The scrimmage resumed as the coach and team managers ran off the field. The head manager, a sallow-skinned senior in wrinkled chino pants and dirty white bucks, nodded a shy smile at Courtnay.
“How can you stand that little man?” Sandy shuddered. “What’s his name again?”
“J.T. Wright,” Courtnay replied, her eyes on Marty. “Truthfully, I can’t stand him either. But he’s Marty’s Big Brother, and Marty thinks J.T. is really terrific. Marty insists I fix him up with dates.”
“Who did you fix him up with for the Hop?”
“Margo Haupt.”
“That cute blonde sophomore?” Sandy said. “Why would she go out with someone as drippy as Wright?”
J.T. heard his name mentioned. He didn’t know what the girls had said, but he glanced at them in the shy, hangdog way he usually had around women.
“Because,” Courtnay explained quietly, “Marty said that if J.T. didn’t go, he didn’t want to go either. Randy Haupt, Margo’s brother, is on the team with Marty. That’s how come J.T. is going to the dance with Margo.”
“I can’t imagine what Marty sees in J.T.,” said Sandy. “He isn’t attractive or rich or funny or fun, or anything.”
“What’s his father do?” asked Ronnie, who had been listening from Courtnay’s other side.
“His father is a congressman and the Republican political boss of Ulster County, which is the county we’re standing in right now.”
“Ahh! The plot thickens,” said Ronnie.
“His father also happens to be on that committee in Washington, whatever it’s called, that has to do with finance and banking,” Courtnay added.
Sandy nodded knowingly.
The final whistle sounded with the first-team players victorious. Marty, after getting slapped on his rear end a few times by his teammates, ran over to Courtnay.
“Marvelous, Marty,” said Courtnay, kissing his cheek.
The rest of the girls were delighted to be surrounded by the other players.
J.T. Wright came over, directing a sheepish smile at Marty; then, self-consciously, the smile evaporated.
“Thanks, Otto,” Marty grinned, reaching out and pulling J.T. into a kind of headlock. “You were right, you know that, Wright.”
J.T. grimaced. “How could I be wrong? Otto Wright can’t be wrong, can he?” That was a standing joke between Marty and J.T. Marty called him Otto because, backward or forward, Otto spelled Otto—and Otto Wright was, therefore, no matter which way you looked at him, always right.
“You said to tighten up the defense and you were right, as usual.” Marty ran his hand quickly through J.T.’s slick hair.
“Hey, stop it,” J.T. protested, breaking free of Marty’s grip, smoothing his hair.
A car was driven quickly down the hill, dust billowing behind it. Mary Thorne coursed right up to them and jammed on her brakes. She looked worried.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sandy.
“Courtnay, you just got a call from Lester Lanin’s office.”
“The band people for tonight?”
“Right.”
“And?”
“The man on the phone, a Mr. Richards, started giving me doubletalk. He said they were having trouble getting a bus or a band here tonight or something because of I don’t know what.”
“What?” Courtnay moaned.
“He left his number for you. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Sandy. “It’s too late to get another band now.”
“We can always dance to records,” said Grace Ann.
“In formals? Where’s the number?” Courtnay asked, annoyed.
“There’s a phone in the students’ lounge,” said Marty. “Call from there.”
A crowd formed around the pay phone in the students’ lounge now. The players were still in their blue and gray Rugby uniforms. Other Browning students, in chinos, button-down shirts, and school blazers, joined them. J.T. was on the phone, waiting to be connected.
Although he wasn’t the most popular person in the senior class, everyone recognized that J.T. knew how to talk, knew how to handle serious matters. He had taken the phone, and immediately—reversing the charges—called his father’s office. He wanted to place his calls through the switchboard there, so he wouldn’t seem like some schoolboy talking business from a pay phone.
“Hello, Helen, this is J.T. Is my father in?” He listened for a moment. “All right, then, dial Superintendent Kennedy, at the state police barracks.”
“What do the state police have to do with this?” asked a male voice between sips from a Coke bottle.
J.T. shut his eyes patiently as he waited.
