too much about you.”
        “You’re not angry about what happened, are you, Dex?” Sore, yes, angry, no! It feels like it was massaged with a hemp rope.
        “No, Marly.” He remembered how he had laughed. “I enjoyed it. That’s not the problem.” The first time I came in a coke joint. That’s not good. It’s irresponsible. Animal! Could have gotten me and Marly kicked out of school. It’s possible there’s still a problem, it depends on what Danny and Gorton saw or didn’t see.
        “Well that’s good,” Marly said. “I am what I am, Dex. I could do it again to you and welcome you doing it to me, but more intimate, of course. We don’t want to make a habit out of intime in a coke joint.”
        Intime? Timothy thought. That sentence could flunk her in French class. He saw Marly standing close to him in the entrance to her dormitory. She was starting the body rub, again and he was holding her at a distance.
        “I’ll call you again, but meanwhile, why don’t you call some of my brothers. They need good company, and Marly, you are that: good company.”
        “Who should I call?”
        “Call Stan Ferguson or Danny Harmon.” He knew why he had mentioned Stan; he didn’t understand why he wanted to put Danny at Marly’s mercy.
        “Wasn’t that Dan Harmon that almost saw you dance tonight?”
        “Sure was.”
        “He’s cute, but not as cute as you.” She pulled herself closer to Timothy. “I’ll call both of them. But, I bet they’re not as nice as you.” Whew! Glad she didn’t say that in front of Danny. Wonder if it’s true. Who is the better looking? Hmm!
        Marly had defined a new meaning of the word, ’nice’. A guy is nice as a function of what he has between his legs. And how much. He smiled a farewell and let her kiss him. She pulled herself to him and kissed his lips. stuck her tongue inside his lips, didn’t touch his teeth, slowly licked his upper lip, pulled out her tongue again, and said, good-night. She turned around and he watched her hips sway as she walked. Quelle derriere, mon ami--what an ass, my friend, he thought in French. Or is it m’ami--my friend, feminine form?
        “Call me sometime,” Marly called back to him. She went inside and leaned against the door, looked out through the large glass pane, and watched Timothy walk slowly down the wide sidewalk. Quelle derriere, mon ami--What a cute butt, my friend. She turned and walked toward the staircase.
        Timothy turned in time to see Marly walk up the stairs and out of sight. She’s probably headed for the telephone; a call to Stan or Danny! He stopped and listened to the voice again. Who’s calling me? Who’s voice is that?
        Thoughts of Marly and Danny disappeared as Don Matteson stuck his head into Timothy’s room. “Hey big guy,” Don said. “Oh! Oh! Forgot! Donald Matteson, St. Louis, Missouri, black, curly, light, blue, 185, 6 feet 2 inches. Wake up! Did you see your note?” He stopped talking, walked into the room and stood in front of Timothy. “Are you awake?”
        “Timothy Dexter,” Timothy said, yawning and rubbing his eyes, as the words, Timothy Dexter, Prairie View, Illinois, light brown, curly, medium, dark brown, 185, 6 feet, went through his mind. “Yeah. I’m awake now.”
        “I’ve got your pledge I.D. memorized,” Don said, sounding exuberant.
        “Good Don,” Timothy replied. “What note? You mentioned a note?” he asked sitting up in the big chair. “Gads. Where am I? What’s going on?”
        “Looks like someone tucked you in down here, brother,” Don said, as he straightened the sleeves on his sweater. “I put it on your desk. I got the phone call last night about ten.” Don sat down on the edge of Timothy’s desk. “I took wake-up call, from midnight last night, decided to get going early, and answer the phones for Danny, so this call came in about ten, last night.”
        Timothy rose out of his chair, stretched and replied, “Thanks, Don.” He picked up the note.
        “I didn’t know you were a professional blood donor.”
        “I haven’t donated any blood yet, but I heard they pay twenty-eight bucks a shot. I went to the local hospital, they tested my blood, and I got on their donor list.”
        “When did this happen?” Don asked.
        “About a month ago?” Timothy set the note down.
        “They want me to call them if I can’t donate blood today.”
        “Yeah. She said they would call, then send a cab for you. You have to stay out of school--classes today?”
