Bomb Cyclone and its Effects on Harvard - 7

A Novella

7

Blue. The roof of the car was blue, and it called her to fly towards it – at least, that was the feeling. But you never know – the Republican Leadership voted to repeal the Law of Gravity - but then rejected the cost estimate for doing so. The floor was also blue.

“I don't know what to say in these circumstances - there is simply nothing that I can say.”

Reasoning my head, because it had been locked on the floor - without realizing - the frame of his complexion was finally in my view. It was deeply concerning - but that would not do for what had been oppressed upon me by Lukas. And just a few minutes before the niceness of his voice had made enormous strides in making me like him - it was the difference of just a half hour that had turned love into the direst form of hate. The rage had finally cleared the runway - because now I hated everything.

“Why did not tell me?” The voice was not mine - it sounded plaintive and subdued, which is not how the motions bubbled up.

“In John Harvard's? With friends, and friends of friends? If nothing else the management would have tossed me out. I would need to have proof, not just suppositions. And it would have been proof that he could not just be scoffed at.” Then he hesitated: “ Maybe I should have done things differently.” At this point, he was on Mass. Ave. going towards Porter Square, going through the sea of red lights. My eyes had begun to tear, and he looked from the front window to my face. He then rummaged around for a tissue, which he eventually found. Then he continued: “All right, I should have done things differently - perhaps excoriating him for what he was planning on doing.” His mouth opened, but he thought the better what he was going to say - which made me want to hear it in its full form.

“You are about to say something.”

“It has nothing.”

“Nothing - and you would have closed your mouth. What is it that you want to say?”

“The reason I did not say it, was because I thought better of it.”

“So what would you have said if you had not thought better of it?”

“I thought better of it - and realized that it was not the right to say.”

“But I want to know.”

“So you want to hear something that I did not say, that makes you sense.”

In my head, I wanted to hear what a less powerful person would have said - a less ept man would not have thought better of it. But I could see that he was not going to tell me what he thought because it would have reflected badly on him. He was cagey - about much was clear. He drove to the bend in Mass Ave - Porter Square from the light that we had stopped at - I know that ending a sentence with a preposition is a grammatical sin.

“I think we should stop at Panera, to get some espresso - what do you think?” He saw my half-nod – and turned his head back to driving, Or rather, stopping at the light, waiting for it to turn green. Then he did a zig-zag – right in front of the Porter Square Station - which was at a triangle between Mass Ave. and whatever the name of the other street, and then immediately left to take it to the maze which was a parking lot. There was nothing among stores that stood out - and Panera Bread was merely one of a chain of high-end sandwich places. Not the lowest of the low, there was somewhat of a panache - if one could call it that.

It took some time to park the car - this was the main street of Cambridge, and we were just barely in Cambridge. He unlocked the car doors and turned to me. “Just so we are clear about something - my boyfriend and I are going to be married, eventually.” Which is all right, because he was not vaguely my type - and apparently, the feeling was mutual.

Once inside the glass opening the light beige of the walls was annoying - there was something about them that made one want to eat - there must be several papers on which ecru would be the best to get people to order more, with a side note on which decorative accouterments Should be added to make people stay or leave based on the quality of slop that you are purveying. Once had sat down, an oily drip came from my mother's regions. Towel - a towel would have been nice. I excused myself to gain admission to the ladi’s room, and see what - if anything - could be used.

And it was there – as my mother would occasionally say, “tush” - on the toilet, that my face was in my hands, sobbing - the right word for cry noiselessly – that someone on the other side came rapping, rapping on the aluminum portal.

“Are you alright?” It was the husky voice of a woman – clearly some older than my mother – but not so ancient as either of my two grandmothers. From the slit in the doorway, she was short and plump. The bottom of the sash showed two nurse's shoes, and a pair of little tan stockings – no one would have worn them under the age of 50.

No. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

No. “Yes.”

“I am a nurse.”

“So your shoes told me.”

A laugh crept in from the entrance. “Curses, foiled again - my dastardly plan has been unmasked.” It was a light tone of voice, and she was trying to diffuse the situation. Unfortunately. I. Was. Not. Amused.

She began again: “I could hear your crying, and I was worried. It is far too often that one hears such sounds, in the bathroom.” Noted it for future reference: why did they call it a bathroom, when there are no baths inside it?

