A Hundred Summers

by Beatriz Williams

  Budgie was tugging at his hand, leading him into the throng. Someone tossed him the football, and he rolled it between his two hands, smiling, testing. He looked over at me and winked.

  “Really, I wish you would share him on occasion,” said Aunt Julie. “Mondays, for example, when you’re busy planning the week’s shopping anyway, and don’t need a man about. My needs are simple, at my age. An hour or two would be sufficient.”

  I slapped her arm with an indignation I wasn’t quite sure I felt. The truth was, I was entirely happy to share Graham Pendleton on Mondays, if Aunt Julie wanted him. I liked him very much, admired him, felt an obedient physical desire curl up from my middle when he kissed me in the evening, on our back porch. But possessive?

  I watched him now as he followed after Budgie, as he gave her a playful slap on her bottom when she kicked an impatient spray of sand at his legs, trying to get him to throw her the football. At one time, they had been lovers. They had taken carnal knowledge of each other. You could still see some trace of that knowledge in the easy way they interacted, the little packets of physical contact. I examined myself for jealousy, for any sensation of discomfort or annoyance. I could find none. Was it because I was so sure of his devotion, expressed daily, or because I didn’t care enough?

  Graham looked over at me and shrugged. I waved back at him. He was trying to organize them into two teams, based loosely on physical capabilities. His long arms motioned and pointed. I put my chin in my one hand, picked up my cigarette, and savored the rush of sensation in my lungs. It was hot again today, hot and humid, as it had been all summer long. This afternoon there would be thunderstorms, as there had been yesterday. The weight of the air pressed on my shoulders, making every movement slow, every action languid. I stubbed out the cigarette and rose. “I’m going for a swim. It’s too hot.”

  Aunt Julie settled herself back on the blanket. “You’re crazy. It’s divine.”

  I wandered to the edge of the water, keeping clear of the football game. The water was calm today, a millpond, the waves rolling in slowly as if they were just as oppressed by the heat as we were. I let the foam lap my legs, the kelp wrap around my ankles, and closed my eyes. (“You’ll burn your skin,” said Mother.)

  “Lily!”

  It was Budgie’s voice shouting my name. I turned.

  “We’re one short! You’ve got to play with us. Please say you’ll play.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know how.”

  Graham came up and swooped me into his arms. “I’ll show you. Come on, Lily. You can play on my team.”

  I flailed my arms and legs until he put me down. “No, really. You can do better than that. How about Mr. Hubert?”

  Budgie laughed. “We’d have to stop every two minutes for you-know-what. Your own mother would be better.”

  “She’ll never come out in the sun and ruin her skin,” I said. Graham’s arm still rested around my waist; a friend tossed him the football and he caught it one-handed, without letting me go.

  “What about Greenwald?” someone called out. “He used to play in college, didn’t he?”

  “That’s right,” said Graham, turning to Budgie. “Where’s your loving husband, Mrs. Greenwald?”

  “Back at the house, probably, looking over his old blueprints. He’ll never agree.”

  “Oh, come on.” Graham winked. “Can’t you work your womanly wiles on him for us?”

  She batted her eyelashes. “I want to keep practicing football. Send your own girl. Nick would do anything for Lily.”

  A giggle passed between two of the women. Graham’s hand tightened at my waist.

  “I’ll go,” said Norm Palmer.

  “No, that’s all right,” said Graham. “Lily can go, can’t you, sweetheart?” He looked down at me, face smiling, eyes bland.

  “I’ll go.” I picked up Graham’s hand from around my waist and kissed it. “I’ll be back in a minute, darling.”

  Graham’s hand patted my behind as I left, just as it had Budgie’s.

  I stopped at the blanket and put on my cotton dress over my swimsuit, struggled into my sandals, found my hat. Aunt Julie looked up. “Where are you going?”

  “To the Greenwalds’. Nick’s wanted for the football game.”

