In Wilde Country

everyone, and said
     how proud he was of his son. It was a term that had always been reserved for Alden.
     He’d been the one Amos called son .
    Now, the designation was Johnny’s.
    He was his father’s son, heir to half a million acres of rich land, prize-winning
     horses, herds of cattle, gushers of black gold. He was what Alden had been, the crown
     prince of El Sue ño , and he waited to feel the excitement that should have gone with the title.
    All he felt was the awful realization that he wouldn’t be his father’s heir if he
     hadn’t killed his brother.
    At midnight, high on the first beer he’d had in months, he slipped into the den and
     dialed a once-familiar number.
    Agnes Cleary answered on the first ring, almost as if she’d been waiting for the call.
    “I’m sorry,” Johnny blurted. “I should have come to see you.”
    “That’s all right, “she said gently. “You’ve been busy.”
    “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
    “For West Point. I know. Congratulations.”
    “I don’t deserve congratulations. My old man pulled strings.”
    “You did most of it yourself. Your grades, your determination…”
    “It’s what Alden wanted! Not me!”
    He heard her sigh.
    “Did you tell that to your father?”
    Johnny shook his head, as if she could see him through the phone.
    “No,” he whispered, “I couldn’t. I told you, it’s what Alden wanted. And my father.
     He wants this, too.”
    “But what about you? What do you want?”
    “I don’t know. Not this. Not—”
    “John.” Amos’s hand fell heavily on Johnny’s shoulder. “It’s time to say goodnight
     to your guests. You have an early flight tomorrow, remember?”
    “John,” the voice in his ear said with urgency, “it isn’t too late. You need to forge
     your own path, to follow your own dream—”
    Amos Wilde took the telephone from his son’s hand and hung it up.
    “Come along, son,” he said, and Johnny rose and followed his father from the room.
    * * * *
    He hated West Point.
    Just as he’d figured, it was all about discipline and obedience.
    From Beast Barracks—the endless, grueling summer that was mandatory before a cadet
     began his plebe year—through the first few months, life was sheer hell.
    Give way to upperclassmen Walk to the side of the hall. Obey. Obey their dumbest orders.
    Christ, he despised it.
    The only place he felt free was on the football field.
    Nobody said so, but he was the best receiver they had, maybe the best they’d had in
     a while. He could tell by the way the coaches watched him, the way the other players
     treated him.
    That improved things.
    And, gradually, he realized that he could hold his own in a classroom. He was as smart
     as damn near anybody else, including those who’d gotten into the academy strictly
     through merit and hard work, not through the efforts of powerful fathers and the politicians
     they could influence.
    By the end of his first year, he could hardly wait for the next group of plebes to
     arrive. It was going to be someone else’s turn to suffer.
    He went home for part of the summer.
    Life was good.
    Girls crowded around him and he discovered he’d regained interest in fucking. Guys
     looked up to him. They always had, but it was different now. He was the hometown hero,
     back from the wars.
    He considered calling Miss Cleary, but why stir up the past? OK, so he felt a twinge
     of guilt when he remembered all she’d done for him, but hey, life moves on. He felt
     a similar twinge when he bumped into Connie one evening. He was going into the movies
     with a blonde cheerleader hanging on his arm; Connie was part of a group of girls
     just coming out.
    She gave him the kind of look he’d once seen a dog give to an abusive master and there
     it was, that little stab of guilt, but what was there to feel guilty about? What had
     happened hat night had been as much her idea as his and anyway, this was the seventies.
    Virginity was no big deal.
    Amos did a lot of