“Put an overcoat on him,” said Charlotte loudly.
“Certainly, madam,” cooed the Squinter and pushed Sport into a booth.
“Underwear,” Sport could hear Charlotte say loudly through the curtain.
After the suits were fitted, Sport tried on two overcoats and Charlotte decided on both.
The pile of clothes on the counter was immense, and both the Squinter and the blond man looked happy. “Send them all except one white shirt and the black suit, which my chauffeur will pick up after lunch.”
Sport followed his mother to the elevator.
“There,” said Charlotte, pulling on her gloves. “Now for a very cold martini.” For some reason this made her look at Sport and smile. She seemed suddenly relaxed.
“Are you going to stay in America?” said Sport quickly, hoping to catch her in a receptive mood.
“Here’s the elevator,” said Charlotte and they walked in.
Even when she’s happy she doesn’t hear me, thought Sport. Maybe I don’t talk loud enough.
“Are you going to stay in America?” he said in a great booming voice.
“Sssh,” said Charlotte. The elevator was full of people. When it got to the main floor she took his arm and shoved him.
“Don’t talk loud in elevators,” she hissed in his ear. “You sound like a Jew.”
“Oh, for Gods sake,” yelled Sport, but she was already ahead of him going out the door.
CHAPTER
Eleven
The funeral was at eleven o’clock the next morning. At ten Sport was in his new suit. Kate turned him around and around in admiration. He grinned, embarrassed. She held him off for a last look and said, “I was going to say, you’ll knock ‘em dead, but I guess that’s not appropriate, is it?”
“A little too close,” said Mr. Rocque, coming into the living room.
“My, you don’t look half bad yourself,” said Kate.
“It’s not exactly a new suit,” said Mr. Rocque, rubbing his head and grinning in a lopsided way.
“It’s exactly eight years old,” said Sport.
“That would make you three when he bought it. How can you remember that?” asked Kate as she straightened Mr. Rocque’s tie and brushed off his jacket.
“I don’t,” said Sport. “I just remember that three years ago when he wanted to buy a new one he said it was five years old.”
“How long have you been handling his finances?” asked Kate, looking at Sport with a curious expression.
“He leaped from the womb with a ledger,” said Mr. Rocque.
“Lucky for you,” said Kate. “Where would you be today without him?”
“Ah, but where would he be without me?” said Mr. Rocque.
They laughed at his serious face. “Come on, now. We’ve got to be going.”
“I thought it wasn’t until eleven,” said Kate. She looked sad.
“Oh, poor darling,” said Mr. Rocque. “She gets a Saturday off and what do we do? Go off to a jolly funeral and leave her all alone.”
“What do we have to do there?” asked Sport. I don’t know what to do at a funeral, he thought. I hope I don’t have to look at any corpse. Seymour said you have to look at the corpse.
“You just stick right next to me and do what I do,” said Mr. Rocque. “Come on, let’s go.”
Kate waved at them from the top of the stairs. Sport looked down at his new suit. It must have cost a lot, he thought. I hope I see Harry. I’ll show him.
They took a cab to the funeral parlor, for which Sport was thankful. Going to a funeral was bad enough, but being driven there by Mr. Rocque would have been worse.
“It’s in a funeral parlor instead of a church because Mr. Vane hated churches,” said Mr. Rocque on the way over. “There will be a short service, and then we’ll go in limousines to the cemetery. Charlotte didn’t even want me along, of course, but I said that if I weren’t there, I wouldn’t let you come.”
“Gee, yeah,” said Sport, thinking in horror of going alone.
“Now there’s one thing,” said Mr. Rocque and hesitated. “The casket will be closed, except for the family.”
“What does that mean?” asked Sport.
“If the family wishes to view the body before the services, it may. The casket will then be closed,” Mr. Rocque said uncomfortably.
“You mean look at a dead body?” said Sport loudly.
