Miguel was taken aback by the cruelty of the remark. He had never heard Tom speak to Sandy that way. It was one of those things you just never talked about.
“We’re not so poor as all that,” Sandy said in a low voice.
“Pretty lucky you have plenty of extra room at The Roost, hey, Alberg?” Tommy said.
“My mom and Sand’s mom went to school together,” Billy Alberg said charitably. “They’re friends.”
“I’m going to Stanford,” Tom said, “or down to USC.” He squatted down in the road with his towel rolled into a makeshift football and began to count. “Sig-nals! Twentytwo—thuttythree—fifty-five—hike!” He charged, his Keds digging into the gravel.
“You going to play football, Tom?” Sandy asked mildly.
Tommy looked at him pityingly. “What do you think? My old man wouldn’t send me to college if I didn’t, kiddo.” He circled back, running with his knees high. He fell in beside Miguel and clapped him on the back. “How about you, Spick?”
For some reason, everything Tom did today annoyed him. He said, “I wish you’d lay off that ‘Spick’ stuff.”
“It’s what everyone calls Spaniards.”
“I’m an American,” Miguel said doubtfully. “I was born in Berkeley.”
“Sure, but you’re a Spick, too,” Tom said. “Tell us some cuss words in Spanish, will you?”
“I don’t know many,” Miguel said.
“What does fangula mean?” Sandy asked.
“Ask the Pavonis. It’s Italian.”
“Boy, boy,” Tommy said, winking at Miguel. “This kid reads books, I tell you.”
Miguel gave Tom a dark look, taking his words for a reference to what happened that day in the vineyard.
“Come on, Spick, please,” Sandy said. Why, Miguel wondered moodily, did everyone have to fall in with Tom’s ideas today. He was going away, wasn’t he?
“Give us the words, maestro,” Tom said.
Miguel complied cautiously. He had sometimes caught Concha in unguarded moments. “But don’t you say any of these in front of her,” he warned. “She’ll know who taught you.”
“Chinga tu madre!” Tommy shouted delightedly.
“Take it easy, will you?” Miguel said angrily. “That’s nothing to go yelling around.”
Tommy put an arm around Miguel’s shoulders as they walked. Miguel didn’t feel like being touched and wanted to move away from the weight and sweaty dampness of the other’s arm, but he submitted without protest.
“It’s been a hell of a summer, kiddo,” Tom said. “You be up again next year?”
Miguel felt more than ever deserted and resentful. From the way Tom talked they wouldn’t see one another until they met again here. For the first time, Miguel came to understand just how much he had been counting on his friendship with Tom to make up for not belonging among the town kids.
“I don’t know,” Miguel said. “Maybe.”
They had to move into single file as a car passed them. Miguel moved away from Tom.
“I’ll tell you what,” Tom said. “Sometime this fall we can all get together and my old man will take us to see the Cal-St. Mary’s game. Or maybe even the East-West on New Year’s. My old man is a high mucky-muck in the Shriners and he can get all the tickets he wants. How would that be?”
Miguel thought of the months between the end of summer and New Year’s Day and said hollowly, “Sure, swell.”
“Any of you guys for Cal?” Tommy asked.
“I’m for California,” Miguel said. Actually, what football sympathies he did have were with Stanford, but he felt contrary.
“Hell, I forgive you,” Tommy said good-naturedly. “You’re a Spick and you don’t know any better.”
Miguel felt a hard knot of anger in his stomach.
They walked in silence for a time. In the distance they could hear the shouts of the swimmers at the dam. More cars passed them and Tommy held out his thumb. The drivers did not stop and the four boys continued through the dust clouds raised by the passing automobiles.
“Bastards,” Tommy breathed.
“They didn’t have any room for us anyway,” Miguel said.
“We could have stood on the running board, couldn’t we? Chrissake, I’m getting thirsty.”
“We’re almost there,” Billy said unnecessarily.
“I saw Anson drive by this morning with your sister Esther,” Tommy said to Miguel. “Hot doggy.”
