Man, Woman and Child (4 page)

''Thank you, madame," he answered. "I am very grateful for your invitation."

"Hi, I'm Paula."

"Very glad," he answered with a smile. Her heart was his.

At last the one aristocrat among them spoke.

"Jean-Claude, je suis Jessica. Avez vous fait un bon voyage?''

"Ouz, mademoiselle. Voire frangais est eblouis-sant"

"What?" Jessie had prepared herself to talk French, not to understand it.

And Bob watched as the youngsters spoke. He thought, My God, they're all my children.

''His English is terrific," said Paula to her sister, *'and your French is terrible."

'Taula!" Jessie snarled, and sent her sister to the guillotine with filthy looks.

''Terrible is slang in French," said Jean-Claude diplomatically. "It also means terrific."

Jessica was reassured. This would be a splendid continental summer.

"Madame?"

Jean-Claude had now approached Sheila. Reaching into his flight bag, he withdrew a chunk of . . . clay? It looked like a heavy wad of ossified chewing gum. He offered it to her;

"Oh—thank you," Sheila said.

"What is it?" Paula asked.

Jean-Claude searched his vocabulary, but could not find the word. He turned to Bob.

"How do you say cendrier?''

"Ashtray," Bob replied, and suddenly recalled that Nicole smoked. In fact, it seemed tiiat everyone in Sete had smoked.

"Thank you," Sheila repeated. "Is it—uh—handmade?"

"Yes," said the boy. "In our ceramics class."

"I take ceramics too," Paula said, to let him know how much they had in common.

"Oh," said Jean-Claude.

Golly, Paula thought, he's really handsome.

Sheila took the gift and looked at it. He'd meant well, after all. It was a touching gesture. A ceramic ashtray, signed by the craftsman who had made it: Guerin 16.6.78.

''Voulez-yous boire quelque chose?*' asked Jessica,

ready to sprint for the cognac or mineral water or whatever beverage the Frenchman would fancy.

"Non, merci, Jessica. Je rCai pas soij."

*'Je comprends/' she proudly said. This time she'd actually understood. Mademoiselle O'Shaughnessy, you'd flip your wig.

''How're things in France, Jean-Claude?" asked Paula, anxious to preserve her share of the guest's attention.

Bob thought it prudent to abridge this conversation.

''We'll have lots of time to discuss things, girls. But I think Jean-Claude's pretty tired. Aren't you, Jean-Claude?"

"A bit," the boy conceded.

'Tour room's right across from m.ine," said Paula.

Jessie fumed. If Paula continued this inept vamping, she'd absolutely die of mortification. What would he think, for heaven's sake?

"I'll take his baggage up," said Bob to Sheila.

"No, I will," she replied, picked up the green valise (did it belong to her?) and said, "This way, Jean-Claude." She started up the stairs.

"Good night," he said shyly, and turned to follow her.

As soon as they were out of sight, Bob went to the liquor cabinet.

"Wow, he's cute!" gushed Paula.

"You are an acute embarrassment, Mademoiselle Beckwith," snarled Jessie. "You haven't got the foggiest notion how to address Europeans."

"Drop dead," said Paula.

"Come on, girls," said Bob, who had now fortified himself with Johnnie Walker. "Let's act our age."

For Jessie, act your age was the unkindest cut of all.

"Father, if you hate me, have the guts to say it like a man."

''Jessie, I love you." He put his arm around her, pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead.

"Your French is great, Jess. I had no idea you were so good."

"Do you really think so. Daddy?" Unbelievable. She sounded like a twelve-year-old, hungry for paternal approbation.

"Yes," said Bob, "I really do." And kept on hugging her.

"His English is fantastic," Paula said, "and he's only my age."

"He's had a private tutor," Bob explained.

"How come?" asked Jessie hopefully. "Is he noble?"

"No," said Bob. "His mother was a country doctor."

"What about his father?"

"Fm not sure," said Bob evasively, "but I know he wasn't noble."

"He's very independent," Sheila said.

"In what way?"

They were now in their bedroom. The rest of the household was already fast asleep.

"He wouldn't let me help him unpack. He insisted on doing it by himself," she said, and then added, "Was I cold to him?"

"No. How did you feel?"

"How do you think?"