“Well, that’s why I wanted to tell you this before we got there. It’s going to come up, so I wanted to know how you felt about it.”
“How do you feel about it?” asked Sport weakly.
“I think it’s barbaric,” said Mr. Rocque. “On the other hand, it’s an experience you’ve never had. Not that I think every experience is valuable, by any means.”
“I don’t want to see any body,” said Sport.
“Okay. That’s settled. You won’t.”
They arrived at the funeral home. A large crowd was gathered in front, and long black limousines were parked at the curb in front and around the corner. Sport began to shake. Mr. Rocque paid the cab driver and they got out.
As they were going in, Sport saw Charlotte and Carrie get out of the car. Egbert held the door open as they swept out, both covered in black veils.
They went in. The front room was cool. A man in a brown suit with pimples on his face ushered them into a little room. The lights were very low, and Sport couldn’t see anything at first. Then, across a length of sea-green carpet, past great wreaths of white flowers, he saw an open casket. He grabbed his father’s hand.
The door opened noiselessly, and Charlotte and Carrie came in. They looked like a spook movie.
Charlotte stuck out a black glove at Mr Rocque as though she’d just met him. The black lump that was Carrie waddled over and stuck out its black glove. A sniffle came out from under her veil. They floated past and into the room that had the body.
Sport watched as they stood a few minutes, leaning against each other and looking down. Charlotte’s shoulders started to shake under the black veil. Carrie clutched her arm.
The door opened silently. It’s like a ship, thought Sport, with an underwater pressure-cabin. The pimply man in the brown suit glided in and whispered something in Mr. Rocque’s ear. Mr. Rocque was already going out the door.
Sport stood not knowing what to do with his hands.
Carrie suddenly glided over to him, swiftly took his hand, and pulled him into the other room. Before he knew what was happening to him, he was looking down at a yellow wax image of Grandfather Vane with his teeth in. It doesn’t look like him, he thought, as one would say of a bad portrait. Carrie was wringing his hand in her own clammy one and snuffling. He looked at the long hands, folded, the neat suit. Who tied the tie? he wondered.
Mr. Rocque came into the room, was across the floor in two bounds, jerked Sport’s hand out of Carrie’s, propelled him across the floor and out the door into another room. Carrie and Charlotte followed.
This room was better lighted. It was a small chapel with an altar and candles. All four of them were ushered into seats behind a kind of latticework partition, through which they could see the services but not be seen by the other mourners. The chapel began to fill.
Music started. Charlotte started to cry. Carrie cried even louder. Mr. Rocque looked straight ahead at nothing. Sport did the same. All he could think of was that wax doll in the box.
The minister began to speak. He droned on and on. Sport didn’t hear a word he said. He thought of Grandfather Vane and how he had liked him.
It was finally over, and the people in the chapel moved out one door as the four of them moved out another. They found themselves on the street being ushered into a limousine.
Charlotte said once, “Can I smoke?”
Carrie said, “Better not.”
The long black car pulled away like a ship gliding away from dock. It didn’t make any noise at all. No one made any noise. Sport began to itch all over.
They went out
on the Long Island Expressway. No one spoke for the entire ride. They pulled into the cemetery. Winding back through it, the car stopped in front of a small pavilion which had been erected next to a mound of dirt. People were running around setting up flowers. The pallbearers stood around next to the car from the funeral home. The four of them sat in the car until the pallbearers had hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders and then onto a rack which was suspended over the open grave.
They then got out of the car and started up a steep little hill. Mr. Rocque helped Carrie and Sport try to stand up to get away from Charlotte, who was leaning on his arm.
When they sat down in front of the grave, Sport realized that the seats were on such a slant that it was impossible to stay on them. He just slid off. He slid into Charlotte, who started sliding toward Carrie. Mr. Rocque put out his foot to stop them all, and Charlotte gave Sport a look through her veil. It’s a good thing we’re going sideways, thought Sport, or we’d all end up in the grave.