        “No. They already have my class schedule. They know where I’ll be: every class that I’m in every day of the week. I can’t eat anything though until after I donate blood.”
        “That’s right!” Don walked toward the door. “That’s what they said. Well, got to go wake up more brothers. Bye!”
        Better call that hospital just to make sure. He picked up Cameron’s telephone and dialed the emergency room at the Green Valley Hospital.
        “This is Tim Dexter. Is Mrs. Chance there? Oh? Well! Mrs. Chance, can I take anything by mouth?” He listened, paused then repeated her words: “A little water, OK, coffee at noon if you haven’t called me If you haven’t called by three, this afternoon? Then eat anything?” Timothy turned and looked at three brothers standing in his doorway, listening to his conversation.
        “What would you really like by mouth, Dex, Marly Robbins?” They laughed.
        They walked toward the shower room. Timothy heard one of them say, “I’ll give him something by mouth.” They laughed again.
        “Thanks, Mrs. Chance. Oh, Mrs. Chance?” Timothy paused. “What’s happened? What’s the emergency?” He listened and stared at the wall. “Oh,” he said, “sorry to hear that.” He put the phone back in the cradle and thought about the teenage boy: a guy my age, in critical condition at the hospital. A car accident--a fucking car accident.
        Timothy stripped, grabbed his shaving kit and towel, and walked into the second floor hall. He looked ahead at the swinging door that opened to the back stairwell, pushed it open, and walked across the stairwell toward the bathroom.
        Timothy heard Jonathan, Jonathan Winslow, Evansville, Indiana, dark brown, straight, fair, blue, 170, 6 feet, 3 inches, tell Harley, Harley Hardy, Helena, Montana, blonde, curly, ruddy, blue, 180, 6 feet 2 inches, “it is so much fun to dance close with coeds.” Timothy heard Harley say, “But!” He heard them walking slowly down the back stairs and knew they were trying to keep from stumbling in their clogs. They were headed for the showers.
        “Just push it into her, Harley. I guarantee you that she’ll like it,” Jonathan said. “She’ll act like she doesn’t feel a thing.”
        Harley said, “Harley Hardy, Helena, Montana, blonde, curly, ruddy, blue, 180, 6 feet 2 inches. Push what into her?” he rubbed his hair, briskly, with his red towel.
        Jonathan replied, “Jonathan Winslow, Evansville, Indiana, dark brown, straight, fair, blue, 170, 6 feet, 3 inches. I don’t believe you,” he answered. “What do you mean? Push what into her? Push what you got right here. Your business. Push your business into her.”
        Harley replied, “Harley Hardy, Helena, Montana, blonde, curly, ruddy, blue, 180, 6 feet 2 inches. My business. Gads are you naive. You mean my horn? Push my horn into her? She has to feel that thing. It’s not invisible nor is it minuscule.”
        Their voices became indistinguishable as Timothy closed the bathroom swinging door behind him. He shook his head in disbelief as he thought about Harley, what a stud, who knew little about females. He chuckled thinking Harley could probably ride again and again for an hour and wear out any partner. He giggled to himself.
        He walked to the only empty sink, stood in front of it, set his shaving kit down, and looked closely at his face. Need a shave, handsome. No more pimples. He lathered his face, took out his razor and started shaving. He noticed Hank Borman, John Varney, and Tony Garla at the opposite sinks shaving and looking at themselves. He smiled at Cameron to his left and Jack Turner to the right as he stretched his cheek and scraped his razor downward under his lower lip.     
        “Hey, Dex,” Cameron said, laughing. “It looks like she bit your horn.”
        Timothy looked at Cameron in the mirror and then looked down at himself.
        “What’s that ring around it?” Cameron laughed. “Looks more like a burn! She must have been really hot!”
        Timothy fingered the skin of his penis, examined it, turned it and looked at it from different angles. He didn’t see what Cameron said he saw. He glanced up and noticed their strange expressions in the mirror. “I don’t see anything. What are you talking about?” He stood up straight again and added, “You all know, huh?” Timothy asked. He was embarrassed and he blushed.
