They slowed down. Sport looked up at the building. It looked like a prison. Seymour saw him looking at the school and said, “It’s not bad. You oughta be glad it ain’t the nuns. One year I was with the nuns. Wow. You turn around wrong, they punch you in the nose.”
A small brown Puerto Rican boy came up to them and said, “Hey, Seymour, Harry, how’re they doing?”
“Big, man, big,” said Harry, laughing.
“Hows it?” said Seymour, laughing.
Sport wondered what they were laughing at. He decided they liked to talk this way because it didn’t make any sense. The boy stared at him. He stared back.
“How’s the pickle-grabber? Hey, Chi-chi, how’s the pickle-grabber?” asked Harry, laughing harder than ever.
“I’ll punch her right in the nose,” said Seymour, and the boy named Chi-chi laughed.
“She ain’t getting it today,” he said. “Yesterday she caught me by surprise.”
Sport rubbed his new shoe on the sidewalk.
Chi-chi nodded toward him and said to Harry, “Who’s the account executive?”
Harry laughed. “This is my friend Sport. He’s all right. He can’t help it his ol’ lady got him square clothes.”
“Yeah,” said Seymour. “This is Chi-chi, Sport.”
Sport nodded. Chi-chi nodded. They both looked off up York Avenue.
“What’s a pickle-grabber?” Sport asked Harry.
“Ah, this dumb girl. Every time she sees somebody’s got a pickle in their lunch bag, she steals it. She’s pickle-happy.”
“Yeah. Next time she does it to me, I’m gonna punch her right in the nose,” said Seymour with satisfaction.
“If you punched everybody in the nose you said you would,” said Chi-chi, slowly smiling, “we wouldn’t be able to walk for the bodies.”
Sport and Harry laughed. Harry stuck his hands in his belt, pushed it even lower on his hips, and stomped his boots. Some girls at the door were looking at him.
“You shut up,” said Seymour, “or I’ll punch you right in the nose.”
“Man, he’s a broken record,” said Chi-chi.
Seymour took a dive for Chi-chi, but Chi-chi ducked and Seymour went flying past.
“You gotta be quicker than that to get Chi-chi,” said Harry.
Seymour gritted his teeth and said nothing.
“He has to dodge all those dames at the Plaza. Ain’t nothing faster than Chi-chi when one of them’s after him. I saw him take a curve in one of them halls at eighty miles an hour.”
“And with a tray,” said Chi-chi, laughing.
“You work at the Plaza?” asked Sport.
“Yeah,” said Chi-chi, turning beautiful brown eyes on Sport. “I’m a busboy there after school and on weekends.”
Seymour seemed to have forgotten his anger. “You make a lotta loot, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah, specially off room service.” He had a slow, soft way of talking. “Gotta be fast, though. Some of them ol’ ladies gets mighty lonely.”
Harry laughed. A bell rang. Everyone turned toward the door. Sport felt his stomach drop. Harry and Seymour moved ahead. Sport went slowly. Chi-chi dropped back and said to him, “You have the first class with me. The teacher’s a goon, but not mean. Stick next to me. We’ll get seats together.”
Sport felt grateful. They were all crushed in the doorway as the whole school seemed to arrive at once and pushed to get through the door.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
Sport found the new school much easier than the old one. He seemed to be having, in the seventh grade, the same things he had had in the sixth grade at the Gregory School. More than once during the week that followed, he was glad that he didn’t have a lot of homework to do because his father and Kate were in such a flutter about the wedding that he wouldn’t have been able to do it anyway. Sport was in a flutter about what the wedding was going to cost.
“Stop worrying,” said his father.
“But you didn’t even give me your royalty check to deposit,” said Sport.
“I don’t know how to break this to you, son,” said Mr. Rocque, laughing and winking at Kate, “but you’re fired.”
“What does that mean?” asked Sport.
“Kate is going to manage all the money in this household from now on.” Mr. Rocque looked proudly at Kate. “She’s very good at it.”
