(A few things first. This story assumes the reader is familiar with the
novella "The Body." This, in short, means that Vern died in 1966, Teddy
died in '71 or '72, and Chris in 1971 during his second year of grad
school. The first part of the story takes place when he is a sophomore at
the Portland campus of the University of Maine. The R rating is for
language (though I think this first chapter is pretty tame) and adult
situations. Constructive criticism is welcome. Enjoy.)
The first time Chris Chambers saw the woman who would be the last great love of his life, she was hunched over the toilet in the third floor bathroom of the Sigma Chi fraternity. The brothers were serving an explosive and experimental concoction of gin and cherry flavored Robitussin cough syrup. "Recommended by Doctor Rob," said Robert McNary, who was pre- med, as he offered Chris a taste. He had declined—Chris had, in his twenty years, managed to avoid even sampling a beer—and slalomed through the crowd to catch up with his friends. The party had turned out to a complete drag for the sober student and, after patiently listening to his blind date rehash what went wrong with her ex-boyfriend, it was with some relief that Christopher excused himself to use the bathroom.
It was quiet upstairs, the music reduced to a throbbing pulse that shivered the planks of wood beneath his sneakers. The knob turned freely under his hand (one shared toilet for each floor; the brothers could rag the dorms all they wanted, at least there were multiple fixtures that were cleaned regularly. He would never join a frat if it meant living in those cave-man conditions), and he was surprised to meet resistance once the door was halfway open.
The obstacle was the tucked body of Linda Ward, spray painting the back of the toilet cherry red with puke. Denim-sheathed legs clamped the base for leverage and her bare shoulders pitched, lanky strands of flaxen hair curtaining her face. Chris's first impulse was to shut the door and use the second floor bathroom; he'd dealt with enough drunks this semester, and he wasn't particularly in the mood to hold a strangers hair back while she unloaded.
"Sorry," he muttered, backing over the threshold. A faint mew echoed in the basin and she lifted her head, pinning him with sad, pilot-light blue eyes. She spoke haltingly, her voice raw and low, teeth covered with a thin film of pink.
"Don't go. Please. I don't… Feel so good…" Her neck hinged awkwardly and her unblemished face disappeared into the bowl again. She began to retch and, with a resigned sigh, Chris edged around the door to stand behind her. He pulled her hair back from her face, securing it against the nape of her neck with a loose fist. She bucked and he placed a warm hand on her back, rubbing the bare flesh above the scooped back of her halter top. The knobs of her vertebrae dimpled his palm, and his voice was tranquil as he attempted to soothe her.
They didn't talk much, aside from Chris's somnolent assurances that she would be fine, she was doing great and would feel better in no time. Every once and a while she released her grip on the edge of the bowl, extending a trembling hand in a blind search for toilet paper. He would tear off a few squares and she would blot the corners of her mouth like a high-class socialite after a meal. Once she grabbed his hand, sterling-choked digits frigid laced with his, and squeezed while she threw up again.
They were discovered just after one by a boy with mutton chop sideburns, breezily drunk with his belt already unbuckled. He was astonished to find his date slumped against the porcelain, barely conscious. The tiny room was saturated with the smell of vomit and gin and artificial cherries, and the boy's hand moved immediately from his zipper fly to seal over his mouth. Chris was grateful for the interruption; he knew he wasn't missing anything downstairs, but he was beginning to feel claustrophobic after spending nearly an hour with the sick girl, recycling comforting lines.
Chris explained what had happened and the boy introduced himself as Buck and the girl on the floor as Linda. He thanked Chris for his help tried to dismiss him by saying he would take Linda back to her room. Chris insisted he accompany them, and eventually Buck complied, sour at the other boy's intrusion. They helped Linda to her feet and positioned her between them, an arm draped over each of their necks. She mumbled incoherently as they guided her down the hallway and through the party, her sandaled feet more or less dragging behind them. They turned her over to her roommate and, when he was sure they didn't need his help, Chris returned to the party to see if his dated required an escort.
"Where've you been for the past hour? I thought you were just gonna take a leak," her voice was high and accusing, bubble gum pink lipstick smeared across her lips like a shredded petal.
"I was," Chris answered, realizing he hadn't yet relieved himself. "But there was someone puking in the bathroom, I hadda help her out."
"Oooh," was her eager response, silver bracelets chiming as she folded her arms on the arm of the couch. "Who was it?"
"Just some girl, I dunno," he shrugged, taking a lit cigarette from his friend Peter's lips and wedging it in the corner of his mouth. Though Linda was no longer in his care, he still felt a fierce impulse to protect her. It was an oddly intimate, that hour on the third floor.