        “Know what? What is it we’re supposed to know, Timothy, my friend?” John Varney asked. What a stud.
         “And what is it we are to know about who? Tony Garla added. With her you get all you can handle. His ass even looks worn tired.
        “That’s whom, turkey, not who! Where the fuck is your diction? What a dick Tony is. Can you imagine this young guy getting blown in that Coca Cola joint? Hank Borman said. “What is it we are supposed to know, Dex?”
        “Know what, Dex?” Jack Mentor said, putting his arm around Timothy’s shoulders. “Now there’s only four of them against two of us.” He smiled at Timothy’s reflection.
        “They all know that I had a coke date with Marly Robbins last night,” Timothy said.
        “What kind of a date?” They laughed again.
        “A cock date is more like it?” Hank joked. Maybe I should call Marly.
        Timothy blushed as his three older brothers walked out of the bathroom, joked, made plans, and laughed. The bathroom door swung open as Harley and Jonathan walked into the bathroom.
        “Don’t pay any attention to them,” Jack said, smiling at Timothy again. They’re just jealous and probably hard up.”
        “We’re all jealous came the chorus from the shower room!” They laughed and a voice said, “King Cock for the month, that’s what Dex is. Maybe for the year! Come on now. For the year?”
        Harley and Jonathan spoke to Timothy, Cameron and Jack and walked into the latrine.
        “They’re horny,” Jack said, continuing his lecture. You know how it is--for us,” Jack said. “We need it more than we get it.” He turned and walked out of the bathroom. “Play it cool, kid,” he said, “you’ll be OK.” The sound of Jack’s clogs diminished as he walked to his room. The bathroom door shut.
        “He’s right, Dex. Those guys are just jealous and horny,” Cameron said, lowering his voice. “Really. Don’t let them bother you. But how was it? How was she?” He moved closer to Timothy. “Confidentially, of course!” Timothy knew he was ready to leave the bathroom.         Timothy put his arm around Cameron’s shoulders and whispered to him. Cameron’s eyes widened as he listened, suddenly pulled away and asked, “No shit? She did? That’s all she did?”
        Timothy nodded.
        Cameron turned and walked out of the bathroom, swinging the door wide. He stopped and looked a big question at Timothy. “That’s all?”
        Timothy nodded at Cameron’s reflection in the mirror as he raised his razor to his face again.
        “Oh my aching back,” Cameron said, laughing as he walked across the stairwell.
        Timothy finished shaving, rinsed off his razor, put it back in his shaving kit, walked into the latrine, to a urinal, and watched his stream hit the pad and circle down the drain.
        “Hi Dex,” Daniel said, as he passed him. He touched Timothy’s back.
        “Hi Danny,” Timothy answered, turning his head and looking at Daniel as he walked, wrapped in a towel around his middle, out of the bathroom. “Danny. We’ve got to talk!”
        “Daniel Harmon, LaGrange, Illinois, blonde, wavy, fair, blue, 188, 6 feet, 1 inch. I hear you!” Daniel’s voice echoed through the hall. He sounded bellicose. “When?”
        “Today,” Timothy shouted as he left the urinal.
        “When we get to it,” Daniel replied.
        I’m ready for a hot shower now. Timothy stepped into the shower and saw all his brothers who were in the Frosh Men’s Chorus. He greeted, shook their hands and repeated their Pledge I.D.s in his mind:
        Carpenter, Carpenter, Carpenter French, Las Vegas, Nevada, dark red, straight, light, brown, 170, 5 feet, 10 inches,
        Market, Market Ringer, Phoenix, Arizona, black, straight, medium, gray, 180, 6 feet 1 inch,
        Phillip, Phillip McCall, Seattle, Washington, brown, wavy, light, brown, 180, 6 feet,
        Robert, Robert Harrington, San Francisco, California, black, straight, light, blue, 190, 6 feet,
        David, David Parlee, Grand Rapids, Michigan, red, straight, ruddy, blue, 185, 5 feet 10 inches, and Chief, Chief Pomeroy, Missoula, Montana, black, curly, ruddy, blue, 190, 6 feet.