Miguel’s anger smoldered. He felt constrained to explain. “Mother sent them into town to pick up Ruth Snavely in the Lincoln.”
“You think the Lincoln is a better car than a Studebaker?” Sandy asked.
Miguel did, but he knew that their Lincoln was three years old and the Studebaker Sandy was referring to was the Albergs’ which was new.
“I guess maybe it is.”
“I don’t,” Billy Alberg said quickly.
“It’s a matter of opinion, wouldn’t you say?” Miguel said in a cold voice.
Tom said to Sandy, “Say, by the way, kiddo, you got any money?”
“Some,” Sandy said noncommittally.
“How much?”
“Enough, I guess.”
“Enough to pay back the two bits you borrowed three weeks ago?”
Sandy was silent. Miguel could sense his thirst waging a battle with his sense of what was proper. Propriety won after a struggle. Sandy swallowed hard and fished into the tiny pocket of his swimming trunks. He handed Tommy two dimes reluctantly. “Here, that’s all I have. Take it.”
Miguel looked at Tommy. Tom said, “What about the rest of it?Remember, were leaving early tomorrow.”
“I said that’s all I’ve got,” Sandy said in a low voice.
Miguel asked, “Is that really all you’ve got, Sand?”
“I said so, didn’t I? I’ll get the rest of it from my mom. She’s coming down to the beach with Aunt Lillian.”
Miguel felt the weight of the half-dollar in his own pocket guiltily. He felt peculiar having money now while Sandy had none. “I can lend you some, Sand,” he said.
“Mom will give me some,” Sandy said, kicking at the dust.
“A nickel for a Nehi, anyway?”
Tommy banged him on the back and yelled, “Nehi for a nickel, how high for a dime?” He laughed uproariously.
Miguel would not look at him. How, he wondered, could he ever have thought of Tom as a friend?
They walked into the Del Rio store and bought soft drinks. Sandy remained outside, sitting on the steps. When Miguel got his change, he tried to give Sandy a dime, but Sandy pushed the coin away angrily. Miguel went back inside and bought a Nehi. He brought it out and put it on the step beside Sandy. “You have to drink it,” he said roughly. “It’s already open.”
Sandy gnawed on his lip and stared out at the road. Slowly, as if of its own volition, his hand found the bottle. “Ill pay you back,” he said in a low voice. “Ill get some dough from my mom.”
Miguel couldn’t think of anything to say, so he went back inside. Tommy was stocking up on candy. There was a crumpled dollar bill and eighty-five cents in change on the counter. Miguel watched him gather it up. He was shaken by a surprising spasm of indignation. The cool air of the store seemed suddenly suffocating.
“You mean,” he heard himself say, “you had all that money and you took Sand’s twenty cents, too?”
Tommy looked perplexed. “Sure. He owed it to me.”
Amazed, Miguel saw his fist reach out and strike Tom’s hand. It was like watching a movie of himself. The money went flying in all directions. A coin struck one of the big green-and-red glass beakers near the drug counter, tinkling musically and then falling to the oiled plank floor with a tiny, flat sound.
The storekeeper, Mr. Haushoffer, looked over the candy counter and said, “Here, here, none of that in here.”
Billy Alberg backed away. Miguel felt himself being carried along by a rushing torrent of anger and resentment and he was bewildered by his
inability to resist it. His knees felt funny. Tommy looked very large and red in the face.
Mr. Haushoffer said, “Behave yourselves, boys. Do you hear me?”
Miguel stood as though his shoes had been nailed to the floor.
“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” Tommy asked in a hurt tone.
“You stink, that’s what the matter is,” Miguel said in a trembling voice.
“No fighting in here,” Mr. Haushoffer said, coming out from behind the candy counter.
“Well,” Tommy said truculently. “I just guess we better settle this outside, that’s all.”
“Fine with me,” Miguel said. He was sweating and his body felt clammy and cold. He wished his knees would stop feeling as though they were going to fold up.
“You just wait until I pick up my dough, then,” Tommy said.
“I’m waiting,” Miguel said.