“Yeah?” said Sport. Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t, he thought. Anybody would be better than you. “But is there enough for all these plans you’re making?” asked Sport. He had listened in horror for four days to plans for vintage champagne, kegs of beer, cases of whiskey, lavish buffets.
“No,” said Kate. “We’re not going to have all that. We decided last night. There’s no reason for all that. My friends won’t expect it and neither will Matthew’s. We’re going to have a keg of beer and a lot of marvelous sandwiches, an enormous loaf of pumpernickel, and lots of cold cuts. Everybody can make whatever they want.”
Sport thought of his father’s friends. They had always looked like a grubby lot to him.
“They’ll be glad to get it,” said Mr. Rocque. “I know for sure the last time Pete Rastoff ate was on Thursday at that exhibit that crazy rich wig gave. He called me up and described it to me. They had caviar and cold lobster. Pete called up all his friends and in three minutes the whole table was empty.”
“She sell any paintings?” asked Kate.
“Of course not. Shouldn’t have either; they were terrible.”
“Don’t you think you better feed him again before he’s best man?” asked Sport.
“He might just keel over,” said Kate.
“Pete? No, hell do everything just right because he’ll know he’ll eat afterward.”
“Did you decide where you’re going after the wedding?” asked Sport.
“Out to Long Island,” said Mr. Rocque.
“Out where Harriet goes for the summer? Water Mill?” asked Sport. He had visited Harriet for a weekend every summer.
“Out that way, but not so far. Closer to the city. Place called Quogue.”
“Frog?” said Sport.
“Quogue, Q,” said Kate. She laughed. “I am going back to my own apartment,” said Kate. “I’ve got a million things to do before tomorrow.” She leaned over and kissed the top of Mr. Rocque’s head. She put on her coat. “Now, have we got all the plans straight?” she asked, looking at them both.
“We should by now,” said Mr. Rocque. “We’ve talked about it enough.”
“Okay. Let’s just go over it once more,” said Kate. “Sport, what do you do?”
“I get him up in time and make sure he gets on the right clothes.”
“Right.”
“Then I call Pete to make sure he’s up. Then Pete picks him up.”
“Right.”
“Then what?” said Kate to Mr. Rocque.
“I forget.”
“You pick me up, you big dope,” said Kate, swinging her purse at him. “Who’re you gonna many, Pete?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Mr. Rocque, smiling and rubbing his head. “We pick you up, then we pick up Marion, and then we go get married.” He looked proudly at Kate.
“Ask him in the morning if he remembers, okay, Sport?” said Kate.
“Okay,” said Sport. “Who’s Marion?”
“My friend,” said Kate. “You’ll like her. Now, Sport, what do you do while we’re gone?”
“Answer the door for the men from the delicatessen. Help them set up the food and put the glasses out and ice. Then answer the door for the guests.”
“Right. In your pajamas?”
“Oh, yeah, I get dressed first, in my best suit.”
“Right,” said Kate. “And not the funeral one either. And here, here’s a present for you, I almost forgot.” She opened her purse and pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper. Sport opened it up.
“Hey, neat,” he said and pulled out a red tie with white polka dots all over it. It looked like one o
f Harry’s ties. “Great,” he said to Kate. “Thanks.”
“Wear that with your gray suit and a blue shirt and nobody will be able to resist you,” said Kate. “I’m going now. If anybody forgets what they have to do, just call.”
Mr. Rocque got up and went out into the hall with her a minute. Sport put his tie in his room. “Hey,” he yelled, running to the door. “I forgot to tell you. I invited Harriet. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” said Mr. Rocque.
“Ask some more friends, if you like, Sport,” said Kate, smiling. “There’ll be plenty of Cokes and things. Anyway, you’ll be happier.”
“Thanks,” said Sport wildly and ran inside to the phone to call up Seymour, Harry, and Chi-chi.
His father was reading the paper when he came back into the room.
