Vineland by Thomas Pynchon Page B

and—” a sour grin, “ka-pow!”
    â€œOh, come on,” she objected, “not with some little baby.”
    â€œSon of a bitch was fairly irate, that first time you tried to split, first time I ever heard your name, in fact. He totally lost it there for about a week.” Brock Vond’s screams, from the sealed upper floors of the looming federal monolith in Westwood, could be heard down echoing in the tranquillity of the veterans’ graveyard as well as out on the freeway above the traffic noise, regardless of the hour. Nobody in that crisis knew what to do with Brock, who clearly needed some R and R over at “Loco Lodge,” a Justice Department mental resort in the high desert. But none of the new Nixonian hires in internal affairs could even discover how to process him out there. Finally, after what to some had been far too long, he quieted down enough to pack up on his own one day and head back to D.C., where he was supposed to’ve been all along, so the paperwork on him just got shredded in California. But it was to be a while yet before reports stopped coming in from lunch counters and saloons, often known to have strictly enforced attitude codes, in unlikely West Coast locales, of disruptions by a, some said “wild-eyed,” others “terminally depressed,” Brock Vond. Many informants said they’d expected him to take off his clothes and do something unspeakable.
    â€œWell, what a wacko!” commented Frenesi. They were sitting in their new kitchen—light shades of wood, Formica, houseplants, better than some places they’d been in, although the fridge here might have a bum thermostat. She took his hand and tried to catch his eyes. “Just the same, later on, I could have run. Just taken her, taken my baby, and fuckin’ run.”
    â€œYep,” head stubbornly down, nodding.
    â€œAnd it really matters, and don’t say judgment call either, ’cause this isn’t the damn NFL.”
    â€œJust tryin’ to help.” He squeezed her hand. “It sure wa’n’t easy for me, you know, Ryan and Crystal . . . meant me givin’ extra handouts on that chow line for the duration, just to find out their new
names
, way back when.”
    â€œYeah. Great duty.” Each sat recalling Brock Vond’s reeducation camp, where they’d met. “Do you ever dream about it?”
    â€œUh-huh. Gets fairly vivid.”
    â€œHeard you,” she said, “one or two nights,” adding, “even all the way across town.”
    They then had a good mutual look. Her blue eyes and the clear child’s brow above had always had power to touch him, he felt it now simultaneously in the heels of his hands, in his lower gums, and in the chi spot between his navel and his cock, a glow, a good-natured turn to stone, some hum warning of possible overflow into words that, if experience was any guide, would get them in trouble.
    From Frenesi’s side of the table, Flash was an absorber of light, somebody she had to look for to see and work to know, to whom she tithed too much of her energy, especially the times he was “across town,” his phrase for out chasing other women. He liked to prowl the shady office complexes in the downtowns of these Sun Belt cities, looking for educated ladies in business suits who craved outlaw leather. No question, a pain in the ass—but alone, she thought, she would perish, too exposed, not resourceful enough. She thought, It’s too late, we’re locked into this, imagining often a turn of the conversation that would allow her to say, “All those guys—Flash, I knew it hurt you, I hated it, I’m sorry.” But he would say, “Promise me you’ll never do it again.” She’d say, “How can I? Once they find out you’re willing to betray somebody you’ve been to bed with, once you get that specialist’s code attached to