  She gave a low whistle. “Well, well. Hang on to your straps.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  The hot air clung to my skin as I walked down the lane to Nick’s house. We hadn’t spoken at all in the past month, since the night at the roadhouse; I had hardly even seen him. He and Budgie never came to Saturday-night dinners at the club anymore; instead, they stayed at their house, hosting Budgie’s parties, while Seaview huddled and clucked in disapproval at the music, the peals of laughter, the half-dressed women cavorting on the bluestone terrace.

  As for me, I was too busy being courted by Graham Pendleton. We dined with the Palmers on Saturday; we went to the movies or dancing on Friday; we took walks and went sailing and played bridge with my mother in the clubhouse when the rain poured down. On fair mornings, Graham gave me his baseball glove and had me catch for him, as he began working his shoulder again, getting ready to play. Within a week or so, I was catching every ball with a confident leather-cushioned thwack.

  There was no more jazz, no more whiskey, no more kissing below the neck. Graham delivered me to my door by midnight. We drank lemonade on the back porch, kissed, smoked, kissed some more. Occasionally Graham’s hand crept up my dress, or wandered in the no-man’s-land between my back and front, not quite reaching the sides of my breasts. Then he would pull back, wink suggestively, and say it was time for him to be going. He’d shortcut up across the unfenced back lawns of Seaview Neck, whistling, disappearing into the hot darkness, cigarette glowing orange from his fingers, and show up again at ten in the morning, fresh-faced and sparkle-eyed once more.

  So Graham took up most of my time, and I liked it that way. I didn’t want to think about Nick, or the things he had said to me on the night of the roadhouse. I made sure I had no time to spare to think about Nick Greenwald, or to wonder what he did with his wife and his time.

  I knew, of course, he spent much of that time with Kiki. When I pushed open the front door, which stood ajar, newly refinished and rehinged, I could hear her laughter to my right. I followed the sound, past Budgie’s fresh white walls and open doorways and gleaming mirrors, until I found the two of them sprawled in the sunroom, lying on their stomachs side by side, blueprints spread across the floor. In deference to the heat, Nick was in shirtsleeves and light flannel trousers, his endless legs stretching halfway across the room. Kiki wore her blue dress with white stripes and no shoes. She looked up and saw me first.

  “Lily!” She jumped up and ran over and flung herself around my legs. “Nick was showing me the plans for his apartment in New York. A spiral staircase, Lily! He said I could come over and slide down the banister if . . .” She stopped.

  “If you didn’t tell your sister,” Nick said. He rose up on his knees. “Is everything all right, Lily?”

  He had been smiling widely when I entered, but the smile slid away as he looked at me, millimeter by millimeter, replaced by a look of intense alertness. I returned his gaze, and in the strange habit of memory, I thought of the way he had looked sitting across the table at the diner at college, that first morning. His features were the same, still precise and arresting, still able to alter with his mood: hard with determination, soft with love. The hazy sunshine floated in the room, touching his hazel eyes with gold. My heart was dropping away from my body.

  I bent and put my arms around Kiki’s back. “Everything’s fine. You’re wanted at the beach. They’re playing football.”

  “Football?”

  I smiled. “You remember football, don’t you? Oblong ball, rectangular field.”

  “You know how to play football, Nick?” Kiki asked in awe.

  “Kiki, Nick was the best football player at Dartmouth College, once. You should have seen him. He used
to throw the ball so far and so fast, you couldn’t even see it as it went through the air.”

  Nick rose to his feet. “And then I broke my leg, and haven’t picked up a ball since.”

  “Except once,” I heard myself say. “In Central Park.”

  Kiki turned in my arms. “Which leg?”

  “This one.” He pointed to his left leg.

  “Is it all better now?”

  Nick glanced at me, and away. “All better.”

  Kiki darted forward and grabbed his hand. “Let’s go down to the beach! I want to see you play. I want you to throw the ball to me. I’ll bet I can catch it.”

  “Ladies don’t bet, Kiki,” I said.

  “You sound like Mother. Come on, Nick!” She tugged at his hand.

  Nick looked at me helplessly.

  “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I’ll tell them you were busy.”

  “You do have to go,” said Kiki. “I want you to go.”

  “Kiki!” I said, shocked.

  “No, it’s all right,” said Nick. “I’ll go. Come along, Kiki. We’ll see what my old arm can do.”