“Superintendent Kennedy? Yes, J.T. Wright.” He waited. “How are you?” he said with a smile. “He’s fine, too, thanks … I sure will … I wanted to ask you a little favor if I could, Mr. Kennedy. Dad isn’t in right now. But I thought maybe I could call you and ask anyway. I hope you don’t mind.”
The people in the lounge strained to catch whatever they could.
“I really appreciate that. Dad will too. You have offices down in the city too, don’t you? Yes, New York City, sir.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled at Marty when he said sir. “Well, I’m over at Browning and there’s this big formal over at Caldwell tonight. Now, the school contracted with an orchestra from the city … I know this request is a little unusual … but this band is giving us a hard time, right at the last minute. Frankly, I doubt they actually intend to show up. And that’ll really screw things up, if you’ll pardon my expression, sir.”
Everyone in the room got a kick out of that. J.T. covered the mouthpiece and made a face for people to keep quiet.
“I was wondering if someone in your office down there could call and let this band outfit know that certain people are interested in the dance up here coming off without a hitch.”
J.T. listened, his eyes wandering over the crowd.
“Oh, I didn’t mean for you to go out of your way and do this yourself, sir,” J.T. protested. “I thought perhaps one of your men could take care of it … I know it’s an imposition …” He listened. “I’ll give you the name of the outfit.” He made a hurried motion to Courtnay. Courtnay jotted something on the back of a notebook.
“The name of the orchestra outfit is Lester Lanin, and their address … oh, you already know them? Oh, I see. You have to have your troopers help them occasionally when they’re playing at society affairs in Chappaqua and Millville and Saratoga. Well, then, that ought to make it even easier. Shall I call you back?” He paused. “No, I don’t have a phone in my room. I’m in the student lounge right now. I’ll have to ring you back. Oh, okay.” He gave the number of the pay phone and thanked the superintendent effusively, then hung up.
The group looked at him eagerly.
“He’s going to call back in a few minutes.”
The group milled around the lounge, waiting for the phone to ring, sipping Cokes and horsing around. A sophomore came in, wanting to make a call. He was told to walk to another phone.
“I told you J.T. was really okay, didn’t I?” Marty said to Courtnay privately.
“It’ll be terrific if he gets this all straightened out. Although it probably won’t help his personality. He already acts like he knows everything, or like he’s just swallowed the canary or something.”
“He’s just shy.”
“A lot of people are shy, Marty, but they don’t act like he does.”
“Well, try to be nice to him if we have a dance tonight. Don’t make him feel uncomfortable.”
“Don’t make him feel uncomfortable? How about telling him that for me?”
“Come on, hon,” said Marty. “What the heck, you’re the most popular person in the school, the queen of the prom, the most beautiful …”
She smiled.
The phone rang. One of the rugby players answered. “Just a second,” he said, “he’s right here. It’s Lester
Lanin’s office,” he said, handing the phone to J.T.
“Hello,” J.T. said curtly. “Yes, it is. Oh, really,” he said, his eyes narrowing with concentration. “Yes, the superintendent is a good friend of ours too.”
J.T. turned toward the crowd, nodding. “You will. Very well,” he said smugly. “Miss Crawford, the dance chairman, is here. I think you should tell her that. I know she’ll be relieved to hear it.”
J.T. nodded his head vigorously, a big, satisfied smile on his face. He handed the phone to Courtnay.
“Otto Wright—are you right again?” Marty laughed, picking J.T. up in the air. J.T. grimaced in Marty’s bear hug.
The crowd cheered wildly as Courtnay announced that Lester Lanin would indeed be playing at the Caldwell Hop.
March 13, 1960
The uproar that started in her family when Courtnay Crawford announced that she and Marty were going to be married was not as loud or long as it might have been—nor nearly as great as the uproar had been in her sophomore year at Caldwell College, when she was dating Stan Warinski, one of the locals from the town where Caldwell was located. Stan was handsome and fun, and Courtnay, isolated and lonely in an all-girls school, had been delighted to have some pleasant male companionship. But when her family heard that she was steadily dating the son of a local plumber, a running battle ensued. And of course, the more the family downgraded her choice, the more resolute and loyal to Stan she became.