        “We’ve been waiting for you to finish shaving.’ Chief pulled Timothy into the shower. “Get your bucket in here,” he said, laughing. “How about some good old-fashioned harmony?” Chief asked.
        “God , I’d love some harmony,” Timothy replied. He turned as Harley and Jonathan stepped into the shower.
        “We would too,” Harley said, counting heads, “but it’s too fucking crowded in here.”
        “Then wait for the next shift,” David said, laughing and spitting water at them.
         “Fuck you señor--mister,” Jonathan replied, hipped David and shared a shower with him. The Delta Rhos sang Delta Rho sweetheart songs, close harmony, using lots of sevenths. Timothy was relaxed again as he sang, harmonized, and let the shower head spray soothing soft water over his body.
        

        

        
         The morning passed quickly. Timothy was irritable about Danny, his attitude, he pondered the condition of the young guy in the hospital, and was anxious waiting for the call to the hospital.
        Several brothers accused him of becoming reclusive, of being in love with Marly, being unresponsive to their questions, and ignoring them. They wanted to hear details from Timothy. They threatened him and said, they would use some personal criticisms, (PCs) in pledge meetings, to find out why, during the course of the day Timothy had become much too pensive.
        He responded a minimum in French class, certainly not his usual buoyant participation, and his quiet manner made Professor Plenty ask if he were feeling well. “Timothy!” he said, looking directly at his cherished student, as the French class ended. “A moment, s’il-vous- plaite--please!”
        “Mais, oui, mon professor--Yes, my teacher. What’s up, sir, Professor Plenty?” Timothy responded softly. He walked up to his teachers’ desk, and stood in front of it rubbing French book nervously.
        “What is happening with you. You are sullen today, mon garçon--my boy. Qu’est-ce- que--What is it?” he said, grabbing Timothy’s arm gently. “S’arretez avec le livre--Stop with the book, s’il-vous-plaite--please!”
        “I’ve just got some things on my mind. Some things? Marly, Ferris, Danny, my whole fucking life. I’m trying to sort them out.”
        “Ladies problems, monsieur--sir?” Professor Plenty inquired as the last student left the classroom.
        “It was yesterday, but it’s not certain it is now,” Timothy said. “Professor...” He started to say.
        “Yes, Tim-oh-tay, he said, in his French accent. I wish he would tell me what’s bothering him. What is it?”
        “Oh! I hate to...”
        “Please Timothy. I really want to help--if I can.”
        “I thought one of my fraternity brothers would really turn out to be a good friend to me, but I found out yesterday that he really doesn’t like me. He considers me competition, I guess.”
        “Competition?” Professor Plenty walked around behind his chair, pushed it up against his desk. “Pourquoi--Why? How? This competition?”
        “As far as I know We’re not competing. I just don’t know!”
        “Hmm,” Professor Plenty said, placing the class papers and his two textbooks into his briefcase. This guy has the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s a brain. He’s troubled. His fraternity brother really does have competition. And I mean really.
        Timothy looked at the small thin, black mustache that covered the Professor’s thin lips. I like this guy. He’s neat. He looked at his professor’s thinning hair and wondered how long it would be before he would start to lose his hair. “Professor,” Timothy said.
        “Yes,” the professor responded.
        “Do you know what the term, ’All-American Boy’, means?’
        “Yes, yes, Timothy. Yes I do.” He smiled at him. “Why do you ask?”
        Timothy seemed to liven up. I think I get it. I’ve got it figured out. “Hey, Professor Plenty. I think I’ve got my problem solved,” Timothy smiled as he ran toward the doorway. He bounded down the hall. Danny thinks that Gorton is the greatest in everything. Dave and I have talked about the problem. Nobody knows why in hell Danny imitates Gorton. Gorton is such a slob. He took the stairs to the first floor three at a time. He has no friends. Danny’s good looking, most people like him, but Dave and I agree: he’s insecure. Danny imitates Gorton because he thinks it will make people like him. I need to talk to Danny. He flew out the entrance to McHart Hall, took the concrete stairs in two jumps and raced across the Quad to the House.
