“Since when have you cared about money?” I blurted out.
Not looking at me, I thought I heard him whisper, “Always.” He pulled his arm out from under me, leaving the two of us lying like toothpicks on his single bed, not two young lovers unable to keep their hands off one another. My mom told me to avoid talk of money or politics in polite company, but I didn’t think that meant with Porter. Still, I changed the subject because in that short interaction I could tell that any talk about future earnings would go nowhere.
“What’s wrong, Porter?” I lightly touched the hand he had draped across his stomach. He flinched and pushed my hand away as if my touch burned, and I gasped.
Porter turned his head and looked at me with concern, but I quickly recovered and smiled serenely, my feelings being hurt secondary to the fact that he was physically hurting.
“I think I have a stomach bug or something. It’s not a big deal. I needed to lie down for a bit. But don’t say anything. I can’t let anyone think something’s wrong. I’ll be fine.”
It’s not a big deal. I’ll be fine.How many times did I tell myself that between my four pregnancy tests, confirming my appointment at Planned Parenthood, and the three weeks I had to wait to have my procedure? Too many, and not enough to be convincing.
“Shouldn’t you tell one of your coaches?” Being the daughter of a doctor, my parents had driven into me that if I did not feel well at school to get to McCosh Infirmary as soon as possible. Too many students didn’t take care of themselves, and by the time they did something about it, they had pneumonia or mono or some other issue that could have been avoided.
“Maybe you’re dehydrated. Or have a really empty stomach and you’re cramping. We both know you don’t eat much before a game because of your nerves.”
“Callie, you’re not listening. No one can see me down.” Porter nodded his head once for emphasis to his declaration, because for Porter, life—and decisions about life—were black and white. There were no gray areas for him.
Up until that moment, it hadn’t dawned on me that Porter had any greater outside pressure to perform at Princeton than the other five thousand students at the school did. And how would I know? I knew Porter was on full scholarship, but other than that, Porter shared very little about his family’s expectations when it came to grades or sports. While Delsie’s and Olden’s names came up in conversation from time to time, by fall of senior year, neither Charles nor I had met them. Porter’s family hadn’t been to campus, had never seen Porter play college ball. For all the time I spent in Porter’s room, I wasn’t ever present when they called. All I had to go on that they even existed was one relatively recent picture of Porter towering over his parents and his sister, Rose, on a wraparound porch. Everyone looked perfectly nice. Many times, I had studied that picture when Porter was in the shower, searching the faces for hints at how Porter had developed such a patient demeanor, stoic character, and ability to lock out distractions from his studies and practice. I imagined what the inside of their white farmhouse might look like and tried to guess what items were in Porter’s childhood bedroom and whether his shelves were lined with trophies. At six foot two, did he still sleep in the twin bed of his youth? How many girls had been in that bedroom?
“Here. Read to me.” A request he made at the most unexpected moments, this sexy demand melted my insides every time. Porter handed me Homer’sThe Odyssey, keeping his eyes closed, his finger not only marking the page where he had stopped but also stopping any more conversation about his pain.
And now, tell me and tell me true. Where have you been wandering, and in what countries have you travelled? Tell us of the peoples themselves, and of their cities—who were hostile, savage and uncivilised, and who, on the other hand, hospitable and humane.
I turned my head to the family picture. I desperately wanted Porter to tell me more than the surface facts about his upbringing. Most of all, I wanted his family to know me. But every time I suggested I fly down to South Carolina over a break, he dismissed my offer as not a good use of my father’s money and my time. After two years together, I stopped asking completely.
“Unlike Odysseus, I haven’t traveled much other than our big trip to the Bahamas. Where else should we go?” Porter asked softly. I bit my tongue so I didn’t sulkily remind him that Charles, Quinn, and I had all invited him to come visit us in New York on several occasions.
I shot up in bed, allowing the book to drop. “Are you serious?”
“Am I ever not serious?” Porter gestured for me to hand him the book. He treated all his literature like diamonds, perfectly lined up on top of his dresser, against his window, shortest to tallest. I picked up Homer’s tome and slid it in between James Baldwin’sBlack Boyand Shakespeare’sKing Lear.
“Where do you want to go? We could travel together after graduation. I’ve always wanted to go to Brazil. You? Let’s make a list,” I squealed, intending to find paper and a pen to scratch out a globe-trotting wish list for the two of us. All the places we could make love without the constraints of practices, classes, or roommates showing up at inconvenient times cluttered my head and sprung me into action.
Porter chuckled uncomfortably at my immediate jump into planning mode. Whilehehad become recognized for his hands being magnets to footballs and his unique perspective on the controversial philosopher Nietzsche, and Charles was known for his brilliant computational mind, and Quinn was appreciated for her deftness withpaintbrushes, I was the list-maker, the get-shit-doner of our group. Not as sexy a talent as my friends possessed, but one that allowed me to excel in the classroom and on the school newspaper.
“I’ve always wanted to go to California. Seems nice there.” Porter had eked out “California” in barely a whisper and rolled onto his side, pulling his knees into his chest, both arms now clutching at his abdomen.
“Where I think we should go right now is the health center,” I insisted, abandoning our trip planning as quickly as it started, scared to see Porter in such pain. He gave me a barely perceptible okay, and I put his shoes on him before he changed his mind. “Should I call your parents?”
“No need to call them yet. Let’s wait for Charles,” Porter growled back at me, slowly rising to sit himself up. “Can you leave a note for him where we’re going?”
I scribbled down the time and where we were heading and taped it to the front of their shared door while Porter grabbed his copy ofThe Odysseyback off the shelf.
Chapter Eighteen
November 1992
“You got him here right in time,” Dr. Andressen informed me, playing with the click of his pen. “Your boyfriend was moments away from his appendix rupturing. Tough kid. He’s got a high tolerance for pain.”
“He played in the football game today. Made three touchdowns.”
“So he told me. Lucky he wasn’t tackled; that could have been devastating.” We both paused for a moment to count that blessing.
“We’re going to transfer him to Princeton Hospital via ambulance; he needs an emergency appendectomy. Porter is resting somewhat comfortably right now, but we need to move quickly, and before we move forward, we would like to have a conversation with his parents. Is Charles here with you?”
“I think you’re confused. Charles isn’t his dad, he’s his teammate and closest friend at Princeton. Porter’s parents are Delsie and Olden Beaumont; they live in South Carolina.”
“Yes, yes, I got that. Porter asked that Charles be the one to call his parents. The nurse at the front desk has their number pulled up.”
