The Negro said, “I’m Bill Quinby, and this is the other Bill, Bill Arlington. We’re from Xi Delta, the nonsectarian fraternity.”
“Before you go any further,” I said, “I’m not joining a fraternity. I’m going to be an independent.”
Bill Quinby laughed. “Most of the guys in our fraternity are guys who weren’t going to join a fraternity. Most of the guys in our fraternity aren’t guys who think like the ordinary male student on campus. They’re against discrimination and unlike the guys whose consciences can tolerate their being members of fraternities that keep people out because of their race or their religion. You seem to me to be the sort of person who thinks that way yourself. Am I wrong?”
“Fellas, I appreciate your coming around, but I’m not going to join any fraternity.”
“Might I ask why?” he said.
“I’d rather be on my own and study,” I said.
Again Quinby laughed. “Well, there too, most of the guys in our fraternity are guys who prefer to be on their own and study. Why not come around and pay us a visit? We’re not in any way Winesburg’s conventional fraternity. We’re a distinctive group, if I say so myself — a bunch of outsiders who have banded together because we don’t belong with the insiders or share their interests. You seem to me to be somebody who’d be at home in a house like ours.”
Then the other Bill spoke up, and with words pretty much like those uttered to me the night before by Sonny Cottler. “You can get awfully lonely on this campus living entirely on your own,” he said.
“I’ll take my chances,” I said. “I’m not afraid of being alone. I’ve got a job and I’ve got my studies, and that doesn’t leave much time for loneliness.”
“I like you,” Quinby said, laughing good-naturedly. “I like your certainty.”
“And half the guys in your fraternity,” I said, “have the same kind of certainty.” The three of us laughed together. I liked these two Bills. I even liked the idea of belonging to a fraternity with a Negro in it — that would be distinctive, especially when I brought him home to Newark for the Messner family’s big Thanksgiving dinner — but nonetheless I said, “I’ve got to tell you, I’m not in the market for anything more than my studies. I can’t afford to be. Everything rides on my studies.” I was thinking, as I often thought, especially on days when the news from Korea was particularly dire, of how I would go about maneuvering from the Transportation Corps into military intelligence after graduating as valedictorian. “That’s what I came for and that’s what I’m going to do. Thanks anyway.”
That Sunday morning, when I made my weekly collect call home to New Jersey, I was surprised to learn that my parents knew about my visit from Sonny Cottler. To prevent my father’s intruding in my affairs, I told the family as little as possible when I phoned. Mostly I assured them that I was feeling well and everything was fine. This sufficed with my mother, but my father invariably would ask, “So what else is going on? What else are you doing?” “Studying. Studying and working weekends at the inn.” “And what are you doing to divert yourself?” “Nothing, really. I don’t need diversions. I haven’t the time.” “Is there a girl in the picture yet?” “Not yet,” I’d say. “You be careful,” he’d say. “I will be.” “You know what I mean,” he’d say. “Yep.” “You don’t want to get in any trouble.” I’d laugh and say, “I won’t.” “On your own like that — I don’t like the sound of it,” my father said. “I’m fine on my own.” “And if you make a mistake,” he said, “with nobody there to give you advice and see what you’re up to — then what?”
That was the standard conversation, permeated throughout with his hacking cough. On this Sunday morning, however, no sooner did I call than he said, “So we understand you met the Cottler boy. You know who he is, don’t you? His aunt lives here in Newark. She’s married to Spector, who owns the office supply store on Market Street. His uncle is Spector. When we said where you were, she told us that her maiden name was Cottler, and her brother’s family lives in Cleveland, and her nephew goes to the same college and is president of the Jewish fraternity. And president of the Interfraternity Council. A Jew and president of the Interfraternity Council. How about that? Donald. Donald Cottler. They call him Sonny, isn’t that right?” “That’s right,” I said. “So he came around — wonderful. He’s a basketball star, I understand, and a Dean’s List student. So what did he tell you?” “He made a pitch for his fraternity.” “And?” “I said I wasn’t interested in fraternity life.” “But his aunt says he’s a wonderful boy. All A’s, like you. And a handsome boy, I understand.” “Extremely handsome,” I said wearily. “A dreamboat.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” he replied. “Dad, stop sending people to visit me.” “But you’re off there all by yourself. They gave you three Jewish roommates when you arrived, and the first thing you do, you move out on them to find a Gentile and you room with him.” “Elwyn is the perfect roommate. Quiet, considerate, neat, and he’s studious. I couldn’t ask for anyone better.” “I’m sure, I’m sure, I have nothing against him. But then the Cottler boy comes around—” “Dad, I can’t take any more of this.” “But how do I know what’s going on with you? How do I know what you’re doing? You could be doing anything.” “I do one thing,” I said firmly. “I study and I go to class. And I make about eighteen bucks at the inn on the weekend.” “And what would be wrong with having some Jewish friends in a place like that? Somebody to eat a meal with, to go to a movie with—” “Look, I know what I’m doing.” “At eighteen years of age?” “Dad, I’m hanging up now. Mom?” “Yes, dear.” “I’m hanging up. I’ll speak to you next Sunday.” “But what about the Cottler boy—” were the last of his words that I heard.
There was a girl, if not yet in the picture, one that I had my eye on. She was a sophomore transfer student like me, pale and slender, with dark auburn hair and with what seemed to me an aloofly intimidating, self-confident manner. She was enrolled in my American history class and sometimes sat right next to me, but because I didn’t want to run the risk of her telling me to leave her alone, I hadn’t worked up the courage to nod hello, let alone speak to her. One night I saw her at the library. I was sitting at a desk up in the stacks that overlooked the main reading room; she was at one of the long tables on the reading room floor, diligently taking notes out of a reference book. Two things captivated me. One was the part in her exquisite hair. Never before had I been so vulnerable to the part in someone’s hair. The other was her left leg, which was crossed over her right leg and rhythmically swaying up and down. Her skirt fell midway down her calf, as was the style, but still, from where I was seated I could see beneath the table the unceasing movement of that leg. She must have remained there like that for two hours, steadily taking notes without a break, and all I did during that time was to look at the way that hair was parted in an even line and the way she never stopped moving her leg up and down. Not for the first time, I wondered what moving a leg like that felt like for a girl. She was absorbed in her homework, and I, with the mind of an eighteen-year-old boy, was absorbed in wanting to put my hand up her skirt. The strong desire to rush off to the bathroom was quelled by my fear that if I did so, I might get caught by a librarian or a teacher or even by an honorable student, be expelled from school, and wind up a rifleman in Korea.
That night, I had to sit at my desk until two A.M. — and with the gooseneck lamp twisted down to keep the glare of my light clear of Elwyn, asleep in the upper bunk — in order to finish the homework that I’d failed to do because of my being preoccupied with the auburn-haired girl’s swinging leg.