“Here’s your mother now,” said Howard, and went away with Sport’s coat.
“Darling,” said Charlotte. “Darling, come here to your mother.” She stood in the library door. He realized with a great deal of surprise that she had been crying. Why is it suddenly darling? he thought. Is there someone else in the library to hear her?
He went to her. She smothered him to her, and he felt a wave of revulsion. What is this? he thought. I don’t even know her. She pulled him into the library and then he saw. There was a tall, older man standing by the fireplace.
“This is Mr. Wilton, darling, your grandfather’s lawyer.”
“How do you do,” said Sport. He shook hands, then grabbed for the hole in his sweater. It was on his left elbow so he held his right hand over it.
“Sit down, Simon. Would you like something to eat? Or a Coke?”
“No, thank you,” said Sport. How can you drink a Coke holding your elbow?
“Have you had dinner?” asked his mother in a bored way as she sat down.
“Yes,” Sport said, because he knew that if he told the truth, she would make him eat.
“My, your father eats early,” said Charlotte, and looked at the lawyer and laughed in a snide way.
“He hasn’t eaten,” said Sport. And then, because he knew it would make her angry, “They’re out to eat now.”
“They?” said Charlotte and gave her worst witch look.
“He and Kate.”
“Kate?” said Charlotte in such a way as to say, Who in the world would be named Kate?
It had backfired. What do I say now? thought Sport. I never should have started this. I should know by now never to open my mouth around her.
“Who is Kate?” she asked, serious now, angry.
“A friend of my father’s,” said Sport in as manly a way as possible. There, he thought, what can she say to that?
“Have they been friends a long time?” she asked in a silky voice.
“Ah …” Mr. Wilton began, “Charlotte, do you think we should ask the nurse if we can take him in now?” He cast a sympathetic glance at Sport. “Your father is picking you up in an hour, I understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sport gratefully.
“Oh, well, in that case,” said Charlotte, apparently in a fury. She flounced out of the chair and left the room. As the doors closed, Sport realized with horror that he was sitting alone with Mr. Wilton. What shall I say? he thought hurriedly. There was little time to be worried because Mr. Wilton started immediately.
“There are a couple of things I would like to ask you before your mother comes back. First of all, do you get along all right with your father?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sport softly.
“Just all right, or is it all okay there?”
“It’s … all okay there.” What funny words, thought Sport.
“Good. Then you have no … there have never been any regrets that it didn’t work out differently?”
“No, sir,” said Sport with such vehemence that Mr. Wilton smiled, then laughed.
Sport laughed too then. I don’t know what I’m laughing about, he thought, but he seems all right, this guy.
“I haven’t seen you since you were four years old.”
There was never anything to say to this, so Sport said nothing.
“You seem to be growing up quite sensibly.” Mr. Wilton turned and looked at the small fire in the fireplace. When he turned back, he seemed to have arranged his thoughts. “Does your father make enough money?” The words came out like a machine gun and Sport answered before he could think.
“No, sir,” he said, then, watching Mr. Wilton’s face, he added, “I mean, we have enough to live on.”
“You’re not in need?”
I don’t know what that means, thought Sport. Does he mean do we need money? Because we do. Maybe he’ll give us some.
“Don’t you know what I mean?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you’re not in need.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sport, thinking, He’s not going to give us any money. He looked around the rich room, the creamy pattern of the carpet, the thin legs of chairs, the rich quiet held in by the heavy draperies.
“You have a hole in your sweater, though.”
Sport jumped and grabbed his elbow.
“No need to be embarrassed. It’s not your fault.”
At that moment the doors opened, and Sports mother came back.
“He’s very weak,” she said to Mr. Wilton, “but they think he should see him now.” She looked at Sport. “He’s been asking for you.” And then she turned her head away fast as though she were crying. Mr. Wilton moved toward her and put an arm around her.
I don’t believe her, thought Sport. She doesn’t mean it, she’s pretending.
