Man, Woman and Child (10 page)

"Of course. More history?"

"Yes. I want to finish Julius Caesar." He got off his chair and started toward the stairway.

"You'll like what happens to him, Jean-Claude," Sheila called. "Brutus and Cassius get revenge for Vercingetorix."

**l know/' he answered with a smile. "There is a picture."

When he had left the room, Sheila said something that totally astonished Bob.

''He's very cute/'

They lingered over coffee in the dining room.

"How was Cambridge?" Bob inquired.

"Hot and tiring/' she answered. "The Square was swarming with summer-school kids.. . /' Their dialogue was strangely awkward.

"See anyone?" Bob asked.

"Yes/' she answered, and then, trying not to seem hostile, added, "Margo."

"How is she?" Bob asked, wondering if Sheila had confided in her friend as he had in his.

"The same."

"No new love?"

"Just the gallery. And I think she and Hal are not unhappy."

"That's hardly cause for cheering. Not being miserable isn't exactly my definition of an ideal marriage."

"Give Margo time. She's just learning.*'

"God knows she's had enough practice."

"Don't be snide."

"Sorry."

They finished their coffee in silence. Bob was now pretty sure she had told Margo. Then they began to talk again. Not really communicating, merely lobbing words over the net.

"Anything happen today?" Sheila asked.

"Nothing much. I jogged with Bernie. Oh, yeah— Louis Venargu^s called."

"Oh. Has he made any progress?"

"Not yet. He just wanted to see if the boy was okay. Tliey spoke for at least ten minutes."

"I think he's adjusted rather well, don't you?''

''Seems to have. Good kid/' he said tentatively, ''don't you think?"

"Yes," she said, "considering."

And then it suddenly occurred to Bob. We are talking like unhappily married people.

Even during vacation time, lights out was 10 p.m. for the Beckwith children. Jessie and Paula, all cooked out and viewed out, were more than willing to go to bed. After Sheila tucked them in, she joined Bob in their room.

"How're the kids?" he asked.

"In the arms of Morpheus. He's still reading, though."

"In bed?"

"Yes. His door was open."

"I missed you today," Bob whispered. She was tying her hair up, her back to him.

"Did you hear me, darling?"

"Yes," she said without turning.

"I—I don't want us to—grow distant, Sheila."

"No," she said, tonelessly.

"WiU we?" he asked, a silent plea in his voice.

She turned around. "I hope not," she answered.' And started for the door.

"Want a drink?" Bob asked, trying to anticipate her inclinations. "I'll go down and get it."

"No, thanks," she answered. "I just want to check on the boy."

And she left her husband alone with his uncertainties.

A soft light was still emanating from Jean-Claude's room. Sheila tiptoed quietly down the hallway and stopped at his door.

He had fallen asleep while reading. Histoire Ge-

nerale was still open across his chest. She looked down at him. There is nothing like a sleeping child to stir affection in the beholder.

And Sheila was by no means ill disposed toward him. During the hours of inner dialogue on the drive back to the Cape, she had become absolutely determined about one thing. The child was innocent. Whatever anger she might feel (and God, was she entitled to it) should be restricted to her husband. None of this was Jean-Claude's fault. None.

She watched him sleep. His brown hair had fallen across his brow. Should she brush it back? No, it might wake him. And he would be frightened suddenly to find himself in this strange environment so far from home. Now, asleep, he was just a nine-year-old child, breathing peacefully beneath his blanket and his book.

What if he should have a nightmare? Might he not wake and cry for someone now inexorably lost to him. Whom would he turn to?

You could come to me, she told him with her thoughts. Fd comfort you, Jean-Claude. I hope you haven't found me cold. I like you. Yes, I really do. Up to now, her eyes had been focused on the little form in bed. It occurred to her to go and turn the light off next to him. Almost accidentally, her glance strayed to the night table. And then she froze. Her tenderness congealed.

Right by Jean-Claude's pillow was a picture in a silver frame. A photograph. Taken several months ago at most. It was Jean-Claude, sitting in an outdoor restaurant, smiling at a woman. A lovely raven-haired woman in a low-necked blouse, who was smiling back at him.

It was she. And she was beautiful. Very beautiful. Evidently Jean-Claude only took the picture out at night.

Sheila turned away and left the light on.

''Was he asleep?'' asked Bob.

