"Here comes one of them now," Lutie said.
"Oh, Christ!" Jonas groaned. He stomped to the terrace door, then his face split into a jovial smile. "Mawnin' Mistah Sullivan suh. Lubbly mawnin', suh. What'll it be? Kin ah fix you a nice aig?" A tip was a tip.
Claire did up the six buttons which made her trousers cling smartly around the calf. These trousers were far and away the newest thing. A famous designer had adapted them from the pant worn by Cypriote goatherds. They were much tighter than toreador trousers and infinitely smarter. Next year, of course, everybody would be wearing them—even women who shouldn't—but right now they were exclusive with Claire's firm and practically exclusive with Claire. She smoothed down her blouse, adapted by the same famous designer, from a Portuguese vintner's smock; adjusted the bracelet adapted from an Indo-Chinese handcuff; and thrust her long, lean feet into thong sandals adapted from a pair in a Vun der Weyden drawing of Jesus. Claire had doubts about the sandals. There was a rumor along upper Fifth that they'd already been copied, strap for strap, in the two-ninety-five market. Even so, the costume was indescribably smart. Snatching up her purse—an adaptation of a cuissar's rucksack—she made her fashionable way down the stairs.
She was disappointed to find only Joe Sullivan at breakfast. If there was anything she disliked it was these simple, sullen men who had absolutely no small talk. He was probably nobody, but then you couldn't be sure. A lot of very smart men nowadays were affecting this tough, taciturn Abe Lincolnish sort of act—she did hope that it wouldn't last—and besides, you can catch more flies with . . . "Good morning," Claire said in her loveliest gracious lady voice. "Isn't it heavenly out here today? Of course, I adore town, but I must say that for a change—just over weekends, you know—there's nothing like the country. Don't you find that here in the East we tend to . . “
"I wouldn't know," Joe said, putting his coffee cup down with a thump. "I'm from the middle west, myself."
"But, of course. So am I. An old Chicago girl. I used to know downs of Sullivans all up and down the Drive. Then there were the Astor Street Sullivans and the Walton Place Sullivans and the . . . just café noir for me, please."
"I've only been to Chicago once in my life," Joe said belligerently. "I was five years old and it was to see the World's Fair. All I remember is the Sky Ride and the Flying Turns and getting sick from frozen custard. I come from a little town in Indiana. You've probably never even heard of it. It's called Mooseheart. It's about thirty miles from Bloomington."
Claire looked not only blank but stunned. So now Joe let her really have it.
"Well, I guess you've never heard of Bloomington, either. The university's there. They have Parsifal every year on Good Friday. It's pretty well known."
Claire rapidly collected her thoughts. It did seem to her that there was a firm named something like Parsifal that put out moderate-priced sports things. "Oh, yes. Parsifal. Rahther good lines."
"Rather tiresome libretto, I think," Joe said sadistically. "Or maybe you've heard of Kinsey. You know, sex. He's at the university, too. I went there."
Claire's jaw sagged.
"Well, anyhow," Joe went on—now he forced his voice to rasp, "'Pop's the principal at Mooseheart High and Mom teaches piano when she feels like it." Then, out of cold fury, Joe went into complete fiction, "But Mom's got dropsy something terrible. Can't hardly take care of the hogs no more and she's worried sick about my kid sister, Pearl"—Joe was an only child—"who's in the reform school now because she was caught selling cocaine to the steel workers in Gary. Pearl's gotta have her baby right in the sick ward of the home for delinquent girls and she's only fourteen, but Mom said that she was just thirteen when I was born and later, when Pop married her . . ."
"Excuse me," Claire said. She swayed from the table into the cool dark library. He's kidding, she told herself. Of course he's, kidding. What would he be doing here if . . . Then she pressed her hands hard into her temples. I've got to find Paul. I've got to find him right away. I can't stand any more poor people—uncouth, horrid . . . Claire raced out of the front door. She was conscious of just two things—seeking Paul and avoiding Joe. Claire knew nothing of the grounds surrounding the house. Only instinct guided her. So that Joe couldn't possibly see her, she ran behind the boxwood hedge, oblivious to the deep scratch her arm received as she brushed past it. She ran and ran, the straps of her sandals digging deep into the flesh of her feet. At last, breathless, she reached the edge of the cliff. Below her lay the beach, populated by nice people—by people of grace and means and charm and security. Paul stood ankle-deep in the water.