“I’ll take him in,” said Mr. Wilton.
“No, I will,” said Charlotte quickly, and again there was the rage.
I don’t get it, thought Sport, it’s like she’s planning something.
“Come on,” she said harshly and stuck out a thin hand to grab him. Sport, for some reason, looked at Mr. Wilton. Mr. Wilton nodded. He got up then, took his mother’s hand, and allowed himself to be led to the door.
They went down the hall, and then into a large room very much like the library, a room with the same heavy quiet about it. At one end of this room, however, a four-poster bed had been set up, obviously from upstairs. A starched nurse rose from the chair as they came in. There was a figure on the bed. It didn’t move at all. Maybe he’s dead, thought Sport, and nobody knows it.
His mother led him to the bed. The nurse’s face went all crinkly and she tried to smile.
“Well, now, and there he is, the little darling, and we’ll be so glad to see him, won’t we, there?” She leaned over and screamed at the thin yellow head. Her voice seemed more a voice in a cheap bar than a sickroom.
There was no response from the head. “There, now,” she said even more loudly. “Been asking for him, you have”—she poked the pillow viciously—”now you don’t even look at him.”
Sport wanted to run quickly and grab his grandfather in a fierce hug. He wanted to jump in between the old man and this evil woman, give the yellow head a kiss on the withered cheek, yell, “Good-bye, Gramps,” and run from the room. Once in the air, he would cry, run all the way home, and forget the whole thing. That would be good, not messy and strange like these two screaming, pretending women.
The old man stirred. A weak sound came out of his mouth. The nurse took Sports hand and pulled him roughly to the side of the bed. She did it mechanically, as though she had done the same at a thousand deaths, as though all families were inadequate to see to their deaths.
Sport stood close to the bed now, could see how clean and starched the sheets were, could see into the open cavernous mouth. His teeth weren’t in there! That’s what it was! Sport realized suddenly that he had never seen anyone without teeth. He began to feel funny—hot, and then clammy and cold.
A long breath came out of the mouth. “There, now,” bellowed the nurse. “It’s your own boy to see you. He’s here, come to see you.”
A long breath, then another, then so softly as almost not to be heard, “Si-mon?”
“Yes, and it is,” yelled the nurse, “your own Simon.”
“Simon,” said the soft breath with satisfaction. The eyelids flickered, tried to open, became still again, the mouth closed. From the coverlet came a thin, hawklike, yellow hand that traveled crablike toward Sport.
“Take his hand, that’s a good boy,” cried the nurse as loudly as though they were all on the other side of a river.
Sport grabbed the hand quickly, because he knew that if he thought about it he wouldn’t be able to do it, like taking a spoonful of medicine. The hand did not feel like a hand, but only like a bunch of thin, brittle sticks, too small to make a fire with. The hand was aware of his with only the weakest of pressure. Sport squeezed the hand softly and suddenl
y there was strength, suddenly the hand held his in a grip he wouldn’t have thought the old man capable of, and it wouldn’t let go. Sport pulled his hand a little, and the grip tightened. He turned around and looked at his mother to know what to do. As he did so, he caught a curious look on his mother’s face. She was staring at her father with more hatred than he had ever seen on a face.
The breath came again. “Si-mon. My son. My Simon. My boy. My only boy.” The hand relaxed as though the exertion of these few words were finally too much.
The nurse leaned over and pulled back Sport’s hand. Then she put her hands on his shoulders. “There now, seen you he has, and very good it is too that he’s recognized you. Very good. Doesn’t it please you, son?” She turned him around with her fat, hard hands and looked at his face.
“Come on,” said Charlotte. She took his hand as though it were a dirty handkerchief. Again the rage, the hatred, seemed to flood her face. She seemed unable to control it.
I wonder if an hour is up, thought Sport, as they started toward the library. Halfway down the hall, his mother turned him around, put her hand under his chin, made him look at her.