"You were wonderful," said Bob, and reached out for her hand. She moved away.

"He took that little airline bag to bed with him.

Must have all his earthly treasures in it." There was distance in her voice.

''Guess so/' said Bob, and wondered what a little boy of nine might carry with him as his consolation.

His eyes followed her as she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She emerged a few minutes later in her nightgown and bathrobe. Bob had lately gotten the disconcerting feeling that she was uneasy about undressing in front of him.

She sat down on the bed and started to adjust the alarm clock. (What for—wasn't this vacation?) He wanted to reach over and embrace her, but the gap of sheets and pillows separating them seemed much too wide to bridge.

''Sheila, I love you."

Her back to him, she kept playing with the clock.

"Sheila?"

Now she turned.

"He's got your mouth," she said.

"Does he?"

"I'm surprised you didn't notice.*'

Sheila slipped her robe off and burrowed under the covers. She lay silent for a moment, and then turned and said:

"She must have had brown eyes."

"I really don't remember."

Sheila looked at him, and with a melancholy smile said, "Come on, Bob."

Then she took her pillow and curled herself around it in the comer of the bed.

"Good night," she said.

He leaned across and kissed her on the cheek. She did not stir. He put his arm around her. She did not respond. He had vaguely hoped if they made love it would somehow make things better. He now saw that they were much too far apart for that.

He turned over on his side and picked up the

American Journal of Statistics. Better than a sleeping pill. He idly leafed through a particularly unoriginal piece on stochastic processes, and thought, Christ, I've said this stuff a million times. And then he realized that he himself was the author. It's still boring, he thought. I should've asked Sheila to tighten it up.

''Bob?" Her voice startled him.

"Yes, honey?"

He turned toward her. There was such pain on her face. And yet somehow she looked younger and so vulnerable.

"What exactly did I do—or rather not do?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, you never really told me why you did

"What?" He knew damn well, but wanted to buy time.

"What exactly was wrong with me that you had to have an affair?"

Damn, thought Bob. Why doesn't she understand that it was—what? Weakness? Chance? What could he say to mollify her?

"Sheila, nothing was wrong with you. . . ."

"With us, then. I thought we were happy."

"We were. We are." He said the last words with as much hope as conviction.

"We were," she said, and turned away again. To sleep.

Oh, God, thought Bob, this isn't fair. I can't even remember why it happened.

JLiEY, Beckavith, there's some fantastic stuff at the mixer."

'Tm studying, Bernie."

''On a Saturday night with two hundred Vassar lovehes gracing our campus?"

"I've got midterms next week."

''So does everybody. That's why you need a piece of ass to loosen up."

Robert Alan Beckwith, Yale '59, put his math book down on the table and sat up on the moth-eaten couch of the Branford College suite he shared with Bernie Ackerman.

"Bernie, you talk like you get laid every weekend."

"I'm trying, Beckwith. At least you'll grant me that."

"Sure. You get an E for Effort—and a V for Virgin. Ackerman, you're pathetic."

"At least I take my swings. Bob. I try to score."

"But, Bern, you're batting zero. And I am too. But at least I don't make an asshole of myself. Besides, I came to Yale to get an education."

Bernie eved his roommate.

"Listen, schmuck, this mixer's free of charge.

39

Doesn't that imply that Yale considers getting laid to be a part of the educational experience?"

"Bernie, I know myself. I'm shy. I lack your amazing charm and wit. I'm not competitive. . . ."

''In other words, you're scared."

"No, Bern. In those very words. I am scared."

And he buried himself once again in numerical analysis. Bemie simply stood there.

"Beckwith ..."

"Bernie, go back to the mixer. Go get yourself blue balls. Just let me grind in ignoble peace."

"Beckwith, I'm gonna help you."

''Come on. You can't even help yourself."

*'I have a secret weapon. Bob."

*'Then you use it."

"I can't. I'm too short."

Bob looked up. Bemie had snared his interest.

"Willya come if I lend you my secret weapon? Willy a, willy a, willya?"

Bob once again sat up.

"What is it, Bern?"

"Willya come? Willya?"

"Okay, okay. The evening's shot anyway. I might as well get a free beer."

