The Eternal Wonder

“I’m sure of that, Dr. Sharpe, and I’m equally sure I can believe you will not bother me again.”

“You can be sure of that, Rann. Now I’ll go to bed. Good night, dear boy, and I’m sorry, or perhaps I’m sorry for my sake and not for yours, that things cannot be different.”

When Donald Sharpe left the room, Rann tried to put the events of the evening into some sort of order so he could understand what had happened. It was of no use, for he could not understand. He was desperately tired, he was sick with anger, with disappointment, and to his astonishment and horror, he burst into weeping as soon as he put out the light and drew the covers about his shoulders. He had not wept since his father died, but these were bitter tears too. He had been wounded, he had been insulted, his body violated—and he had lost the friend in whom he had believed with all his heart and soul. Moreover—and this shocked him to new knowledge of himself —his body, while he slept, had physically responded to the stimulation. He was angry with himself, too. Of course he could not continue now with college. What if Sharpe wanted to explain, apologize, try to establish some sort of relationship again? He, himself, was too embarrassed by his own response to even think of it.

He returned to his own home early the following day.

“I’m going away for a while,” he said to his mother, trying to speak calmly.

His mother looked across the table at him, her blue eyes opened wide. “Now? In the middle of the school term?”

He was silent for a long moment. Suppose he told her about last night? He decided against it for now. The conflict within him was too great. He had to think through the whole relationship with Donald Sharpe—his admiration for the man quite apart from the experience of last night. Would he have told even his father, had he been alive? A year ago, yes, he would have told him. But now, maturing as he was, and he was mature enough to recognize how much of this was due to the many hours he had spent with Sharpe, he felt he would not have confided last night’s experience even with his father. He recoiled from the physical disgust he felt for Sharpe as he thought of him and would recoil at any memory of it forever, but he wanted time to understand why a man of Sharpe’s brilliance and, yes, goodness—could stoop to so physical an act. Perhaps he would never understand; if not, then he must try to understand himself, and why, hating the act, he was surprised to realize that he did not hate the man. But the shock, the horror, was too recent. He needed time to sort out his feelings.

“Yes, now,” he said to his mother.

“Where will you go?” she asked.

He could see that she was trying to hide her consternation, perhaps even her fear. Her lower lip quivered.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Southward, perhaps, so that I can be out-of-doors.”

She said no more and he knew why. Long ago he had heard his father tell her. “Don’t push the boy with your questions. When he is ready to tell us, he will tell us.”

He had been grateful many times for this advice, and never more grateful than now. He rose from the table.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said gently, and went upstairs to his room.

IN THE NIGHT HE WAKED and lying quiet, his eyes opening wide, he saw his mother standing beside his bed, wrapped in her long white flannel robe. He turned on the bedside lamp and saw her looking at him.

“I can’t sleep,” she said wistfully.

He sat up in bed. “Aren’t you feeling well?” he asked.

“I feel a heaviness here,” she said, crossing her hands on her breast.

“A pain?”

“Not physical,” she said. “A sadness, a loneliness. I could bear more easily your going away if I knew what had happened to make you want to go.”

He was instantly wary. “What makes you think something has happened?”

“You’re changed—you’re very changed.” She sat down on the bed so that they were face-to-face. “It was such a mistake that it was your father who died and not I,” she went on in the same tone. She had a girlish voice, very young and gentle. But she was not old. She had been only twenty-two when he was born and she looked younger, especially now with her curly red-gold hair about her face and on her shoulders. “I should have been the one to die,” she repeated mournfully. “I’m not capable of helping you. I know that. I can quite understand why you can’t confide in me. It’s probably true that I wouldn’t know how to help you.”

“It is not that I don’t want to confide in you,” he protested. “It’s that I don’t know how. It’s so— unspeakable.”

“Is it about a girl, darling? Because if it is, I’ve been a girl myself and sometimes—”

“That’s just it. It’s not about a girl.”

“Is it about Donald Sharpe?”

“How did you know?”

“You’ve been so different since you knew him, Rannie—so wrapped up in your friendship. And I was glad. He’s brilliant, everyone says. I’ve been happy that he was teaching you—being like an older brother, but—”

She broke off and sighed.

“But what?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice troubled, her face concerned, her eyes searching his face.

He yielded then, but uncertainly, word by word. He was compelled to tell her now that they were alone in the darkness of the night. He was compelled to share the weight of his memory of the night before, when Donald Sharpe had suddenly become a stranger from whom he must escape.

“Last night—,” he began haltingly, and stopped.

“In Donald Sharpe’s house?” she asked.

“Yes, I was in his guestroom. I was asleep. We’d had a wonderful evening talking about science and art and which direction I might want to take. It was long after midnight before we noticed. Then he took me to my room and we said good night. He came in to see that everything was all right. Then he went away. He’d had his Filipino manservant put a pair of his white silk pajamas on the bed—a huge four-poster bed. After my bath I put them on. I’d never worn silk next to my skin before—so soft, so smooth… I fell asleep soon. I must have slept quite a long time. The fire was burning when I went to bed—very brightly when I turned off the bed light. There was a volume of Keats on the bedside table, I think, but I didn’t read. I just lay watching the fire die and I went to sleep. When I woke—”

He paused so long that she prompted him gently. “When you woke—”

He flung himself back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

“I was waked—”

“By him?” she asked.

“By someone—smoothing my thighs—and then… touching me… there. I felt—response. I thought it was one of those dreams—you know!”

“Yes, I know,” she said, her voice very low.

“It wasn’t a dream. By the light of a newly lighted fire I could see his face. I felt his hands… compelling me —against my will. I hated myself. I leaped out of bed. I was so angry—at myself, Mother! How can the body respond to what one hates and finds disgusting and repulsive? I was frightened—at myself, Mother!”

There—he had told her. He had put it into words. It would never again be a secret he had to carry alone. He lay, his hands clasped behind his head, he opened his eyes and met her tender, pitying gaze.

“Oh the poor, poor man!” she whispered.

He was astounded. “You’re sorry for him?”

“And who could not be sorry for him?” she retorted. “He’s in need of love where he can never find it—never truly find it because it’s against human nature. Male and female God created us, and when a poor man tries to find that love with a man or a boy, he’s doomed to sorrowfulness. However he excuses himself saying that to love and be loved is the importance in life, he knows he’ll only find a poor warped sort of love. It’s like a male dog mounting a male dog. There’s no fulfillment. Oh yes, it’s him I’m sorry for, my son. Thank God you weren’t a little boy, beguiled by a toy or an ice-cream cone or something—perhaps just fear or even pleasure. Thank God you were old enough.”

“But myself, Mother… how could I—my—my body respond to his… touch… when I hated it? That’s what