“What did he want in there?” she asked. He looked at her stupidly. “Wilton. What did he ask you?” She wanted to know badly. He could smell how much she wanted to know.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Tell me, you little jerk.” She yanked his arm as though it were a leash.
“Nothing,” he said calmly.
She led him along the hall then, back into the library. As she opened the door, he almost shouted with relief because his father was standing there.
“I came back early,” said Mr. Rocque. “I’m just not too sure about this whole business.”
“Oh,” said Charlotte, “how’s Kate?” She dropped Sport’s hand, went over to the sideboard, and poured herself a drink.
“What?” said Mr. Rocque.
Sport went and stood by his father. Out of the corner of his eye he could feel Mr. Wilton watching him. I wish I had told Dad to wear a tie, he thought. He looked at Charlotte. She had been talking for some time, and he just tuned in on the end of it.
“… so it looks like you’re in for a windfall, Matthew. And from the looks of you, it’s about time.” She twisted her thin body into a chair.
“What is she talking about? Do you know?” Mr. Rocque turned to Mr. Wilton.
Mr. Wilton moved urbanely across to the bar. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to talk about this.” He fixed a drink in the silence that followed and then looked at Charlotte. “We all may be in for a few surprises, my dear. I wouldn’t jump before the horse does.”
Sport saw Charlotte hurtling a fence. He wanted to giggle. He wanted to run home and wash his mind out with soap.
“Come on, Sport,” said Mr. Rocque and turned Sport around with one hand. “I never did know what your mother was talking about.”
“That’s for sure,” said Charlotte. Sport stood with his back to her. He didn’t want to look at her ever again. He heard his father walk across to Mr. Wilton.
“Good-bye, James. Nice to have seen you again.”
“Good-bye, Matthew. You have a good little son there.”
“Thank you.” Sport could hear the pride in his father’s voice.
“Simon.” His mother’s voice hit the back of his neck like a razor blade. “Come here and say good-bye to your mother.”
“Good-bye, Charlotte,” said Mr. Rocque, and walking swiftly to Sport, he opened the great doors and pushed Sport out into the hall.
“God. He’ll never change,” came Charlotte’s voice as the doors closed.
Mr. Rocque stood a minute, his face tight. Looking at him, Sport thought, He wants to go back in there and smash her. If he does it, I’ll help him.
“Where’s your jacket, son? Ah, here …” Mr. Rocque said as Howard came around the corner holding the jacket like a dishrag.
He helped Sport into it and then nodded to Mr. Rocque. “When it happens, Howard…” said Mr. Rocque, “I wish you would call me first.”
“I will, sir,” said Howard, then with the faintest of bows he showed them to the door.
Once out into the air Sport looked around wildly for the car and, he realized with surprise, for Kate. The car was parked in front of a garage door with the largest sign Sport had ever seen saying emphatically NO PARKING. He ran to it, pulled open the door, and clambered into the backseat.
“Hi there,” said Kate. She smiled her wide smile. “Bet that was a barrel of laughs.”
“You know it,” said Sport.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.” He laughed from sheer freedom.
“Well, there’s this here old German-type restaurant …” said Kate, “… where I hear they got some knockwurst and sauerkraut….” She winked at Sport. “… and there’ll still be enough left over for the movie!”
Sport’s mouth fell open. “It’s no good, son,” said Mr. Rocque. “She’s part of the family already.” He looked at Kate with a simpering smile.
“What’s the movie?” asked Sport.
Mr. Rocque started the car. It bucked a few times and then roared down the street.
“I don’t know,” yelled Kate, “but let’s hope it’s not a drive-in. We’ll go right through the screen.”
CHAPTER
Six
The next morning Sport woke up to find that it was raining. Without getting out of bed, he turned his head and looked out the window. There was a mist from the direction of the river, and a branch from the backyard tree of life flapped mournfully against the pane. He watched the drops roll slowly. He thought, Gramps is dead.
