Dan Wakefield - Going All the Way - A Novel

“There’s Wilks Wilkerson,” Gunner said. “We’re in.”

Wilks had been a Big Rod at Shortley, a hulking sort of awkward guy who made his natural clumsiness seem stylish and entertaining, so that whenever he got in a ball game everyone would laugh and cheer, “Go get ’em, Wilks.” He got in a lot of reserve basketball games, and he’d give a little salute to the crowd when he’d come on the floor and everyone would go wild, and he’d bound around fouling guys and getting into trouble. When he ever made a basket, the place would go berserk. He was very popular and had a famous greeting for everyone, “Hey-Hey-Say,” that was his trademark. He was a Beta down at I.U., and the few times Sonny had seen him on campus Wilks would give him the old “Hey-Hey-Say” even though he didn’t really know him, he just looked familiar. Old Man Wilkerson had a tool-and-die shop and he made his pile in the war—the real war. Lots of guys made a pile in that one, but Korea was such a half-assed war Sonny didn’t even know of anyone who’d made his pile in it, though some probably had and some who’d made it in the real war probably built their piles higher during Korea.

Wilks was grinning and talking to Mitzi Harmengast, who was lolling on one of the poolside lounging chairs, being sexy. Wilks had on a ratty old brown bathing suit that looked like someone’s discarded underwear. If your family was loaded and you had it made, you could wear stuff like that and it was O.K.—in fact, it was a big thing to do.

“Hey, Wilks,” Gunner called.

“Hey-Hey-” Wilks automatically started his greeting, but as he turned and saw Gunner, it stuck in his throat and the last word came out long and low instead of perky—“Saaaaaay.”

Wilks’ jaw dropped about a mile, but he got himself quickly together and clapped his hands, like it was some kind of borass Gunner was pulling, a stunt to shake people up or something.

“Hey, man,” Wilks said, “where’s the cough drops?”

“Wha-say, man. You remember Sonny Burns.”

Wilks turned to Sonny and pumped his hand, staring at him with a blank smile and saying, “Hey, yeh, sure, how’s it go, man?”

“Hi,” Sonny said.

Wilks slapped Gunner on the shoulder and laughed. “I heard the word, fella, I heard the big word on you, but seein’s believin’. Gunner grows a beard. You goin’ out for a big part in the Christmas play? Like the lead , I mean?”

Wilks guffawed, and Gunner smiled and said, “Might do that. Just might do ’er.”

“Too much.” Wilks laughed. “Truly, truly.”

Mitzi Harmengast raised up out of her loll and removed her sunglasses to look at Gunner.

“Say, Mitz,” Gunner greeted her.

“What’re you supposed to be?” she asked coolly.

“Be?” asked Gunner.

“He’s a Smith brother,” Wilks explained. “One of the original Smith Brothers. You know, Mitz, the cough-drop guys. All he needs is the other brother and he’s in business, huh, Guns baby?”

“Sure,” said Gunner.

“I don’t get it,” Mitzi said and slipped her sunglasses back on.

“There isn’t anything to get,” Gunner said. “It’s just a beard.”

“Just a beard,” Mitzi said skeptically and eased back down on the reclining chair, her big boobs heaving up inside the Jantzen so you could see the beginning of where they were still white, which was getting pretty close to the old nipples.

“O.K., Wilks,” Gunner said, “you in shape or not?”

Gunner had his trunks on under his faded jeans and he shucked off the pants and drew the T-shirt over his head, dropping it beside him.

“I’ll race you four laps and winner buys the brews,” he said.

“Hey, hold on, man,” Wilks said.

His jolly Hey-Hey-Say expression was gone and he looked confused and suspicious, like Gunner was trying to pull one on him.

“Whassamatter?” Gunner teased. “You been dissipatin’ again? O.K., make it two laps.”

“You gotta be pulling my leg,” said Wilks.

“And I’ll give you a full second to start.”

A couple kids around twelve or so had cautiously come up to stare at Gunner. Their eyes bugged out and their mouths were ready to catch flies, but Gunner didn’t seem to notice anything.

“Be serious, man,” Wilks said.

“O.K.,” said Gunner, “if you’re that bad off, you go freestyle, I’ll go breaststroke. You can’t get a better deal than that .”

Wilks frowned and shook his head. “You can’t go in the water like that,” he said.

“Like what?” said Gunner. He looked down at his faded navy-blue trunks with a line of white piping up each side and an old red-and-white lifeguard medallion sown on the left leg. The whole place had gone suddenly quiet. A girl at the end of the diving board stopped springing and simply stood on the edge, watching Wilks and Gunner. A guy in the deep end was turned toward them, treading water and arching his head up to see what was happening. Mitzi had risen up again from her lounge chair, her mouth a straight red pencil mark. On the other side of the pool a little girl in a flowered bathing suit ran along the cement lip above the water, her wet feet making a tiny splat-splat that was the only sound you could hear.

“Ole buddy,” Wilks said in a low voice, “you can’t go swimming with a frigging beard.”

Gunner laughed and said, “If you think it’ll slow me down, that gives you better odds.”

“Be ser ious, man,” said Wilks. His shaggy eyebrows bunched into a painful expression of distress.

Gunner raised his palms up and said, “I am serious. What’s the beard got to do with it?”

“This is a pool , ole buddy. I mean, if it was the ocean, it might be different. Or even Lake Michigan, maybe. But this is a pool .”

“I know it’s a goddam pool,” Gunner said.

“So, you can’t contaminate it. Be reasonable, man.”

“Contaminate it! Who’s con tam inating it?”

“Nobody is, right now. And I’m gonna keep it that way. It’s plain common sense you can’t go into a swimming pool with a beard. You’ll get the water dirty.”

“Dirty! You saying my beard is dirty? Is that it?”

“I’m just saying it’s a beard.”

“But it’s clean! There’s nothing dirty about it.”

“A beard is a beard,” Wilks insisted.

Mitzi stood up and raised the straps of her suit back over her shoulders. “I’m not swimming in any pool that’s had a beard in it,” she said and turned away, walking toward the clubhouse.

“You’re crazy,” Gunner said. “You’re all crazy or something.”

He started walking past Wilks toward the edge of the pool, but Wilks put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

“We been ole buddies,” Wilks said. “I don’t wanna have to stop you. I don’t even know if I could, but I’d have to try and I don’t wanta do that.”

Wilks kept his hand on Gunner’s shoulder, and the two guys stood glaring at each other, neither one moving a muscle. The little girl had stopped running, and the splat sounds were gone, leaving no noise at all. The sun was a silent blast over everything, cooking everyone where they stood. Sonny had the weird feeling that they all were being baked into place, that they’d all be immobilized there forever, forming a strange tableau called The Swimming Pool . He prayed to hell there wouldn’t be a fight. But his friend Gunner was being challenged, and if he chose to fight, Sonny would have to fight with him. It would be the two of them against the whole population of the pool, including Mitzi and her big boobs and even the little girl in the flowered bathing suit, not to speak of Wilks and every other guy around the place. He wondered what it would feel like to crack your head on cement.