  She skipped along next to him. “Can I play, too, Nick? Can I be on your team?”

  “May,” I said. “May I play on your team.”

  “If you like,” said Nick.

  We found Kiki’s sandals and walked back up the lane to the beach, the three of us abreast, Kiki skipping along between us and holding both our hands. The sun beat down on my straw hat and radiated up my bare legs from the graveled lane. Kiki chattered away to the percussive crunch of our footsteps.

  When we reached the beach, everyone looked at us, and even the seagulls seemed to cease their screaming for a pregnant instant.

  Then a grinning Graham stepped forward, without warning, and threw the football toward Nick’s chest. Nick lifted his arm and caught it one-handed, folding it into his elbow, without letting go of Kiki’s hand.

  “He caught it!” said Kiki triumphantly.

  A smile shadowed Nick’s lips. He gave the ball a spin, so it landed back in his broad palm, cradled by his long fingers, and with an almost casual flick of his arm he sent it spinning like a rifle bullet, thumping straight into the center of Graham Pendleton’s perfect sternum.

  Kiki screamed with joy. “Oh, do it again, Nick! Do it again!”

  “All right.” Nick dropped her hand and took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his sleeves and the cuffs of his long flannel trousers. Each movement, neat and deliberate, thrummed with latent energy. He jogged into the swarm of half-naked bodies, into the middle of the bare chests and daring swimsuits, half a head taller than anyone else, including Graham. A warm feeling settled into the pit of my stomach, a sense of rightness.

  Kiki pulled my hand. “I want to play, too, Lily. Let me play.”

  Nick was pointing his arm, sending people into place. With delight I watched his face, watched his brow narrow and settle, his eyes harden and gleam, the familiar long-hidden lines of his pirate face take shape.

  “Honey,” I said, “I think you’d better sit out for a while.”

  I led her to the blanket, where Aunt Julie had sat up and begun to watch the game unfolding around Nick’s broad and lanky frame. “I didn’t realize he was so tall,” she said.

  “We haven’t seen him much this summer, have we?” I ruffled Kiki’s hair.

  I didn’t know many of the people grouped on the beach. Nearly all of them were Budgie’s houseguests. I knew Graham and Budgie, of course, who were playing together opposite Nick. I saw Norm Palmer on Nick’s team, looking disconcerted. The Palmers had been caught awkwardly in the center of the Greenwald divide, as I had: Graham had refused to take sides against Budgie, so Emily and Norm were brought into her circle on occasion.

  Nick himself was another matter. He had held himself conveniently apart until now, sparing us all any overt awkwardness, and now poor Norm had no idea what to do. He sent a helpless glance at his wife on her blanket. Emily shrugged her bony tennis shoulders and lay back on her elbows.

  It soon became obvious that Graham and Nick were the only men who knew anything about playing football. Nick’s team had the ball first, and he threw to Norm Palmer, a perfect arc of a throw, gently delivered into the juncture of Norm’s ribs. Norm bobbled the ball back and forth between his hands for a few breathless seconds, higher and wilder at each bobble, until Graham swooped in like an attacking eagle and snatched it away, running fifteen yards down the beach before Nick tackled him in an explosion of flying sand.

  Graham leaped back up and brandished the ball. “Interception!” he yelled. “An interception of a Greenwald pass! Never been done before!” He kissed the ball and pointed it at me.

  I lit a cigarette. “I wonder what Joe McCarthy would think of that tackle.”

  “Who’s Joe McCarthy?” asked Aunt Julie.

  “The manager for the Yankees, of course. Everybody knows that.” I blew out an insouciant stream of smoke.

  But Graham’s jubilation shriveled early.

  First he handed the ball to Budgie, who took two springing steps before a host of willing stockbroker arms—some of which belonged to her own team—dragged her into the sand.

  Next, Graham tried passing to one of the stockbrokers. The fellow caught the ball, but before he could turn and run, Nick flew into him with such force that the ball catapulted from his hands and into the astonished palms of Norm Palmer, who happened to be standing nearby. “Run!” Nick shouted, and Norm ran a few steps in the wrong direction before Nick turned him around and performed a simultaneous sidearm block of Graham Pendleton, who had rushed up in defense. Norm ran up the beach unchecked to score the game’s first touchdown.