        Timothy didn’t see Professor Plenty smile as Timothy disappeared from the classroom. He heard him running down the hall. You’re the All American Boy, Monsieur Dexter. Indeed! Indeed! He snapped his briefcase shut, put on his topcoat and hat and wrapped his Scotch plaid scarf closely around his neck as he walked to the doorway. He looked back into the classroom furnished with student chairs, over 100 years old, said, “goodnight” to the old chairs and his room, turned off the lights, and whistled “God Rest You Merry Gentlemen,” as he strolled through the basement hall. He thought perhaps he might get the spirit this year.
        The senior history professor on campus walked slowly through the quad with his friend of 47 years: the senior professor of English. They were bundled in heavy topcoats, wool skull caps, fluffy neck scarves and warm ankle high goulashes.
        Timothy streaked past them. Snow fluffed up after him, leaving a trail.
        “What in hell was that?” the professor of English asked, squinting to observe the speeding student.
        “Listen, English,” the History prof responded. “I hope it’s our new track team captain.” He looked after Timothy as Timothy jumped over the hedges of the University Chapel. “Look at that. His nuts were at least a foot above that hedge.”
        “Not unlike myself when I was first in school,” English said chuckling. “God, I was fast.” He nudged History and repeated, “Lightning fast! They say it shot out of my ass!”
        “You never told me you ran track, English,” History said.
        “I did and I was good, too,” English replied.
        “I ran track too,” History added. English slipped slightly on the icy concrete quad walk.
        “Easy there, English.” History held him up. “You’re not on the cinders now.”
        “Sometimes, I wish I were, though.”
        “Do you?’
        “Yes. And then again. At other times.”
        “Yes. At other times?”
        “At other times I wonder about the next great adventure.”
        “It know what you mean, my friend.”
        They walked slowly, steadily and upright for teachers in their ninth generation of life.
        “Has it been fun for you, my friend?”
        “Outstanding, my friend. Outstanding.”
        A student hurried past the bundled old men. “Good afternoon professors,” she said.
        The elderly gentlemen smiled at her and acknowledged her greeting. She overheard their conversation.
        “It’s been a long time since Alice, hasn’t it?”
        “Yes. A long time.”
        They walked slowly across the quadrangle following the curving sidewalks, laden with patches of snow and ice.
        Timothy ran up the sidewalk, up the gravel drive leaving other brothers, walking to the House, behind him. He ran past Harley and Jonathan and laughed at their chatter.
        “When was the last time you frenched a girl?” Jonathan asked.
        Jonathan, Jonathan Winslow, Evansville, Indiana, dark brown, straight, fair, blue, 170, 6 feet, 3 inches. Timothy saw Jonathan’s Pledge I.D.
        “You mean actually stuck my tongue in her mouth?” Harley asked and scowled.
        Harley, Harley Hardy, Helena, Montana, blonde, curly, ruddy, blue, 180, 6 feet 2 inches. Timothy saw the ident as he raced onto the gravel.
        “Hey, Dex!” “Hey, jack rabbit!” “What’s the rush?” his brothers called after him.
        Timothy ran up the curved, gravel driveway raising dust and scattering rocks, as he dug his white bucks into the loose white rocks. He disappeared from view leaving his brothers wondering why he ran. He ran inside the House.
        Jonathan and Harley turned up the gravel driveway. Jonathan listened to Harley’s story.
        “Jonathan, Jonathan Winslow, Evansville, Indiana, dark brown, straight, fair, blue, 170, 6 feet, 3 inches. So what did she do when you kissed her lips?” he asked.
        “Harley, Harley Hardy, Helena, Montana, blonde, curly, ruddy, blue, 180, 6 feet 2 inches. She pulled me closer to her. She really knows how to kiss good,” Harley replied smiling at Jonathan.
        “Jonathan. Oh fuck it! We know each other, ” Jonathan said to Harley as he patted him on the back. “Harley, my friend, I am so proud of you.”
        “Yes, I did it. I frenched her and it made me swell up.” Harley said.
        “Oh really!” Jonathan said. “Hmm!”
        



Ivy Walls, Book 1, Chapter 10




Book1, Chapter 1 Book1, Chapter 2 Book1, Chapter 5