Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

Mother and son drove about New England, in a journey of realization. The East was not the West. In New York, during the second act of a Tennessee Williams play, all the characters on stage were crying out their misery and no one heard the other. If truth be known, Quinn wanted New York City and Fordham. But no one would hear the other’s misery.

Quinn knew if he went East, he might have serious trouble returning to the ranch. It would devastate his parents. Further, no one leaves Colorado without having inflicted a wound on himself. It was Quinn’s life, but he could not turn away from Dan’s legacy. Wanting a brother had long come and gone in Quinn’s fantasies. Quinn was it, alone.

Quinn and Siobhan made a drive from Washington state through Stanford and into Los Angeles. Quinn was awed by the greatness of America and felt his first urges of desire to do something of value for everyone.

They returned to the ranch to find Dan elated. In their absence something good had gotten to the man.

“Which school was your favorite, Siobhan?” Dan asked.

“I personally liked Berkeley.”

“Commies,” Dan retorted. “They eat protest flakes for breakfast. As for UCLA, it’s a brothel.”

The moment was at hand for Dan to pass to them a half dozen letters of acceptance, all fine schools. Dan held one out, then slapped it on the table and broke into a wide, wide grin and awaited the howls of joy which never arrived.

Siobhan could see Quinn’s stare become troubled as Dan read, “Harvard!

“.. . That’s Harvard, in case you didn’t know. Harvard! The first O’Connell to go to Harvard, the first to do anything but night school. Harvard. My son goes to Harvard!”

“Mom told me to apply through my school. I didn’t think I had a prayer.”

“Prayers have been answered. Along with my Silver Star, this is the proudest moment of my life.”

“Hold up, Dan,” his wife said. “You don’t seem to be pleased, Quinn.”

“Shouldn’t I have something to say?” Quinn asked.

“Well, didn’t you and your mother visit enough campuses? I mean, we’re talking Harvard. The greatest university in the world. Do you know how many applicants they turn down?”

“Dad, I agreed to take a look at Harvard to confirm I’m going to make the right choice.”

“What’s your point, son?” Dan asked with a touch of meanness in his voice. “You could even make the baseball team.”

“For God’s sake, Dad, I’m a marginal athlete.”

“Not in baseball. You have a real talent.”

“Stop trying to make a Brooklyn Dodger out of me. Students go to Harvard for scholastics. I don’t want to get involved in the rat race until I know what I want to study.”

“Quinn, you’re the first white man ever to turn down a Harvard education. Have you got any idea how much it costs?”

“That’s enough, Dan,” Siobhan said angrily. “Forget what he said, son. God has been gracious to us, and I’ve got plenty of money put away.”

With direct insults falling now, Dan unloaded bottle into glass. Quinn made him uneasy by not backing down.

“I want to live my own life, Dad. I saw enough of the country with Mom to know how wonderful it is. I don’t want to be lured, yet. I want to stay near here. Dad, you don’t need a Harvard education to operate a ranch.”

“So what is it, then,” Dan said ominously.

“He’s only a boy,” Siobhan said. “How many times did you come in off of your police beat cursing your father for setting up your life?”

“I’m going to the University of Colorado,” Quinn said. “No ice hockey, no football. Maybe I’ll play baseball if the team is bad enough. I’m going to study a general liberal arts course and the humanities. I want to study with Reynaldo Maldonado. I hope it leads me to something I can be passionate about.”

Dan arose, came to Quinn, and slapped him in the face. Siobhan was between them instantly. Quinn turned away and made for the door.

TROUBLESOME MESA, 1968

It was mud season. The tracks and washboard of the dirt road went from slop during the day to a thin coat of frost through the night. It was a slippery go from the ranch to the town, two miles of switchbacks and steep grades. Walking was slippery. One was off one’s feet every twenty steps.

Quinn left without a jacket, a flashlight, the Jeep he never really felt was his. Go to Carlos in Texas? No. That would bring Consuelo and Pedro into a family brawl they had no part of.

Call Uncle Scan? He laughed aloud at his own misery. There were no phones for over a mile. Headlights hit him in the back. He stopped in a rut with slush running over the top of his boots.

“Quinn!” Siobhan called, stopping the Jeep. “Son, come home! Please!

Your father is beside himself with sorrow. Please! Quinn.”

All he did was shake his head.

She pleaded to the mesa and the valley, for he did not hear. Her arms went about him. He pushed her away firmly. She was a mud woman, a streaked mud woman grotesquely crying with mud running down her face.

“Take the Jeep,” she gasped. “There’s money and credit cards in the glove compartment. Please phone me, son, please!”

She turned and staggered back toward the house. After a time, Quinn grabbed the steering wheel and, in an automatic move, slid into the driver’s seat. The windshield was half ice, half water. He wiped away a spot of fog so he could see through, then put the vehicle into four-wheel low and inched down the incline.

Between his tears and the frost he could hardly see, but he knew the turns of the hill and he understood it could be his last moment on earth. His caution told him he did not want to die and gave him a tiny relief from his pain.

The Jeep skidded. He had to lay off the brakes. It stopped abruptly down in the roadside ditch, barely kissing a great old pine tree. He’d stay here. Town was still two switchbacks away. Well, what’s the difference? he thought, I don’t belong to anyone. I’m no one.

A flashlight beam hit his face.

“Holy Mary, is that you, Quinn?”

ugh.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m okay.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered when she saw the agony worn like a Pagliacci mask.

“Who are you?”

“It’s Rita Maldonado.”

She found a rag and wiped his face carefully and put handfuls of snow on the rising lumps and bruises.

“What the hell you doing out on a night like this?” he groaned.

“I was at the movies and, if memory serves me right, you were the one in the ditch trying to climb this tree. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No, I swear I’m okay.”

“Looks like you’ve just seen the abominable snowman.”

“Yeah, maybe I have.”

“All right, then, I’ll run you home,” she said.

“No. I have no home.”

“Oh, God,” Rita mumbled. “Come on, now, I’m taking you to my house.

I’ll call the sheriff and tell him where your Jeep is. Come on, now.” She half dragged him to her pickup and plopped him on the seat and buckled him up, then got behind the wheel.

“What are you doing driving? You’re only thirteen years old,” Quinn growled.

“I’m going on fourteen and I’m very mature for my age. Besides, I baby-sit the sheriff’s kids. He just doesn’t want me to drive during the daytime.”

Rita was right about one thing, she was mature.

They sputtered on the slick track up to the next shelf and turned into a one-lane road affording another fabulous view down to Troublesome Mesa. The Maldonado spread was highlighted by a few acres of level lawn filled with wild sculptures and a flying-wing house.

Reynaldo Maldonado, only a seven-year resident, had brought a measure of fame to Troublesome by selecting it for his studio and home.