  Kiki jumped up and screamed. “Hooray, NICK! Did you see that, Lily?”

  A ripple of tension ran across the field of play.

  There was no possibility of kicking, because of tender bare feet. Graham’s team had the ball again, and this time Graham delegated quarterback duties to one of the stockbrokers. “Just hand the damned ball to me,” he said. His face was dripping with sweat in the scorching sun. He wiped it away from his brow and settled down for the next play with the tip of his finger pressed into the sand to brace himself.

  “Dear me,” said Aunt Julie. “Things are getting serious.”

  I stretched out my legs and lit another cigarette. Nick was sweating, too, beneath his white shirt and trousers, now stuck with sand. He waited for the play with his legs apart, his eyes narrowed fiercely, his hands flexing, just like the first moment I’d seen him. The muscles of my body clenched in response. I felt as if I were suffocating, unable to breathe under the weight of the emotion pressing my heart as I watched Nick Greenwald stand poised for battle in the sand.

  Kiki cheered and yelled by my side. The ball snapped up and was flung to Graham, and he plunged forward like a locomotive, legs churning, just as Budgie had described him on a long-ago autumn afternoon, in another life.

  But Nick Greenwald was not afraid of locomotives. He lunged directly at Graham and wrapped him with his long arms and stopped him dead at the third step.

  Aunt Julie reached for the picnic basket. “Well, well. Who wants a little gin and tonic?”

  ONE BY ONE, the stockbrokers and mistresses dropped out, done in by the heat, splashing into the ocean to cool off and watch the duel between Graham and Nick, supplemented by Norm and Budgie and two tenacious others. The tide was rising, compressing the field of play. We moved our blanket back, to give them a little more room.

  “They really should stop,” I said, stubbing out my fourth cigarette with trembling fingers. “It’s far too hot. Someone’s going to collapse.”

  Aunt Julie said: “I doubt they’ll stop until someone does collapse.”

  At that instant, one of the remaining stockbrokers let out a yell. One of the women ran to him, screaming, and bent over his foot. “He’s stepped on a shell,” she announced. “He can’t play.”

  “Well, that’s it,
then,” said Nick. The stockbroker played on his side.

  “No, it’s not,” said Graham, whose team was losing by six points.

  Budgie put her hand on his arm. “Don’t be silly. We’ve played long enough. We’re out of people.”

  Graham looked at me. “Lily can play.”

  Everyone turned to me. I was in the act of lighting another cigarette. I looked back and forth between Nick and Graham, put down cigarette and lighter, and shook my head. “Oh, no. I’ve never played football.”

  “It’s easy. Nick will do all the work. Won’t you, Nick?” Graham raised his eyebrows at Nick.

  “Let’s just call if off, all right? I’ll forfeit. You win.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t, you damned . . .” Graham stopped himself.

  Nick said coldly: “For God’s sake, Pendleton. It’s scorching out. She doesn’t want to play.”

  I jumped up. “You know what? I’ll play.”

  A halfhearted cheer rose up around me. I dusted the sand off my legs and walked over to where Nick stood, frowning, bouncing the ball back and forth between his hands. “Are you sure, Lily?” he asked, in a low voice.

  “Absolutely. Just show me what to do.”

  “You don’t need to do anything. Just stay out of trouble.”

  “Don’t be condescending. I came to play. I’ve been watching, I know what’s going on. Pass me the ball and I’ll catch it.”

  “Do you know how to catch a football?”

  “It can’t be that hard.”

  Nick sighed.

  “Look,” I said, “I’ve been catching practice balls for Graham all summer.”

  “That’s baseball. You get to wear a glove in baseball.”

  Graham cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: “Should I send over some lemonade, ladies?”

  “Pass me the ball, Nick. I’ll catch it.”

  Nick met my gaze.

  Norm Palmer hit his shoulder. “Come on, Greenwald. Let’s get started.”