He watched Tommy crawl on his hands and knees, retrieving the coins that had rolled under the counter and among the packages and barrels. Tommy’s buttocks looked huge.
Billy Alberg was on the floor helping Tom, his decision as to whom to back in the imminent conflict quite apparent.
Suddenly, Miguel could not understand what lapse of common sense could have driven him into picking a fight with the bigger boy.
“Well,” Tommy said, straightening finally, and tucking the money into his pocket, “well, okay.”
“Let’s go,” Miguel said stiffly, walking through the door.
Billy Alberg followed them out. “You guys really going to fight?” he asked.
“Yes,” Miguel said.
“You bet your boots,” Tommy said in a strange voice.
Sandy looked from one to the other in confusion. “Say, what’s the matter with you guys, anyway?”
“Let me hold your towel, Tom,” Billy said.
They walked around to the back of the building. “You guys shouldn’t fight,” Sandy said.
“We’re going to,” Miguel said.
“Damn right we are, kiddo,” Tommy declared.
They faced one another in an attitude of watchful waiting. Miguel’s throat felt dry and dusty and the soda pop he had drunk lay sweet and sickly in his stomach.
“Well, go on,” Billy said. “What are you waiting for?”
“Never mind the advice,” Tommy said in an unsteady tone, not taking his eyes from Miguel. “Just can the advice or I’ll take you on, too.”
Miguel suddenly realized that Tommy was as frightened of him as he was of Tom. And Tommy couldn’t hide it as well.
The circling and waiting became unbearable. Finally, Miguel lunged forward and swung his fist at Tommy’s chest. To aim at the face would have been unthinkable. But Tom’s evasive action was miscalculated and he bobbed his head into the path of Miguel’s blow. He caught it squarely on the nose.
His eyes filled and he began to cry.
Miguel felt a surge of triumph and he leaped forward, ready to strike again, but Tommy seized him in a stranglehold and wrestled him to the ground. They rolled about in the dirt, lacking and shoving. Presently Mr. Haushoffer appeared and pulled them apart, scolding angrily about fighting near the store.
Miguel looked at Tommy. Mud streaked his face where tears and dust had mixed. There were several scratches on his cheek. Miguel realized he, himself, must look as bad or worse. There was dirt in his mouth. He spat it out distastefully.
The storekeeper released them and said, “You going to cut this out?” Without waiting for an answer he went back into the store, grumbling to himself.
“You quitting?” Billy asked, disappointed.
“Sure,” Tommy said. “You want to fight—join the Marines, kiddo.”
Miguel felt relief flood through him. He felt lighter and somehow cleaner inside. He smiled slowly.
A grin broke through on Tommy’s tear-stained face. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
Billy and Sandy pushed them together. “Go on, you guys,” Sandy said. “Shake.”
“It was a good fight,” Billy said grudgingly, “while it lasted.”
Tommy took Miguel’s hand. Miguel felt a welling up of warmth and friendship. Why had they fought, anyway? Tom was his friend. Tom was his brother.
Tommy rubbed his nose. “I thought you’d busted my beak, Spick. That’s a real left jab you have.”
“You just ran into it.”
“Like hell,” Tommy said, eyeing Miguel speculatively. “I don’t think I want to fight with you any more, kiddo. No sir.” He moved closer and put his arm around Miguel’s shoulders. “From now on, we’ll do our fighting on the same side.”
Miguel felt the warmth inside him rising like a tide. Somehow he was sure that Tom felt the same thing. And then it became a sad thing, as though it were a voice, a whispering voice from a great distance away drifting mournfully across the dusty willows and the river. This was the last weekend of summer. The very last, Old Tom, and Sand, and Billy—
You had to savor it because it would never be the same again. Not ever. His eyes felt strangely hot and wet.
“Come on,” he said. “Race you guys to the river.”
SIX
He had been drowsing in his seat and he awoke long before dawn, thinking of death.
He had been dreaming of his mother, and the dream had been so clear, so sharply detailed, that it had survived the trauma of waking.