While some other girls - are rather, that divide we are the are not girls and we are not women, but something, somewhere in between - would have buried their heads further in 2 their hands and allowed crying to enunciate what was going on - I reached up, and very deliberately told open latch. But any sense that of control was not happening - my skirt was pulled up over my panties, and was a mess. My panties had a severe which could only be blood. My face was completely messed up - and I do not just mean the makeup. There were edges of a crying jag around the eyes and streaks down the cheeks. My lack of dress was crumpled in various places.

“Do not say it - it is obvious that 'mess' is the appropriate word.”

The nurse was about 5 feet and no inches. She was round, and how to put it? Her breasts, thighs, calves, and hips were obscenely large - to be somewhat delicate about it. But she was coming off of duty, her skirt was disheveled, and every piece of clothing showed a great deal of where and a crinkileness that comes from being warned all day. She was headed home, after having gained some respite in whatever sort of beverage that she craved. There were signs on her fingers that showed she was a smoker and habitual user of coffee. Her here was deep brown and gray - well her hairpins made some effort at looking presentable, there were at least 12 or so here that had popped out, and did not care who knew it. On her visage, there was a deep look of kindliness, but also concern. Even so, she still smiled - a bit.

She also got down to business: “This was not consensual was it?” She made no bones about this announcement. It almost sounded like a period, not a question mark.

Gently shook my head, but no more than, a stiff came off of my nose. At this point, she pulled out a brush and started to do something with my hair, at the same time she did meet up - and I immediately began to pull up the panties and down on the dress. She shut the door before going back to work on my hair.

“We need to get you back to the Emergency floor, and you need to decide on contraception - but we can do that at leisure.”

“I am - I am not a Harvard student.”

“We can massage that - this is more important than whether you're under insurance. This is your life we are talking about - and the messed up way we have insurance is not going to reach down and grab you by the neck, and say 'You are pregnant now'. This is not one of the regions which are controlled by the evangelical police. If you will pardon the political diatribe.”

A halfway giggle emerged on my face.

“There is a young man who is waiting for me.”

“Then we should get going - I assume he is not your boyfriend?”

“Just a friend.”

She thought for an instant. “Is it better for you to come with me, or to go with him?

Decisions thrust upon me, at the point where falling apart is not an option.

“I should go with him.” This was not thought out very well.

“Here is a card. It is Pound Hall. I am assuming that your male friend is a Harvard student?”

Again, a nod was the best that reason dictates.

“All right, my car is a black Honda, with 4 doors and clutter of stuff. I have 2 teenagers and they put in whatever is on their minds - skating at the moment.”

Brushing away the hair, she looked into my eyes, and I could deep breath. “This is going to be all right.” It sounded like a TV cop show - where the detective has taken charge. Lord, do I hate cop shows. And I do not believe in the Lord.

At this point, we marched our way to the egress - leaving behind the lady’s room - and we saw on the other side: Sai. It was obvious that he was waiting for me, and the nurse immediately began speaking to him - she must have seen the look on his face.

There are a thousand other details – most of which are unmemorable and, therefore do not clutter space - which is the definition of memorable. But Gresham's law applies to writing and memories: bad writers drive out good writers, and bad memories crowd out good memories. Do you remember your 2nd day at school? Most people don't. Even the memory of the criminal attack which at the time subjected me to a feeling of violation, has faded. Instead, it is a huge blot - a darkness that surrounds me.

What that means, dispensing with driving Pound Hall, having the nurse explain what options, all of the things that go into massaging this illegal move - and making it look legal, the conversations that the nurse had with other nurses - and whispered tones. As gallant as these things were on a tiny scale, the treatment for pregnancy was established in the form of a copper IUD. Which was once again, a sin if my parents knew of it.

The real decision was: go now to my home - where the goad would latch my - metaphorically speaking - dig deep into my loins, and scar me with my father's admonition. But words cannot protect me from the pain that my mother would feel. The gold standard is ultimately backed by the lead standard - the love of one's parents is enforced by the torment that comes from their hand.

Thus, cleaned up though after a fashion - a determination loomed in front of me. Only there was no real choice - I had to go back to the place where I came from.

There to face, there to suffer, there to emerge from the wrath that my parents could bring. And I saw this as I looked into the nurse's eyes and she asked me what I wanted to do.

I found out the words: “Put me on the next train from Porter Square - and I will get home myself.” A blue mood set upon me. Grinding its girders to rest, to wait, to stop,

Goals, glad-handedly endured, for the good of all of the group.