The minister was droning again. He droned for what seemed like two hours and then he stopped. They all got up and went into the car again, the other people waiting until they had gone by. The car started off.
Charlotte threw off her veil. “That’s that,” she said with a great sigh of relief as she lit a cigarette. The expression on her face was the first thing Sport had ever liked about her.
“A beautiful funeral,” said Carrie. “Simply beautiful.”
“Hmmmm,” said Mr. Rocque.
“Wasn’t it lovely, dear?” said Carrie, looking through her veil at Sport.
“Peachy,” said Sport.
“What?” said Carrie.
Mr. Rocque gave Sport a look.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Sport.
“Oh, I thought it was just lovely,” continued Carrie. “They certainly do a good job.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Rocque.
“And such nice-looking people they hire,” said Carrie.
Sport thought of the pimply man in the brown suit.
“And such a lovely cemetery.” Carrie gave a sigh of pleasure.
You’d think she’d been to a Broadway show, thought Sport.
No one said anything then until they got back to the funeral home.
“My car is waiting,” said Charlotte. She and Carrie got out. “We can drop you,” she said, sticking her head back into the window.
“No, thank you,” said Mr. Rocque, scrambling out. Sport got out as fast as he could.
Mr. Rocque hailed a cab and they jumped in. He gave the address and then leaned back and let out an enormous sigh. “Jesus,” he said finally.
“Yeah,” said Sport.
“Hey, son.” Mr. Rocque sat up and slapped Sport on the knee. “How would you like to go out to dinner?”
“Have we got any money?” asked Sport.
“Yes,” said Mr. Rocque.
“How much?” asked Sport.
“Oh, thirty million,” said Mr. Rocque and laughed. “No, seriously, I got my royalty check today.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sport felt happy.
“Maybe we could go to that great Chinese restaurant on East End,” said Mr. Rocque.
“That’s expensive,” said Sport in a worried voice.
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Rocque. He looked at Sport. “The least you can carry away from all this mess is the feeling that you don’t have to worry about money.”
I haven’t seen any money yet, thought Sport, and until I do, I won’t believe it.
“Well,” said Mr. Rocque, “Monday you start school.”
“Yeah. A new one, too.” Sport thought of all the people he had gone to school with at the Gregory School. Pinky Whitehead, Harriet Welsch, Janie Gibbs, Beth Ellen Hansen. They were mostly girls because the Gregory School was a girls’ school, but boys were allowed to attend through the sixth grade. Sport was going into the seventh grade and so he was going to public school this year. Seymour and Harry would be in his class. He wondered if it would be easier or harder than the other school and whether he would make friends or not.
“And then next weekend, we’ve got a big weekend coming up,” said Mr. Rocque with obvious joy in his voice.
“Yeah, what?”
“Kate and I are getting married next weekend.”
CHAPTER
Twelve
On Monday Sport started off for school. He and his father and Kate had gone out to the Chinese restaurant on Saturday night. On Sunday they had made plans for the wedding, which was on Friday. Kate and his father would be married at City Hall and then come back to the apartment for a party. His father had invited all his friends and Kate had invited all hers.
The only thing bad about the whole thing was that on Saturday his father and Kate were going to the beach for a week, and Sport would have to stay with his mother. He had already decided that if he didn’t like it, he would sneak back to the apartment and live alone. He had done it once before when his father had had to be out of town, and he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He had told his father that last night, but his father had said that it was for the best because the quicker Charlotte got a dose of having a kid around, the quicker she’d leave town.
Sport walked along East End Avenue. His school was down at Seventy-eighth and York, but he was early and he thought he would walk past the Gregory School to say hello.
As he passed Harriet Welsch’s house on the corner of Eighty-seventh and East End, he saw her coming out the front door.
“Hey, Harriet!” he yelled.
“Hey, Sport!” she shouted, and ran down the steps. “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind? They won’t let boys in this year.”