"Yes/' she answered. And her voice felt numb.

''Sheila/' Bob said tenderly, "we'll work it out between us."

She could not respond.

"I love you, Sheila. Nothing's more important in the whole damn world."

She didn't answer.

She wanted to believe it. But no longer could.

1 HE NEXT MORNING BOB WOKE UP BEFORE ShEILA.

Sunshine flooded the room. It was a glorious day. He looked over at his sleeping wife and wondered, How can I make her smile? He went downstairs to the kitchen, brewed coffee and brought it up to her.

''Oh, thank you/' she said drowsily. (Almost smiling?)

He sat on the edge of the bed. ''Hey, Sheila, it's absolutely gorgeous out. Why don't we take a little trip to Province town?"

"The two of us?"

"Everybody."

Damn. The instant he'd replied. Bob realized he had blown a unique opportunity.

Still, once they arrived in the quaint fishing village/artist colony/tourist trap, his spirits again lifted. They all seemed happy to be there. Narrow Commercial Street (an apt name, Bob had always thought) was teeming with tourists in loud summer shirts and even louder sunburns. At the first appropriate shop, Jessica insisted upon buying a pair of eminently garish pink sunglasses.

"Wow," said Paula. "Could I get a pair like tliat too?"

102

''Absolutely not/' Bob insisted. "She looks like Dracula's daughter."

''I resent that," said Sheila, with a twinkle of humor in her voice.

''Ho ho, Father," said Jessica, "you're really out of it. It so happens that these are very chic in Europe. Right, Jean-Claude?"

"They are interesting," the boy conceded, "but I do not think I have seen them before."

"Well, you will," said Jessica, and wafted ahead to study the psychedelic shopwindows.

Later, they all climbed up to the Pilgrim Monument, looked briefly with the requisite reverence and started down again. The two girls walked slightly ahead with Sheila, stopping now and then to peer at antiques. Jean-Claude remained at Bob's side. Touched by this. Bob began to discourse like a Baedeker, pointing out the sights they passed. All the while he had been studying a contemporary attraction just ahead of them.

"See that chick in the white shorts? She's got the nicest legs we've seen all day."

Just then the leggy beauty—Sheila Beckwith— turned and smiled at them. Had she heard Bob? He hoped so.

By midaftemoon, they were at MacMillan Wharf, where they all ate quahogs.

"We say it ko-hogs," Paula told the visitor, who was having difiBculty pronouncing the name of the clams he was eating.

Bob then bought everybody soft ice cream, and they strolled out on the pier to watch the fishermen unload the day's catch. For Jean-Claude this was the best part of the day. But something puzzled him.

"Are they speaking Spanish?" he inquired.

"Portuguese," said Sheila. "Most of the fishermen here came from Portugal."

When they had walked back to the car and were climbing in, Jean-Claude remarked, "I like this place. It reminds me of my home."

Minutes later, they were cruising along the ocean on Route 6A. Bob was pleased. The excursion had been a success. Not only were the kids elated, but even Sheila seemed to have enjoyed herself. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly five o'clock.

"Hey, guys," he said, "Fve got a great idea."

"What?" asked Paula, always eager to expand her horizons.

"Well, I promised to meet Uncle Bernie at the track about now. Why don't we all go?"

"Negative," was Jessie's immediate and dour reply. "I don't need to jog away my menopause just yet."

Bob sighed. Why do I even try with her? he thought.

He then addressed his ally. "Want to come, Paula?"

"Gee, Dad, Fm kinda tired. Maybe tomorrow."

Two strikes. Somewhat timidly, he asked his wife. "Sheila?"

"I don't think so. Bob," she said gently, "but we could drop you off at the track and Bernie could give you a lift home."

"Okay," he said, now resigned to the loneliness of the long-distance jogger. They drove for several miles without further conversation. Then Jean-Claude spoke.

"May I come, please?" he asked.

Bob was delighted. "You mean you'd like to run?"

''No/' the boy replied, ''but I would like to watch you.

Bernie was warming up, his eyes constantly on the infield, where Davey was once again outclassing the high school soccer stars. Then he noticed his friend appear in the distance.

"Ho, Beckwith!'' he call without interrupting his jumping jacks. "Ho—uh—kid!"

