Man, Woman and Child (9 page)

Julia Child was spread out on the kitchen table.

Jessica was poring over it, surrounded by open jars, boxes, bottles, and piles of assorted vegetables. Bowls and spoons were scattered everywhere.

"Dammit, Paula, where've you been? Fve been killing myself all afternoon f

Her little sister entered, with Jean-Claude a step behind. Seeing him, Jessie restrained her anger.

"Hi, Jean-Claude-"

"Yuck," said Paula, interrupting. "What a mess in here! Whatcha doing, Jessie—cooking or finger painting?"

"Paula, I am trying to make a blanquette de veau. It's taken me hours, and all you've done is criticize."

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Nothing." Jessica sighed with exasperation.

Paula turned to Jean-Claude and explained, "Jessie's studied cooking in school."

"Oh," said the visitor.

"That was nothing," Jessie sniffed. "Our fanciest project was macaroni and cheese."

"Wish you'd made that," Paula murmured. "At least we'd be able to eat it. What's all that junk on the stove?" She pointed to the four pots, all steaming like a grade school production of Macbeth.

"Well, Jean-Claude obviously knows, but for your information, right now I'm working on the sauce veloute in this skillet." She was vigorously

stirring some white viscous lumps with a wooden spoon.

**But it's just a veal stew, Jessie. Couldn't you have made everything in one pot?"

Jean-Claude sensed he was caught in a magnetic field between the two sisters.

"May I help you, Jessica?" he asked.

"Oh, that's tres gentil. Do you know how to make a salad?"

"Yes," Jean-Claude replied. "That used to be my job at home. To have the salad ready when my mother came home from the clinic."

It took some moments till the girls* attention fixed upon Jean-Claude's activity. But gradually they both stopped working and just stared.

He had meticulously separated the lettuce leaves and immersed them one by one in water. Scrutinizing every leaf for imperfections, he placed those that passed on a towel, patting them with care.

After this, he reached on tiptoes for the olive oil and vinegar. Instants later he was scientifically measuring ingredients into a bowl. He then looked up at his enraptured audience and said:

"I need—I do not know the English for de VaiV*

"Jessie?" Paula asked her sister.

"We haven't had that word yet. I'll go look it up." And she sprinted toward the CasselVs in the living room. There were sounds of frantically ruffled pages and at last a triumphant shout of "Garlic!"

"Wow," said Paula to Jean-Claude. "Are you gonna be a French chef when you grow up?"

"No," the boy replied. "A doctor."

Jessie hurriedly reentered in search of garlic and a garlic press.

"WTien will they be home?" asked Paula.

"Well, Dad is jogging on the high school track

with birdbrain Bemie. He'll be just in time to be too late to do his share. Depending on the trafSc, Mom should be here around seven."

''She'll be real excited when she sees youVe made that blanket stew for her."

''Blanquette. I hope so. I—uh—Jean-Claude, could I ask you to—uh—taste the sauce?"

''Of course, Jessica." He walked over to the pot, dipped the wooden spoon in and brought it to his mouth.

"Mmm," he said softly, "very interesting."

"But is it good, is it good?'' Jessica persisted.

"Superb," the little boy replied.

It was a triumph of international diplomacy.

B

lJ o you see that fantastic kid? Isn't he great I I can hardly believe he's my son!"

As the two fathers circled the Nanuet High School track, Bernie kept touting his son's athletic talents. At this moment, Davey Ackerman was on the infield, scrimmaging with some of the older soccer honchos.

''He's pretty good," Bob conceded.

"'Good? Beckwith, the kid's fantastic. He's ambidextrous. He's got all the moves. I mean, he's really pro material. Don't you agree?"

"Uh—sure," said Bob, not wanting to interrupt his friend's paternal fantasy. Besides, his legs still bore some bruises from that collision with Bernie's pride and joy.

''It's my business, after all," Bernie continued. *'The kid is everything I wasn't. Look at him slide by those fullbacks!"

"Yeah," Bob answered noncommittally.

Bernie glanced at his friend and understood. His tone of voice was sympathetic. "You know, women's sports are getting to be really big too."

"Huh?"

"If you started your girls on a program now,

they'd have a chance for athletic scholarships. I could maybe even help."

"They hate sports, Bern."

