Winning is Everything (33 page)

Bud took the joint from Ron and inhaled on it deeply. “Like this … see?”

Ron saw. He took the smoldering cigarette away from Bud, sucked on it, and held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could. “Nothin’ to it,” he exclaimed as he exhaled.

Ron passed the joint to Casey. Her eyes were lit up in anticipation, and Ron said, “Now I see what you must have been like smoking in the girls’ room in boarding school in the fifth grade.”

“You’re right,” said Casey, placing the joint in her mouth and breathing in deeply the intoxicating smoke.

The joint was passed around a few more times and then Bud proclaimed they’d all had enough—there was a long evening ahead.

“I don’t feel a thing,” said Ron, leaning back.

“Famous last words,” said Bud.

“But I don’t feel anything …” Ron repeated, wondering why he was suddenly having difficulty getting up from his chair.

The first thing Ron felt when he reached the bottom of the stairs was an incredible thirst. The back of his throat was parched and dry. So when he walked into the living room and the bartender handed him a Cuba libre, he proceeded to gulp it down.

The flowers in the room seemed unusually vivid, colorful. The canapés were delicious and the aroma of whatever was cooking in the kitchen smelled sensational. Ron realized he was suddenly famished.

“What’s going on?” he asked Bud.

“Nothin’ man,” said the football player. “You’re stoned, that’s all. Just let it roll. Go on Flow.”

Ron found a seat on a wicker couch and spent the entire cocktail hour watching everything, taking it all in, as he tried to acclimate to the new sensation of having his senses heightened.

Dinner was served buffet style.

Casey saw that Ron’s eyes were dancing around inside his sockets, so she brought him a plate of veal curry and salad. He gobbled up his meal in seconds flat and then skipped over to the table to scoop up some more of the delicious grub.

“How you feeling?” Casey asked Ron.

“Flying,” said Ron. “You?”

“Feeling great,” said Casey. “Still so thirsty, though. Think I’ll have another drink.”

“Get me one too, while you’re up, will you?” asked Ron.

Ron remembered very little after dessert because after his third bowlful of coconut ice cream he fell asleep sitting up in his wicker couch.

He awoke an hour later and found the living room nearly empty and dark. He felt a wave of paranoia sweeping over him, but dismissed it as a symptom of his stoned state. Everyone had changed into bathing suits and was outside splashing around the heated pool. The only other person still in the living room was Bud’s girlfriend, Eileen, who sat in a chair across from Ron, also sound asleep. And snoring.

Ron opened his eyes and smiled at a sleeping Eileen.

“Nice party,” he muttered to her.

Eileen raised heavy eyelids momentarily, mumbled something about “Good smoke, good shit,” and closed her eyes again.

“Hey!” Casey poked Ron several hours later, waking him up. “Let’s go to bed. Party’s over.”

“Huh?” said Ron, blinking open his eyes and looking around. There was no one else in the room.

“Upstairs!” said Casey. “Come on. Everyone’s gone to bed.”

“Thought we were going to go swimming,” Ron mumbled.

“We did,” said Casey. “You slept through it. Come on. I’m tired.”

Casey helped Ron to his feet and they walked upstairs to their room.

“What do you suppose happened to me?” Ron asked when they got there.

“You collapsed,” said Casey. “Bud said it was because you mixed booze with grass. He says you’re not used to it.”

“Then how come you kept feeding me drinks every time I woke up?” asked Ron. “And how come
you
didn’t collapse?”

“I gave you drinks because you said you were thirsty,” said Casey. “And I was drinking Coke, without the rum.”

Ron reached forward to take Casey in his arms. “I’m sorry, sweetie; and here I wanted to take an after-dinner walk with you. I found a perfectly charming and romantic spot I want to show you. Maybe tomorrow night, huh?”

“Sure.” Casey shrugged. “Why not?”

Ron kissed Casey on the lips. “I’m suddenly feeling very sexy. What about you?”

“I’m feeling exhausted and ready for sleep,” Casey answered. “I didn’t have the luxury of your nap.”

“You mean not tonight, huh?”

“Right,” said Casey. “We got the whole weekend.”

“You’ll take a moon check?”

Casey smiled and left Ron’s arms to go into the bathroom.

“No more pot for me,” said Ron. “I don’t like what it does to my head.”

“You sure didn’t seem to mind when you had three portions of everything during dinner,” said Casey from the bathroom sink.

“Yeah …” Ron remembered the taste sensations. “That was kind of special. Still … Oh, who knows. We’ll see.”

Ron began to undress, hoping that by the time they got into bed Casey might change her mind about making love.

Casey picked up a jar of Elizabeth Arden night creme and began smearing her face and neck with it. She had to be well moisturized and rested for her day in the sun tomorrow. So much, figured Ron, for her changing her mind about making love.

Ron woke up Saturday morning in an empty bed. It was ten o’clock and Casey was not in their room, not in the bathroom.

Jumping up, he stepped into a pair of green bathing trunks and opened the wooden shutters leading to their balcony. He then stepped out into a beautiful, sunny morning. Down below, waves were smashing up against rocks. Ron looked over to the tennis courts. There, on court one, were Casey and Bud.

Maybe I should take tennis lessons, Ron told himself, deciding it would be the perfect thing to do right after he and Casey were married.