Not that Bernie had a feeble memory. He could quote every major league batting average since the game began. But the sight of Bob's . . . problem actually walking toward him rendered him momentarily speechless. He was, to put it simply, freaked out.

"Hiya, Bern."

"Hello, Mr. Ackerman," said Jean-Claude.

"Hi. Uh—how's it hanging, kid? You gonna run with us?"

"No, I will just wait for Bob."

^'Sports are really crucial for growing boys," stated Bernie, and then turned to indicate the action on the field. "Lookit Davey. He's gonna grow up to be a regular Tarzan."

"Maybe Jean-Claude doesn't want to swing from trees," Bob interposed. "C'mon, Bern, let's get on the road."

"Okay. See ya—uh—Jean-Claude."

The men chugged off. The boy walked to the stands, climbed to the fourth tier, where he had a good view of the entire track, and sat down.

"So, Beckwith?" whispered Bernie as soon as they were on the curve.

"So what?"

"So when's he leaving?"

"I told you, Bern. Sheila agreed to a month's visit."

"Okay, okay. Just remember, I warned you that what a wife thinks and what she says don't always match."

"Lef s just run, huh?"

Bob picked up the pace, hoping to tire his partner into silence.

"That reminds me," Bemie puffed. "You know what youVe told me \s buried in the Fort Knox of my brain. The whole Gestapo couldn't get it out of me. But—"

"But what?"

"Fd really like to tell Nance. I mean, husbands and wives shouldn't have secrets from each other."

Bob did not respond.

"Beckwith, I swear, Nancy's the soul of honor. The epitome of discretion. Besides, she'll notice I'm holding out on her. I mean, God knows what she'll think it is."

"She'd never guess," Bob said wryly.

"That's just the point. Please, Beckwith, Nance'll be discreet. I swear on my clients' lives."

The pressure was too great.

"Okay, Bern," he sighed, "but not too many details, huh?"

"Don't sweat. Just the essential wild fact—if you know what I mean."

"Yeah. When'll you tell her?"

Three strides later, Bemie answered sheepishly, "Last night."

The high school soccer studs began to disband, bidding farewell to Davey Ackerman. Since yesterday he'd practiced kicking goals, today he'd do a little work on dribbling. And so he began to trot around the perimeter of the field, nudging the ball before him with alternating feet.

When he reached the stands, he noticed Jessica

Beckvvith's foreign guest seated by himself. He trapped the ball under his foot, stopped short, and pivoted toward the stands.

"Hey!" he called.

"Yes?" Jean-Claude replied.

^Tou the French kid staying at the Beckwiths?"

"Yes."

"How come you're always just sitting around, huh?"

Jean-Claude shrugged.

"What is wrong with that?" he asked. He vaguely sensed that he was being challenged to something.

"How come you're always v^th Jessica Beck-with, huh?" Davey's tone was now distinctly belligerent.

"Uh—I am her guest. She is my friend." Jean-Claude was not quite sure how to respond. He was growing uneasy.

"She's my girl, Frenchie, do you understand that? My girl," Davey insisted, thumbing his expanded chest for emphasis.

"My name is not Frenchie," the boy said quietly.

Ahh, thought Davey, I've found a sore point.

"Yeah? Well, I'll call you whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want, how many times I want—plus ten more. Frenchie, Frenchie, Frenchie ..."

Davey was standing there, his right foot on the soccer ball, his right hand making a sophisticated gesture in conjunction with his nose.

Jean-Claude stood up.

Davey inhaled and drew himself to his full height, which was appreciably greater than the younger boy's.

"Gonna try something, Frenchie?" he taunted.

Jean-Claude slowly descended from the stands and approached Davey, whose game plan was now

to stand as tall as possible, emanating strength, thus striking fear into his smaller opponent.

"My name is Jean-Claude Guerin," the boy said quietly, still walking slowly toward him.

"And I say it's Frenchie. Sissy Frenchie Fruitcake."

Jean-Claude was now less than a foot away. Davey towered over him. "Frenchie Fruitcake," Davey repeated, grinning.

And then Jean-Claude kicked.

Not Davey, but the ball beneath his foot. Davey fell back onto his behind.

From far off, his departing soccer buddies caught sight of the young superstar's tumble and began to laugh. Davey rose from the ground, infuriated.

He started toward Jean-Claude, who backed up, still keeping the ball in control.