''Whose fault is that?'' replied the advocate of athletes, subtle accusation in his voice.

"They take ballet," Bob offered.

"Well, that's great prep for the high jump. And I think Jessie's gonna be tall. She could be a great high jumper, Beckwith."

"Why don't you tell her, Bern?"

"I don't know. For some reason she thinks I'm a clown. Doesn't she know I'm the top of my field?"

"Yeah. But I guess she's going through an anti-high-jump phase."

"Sit her down. Bob. Speak to her before it's too late."

They jogged along for another half mile, their increasingly labored breaths punctuated by Bemie's gasps of "Great" and "Fantastic" whenever Davey showed his style.

"Good workout," Bemie said when they reached the finish line and began to talk. "You should run during the year, too, Beckwith. I mean, how the hell do you stay so thin? You don't even play squash."

"I worry a lot," said Bob, and kept walking.

The soccer game had now disbanded and only Davey Ackerman remained, to practice kicking goals. Bemie could concentrate on other things. He turned to Bob.

"You seem down for some reason, Beckwith."

"It's nothing, Bern."

"Actually, when I think of it. Sheila looked a little down yesterday too. I mean, everything's okay with you guys, isn't it?"

Bob did not reply.

"Sorry. Stupid question^ Bob. Nothing's ever wrong with you two."

Bob looked at him. "I gotta talk to someone, Bern."

''What am I here for, Beckwith?''

''Got five minutes?"

"Of course. Wanna sit on the stands?"

"Yeah."

They picked up their sweat clothes, wandered over to the flimsy wooden bleachers, climbed to the highest step and sat down.

"Okay, okay," said Bernie. "What the hell's the matter?"

Bob was too upset to start at the beginning.

"You know the French boy I brought over yesterday?"

"Yeah—the exchange kid. Nice-looking."

"He's mine."

"What do you mean?" Bernie was normally far from obtuse, but something visceral prevented him from understanding Bob's statement.

"He's my son," Bob repeated. Bemie's jaw dropped.

"Holy shit," he said. "You mean youVe been cheating on Sheila all this time?"

"No, no. This was ten years ago. It wasn't even an 'affair.' I mean, more like a fling. The woman died last month. That was the first I ever heard about the boy."

"Are you really sure he's yours?"

"Yes."

"Holy shit," Bernie repeated, and then, "Hey— what was she like?"

"I don't remember."

"Christ, if I had a kid with a woman, I'd sure as hell remember what she looked like."

Bob started to explain that he hadn't known what

he was doing at the time. But this now sounded implausible, even to himself. Jean-Claude's very existence seemed to belie the most strenuous protestations of ignorance.

"Well?'' Bemie asked again. "Was she good-looking?"

"I suppose so."

''Have you got a picture?"

Bob glared angrily at Bernie. "Will you be serious?"

"It was a reasonable question, Beckvdth. If I ever cheated on Nancy—which I'd never have the guts to, 'cause it would kill her—it'd have to be with someone like Raquel Welch or better. And the least I'd do is save a picture."

Bob turned to him and said quietly, "Look at the boy. Her hair was darker, but she looked a lot like him."

It was at this moment that Bemie fully realized the significance of what Bob was telling him. "Holy shit," he mumbled. *'You. My goddam role model. Christ, Sheila will never forgive you, will she?"

Bob glared at his best friend. Why the hell did he have to say a stupid thing like that, dammit?

And then something else dav^oied on Bernie.

"What the hell is he doing here?''

"He's got no other family. If we didn't take him, he'd already be in a state orphanage. A guy in France is trying to fix up something else. Sheila agreed to it."

"Christ, what a woman. Nancy would kick me and the kid out."

The track was silent now, and sunset cast long shadows on the field. The only sound was Davey Ackerman kicking his ball into the nets. Bernie was at a loss for words. He slowly shook his head and

Stared down through the wooden slats at the ground below. What could he say?

''Bob, I never dreamed a guy like you would screw around. I mean, you and Sheila were like those little figures on a wedding cake. What the hell made you do it?"

''I don't know, Bemie. It was ten years ago/'

"In France?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause.

"Did you love her?''

Bob looked wounded. "Of course not," he shot back.

"Fm sorry," Bemie retorted. "I don't believe you. I don't believe a guy married to someone like Sheila would have an affair with a woman he didn't at least think he loved."

