William F. Buckley Jr. Read Free

roommate and four other sophomores from across the hall, tilting his beer bottle up, “the camera simply refused to film. You understand, Josh? It’s what Professor Sewall calls ‘technological modesty.’ ” Josh grinned, priming his own bottle. “Can you buy that sort of stuff, I mean, the professional stuff, in Paris?” Danny shrugged his shoulders. “How would I know?” In such moments Danny’s patronizing smile was especially beguiling. If only they knew, he thought.
    That was last month, before the fraternity elections. It was time now to go—he had been counseled on no account to appear late at the fraternity. But that, and the trip to Europe, and his 1947 Ford Sedan notwithstanding, when Danny opened the door to go to his induction into a fraternity, he sensed that a little curtain, however fine, had been drawn between him and Henry. The luxuries of vacation travel were one thing—Danny and his roommate were physically separated during the summer, so there could be no daily abrasions—it had been only at the moment of departure that the distinction was felt: one roommate whose vacation would be restricted to occasional weekends at home, seventy-five miles from New Haven; the second, off on a vacation that would take him to pleasure spots in Europe, lasting over the entire summer. But this would be different, a little bumpier. Danny’s fraternity was only five minutes’ walking distance away, and now Danny would be at liberty to go off for dinner or for relaxation other than to the college dining hall or the college’s facilities, and of course he would inevitably be making new friends. Invitations to nonmember fellow students were limited, in his fraternity’s bylaws, to two invitations per term to the same student.
    So, Danny felt a twinge of something—he was not quite sure what it was. Sadness? Well, no, not really. Pride? That figured there, somewhere. Disdain for those who did not do quite so … well? Could not afford to be so free? It was all there, somewhere, in greater or lesser measure. Did he feel a whiff of self-isolation?But he had consciously thought the matter out as he walked away from the army hospital in the Arno, after his first visit. What he had said to himself then was foresighted but simple: Either they would remain friends or they would not, but if they attempted to stay on as friends there would be no way to—vaporize?—an experience they had had in common. In fact, only they shared that experience. It was only Danny, and Henry, who knew about the Arno offensive and how Henry had first funked it, then tried to kill himself. If the memory of it was going to haunt them, then better not to see each other at all. But when after their discharge they resolved to apply to room together at college, it had to be on the understanding not that the Arno offensive would be forgotten but that it would be ignored. Either ignored, or maybe even sublimated. But that would be Henry’s responsibility. Danny would just never bring it up, not ever. This turned out to be easy. From the beginning, he had been comfortable with Henry, the least demanding of companions; not quite the sparkler, dear Henry, but he could laugh, indeed did so, and he was so very earnest, and so very much devoted to his family, to Caroline in particular.
    He was walking confidently now up York Street toward Zeta Psi. He told himself yet again that obviously he could never forget the events of August 12 and the Arno offensive, but that was over three years ago, and they had spent much time together. Would Henry ever be truly independent of him? Danny wondered.
    No. But this had nothing to do with the day-to-day pleasure he took in Henry’s company. Avery nice guy, easy to share quarters with, arousable for a serious conversation, if the urge to have one came up, which it seldom did with Danny.
    No, he thought finally, as he approached the graystone exterior of the fraternity, things were fine just the way they were,