Dusk and Other Stories - James Salter [36]
“I don’t know. Who?” Hilmo said.
Empty morning. As usual, except for sports there was little to do. Shortly after ten they formed up to march to a memorial ceremony at the corner of the Plain. Before a statue of Sylvanus Thayer they stood at attention, one tall maverick head in a cowboy hat, while the choir sang “The Corps.” The thrilling voices, the solemn, staggered parts rose through the air. Behind Reemstma someone said quietly, “You know, the best friends I ever had or ever will have are the ones I had here.”
Afterward they walked out to take their places on the parade ground. The superintendent, a trim lieutenant general, stood not far off with his staff and the oldest living graduate, who was in a wheelchair.
“Look at him,” Dunning said. He was referring to the superintendent. “That’s what’s wrong with this place. That’s what’s wrong with the whole army.”
Faint waves of band music beat toward them. It was warm. There were bees in the grass. The first miniature formations of cadets, bayonets glinting, began to move into view. Above, against the sky, a lone distinguished building, and that a replica, stood. The chapel. Many Sundays with their manly sermons on virtue and the glittering choir marching toward the door with graceful, halting tread, gold stripes shining on the sleeves of the leaders. Down below, partly hidden, the gymnasium, the ominous dark patina on everything within, the floor, the walls, the heavy boxing gloves. There were champions enshrined there who would never be unseated, maxims that would never be erased.
At the picnic it was announced that of the 550 original members, 529 were living and 176 present so far.
“Not counting Klingbeil!”
“Okay, one seventy-six plus a possible Klingbeil.”
“An impossible Klingbeil,” someone called out.
There was a brief cheer.
The tables were in a large, screened pavilion on the edge of the lake. Reemstma looked for Kit Walker. He’d caught sight of her earlier, in the food line, but now he could not find her. She seemed to have gone. The class president was speaking.
“We got a card from Joe Waltsak. Joe retired this year. He wanted to come but his daughter’s graduating from high school. I don’t know if you know this story. Joe lives in Palo Alto and there was a bill before the California legislature to change the name of any street an All-American lived on and name it after him. Joe lives on Parkwood Drive. They were going to call it Waltsak Drive, but the bill didn’t pass, so instead they’re calling him Joe Parkwood.”
The elections were next. The class treasurer and the vice president were not running again. There would have to be nominations for these.
“Let’s have somebody different for a change,” someone commented in a low voice.
“Somebody we know,” Dunning said.
“You want to run, Mike?”
“Yeah, sure, that would be great,” Dunning muttered.
“How about Reemstma?” It was Cramner, the blossoms of alcoholism ablaze in his face. The edges of his teeth were uneven as he smiled, as if eaten away.
“Good idea.”
“Who, me?” Reemstma said. He was flustered. He looked around in surprise.
“How about it, Eddie?”
He could not tell if they were serious. It was all offhanded—the way Grant had been picked from obscurity one evening when he was sitting on a bench in St. Louis. He murmured something in protest. His face had become red.
Other names were being proposed. Reemstma felt his heart pounding. He had stopped saying, no, no, and sat there, mouth open a bit in bewilderment. He dared not look around him. He shook his head slightly, no. A hand went up, “I move that the nominations be closed.”
Reemstma felt foolish. They had tricked him again. He felt as if he had been betrayed. No one was paying any attention to him.