"I told you I don't remember," Bob said quietly. "The important thing is I don't know what to do

now."

"Any idiot could tell that. Bob."

"What?"

"Get rid of the kid. Pronto. Fast. Amputate the relationship or your marriage will get gangrene. Am I making sense?"

"Yes."

"But I guess it's easier when you're not involved, huh?"

"Yes. Put yourself in my place."

"I couldn't. I've talked it over a million times."

"With whom?"

"With myself. You know how often I'm on the road—Miami, Vegas, L.A. I don't lack for opportunities. But I know Nancy trusts me, my kid looks up to me. I couldn't take the chance, Bob. I wouldn't. The only thing I've ever brought up to my hotel room is a bottle of Scotch. Hell, a client

in Vegas once sent me up a fancy hooker. I mean, she was lust on wheels. When I told her I wasn't interested, she started wiggling those unbelievable tits and calling me all kinds of uncomplimentary names. I think I was drooling when I said no for the last time. But Christ, I was proud of myself. And you know something? Fve never even confessed this part to Nancy—you know how I could hold out against those forty-inch boobs?"

^'How?"

"I said to myself there's only one score in the marriage game. A thousand. No errors ever. Like Bob and Sheila. And I'm not the only one of your friends who thinks so, either. How's she taking it?"

"I think it's getting to her."

"I'll bet. That's why you've gotta ship that kid off now. Bob. You've got too much to lose."

"Hey, Dad!"

It was Davey Ackerman, shouting from the infield.

"Yeah?" Bemie shouted back.

"I'm ready to knock it off," called Davey.

"Okay, in a minute. Take two laps around first."

Bemie then tumed back to his friend.

"Hey, you know, Bob, I just thought of something ironic."

"What?"

"I mean, here you are a professor of statistics."

"So?"

"So you have one lousy affair in your whole life. For a few lousy days. And you get a kid as evidence. Christ, what are the odds of that happening to anybody?"

"Oh," said Bob bitterly, "about a billion to one."

1 HE VEAL IS PERFECT, JeSSIE."

''Do you really think so, Mom?"

*'I think so too," said Bob, unasked. All during dinner he had been trying to read Sheila's face from across the table, but found it curiously indecipherable. They'd talk later, he reassured himself.

"What a nice surprise," Sheila added. ''Did you make the salad dressing too?"

"Well . . ." said Jessie. Then she realized that if she did not attribute authorship, her sister would. "Uh—actually Jean-Claude made it."

"Really?" Sheila said, trying to seem pleased. "It's very good, Jean-Claude."

"Thank you," he answered shyly.

"He used to do it for his mom, every day," Paula added. "He can cook a lot of other stuff too."

"Oh," said Sheila, "that's nice." She was doing her best, dammit, and Bob wasn't helping at all.

"Anyone care for more hlanquetteT' asked Jessica.

At first there seemed no takers. Everybody's appetite was satisfied. But there was so much left.

"Uk—I would like some," said Jean-Claude. Jes-

96

sie was delighted. Better to please one French palate than a dozen provincial know-nothings.

For dessert she had prepared Black Forest Cake a la Sara Lee. Provincial taste buds were suddenly reawakened.

"May we go watch television?" Paula asked her father.

"Can't you ever read a book?'' said Bob, annoyed.

"Books are too scary/' Paula protested.

"What are you talking about?" asked Bob.

"Jean-Claude has a schoolbook about strangling,*' Paula said, cringing in retrospect.

"What's this?" Bob asked the boy.

"I was reading the history of France. That is how Julius Caesar disposed of Vercingetorix the revolutionary."

"Ah," said Sheila. "That brings back memories of Mr. Hammond's Latin class. Do you enjoy history, Jean-Claude?"

"Not when it's sad. I was hoping Vercingetorix would win."

Bob smiled. "Why don't you go with the girls, Jean-Claude? It'll take your mind off strangling."

"Come on," said Paula, leaping from her chair.

The two girls scampered off. An instant later, the sound of sitcoms past was wafting in from the next room. But the French boy had not moved.

"Go on, Jean-Claude," said Bob. "It's a good way to practice your English."

"If you don't mind, Bob," he said politely, "I would prefer to read."