“They’re all coming,” said Sport.
“Good,” said his father, looking over the paper. “You look like you wish you hadn’t asked them.”
Sport shook his head. He looked at his sneakers. “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t go there for the week.”
“Come on, Sport. We’ve been all through this.”
“Why don’t you stay home? Even Long Island’s going to cost something. I don’t think we can afford it.”
“Sport…” His father put down the paper. “… you don’t seem to understand. You’ve inherited a lot of money.”
“I understand, but I don’t see any of it, and with Kate gonna live here and all, we need more money, Dad.”
Mr. Rocque laughed. “We haven’t seen any yet, it’s true, and the estate will take a long time to settle, but Wilton said they’d be able to start paying some of the income right away. The bank does that. He told me to call him when I got back from the Island and tell him how much we need to live on.”
“What are you gonna tell him?”
“I don’t know yet. I thought I’d talk to Kate about it.”
Sport felt left out. “Why don’t you talk to me about it? I know how much we live on.”
“What we live on now doesn’t have anything to do with it, because Wilton said we should get another apartment. Also … I haven’t brought this up before … but your mother wants you put in another school.”
“What for? What’s wrong with this one?”
“Nothing. I’m … we’re discussing it. It hasn’t been decided yet.”
Sport got up and went into his room and slammed the door. He sat down on the bed. The whole blanking thing is a mess, he thought savagely, grinding his teeth. I just get to the point where I’m in the new school and…
“Sport, come on. I’m getting married in the morning. I’m scared to death.” His father was outside the door.
Sport opened the door.
“Come on, be a good old thing,” said his father. “I’m a wreck tonight.”
“Okay,” said Sport.
“You want to talk about it some time?”
“No.”
“Good,” said his father, obviously relieved. “Get a good night’s sleep.
“Sure.”
His father turned away. Sport shut the door, took off his clothes, and got into bed. “Something is all wrong, something is one big blanking mess,” he said over and over until he fell asleep.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
The next morning, Sport woke up terribly early. He got out of bed, looked at the clock, and saw that it was six thirty. He got back into bed and then remembered that it was the day of his father’s wedding.
He huddled under the sheets to get warm. Everything will be different after today, he thought pleasantly, and then he remembered that everything was a blanking mess, that he had to spend a whole week with his mother, that he might have to go to a new school.
After a minute he thought he’d better get up and make the coffee. If he didn’t get his father up by nine, he would never be able to leave the house by twelve. His father took hours to wake up, and two pots of coffee.
He got up and went into the kitchen. He noticed as he had before how clean everything had gotten since Kate came. He got out the coffeepot. There was a piece of paper inside. He opened it up and read:
Dear Sport,
Let’s hope this is the last pot of coffee you’ll ever have to make.
I love you,
Kate
Sport smiled. It made him feel good. He made the coffee and went back to his room. He put on some jeans and his sweater, then went to his desk. He opened a drawer with a key. Taking out some large fat books, he put them on top of the desk. He ran his hand over the tops of them as though he were patting a puppy.
Next he went to the bottom drawer of his bureau and took out a small paper bag. Out of this he took out a small spool of white ribbon.
He went over to his desk and tied all of the fat books with the white ribbon. He stood back and looked at it. The bow looked kind of lopsided. He wrote a card and attached this to the ribbon with Scotch tape. Then he took the whole thing and hid it in the drawer that locked.
The coffee was perking as he came into the kitchen. He turned it down and went to wake up his father. He didn’t knock on the door but just went in.
His father was spread all over the bed; one long pajamaed leg was completely out of the bed with the foot stuck in the wastebasket. He lay on his back and his mouth was open.
Sport said, “Dad?”
“Gruuumph.”
“Dad? It’s morning.”
“What?” Mr. Rocque looked down. “Oh. Oh, yeah,” he said abstractedly and climbed off the bed. He sat down and picked up a sock. “Coffee ready?” he said through a yawn.
“Yeah. You’re getting married, remember?”