The family used every argument they could think of: the Warinskis had no social position, no money; Stan had no job, no future, no career; she’d have to get a job to support herself in a fashion that would be, at best, far shabbier than what she was used to; the living and spending habits she had grown up with would have to be abandoned.
The family even importuned family friends and retainers to speak to Courtnay about this totally impractical liaison. Her uncle, Howard Thorpe, then the attorney general of the State of New York, sent his personal lawyer, John Vogt, to speak to Stan several times. Vogt and Stan would meet, have a pleasant meal together, and when it was over, Vogt would explain to Stan that his continued dating of Courtnay could lead nowhere for either of them, and that it was unfair of Stan to tie Courtnay to his kind of life. Vogt, reluctantly but loyally, even offered Stan money on behalf of the family to stop seeing Courtnay. Stan told Vogt to go to hell for his efforts.
John Vogt grew to respect Stan, and ultimately had to report back to the family that, if anything, the meetings with Stan were making things worse.
The family seemed to resign themselves to the situation after that; or at least they played a waiting game, and in time, Courtnay and Stan did stop seeing each other, although Courtnay occasionally called Stan—even now—just to have a friendly chat. Stan, Courtnay thought, had an unfailing eye for the true value of a situation. When Courtnay was down, hurt, or lonely, she would telephone Stan to ask his advice. Stan could always see the problem far more clearly than Courtnay could, and in no time at all he would have her laughing. She even discussed her engagement to Marty with him, including the fact that Marty’s family had no background, no money, and she was afraid that her family would start the same old arguments all over again. But Stan reasoned that her family would appreciate Marty’s college education and his acceptance at Yale Law School—J.T. Wright was just finishing his law studies at Yale. At least she was engaged to a man with a future. Stan suggested that Courtnay should threaten to resume dating him, if the family gave her too hard a time about Marty.
It turned out that her family’s resistance to Marty was mild, in comparison to its earlier resistance to Stan. Courtnay and Marty married just before he graduated third out of forty-two in Browning’s class of 1958. Marty enrolled in the Yale Law School, partly on scholarship, partly on grant. The couple rented a three-room apartment in a private house on a tree-lined New Haven street within walking distance—if you liked long walks—of the law school.
J.T. Wright continued to be one of the major forces in Marty’s life. It was he who counseled Marty to choose Yale. And it was J.T.’s tutoring that enabled Marty to achieve his fine marks at Browning. J.T. tutored Marty in every subject for his four years at Browning. Even after J.T. had graduated from Browning, Marty would stay at J.T.’s house in Millville at least one weekend a month, and J.T. would come home from Yale to tutor him. And it was J.T. who had predicted accurately that the Yale background would set Marty well, not only in landing a good job with a Wall Street law firm, but with Courtnay’s family.
Marty stood facing the bathroom door in their apartment. He could hear water beating on the shower curtains inside. “Come on, Courtnay, hurry out of the shower. Courtnay—can you hear me?”
The water stopped. “I’ll be right out,” she called back. “I just have to rinse my hair.”
“We’re supposed to meet J.T. in half an hour.”
“J.T. can wait a little bit. He won’t turn into a pumpkin, will he?” Courtnay opened the door, wrapped in a bath towel. Another towel was twisted into a turban on top of her head.
As much as J.T. and Courtnay saw each other because of Marty, they were never close or friendly. Whether J.T. made Courtnay defensive because of his attitude, or whether some attitude of Courtnay’s made J.T. react poorly, neither could say. But Courtnay rarely had difficulty in getting along with other people. J.T., on the other hand, rarely had people around long enough to get along with them at all.
“Don’t be hard on J.T. He just can’t seem to let his hair down with you, the way he can with me.”
“He’s starting to lose it, did you notice?”
“Lose it?”
“His hair. Did you notice?”
“I didn’t.” Marty shrugged as he stepped into the bathroom. He turned the water on in the shower, then leaned toward the mirror in the medicine cabinet and looked at his hair.
“Will you love me if I get bald?” Marty asked.