Bernie did not argue. The important thing was that he had persuaded Bob to drop his customary reticence and make the social scene. Who knows— with the secret weapon he might even score.

"I'll take a shower/' Bob said, growing steadily more nervous.

"You took one after dinner, schmuck. Come on— we've only got an hour before the stuff is trucked back to Poughkeepsie."

"Can I at least shave?"

"Beckwith, you got about as much hair as a canned peach. Just put on the weapon and we'll enter the fray."

Bob sighed. "All right. Where is it?"

Bernie's eyes flashed with excitement.

"It's hanging in my closet. But shake ass."

Now he was hopping up and down.

Bob got his college blazer, combed his hair and washed his face. Then, after spilling Old Spice in every conceivable place, he reentered the living room, where Bemie stood like a midget colossus on the coffee table, holding ... an article of apparel.

"That's it?" Bob frowned.

"Do you know what this is, Beckwith? Do you know, do you know?"

"Yeah. A goddamn tie"

"—which signifies that the wearer has won a varsity Y in footbdir

"But I haven't," Bob protested.

"I have," Bernie said.

"You're the manager, Bern."

"Does it say that anywhere on the tie? Does it, does it, does it?"

"Bernie, I am a hundred-and-forty-five-pound weakling."

"But you're six one, Beckwith. Put two or three sweaters on under your jacket and you could be a tight end. Believe me, the girls know a football tie when they see one. It turns them on. They almost drop their pants right there."

"Bemie, forget it."

"Come on, Beckwith. This is your big chance."

"You ain't nothin' but a hound dog . . ." It was pitch black, and the deafening sounds of Rumple and the Stiltskins shook the wooden panels of the Branford College dining hall. Bodies rocked and rolled. From either side, crowds of the opposing sexes glanced across at one another while pretending not to.

''Bemie, I feel like a total asshole."

"It's just nerves, Bob. Tlie guys get 'em before every game. Christ, you look like Hercules."

'Tm roasting in these sweaters."

''Oh, Beckwith, lookit all the talent," said Bernie, surveying the populous scene. "God, I'm dying from the pulchritude. If we don't score tonight, we're goddam eunuchs."

''Speak for yourself, Bern."

"Hey! I see my beloved."

"Where?"

"There. The short and cute one. I've gotta make my move."

And for the final time he fixed Bob's tie and sprinted off.

Bob was now on his own. Too self-conscious to just stand there on the dance floor, he took one or two steps toward the female side. His eye now chanced upon a tall and slender girl with long blond hair. Boy, thought Bob, I wish I had the guts.

But three Yalies were already paying court to her. No chance, thought Bob. Besides, I'm really boiling. Maybe I should head back to the room.

"Beckwith!" someone bellowed.

It was one of the trio romancing the young lady.

"Yes?"

''What the hell is that around your scrawny neck?"

To his horror. Bob now realized that the voice belonged to mountainous Terry Dexter, captain of the undefeated football team.

"Where'd you get that tie?" he bellowed, then turning to the Vassar girl, "He shouldn't be wearing that tie."

'*Why not?" she asked, then turned to Bob. "What IS it?"

"The Morons' Club." He smiled. God, she's beautiful.

"Like hell/' said Terry. "It's the football team."

"Not much difference/' Bob replied.

The Vassar girl laughed. This enraged the football captain.

"Beckwith, if you weren't such a fruit cake, I'd destroy you for that stupid witticism."

"Terry/' interposed one of his sycophants, "the guy was only kidding. Don't make an asshole of yourself 'cause he's an asshole."

"Yeah," snarled Terry, "but at least take off that tie, Beckwith."

Bob sensed that this was one demand Terry would not be talked out of. Sweating profusely, he pulled it off and handed it over.

"See you, Terry," he said. And then, making swift retreat. Bob casually tossed a "Nice meeting you" in the direction of the lovely Vassar girl who had witnessed this horror show.

The moment he escaped into the coatroom area, Bob tore off his jacket. Thank you, Bernie, for this mortification. Dexter would doubtless never forget it. And you won't get your goddam tie back, either. As Bob was pulling the first of his sweaters over his head, he heard a muffled:

"Excuse me."

He peered out. It was the girl.

"Yes?" said Bob, too surprised to be nervous. He whipped the sweater back down.