That Summer by Jennifer Weiner (read more books .txt) 📕

on her. “You got it, chief,” said Bubs, and giggled his creepy giggle. Hal ignored him and went to find Danny, who was standing at the water’s edge, chucking shells into the waves, without even a beer or a flask to hand.

“Come on, fella,” he said, and recited the unofficial class motto. “No man left behind.”

Except Danny couldn’t do it. With Bubs watching, giggling, holding the girl’s wrists, and calling out encouragement, Danny kissed her neck and her chest and worked at removing her bra. He was pawing clumsily at the clasp when the girl woke up enough to slur out the words “I love you.” That had been the end of Danny. He’d backed away as if the girl was on fire, and crouched on his heels in the sand, looking sick.

“I… no. I can’t, man.”

“Come on,” Hal said, his voice impatient. “She wants it!”

Danny shook his head. “I’m not feeling so good.” He didn’t look very good, Hal had to admit. His face looked pale and sweaty, his eyes wide, the irises ringed with white.

“You want me to go first?” Hal asked, looking down at the girl. When the girl didn’t answer, he sighed, bidding a mental farewell to Miss Junk in the Trunk. “Fine.” He reached into his pocket for a condom, ripping the package open with his teeth, thinking about that old song, about how if you can’t be with the one you love, you’ve got to love the one you’re with. “Let me show you how it’s done.” Danny sat on the edge of the dune, watching, and Bubs held on to the girl’s arms as Hal bent to the task.

1990

“It catches up with you,” said the older man.

“What’s that?” asked Hal. The words came out sounding more like wass’at? His tongue tended to get mushy after his eighth or ninth beer, and his eighth and ninth beer had both been some time ago.

It was a beautiful night in New Hampshire, the first night of Emlen’s three-day-long reunions, and there were tents set up all along the quad, one for every class celebrating a reunion, all the way back to the Class of 1940. The sounds of a cover band playing “She Loves You” for the Class of 1960 competed with the DJ spinning “Push It” for the newest graduates in the Class of 1990. The spring air smelled of lilacs. The darkness softened the hard edges of the marble and granite buildings, and the trees were clothed in fresh, young green.

All afternoon and into the night, Hal had been reliving his glory days with his Emlen brothers. Remember that road trip to Foxwoods? Remember the R.E.M. concert? Remember that summer at the Cape? Some of the guys had brought girlfriends, and one, Dennis Hsiu, had even brought a wife, but as the night had progressed the women had peeled off, retreating back to the dorm rooms or to hotels in town.

At the sound of the other man’s sigh, Hal turned around. The alum—Hal thought he had to be forty-five, maybe even fifty—looked wistful as he peered out over the campus, and Hal remembered what he’d said. “What catches up?” he asked, taking time to form each word with care.

“Time,” said the man. He’d given the beer in his hand a rueful look. “And booze.” He’d drained the bottle and set it down. “All through college, all through law school, it was nothing but wine and lots of women. Monday mornings—and sometimes Tuesdays, and sometimes Fridays—I’d wake up, stick my finger down my throat, chew up a few breath mints, have a shot of vodka to keep my hands steady, and drive in to the office.”

Hal nodded. He’d had a few mornings like that himself since starting law school. Maybe more than a few.

“Then, one Monday morning, I’m at work. I’m on my knees in the corporate bathroom, praying to the porcelain god, and my boss walks in. He sees me, and says, ‘Walker, it’s time to put away childish things.’ Then he turns around and walks out the door.”

“Huh.” Hal wondered if Walker was going to give him some Alcoholics Anonymous–style speech, and tell him that the first step toward solving his problem was admitting he had one. “I don’t have a problem,” he said, aware that the slurred, sloppy sound of the words made him sound like a liar.

Walker shook his head, giving Hal a good-natured smile. “You’re still young. You can take it. But like I said, it catches up. Eventually, you have to find something to keep you grounded. Something to send you home before last call some of the time, or stay in instead of going out every once in a while. An anchor.”

Hal looked and saw the gold wedding band on the other man’s hand. So this wasn’t a pitch for AA; it was a pitch for marriage. He wondered if the man had a sister he was trying to unload, or maybe a sister-in-law.

“Wha’ ’appans…” Hal shut his mouth, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and started again. “What happens if you don’t wanna?”

The man picked up his bottle and began picking at the corner of the label with his thumbnail. In the distance, Hal could hear the men of Emlen singing the alma mater, “This Happy Land.”

“There were fifty-four men in my class,” Walker said. “This is our twentieth, and we’re already down five.” He lifted a finger for each cause of death he named. “Liver cancer. Car accident. AIDS.”

Hal opened his mouth. He had a few things to say about that last one, but before he could get them out, Walker added, “And two suicides. One guy used a gun. The other one drank himself to death. Booze and cocaine. Took longer, but it got him to the same place.” The man had a half-smile on his face. Hal couldn’t see his eyes. “I wish there’d been someone to talk to me—to all of us—the way I’m talking to you. To