Chris spent the rest of the party chatting amiably with his friends, falling into bed alone as dawn crept through the blinds.
The first time Chris Chambers saw the woman who would be the last great love of his life, she was hunched over the toilet in the third floor bathroom of the Sigma Chi fraternity. The brothers were serving an explosive and experimental concoction of gin and cherry flavored Robitussin cough syrup. "Recommended by Doctor Rob," said Robert McNary, who was pre- med, as he offered Chris a taste. He had declined—Chris had, in his twenty years, managed to avoid even sampling a beer—and slalomed through the crowd to catch up with his friends. The party had turned out to a complete drag for the sober student and, after patiently listening to his blind date rehash what went wrong with her ex-boyfriend, it was with some relief that Christopher excused himself to use the bathroom.
It was quiet upstairs, the music reduced to a throbbing pulse that shivered the planks of wood beneath his sneakers. The knob turned freely under his hand (one shared toilet for each floor; the brothers could rag the dorms all they wanted, at least there were multiple fixtures that were cleaned regularly. He would never join a frat if it meant living in those cave-man conditions), and he was surprised to meet resistance once the door was halfway open.
The obstacle was the tucked body of Linda Ward, spray painting the back of the toilet cherry red with puke. Denim-sheathed legs clamped the base for leverage and her bare shoulders pitched, lanky strands of flaxen hair curtaining her face. Chris's first impulse was to shut the door and use the second floor bathroom; he'd dealt with enough drunks this semester, and he wasn't particularly in the mood to hold a strangers hair back while she unloaded.
"Sorry," he muttered, backing over the threshold. A faint mew echoed in the basin and she lifted her head, pinning him with sad, pilot-light blue eyes. She spoke haltingly, her voice raw and low, teeth covered with a thin film of pink.
"Don't go. Please. I don't… Feel so good…" Her neck hinged awkwardly and her unblemished face disappeared into the bowl again. She began to retch and, with a resigned sigh, Chris edged around the door to stand behind her. He pulled her hair back from her face, securing it against the nape of her neck with a loose fist. She bucked and he placed a warm hand on her back, rubbing the bare flesh above the scooped back of her halter top. The knobs of her vertebrae dimpled his palm, and his voice was tranquil as he attempted to soothe her.
They didn't talk much, aside from Chris's somnolent assurances that she would be fine, she was doing great and would feel better in no time. Every once and a while she released her grip on the edge of the bowl, extending a trembling hand in a blind search for toilet paper. He would tear off a few squares and she would blot the corners of her mouth like a high-class socialite after a meal. Once she grabbed his hand, sterling-choked digits frigid laced with his, and squeezed while she threw up again.
They were discovered just after one by a boy with mutton chop sideburns, breezily drunk with his belt already unbuckled. He was astonished to find his date slumped against the porcelain, barely conscious. The tiny room was saturated with the smell of vomit and gin and artificial cherries, and the boy's hand moved immediately from his zipper fly to seal over his mouth. Chris was grateful for the interruption; he knew he wasn't missing anything downstairs, but he was beginning to feel claustrophobic after spending nearly an hour with the sick girl, recycling comforting lines.
Chris explained what had happened and the boy introduced himself as Buck and the girl on the floor as Linda. He thanked Chris for his help tried to dismiss him by saying he would take Linda back to her room. Chris insisted he accompany them, and eventually Buck complied, sour at the other boy's intrusion. They helped Linda to her feet and positioned her between them, an arm draped over each of their necks. She mumbled incoherently as they guided her down the hallway and through the party, her sandaled feet more or less dragging behind them. They turned her over to her roommate and, when he was sure they didn't need his help, Chris returned to the party to see if his dated required an escort.
"Where've you been for the past hour? I thought you were just gonna take a leak," her voice was high and accusing, bubble gum pink lipstick smeared across her lips like a shredded petal.
"I was," Chris answered, realizing he hadn't yet relieved himself. "But there was someone puking in the bathroom, I hadda help her out."
"Oooh," was her eager response, silver bracelets chiming as she folded her arms on the arm of the couch. "Who was it?"
"Just some girl, I dunno," he shrugged, taking a lit cigarette from his friend Peter's lips and wedging it in the corner of his mouth. Though Linda was no longer in his care, he still felt a fierce impulse to protect her. It was an oddly intimate, that hour on the third floor.
Chris spent the rest of the party chatting amiably with his friends, falling into bed alone as dawn crept through the blinds.