Breakfast was being served by the pool, and Ron helped himself to a platter of poached eggs and sausages, coffee, and orange juice. An hour later, Casey and Bud had yet to finish playing tennis, so Ron went for a walk by himself. When he returned to their room, he found Casey just stepping out of a shower.

“Where’ve you been?” she asked.

“Strolling around,” said Ron. “Sun is surprisingly strong, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Casey. “I can hardly wait to plop down on a chaise and cook myself for the rest of the day. I’m pooped.”

“How was your tennis game?” asked Ron.

“Oh,” said Casey, drying herself with a huge orange bath towel. “You saw …”

“From the terrace …”

“Bud’s got some serious problems. He wants to talk to me about them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re going for a walk now, soon as I get dressed.”

“I thought you said you wanted to collapse by the pool.”

“I do,” Casey insisted. “After our walk. Come on, Ron. Be compassionate, will you? The guy’s troubled. He wants to talk about what’s bugging him. Can’t you understand?”

“Sure, but—”

Casey kissed Ron on the lips. “Good. You go to the pool; I’ll meet you there in just a little while. Okay?”

Ron put his arms around Casey’s waist. “Got any time for a quick nookie-nookie?” he asked.

Casey smiled. “You can be so sweet sometimes. Come on, I gotta meet Bud downstairs in two minutes. What’s the big rush? We got all weekend.”

Ron went back down to the pool. The girls were decked out on loungers and talking about hair colorings, and the guys were down at the other end talking about the current favorable price of silver. Ron lay on a chaise between the two groups and fell asleep in the sun.

“Hey! …Get up!” Casey shook Ron awake. “Don’t you want lunch?”

“What time is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“One-thirty,” said Casey. “You been asleep all this time, without sun cream? Oh, boy.”

“I feel fine,” said Ron. “How was your walk?”

“Real nice,” said Casey. “We found the most divine spot about five hundred feet from here. It’s got this old stone bench sitting right between two trees at the edge of a cliff, looking down on waves crashing into the rocks below. I’ll show it to you later!”

So much for taking her to a secret spot, thought Ron. “What’d Bud want to talk to you about?” he asked.

“Real sad,” said Casey. “He’s having big problems with Eileen. Feels he’s kind of outgrown her, and after two years, he doesn’t know how to break the news to her.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“What did
I
tell him?” Casey repeated. “Nothing. He’s got a serious problem. I had no solution. I could only listen to him.”

“What’s for lunch?”

“Salads and rum punches,” said Casey. “Wanna eat?”

“You bet!” said Ron, standing up.

By four that afternoon, as the late-afternoon sun cast vivid shadows on the flowerbeds and the rolling lawns, Ron looked into the mirror and found himself to be the same color as a candied apple.

He took a long, hot shower, hoping to burn out any forthcoming pain, and emerged several shades closer to purple.

His head was warm, feverish, his arms and shoulders in agony.

“Casey!” he called into the other room. “I think I got too much sun!”

Casey poked her head into the bathroom. “That’s what I told you before lunch,” she said. “But you wouldn’t listen to me. How are you going to explain your tan at work anyway, when you’re supposed to be home in bed with the flu?”

“I’ll tell them I fell asleep under my sun lamp.”

“Here,” said Casey, handing Ron her jar of Elizabeth Arden moisturizer. “Smear yourself with this.”

Saturday-night dinner was sit-down. The men wore either loud madras sports jackets or louder madras pants. The girls were in summer dresses. Ron wore the same outfit as the previous evening, except he now sported a blue shirt to complement his lobster-red face.

Casey and Bud were seated next to each other down at the other end of the table and were so animated in their conversation, Ron had difficulty getting her attention so he could throw her a meager kiss or pass along an affectionate wink.

His hunger had been sapped by his sunburn, and so he just picked at his flounder Provençal and listened to his neighbors going on with their who-was-who at Sarah Lawrence.

Sharon had set up a phonograph by the pool and asked everyone to join her there after dinner for drinking and dancing. As everyone got up from the table, Ron took Casey by the hand and led her aside. He explained that his head was throbbing, his shoulder aching. He’d had too much sun, apologized for being so wet a blanket, but thought it best if he retired early with a thousand aspirin. Casey put on her best Clara Barton smile and agreed that Ron needed his rest. She kissed him good night and went off to the party by the pool. Ron went upstairs and climbed into bed, alternately shivering and sweating, damning his unwelcome sun poisoning.

He was in a deep sleep when Casey stepped quietly into their darkened room. She tiptoed into the bathroom and undressed. Several minutes later she lifted the cotton sheet on the bed and slipped in next to him.

Ron stirred, stretched, opened his eyes. “Whatime’sit?” He yawned.

“Sssssh!” said Casey. “It’s late. Go to sleep.”

She turned her back to him, pulled the sheet to her shoulders, closed her eyes. He turned over too, his back to her, and as he began to close his eyes again, to fall directly back to sleep, he focused momentarily on his wristwatch on the night table: 5:45.

“Five-forty-five!” Ron whirled around in bed until he was facing her. “What’s going on?”

“Sssssh!” Casey muttered, half-asleep. “… tired …”

Ron turned over on his back and stared at the ceiling. He woke again at 8:30, feeling chilly. When he looked out the window, he saw a sky that was overcast, threatening, a day decidedly gray. He put on a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of slacks and went downstairs.