Why did I think that? he asked himself sharply and looked up at the cracked ceiling. Maybe he is dying this very minute, and I’m the only one who knows it.
When will I die? Not until you are old, he remembered his father telling him, not until you are old and wise and very happy. He thought of himself dead, in a short casket because he was eleven, with only his father leaning over him and crying. The thought of his father crying was more horrible than the thought of his own death.
He got up, reached for his socks, and thought of his mother. His mother would be out of town for his funeral. It’s a wonder she wasn’t out of town for my birth, he thought with irritation; it’s a wonder she didn’t phone it in. Ever so much nicer, my dear, and so much more sanitary. He could hear her now.
The phone rang in the living room. He jumped up, then heard his father padding across the floor to get it. He stood still, holding his breath, listening.
“Yes?” said Mr. Rocque, then after a long pause, “Ah.” Probably the publisher, thought Sport, and reached for his other sock.
“I hadn’t intended to bring him there every day,” said Mr. Rocque. Sport stopped dressing and listened again.
“I don’t even know Aunt Carrie, Charlotte, why should he for heaven’s sakes?”
Oh, no, thought Sport, not again.
“All right, all right, but for God’s sake have them all there at once. I can’t keep dragging him over there…. I know he’s your child. Since he’s your child why don’t you think about what all this mess will do to him? Oh, rubbish …” Mr. Rocque slammed the phone down. Sport could hear him padding out to the kitchen, clattering around, starting to put the coffee on.
Sport pulled on his jeans, an old sweater, and, leaning over, tied his sneakers. I want to go ride my bike, he thought petulantly, or play ball with Seymour.
“What’s happening?” he asked as he came into the kitchen. His father looked up out of his early morning fog.
“Oh …” he began and turned the coffee down, “… your mother wants you to come over to the house and meet her sister.”
“What for?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Rats,” said Sport and sat down at the table.
“Rats, indeed,” said his father. “I think,” he said, putting some bread in the toaster, “that we’ll j
ust forget the whole thing.”
“Yeah?” said Sport, with a wide grin on his face.
“Yeah,” said his father and looked at Sport with a warm smile.
“Hey, great. I’m going out and play ball maybe.”
“It’s raining,” said his father absently, taking two burned pieces of toast out of the oven. “Well, I blew it,” he said, looking at the toast. He picked up the two pieces and started toward the garbage can.
“No. Wait,” said Sport. “We can save those.” He grabbed the two pieces, took a knife, and scraped off the burned part into the sink. He put each piece on a plate and showed his father.
“Good boy,” said his father. They started to eat. The phone rang again.
“Oh, no,” said Sport.
Mr. Rocque got up and answered it. “Listen here, Charlotte. Do you expect to call me every fifteen minutes?”
You’d think they were still married, thought Sport. You’d think she still owned him.
“I don’t give a knockwurst what time you want him there, because he’s not coming.”
Sport laughed and put some jam on his toast. The kitchen felt warm and cozy with the rain outside. He looked through the red-and-white checkered curtains, sewed haphazardly by an old girl friend of his father’s by the name of Mitzi something-or-other. A willow wept against the panes.
“… and if you think I am any kind of guy that would make my son even walk across the street to get one cent, then it didn’t do you a bit of good to be married to me.
I haven’t been listening, thought Sport. What money? What’s he talking about?
“Forget it, Charlotte. He’s got better things to do with his day.” There was a pause. “He doesn’t stand on street corners. What kind of a woman are you?”
Stand on street corners? Sport thought of the older guys on the block, standing on the corner, showing off new clothes, making jokes, yelling at girls. When I’m older, he thought, I’ll do that, me and Seymour and Harry.
His father yelled then, an outraged yell, the yell he usually reserved for his agent. “I’ve had it, Charlotte!” He banged the phone down so hard, Sport thought he had broken it.
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