He had been sitting at her feet, a boy of eleven again, in the music room of the Rockridge house. She sat in one of the winged chairs under the portrait of Don Miguel in iron armor. She wore a plain black dress that he somehow recognized as the dress she had been buried in, and there was a high comb in her hair with a mantilla of black Spanish lace falling over her shoulders. Her face was pale and composed, with dark shadows under the eyes—eyes that somehow seemed to be as bottomless and black as the night. She was very beautiful, with firm white flesh and small hands and a full bosom swelling from the bodice of her dress. He could see the medallion she wore resting in the cleft of her breasts. She was in some way more youthful than he remembered her.
She held the family Bible open on her lap and she was reading to him. “To everything there is a season, and a time to everything under the heaven: a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill and a time to heal—“ He was aware of the strange and bell-like timbre of her voice in the stillness. For some reason he thought it was afternoon, but there was nothing outside save darkness, limning the stark, repetitive cross motif of the window frames. Now he noticed that the walls were bare, with the look of old polished bones. It was Christmas and there was a tree. A voice said: “A time to love and a time to hate, for God shall bring every work into judgment and every secret thing...” And, looking at his mother, he saw quite clearly that her lips were not moving and there were raw, red burns around her mouth. It frightened him and he tried to embrace her, only to feel the slick hardness of a clothing store mannequin beneath his hands. Then he had awakened thinking of death.
He gazed outside, still sodden with sleep and the residue of his last Luminal capsule. The airliner was flying fairly low over a dark sea.
He lit a cigarette and smoked half of it to get himself functioning. Then he went to the lounge and washed his face with cold water. His image in the vibrating mirror looked back at him, gaunt and hollow-eyed.
He opened the door and walked carefully between the sprawling rows of sleeping passengers to the buffet. He accepted a cup of steaming coffee from the stewardess and stood in the alcove drinking it.
The girl had a pretty French face with long eyes and a firm mouth.
“You don’t get much rest on these night trips, do you?” he said.
“No, m’sieu. There is always something to do.” She shrugged and added, “M’sieu did not sleep long.”
“No.”
She glanced at her wrist watch. “We are late, but we should be over the New England coast by first light.”
“Do we stop in Boston?”
“No, m’sieu. We fly directly to New York.”
Back in his seat once more, Miguel turned on the reading lamp and took the script from his brief case. It wasn’t a bad book, really, he told himself. It simply wasn’t good enough. And it was unfinished.
He thought briefly about the piece he had promised J. C. to do for Réaltiés and had left half-completed in Montparnasse. He had left the agent in a bad spot, but it couldn’t be helped. This was much more important. And just as unfinished.
He had meant it to be a companion piece to The Exile—a novel of hope as The Exile was a story of grief. But it hadn’t come off. The characters lacked depth and the situations seemed contrived and unreal. He hadn’t even thought of a title for it. On the cover page, he had scribbled in blue pencil, “Something of Auden’s?” And part of a verse: “In the night of fire and snow, save me from evil.”
Under the penciled lines was a sketch of the watchtower just off the esplanade at Rapallo. He remembered doing that while sitting on the balcony of the Gran Savoia on a sunny autumn afternoon. Sketching while he should have been working. He half smiled, thinking of Olinder sitting behind his golden oak desk at Roslyn, shaking his long, tobacco-yellowed finger and saying, “Michael, what have you been doing with your time?” Seen in perspective, Miguel mused, my writing career has described a short, descending arc. What was it literary types called a flash-in-the-pan writer? A morning-glory.
With the rumpled typescript in his lap, he closed his eyes and tried to remember more of the Auden. All he could bring back was a couplet from another poem: “The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews, Not to be born is the best for man—”
It made him think of Alaine. Her first gift to him had been a volume of Auden’s poems.
He thought of her in the beginning, in that apartment she had in 1943, the fine little place on Divisadero Street. He remembered the path you took between two of the clean, white old houses so typical of San Francisco, and then through a little patio with a lily pond where big orange fantails swam in the green water, and finally, the stark spiral steel staircase to a door perched just under the eaves of a pink stucco building with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
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