“Of course I will, silly boy. But not J.T. I won’t like him better one way or the other.”
“I think you enjoy nurturing your dislike of J.T. Why?” Marty noticed that Courtnay’s towel had slipped a bit. She had beautiful breasts.
“If you really want to know, it’s because he’s a user. Particularly, he uses you so he can have social contacts with people who otherwise would have nothing to do with him.”
Courtnay noticed Marty staring at her bosom. She didn’t bother to adjust the slipping towel.
“Use me? I use him. He tutors me, gives me his old term papers, everything. If it wasn’t for J.T., I wouldn’t have had the grades I had at Browning; I probably wouldn’t be living here with you in New Haven. I’d probably not be living with you at all. The fact that he helped me get accepted to Yale didn’t hurt my prospects with your family.” Marty reached out and tugged at the end of Courtnay’s towel. It came loose and fell to the floor.
“And I wouldn’t miss living with you for anything.” He moved closer to her and held her in his arms. She wrapped her arms gently around his back. Her soft breasts pressed warmly against his bare chest.
“I wouldn’t want to miss that either,” she said, kissing his neck. Her hand slid down his chest to his pants. She worked at the buttons. “I guess there is some good in J.T.—he helped bring us together.” Their mouths fused, their tongues dancing together. She tugged at his pants and shorts—first at one hip, then the other—until they dropped down to his knees.
Courtnay kissed the midline of Marty’s chest with her warm mouth. She reached down and slowly lifted his legs, one at a time, from his pants and shorts. Her tongue was in his navel, then it coursed hotly down his stomach. Courtnay pushed his legs into a wide stance, her tongue dancing lower on his stomach. She slowly eased herself onto her knees. Her mouth never left his body. Her arms wrapped around his lower body. She held him to herself as she kissed and ran her tongue along his thighs at each side of his swollen masculinity. Suddenly she grasped his buttocks and pulled him even closer, her mouth licking, kissing, rubbing, gent
ly sucking, devouring every part of him.
He drew himself free of her mouth and dropped to his knees next to her on the floor, pulling her firmly until they lay next to each other, their bodies drawn into each other in a moaning, frenzied passion.
March 28, 1960
Lucy Arnold walked quietly into Senator Evard Anders’s office. The senator was talking on the telephone, half twisted toward the large window behind his desk, which overlooked the Capitol building. He was speaking with General Skip Richardson, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Senator Anders was on the Senate Ways and Means Committee, as well as the Judiciary Committee, and several other of the most powerful committees in the Senate. His eighteen years in. the Senate, as well as his dominant position as leader of the Southern Democratic bloc, gave him influence and power beyond that of the ordinary senator. The members of President Eisenhower’s staff were his errand boys; the President wanted it that way. The senior senator from North Carolina was able, if he so desired, to deliver votes that were crucial to the Republican President’s legislative program. And the President wanted Senator Anders to deliver those votes. Despite rumors that Senator Anders had aspirations toward the Democratic presidential nomination in 1960, President Eisenhower still accorded the senator great deference and respect. He needed Anders more than he resented the senator’s longing to joust with Eisenhower’s hand-picked successor, Richard Nixon.
The senator twisted back to his desk. He noticed Lucy gazing over his head, out the window. It might be a terrific view of the Capitol, he thought, but what the heck business does my secretary have lollygagging out the window? The senator motioned to Lucy to speak. She mouthed her message silently. The senator couldn’t understand her and listen to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs at the same time. He motioned her to wait a moment.
“Okay, General, if you say all those tanks are still essential, even in the Atomic Age, I’ll have to go along with you. But you’re going to have to appear in front of the committee and explain why.” He listened for a moment. “Of course I’m going to be with you. Christ, General, you know I’m a Keep-America-Strong man. I want you to have all the weaponry you need. But hell, I’m just one member of the committee. There are a bunch of New York liberals you’ll have to convince.” He paused again. “Well, sure, I’ll try and convince them too. Do all I can. It’s always good to hear from you, too. Right. Thanks for calling.” The senator hung up the phone and looked to Lucy.
J.T. Page 5