“I know it.” Sport laughed. “My school’s down at Seventy-eighth. I just walked this way.”
They fell into step together. Harriet looked him over.
“That’s some suit you’ve got,” she said finally.
“Thanks,” said Sport and felt proud.
“I wish you were coming to school this year,” said Harriet quietly Sport looked at her. Harriet usually never said things like that. Maybe she was changing.
“Yeah. I wish I was, too. What’s new? You away for the summer?”
“Yeah. Wow, did a lot happen, too. That Beth Ellen is something.”
“Was she out there too?”
“Yeah. Crazy, mad thing she is. What’s new with you?”
“Well, my father’s getting married,” said Sport.
“WHAT???” Harriet stopped and stared at him. “You’re kidding!”
“No.” Sport laughed. “It’s true.”
Harriet opened the notebook she always carried with her and wrote down this piece of information.
“Not that Zen Buddhist…” said Harriet, closing her notebook and looking at him, “… who turned out to be a belly dancer?”
“No,” said Sport, and laughed at the memory of Kiki, the belly dancer. “This one’s nice,” he said.
“I’ve heard that before,” said Harriet.
“No, she really is, honest,” said Sport. “Want to come to the wedding?”
“SURE!!” said Harriet. She opened her notebook and wrote again. “When is it?”
“Next Friday,” said Sport. “Come to the reception afterward at the house, after school.”
“Sure!” said Harriet, slamming her notebook.
As they crossed Eighty-sixth Street, Harriet said, “Hey, there’s Seymour and Harry.”
Seymour and Harry were walking toward them. They stopped to let them catch up.
“Hey, creep,” said Seymour, “we were coming to pick you up.”
“Hey there, what are those rags?” said Harry, pinching Sport’s suit. “You look like Madison Avenue, man.”
“Hi, Harriet,” said Seymour.
Sport looked at Harry’s tight pants very low on his hips, his high boots. I don’t look that hip, he thought. I look like a banker. Seymour had on a plaid shirt, an old sweater, and blue jeans.
They all
walked together down East End toward the Gregory School.
“Look at all the little snot girls going into school,” said Harry, rolling an eye at Harriet, hoping to irritate her. He shot his long legs out in front of him when he walked, admiring his boots.
“Whew,” said Seymour, “I could punch ‘em all in the nose.”
“Hey, there’s Janie,” said Sport, and yelled at her.
“Hey, Janie,” said Harriet.
Janie was just going into school. She looked them over, gave a terrible grin, and walked inside without saying anything.
“What’s eating her?” asked Sport.
“She hates boys this year. She’s going through something. Can’t stand the sight of them,” Harriet said, writing furiously in her notebook.
“Who needs her?” said Harry.
“I could punch her right in the nose,” said Seymour.
“Hi, Sport,” said a funny little voice.
Looking around, Sport said, “Hi, Beth Ellen.”
“Hi, Beth,” said Harriet, not looking up from her notebook. The three boys stood looking alternately at Beth Ellen and at the sidewalk.
“How was your summer?” said Beth Ellen politely to Sport.
“Huh? Swell,” said Sport.
“Come on,” said Harriet suddenly to Beth Ellen and pushed her into school.
Beth Ellen looked back shyly and waved at Sport. All three boys waved back. They started off again down East End.
“Now there’s a chick,” said Harry. “A chick and a half.”
“Yeah,” said Seymour.
“She’s something else,” said Harry.
“Yeah,” said Seymour. “Whynchu introduce us?” he said to Sport. “I coulda punched you right in the nose.”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “There we are standing there.”
“Huh?” said Sport. “Oh, I didn’t think of it.”
Seymour gave him a push. “Such a punch I’ll give you,” he said, laughing.
Sport pushed him back. They all began punching and pushing and then they started to race each other to school. Harry won because his legs were longer. Sport was next and then Seymour, who was inclined to be a little fat and puffed a lot when he ran.
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