“What?” yawned his father. And then he heard him. “Oh, my God,” he said loudly and jumped up. “What time is it?”
Sport laughed. “You got time. Take it easy The coffee’s ready. Come on and drink it.”
Mr. Rocque looked sheepish. “Oh? Okay,” he said dreamily, and having put on two different-colored socks, he weaved into the kitchen.
Sport took out the milk and poured himself a glass. He drank it looking at his father over the rim. I’ll be glad, he thought, I’ll be glad when Kate lives here all the time. I won’t have to make the coffee, or clean the rooms, or keep the books, or anything.
Sport went back to work, and had the vacuuming done by the time his father finished a second pot of coffee. “You better take your shower now,” he reminded him.
His father jumped up and, without looking right or left, tore into the bathroom.
Sport watched him and shook his head. “He doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going,” he said to the empty room. “A regular dingbat,” he added, using a word Chi-chi used to describe the ladies of the Plaza who were crazy.
He started in to clean the kitchen. After he had been scrubbing about ten minutes, he heard his father tear out of the shower. He gave an agonized yell from his bedroom. “Sport!”
Sport went down the hall, turned off the shower, and went into his fathers room. Mr. Rocque stood in the middle of his room staring in consternation at a white shirt he held in his hands.
“No buttons,” he whispered frantically to Sport. He looked as though he would cry.
“Never mind,” said Sport, going to the bottom drawer of the bureau.
“Never mind?” squeaked Mr. Rocque.
Sport took out two new white shirts and a pile of new underwear. “Kate bought these for you. She thought this might happen. She told me not to tell you until this morning.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Rocque helplessly.
“She bought two because she said you might spill something on one.”
“I have spilled something on the tie I thought I would wear.”
“She bought a tie, too,” said Sport calmly and handed it to him.
“What an angel she is,” said Mr. Rocque sappily.
“Get dressed,” said Sport. He went back to the kitchen. “She’s su
re getting some prize of a husband,” he said to himself. “A regular dingbat.”
After a while Sport went in and called Pete Rastoff who was, surprisingly, awake. “I even ate something,” he said happily.
Mr. Rocque was finally ready. He surveyed himself proudly in the mirror. Sport looked him over. Everything looked just right, the handkerchief, the tie. “Dad!” he screamed. “You forgot to shave!”
“Oh, drat,” said Mr. Rocque. Sport helped him off with his jacket and his shirt. He rushed in and shaved. He rushed back out again and Sport helped him put his shirt and jacket back on.
“Now what?” said Mr. Rocque, looking at himself nervously in the mirror.
“Now you get married,” said Sport. He brushed him off and shoved him toward the door. “Pete’s going to be right downstairs,” he said, opening the door.
“How do you know?” asked Mr. Rocque vaguely.
The doorbell rang. “There he is,” said Sport. “Now get on.”
Mr. Rocque went obediently down the steps.
“Whew,” said Sport after he had listened to hear if Mr. Rocque went out the front door. “So far, so good.”
At two o’clock the delicatessen men arrived. They brought a folding table, set it up, filled it to overflowing with plates of food, tapped the keg of beer, and set up the bar.
At two thirty the guests started arriving. Sport answered the door, the man behind the bar gave them glasses of beer, and the man behind the table gave them food. The room was soon full.
Seymour, Harry, and Chi-chi arrived after school.
“Geez,” said Seymour.
“Looka the food,” said Harry.
“Hey, can we have a beer?” asked Seymour.
“No,” said the man behind the bar, “here.” He handed them Cokes. They started eating enormous plates of food.
“Hey, Sport,” said Harry, “you look sharp.”
Sport grinned.
“Whyncha eat?” asked Seymour.
“He’s got the dingbats,” said Chi-chi.
“What?” said Harry, leaning around a man with a beard coming back for his fourth pastrami sandwich.
“Nerves,” said Chi-chi. “Not every day your old man gets married, right?”
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