"Paul!" Claire shouted. "Paul!"
Every head turned. The only people who seemed oblivious to her were John Burgess and Kathy out on the raft. "Good morning, Miss Devine," Mrs. Ames called.
"Ah, the lovely Claire. Claire de lune," Mr. Pruitt began. "Dites moi . . .”
"What a cunning little outfit! Felicia, do look, darling . . "
"Paul!" Claire called.
Paul Ames turned and rushed across the sand.
"Paul," Mrs. Ames cried, "don't go up on the lawn before you change!" Then she wondered what asininity ever made her say such a foolish thing.
In a bound he was up the cliff and at Claire's side.
"What is it, darling?" he breathed.
"Paul. Come. I've got to see you!” Claire, sobbing, pulled him after her. They dashed across the garden and into the forest, Paul's wet bathing trunks flapping at his sides. Her nails digging into his thin wrist, Claire dragged him behind her until she dropped onto the ground. He fell at her side and she wound her arms around his neck and wept into his sharp collarbone. "Paul, Paul," she sobbed. "I've looked everyplace for you . . . I wanted you so . . . so terribly bad . . . I thought you . . . I had to . . ." Her throat contracted and she could say no more. She simply lay miserably on a gnarled root sobbing in Paul's arms.
Once—just once—before had she ever cried so. It was when she was a little girl at nursery school. Mom was supposed to call for her at six, after the store closed. But they were taking inventory at the store and the woman who ran the nursery school had told Claire that she'd have to spend the night up in the dormitory. The dun-colored walls, the coarse sheets, the pervasive odor of urine had terrified Claire. She'd bitten her tongue to keep from shrieking until Mom arrived at half-past ten in her black crepe dress and her easy-payments Persian lamb coat, smelling of Evening in Paris perfume. Then Claire had broken down. She'd clung to Mom like life itself; buried her face into the tight, kinky Persian pelt, wet with snow and her own tears. "Don't be so silly, honey," Mom had said in her tired voice. "Nothing's gonna hurt my little girl. Now c'mon, honey. Get dressed and well go to the chink's for some chow mein. Then we'll hop on the El an' go home and everything’ll be all comfy-cosy for my little princess.”
"Paul, oh, Paul," she sighed
"My God, Claire. Claire, I love you more than anything else in the world. Do you hear me, Claire? I want you to marry me. I want you to marry me right away. Claire!" His lips pressed against hers and he kissed her for a long, long time.
Hungrily Claire kissed him back. Heedless of her mouth so carefully applied with a sable brush, Claire devoured Paul's lips. Comforted and secure once more, Claire let her head fall back. She took a deep breath and sighed. Everything was all right once again, Gradually she came back to life. How terribly thin Paul was—skin and bones, really. Well, that was all to the good. Thin people wore their clothes so much better. I suppose I can bring him around to dressing really well, she thought. His chest was awfully hairy, too. Claire felt a faint wave of distaste. On Gary Cooper, of course, that was smart—that long torso and the bearskin rug for a chest—but with so many good depilatories on the market . . . Paul kissed her again and held her tightly to the chest she was really beginning to find repugnant.
“. . . didn't you ever tell me before?” Paul was saying. "I've been going crazy just wanting . . ."
I'm making four thousand, Claire thought, I
suppose he makes five or six and there must be some sort of private income. We could live . . .
". . . buy you a ring as soon as we get back to town, but in the meantime just wear this." Paul took off his signet ring and slipped it onto Claire's finger.
"Oh, Paul darling," Claire said with a silvery laugh. She was composed once again, thank God. "It's miles too big. But I'll wear it on my big finger. See, that fits. It's rather smart, too. Ludmilla What's-her-name—you know, she's that beautiful Czechoslovakian star at the Met—wears a big gold ring on her index finger. She can't get it off, either, and it's the envy of . . . "
"Claire, please darling, please don't . . ." Paul's face fell against hers. "Claire, I love you so much that I . . "
"Paul, we've got to get up. Just look at me. I'm covered with bugs and old leaves and . . . Oh, heavens, I've scratched myself hideously and I'll bet my face is a perfect sight and . . . Really, I don't know what your mother must think of me." She laughed prettily. "A fine daughter-in-law I’ll make if I don't fix myself up and go right down and apologize for the way I've carried on. Now, Paul, let me up this minute—please, darling."
11: Tennis
Joe Sullivan exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke through his nose and ground his cigarette out into the ashtray. He felt a sadistic satisfaction as he watched Claire's flat rump switch through the French doors.
"Serves the scrawny little snob right," he whispered. Then he poured another cup of coffee, burning his hand on the silver pot. "Silver!" Joe sneered. He hastily reflected that there was a silver service back home in Mooseheart which stood unused on the sideboard. "But they use it," he growled. He poured a lot of cream into his coffee and plunked in three sugar lumps because he felt that black coffee was an affectation of the upper classes. He tasted the pale confection. It was awful. He wished he'd told the Devine snob that Pop was a hopeless lush and beat Mom every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Then Joe felt guilty. Pop was a school principal and Mom did give music lessons when she felt like it. That was true. Nothing to be ashamed of—something to be proud of. They were educated people, even if they did come from a place nobody ever heard of.
Pop was co-author of a social science book which was used at Exeter. They had a big white house on Main Street with a big front porch with a swing that didn't squeak very much and rockers that did. It was painted every other year. And if you were to ask Joe, this old Pruitt Place could certainly do with a coat of Dutch Boy. Pop had a library of more than two thousand books and he'd read every one of them—not like the leather-bound sets with uncut pages in the Ames library.
And Mom had a big record collection—big and valuable. They were mostly old Victor red seals; things like Galli-Curci and Emma Calve and Caruso and Dame Clara Butt and Scotti and Mary Garden—collectors' items. And the big, heavy-legged Steinway grand in the front room was in tune—a man from Bloomington came out every three months to keep it on pitch.
"And I wish to Christ he'd come here and fix that fancy gold job in their crapped-up music room," Joe snarled. "Who the hell do these stuck-up New York snobs think they are, treating me like a hick?"
He reflected very briefly that no one had treated him like anything and dismissed any such charitable notions immediately. He took another sip of his coffee and nearly gagged. It tasted lousy. He lit another cigarette. It tasted worse. With an air of defiance, he dropped the whole cigarette into the coffee cup where it went out with a serpent's hiss. Mom would have given Joe fits for pulling such a cigarette trick—even with the kitchen china.
Belligerently, Joe got up, and strolled off either toward the east or west—he didn't know which, but in a direction where he thought he was least likely to run into that fancy-talking crowd on the beach.
Now had Joe Sullivan turned to the left, rather than the right, he might have come upon a rather telling scene. Not only might he have passed by Claire Devine and Paul Ames in a moment of emotion which, considering the two personalities, would have set him back on his heels, but, had he continued to stalk the balding gravel path, he might have seen the dilapidated stables—shut, silent and ghostly, the stomping, munching and whinnying still at last, the paint peeling scabrously. Adjoining the stables, he would have seen the paddock, overgrown and weedy, the criss-cross fences sagging in disrepair. Beyond all this stood the greenhouses, where once six gardeners grew camellias and carnations in July, strawberries and asparagus in January, and orchids all year 'round. Now the building sat deserted, staring blankly through dusty glass, the I nit wind whispering hollowly through its shattered panes. This little stroll might have told Joe a lot.
Instead, he turned to the right.
Joe carried on a peppery conversation with himself as he scuffed along the gravel path. Some of the things he said were, he thought, very good—publishable, in fact—and in a moment of rationality lie wished that he had a pencil and paper along with him so that he might annotate these thoughts and make use of them in some future piece of writing. A bird screeched—a gull—and he cursed it. All right, he thought, if these Ameses want to make an arty nature walk, at least I'll enjoy it. I might keep right on walking until I get off this God-damned place. Then I'll hitch a ride to the station and when I get to town I'll send some sort of telegram—something just us sophisticated and witty as these people would . . . He heard the plunk of a tennis ball against a racket.
"Oh, Jesus," he said aloud. "I've come the wrong way—right into a real big-league tennis game." He was just about to turn back when he heard Bryan Ames call: "Hey! Good morning! Come and join us."
There were just two things to do: turn and bolt or do as he was bade. Joe chose the more normal course.
Squinting into the sun, he saw Bryan Ames squinting back at him. Bryan was impeccable, naturally, in white duck shorts, a white shirt and tennis shoes. Across the court was Elly. She was considerably less impeccable. She was wearing a T-shirt much too large and what looked, for all the world, like a pair of checkered man's underpants. "Good morning," she said curtly.
"Hi," he said aloud.
"Come join us, old man!" Bryan shouted.
"Splendid, old man!" Joe shouted back bitterly.
"Too bad, Elly," Bryan called. "My game again."
"Oh, Bryan! Won't you ever let me win anything?"
Elly had no vanity. She was famous for having no vanity. Even so, she would rather have been found dead than to have Joe Sullivan—that big, superior intellectual—see her bouncing around the court in Bryan's underwear and losing every game. Couldn't he have gone swimming with Felicia or somebody and talked about literature?
Joe tramped up to the pair of tennis courts and slouched onto a bench covered with lichen and bird droppings.
"Like to play, old man?" Bryan called.
Joe could think of nothing on earth he'd less rather do than play tennis at the moment.
"It's too bad Fe-lee-sha, or someone, isn't here," Elly said acidly, "then we could play doubles."
God damn her, Joe thought, really getting high-hat now, aren't we? "Never mind about that," he shouted, "I'll take you both on and play double count, too." He was stunned at what he had said. The sight of Bryan Ames, long legged and limber, leaping around the court should have warned him.
"Fair enough," Elly called through clenched teeth.
"But you're not dressed for it. Didn't you bring any shoes?" Bryan asked.
Joe hadn't. How the hell was he to know the place was lousy with tennis courts? "Gee, I couldn't be more embarrassed. Guess my valet forgot to pack 'em. But I tell you what. I'll play without any shoes. You know, barefoot boy with cheek of tan, et cetera." That went over like a lead balloon. "I certainly wouldn't want to ruin your court," Joe said, staring pointedly at the sprigs growing up through the faded red crushed brick.
Bryan winced. "Well, old man," he said cautiously, "if you want to. The courts are in pretty lousy shape. Mother doesn't play herself, and we're out here so seldom . . ." His voice trailed off, but he made a mental note to speak
about the courts to his mother.
"Okay, then," Joe said. "I'll stand you both in my bare feet."
Elly flashed what she felt certain was a hateful smile and said: "Suits me." She leaped defiantly over the net, rather than walk around it, and thought, Why do I have to be seen in this old union suit? Why don't I have some of those pretty little pleated sharkskin tennis dresses like Kathy's? Or even some clean shorts?
Joe Sullivan did not ordinarily play a particularly brilliant game of tennis; not nearly as good as Bryan Ames. Joe was weak on his backhand, he was given to smashing drives, and he was at his worst close to the net because his overhead game was highly unpredictable. He started out brilliantly by taking a pratfall which made Bryan call "Hard luck, old man," and which made Elly giggle maliciously. It was rage, more than skill that made Joe win today. The ball flew back and forth through the air. Joe aimed mostly for Elly's face and Bryan's groin and he was amazed at his own success.
Bryan was amazed, too. He had a critical eye and he could spot bad form a mile away. Well, he'd never seen such bad form before. The form was so amazingly bad that on six different occasions he was too stunned to return the ball. He'd been shocked into letting a number of comparatively easy ones glide right past him and he was getting a little annoyed, not only at Elly, who was bounding pointlessly all over the court, but at Joe and at himself. Bryan was not accustomed to losing.
Elly was even more annoyed. She was annoyed at Joe's big grandstand play. Not only is he the great intellect, she fumed as it he trotted hotly out behind the backstop to retrieve a ball which no paraplegic could have missed, but now he's the great sportsman coming out to show me up in another field. In the next round Joe delivered a ball which she was sure was meant for her—just as Bryan was sure that it was meant for him. Their rackets crashed in midair and Elly said a word that made Bryan gasp. "And what's more, I'll be perfectly happy to say it again," Elly snapped.
"Elly!" Bryan said reproachfully. "That's hardly what I call good sportsmanship."
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