Seventh Avenue

by Norman Bogner

  Uncle Don marched them into the bathhouse and gave them all numbers for their bathrobes and towels, formed them into a line, and when he was satisfied that it was as straight as it could be, inasmuch as none of them had yet had Moscalero training, he led them out to the pier.

  “Since I don’t know how any of you swim, you’ll have to be in the crib, till the waterfront counselors decide where you can go.”

  “It’s only about three-feet deep,” Artie Kahn protested. “And I passed my J.L.S. test in school last winter.”

  “The crib, Artie,” Uncle Don said.

  There were about thirty other boys paddling in the shallows of the crib, most of them much smaller than Bunk 11.

  Neal turned to Bobby and said: “You and me stick together no matter what.”

  They shook hands under water because Uncle Don was glaring at Fish.

  “It might not be so bad,” Fish said. “It’s just that it’s all so strange. One minute you’re running around in the streets, and nobody telling you what to do. Then all of a sudden they put you in the army.”

  “I’m glad I’ve come,” Neal remarked. His forehead became ruckled and pensive, and he stared down at the clear water. He could see his feet, and there were only small pebbles on the bottom.

  “I thought you didn’t like it,” Fish asked with some confusion.

  “Anything’s better than being with my parents. They’re divorced.”

  In the summer, Jay and Eva usually went to Southampton. They had a large, rambling beach house that Jay had bought from an architect, and he liked the timbered atmosphere, and the enormous copper fireplace that fluted up to the chimney. It was conveniently situated; he could drive from his office in Manhattan to the house in about two hours.

  He and Terry met whenever they could, but the time they had together possessed a fugitive quality that unnerved them, and created an air of charged desperation when they resumed the respectable functions of their lives. But midway through the summer fortune smiled on them, for Eva suggested that a “getting-to-know-each-other” period with Lorna might relieve the tension and anxiety that overwhelmed her whenever she and her daughter were together. Jay graciously offered the beach house and Eva accepted. She had been scared when confronted with the prospect of being on her own with Lorna, but Jay had saved the situation by saying: “We’ll ask your mother to come with you. She’s on her own, and it’ll give the three of you a chance to get acquainted” - which went to prove that improvisation was the handmaiden of love. Eva had flung her arms round Jay and murmured: “Oh, God, Jay you’ve saved the day. You’re wonderful.” Which might have confirmed for cynical people the efficacy and value of having enough money to get rid of one’s wife.

  Jay telephoned Terry as soon as he was out of the house. She shared his excitement but told him that it was impossible for them to meet because Mitch was coming home for dinner.

  “Impossible?” He was astounded. “I’ve got to see you.”

  “What’s the point if we can’t be alone?”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “Jay, you’re being unreasonable.”

  “Don’t tell me what I’m being.” The ground had been cut from under him, and a sleepless night, a hangover, and the airless phone booth, conspired to make him irritable.

  “How do you think I feel, knowing you’re free?”

  “I wonder . . .”

  “Well, you can stop wondering.”

  “I’ll come to dinner.”

  “How can you?”

  “Easy. I’ll just show up. You tell him that you invited me. That you met me and Eva at Park Knoll.”

  “It can’t be done out of the blue.”

  “It’ll have to be. See you at six.” He hung up as she started to protest. He was becoming desperate, and the sensation both terrified and exalted him. For a man who prided himself on carefully planning most of the moves of his life, he perceived a quirkish change of character in his technique. He was behaving stupidly and carelessly, exposing himself to a position from which no retreat could be made. Any unconsidered action could break up two marriages, but he was prepared for it, and indeed hoped that he would emerge with the prize he sought: marital happiness with Terry.

  Dr. Lawson wore one of those badly cut navy-blue doctor’s suits, complete with baggy trousers and ironing sheen on the tail of the jacket. He was more hospitable than Jay expected in view of the fact that he was entertaining a stranger who had crashed in on a quiet family dinner, and with whom he had nothing in common save the fact that unknown to him this stranger performed with complete success certain duties that the doctor attempted energetically but disastrously at a cost of incalculable anguish. Neither of them appreciated the irony of the situation: they were both ignorant of French farce, and epigrams did not come easily to either of them. Terry behaved with the cold and distant manner of a surgical nurse; she did everything perfectly, so perfectly in fact, that it was evident to Jay, although not to her husband, that she might begin to scream at any moment during the laborious hour of small talk and lethal highballs that preceded dinner. She could not make up her mind about Jay’s action. Perhaps it would be best to come out in the open and risk hurting Mitch, very suddenly, and so sharply that the shock would be violent and almost painless? A ruthless solution to an impossible situation. The other course would involve deceit and slyness and inevitably force him into the position of witness and abettor of his own cuckolding. This seemed to her ignoble and disgusting, but she could not act until Jay made the decision. The two men sat on the sofa, facing each other, like cocks in wooden cages, each with his morsel of cornmeal, affable, both the same generic breed, until they were armed with spikes and shoved into the sawdust pit. One would be the killer, the other the victim, and she watched with that peculiar horrified fascination that transcends all human decency, and centuries of civilization, when one is a spectator at any form of combat.

  “I don’t think my specialty would be of interest to you,” Mitch said. “It bores hell out of everybody, including Terry.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Give me some credit.”

  “Oh, you’re a marvelous wife. The best I could have hoped for.” He turned to Jay and added with a hint of passing on confidential information: “She always knocks herself. Thinks she doesn’t put out enough, but that’s because she gives so much.”

  Jay polished off his drink rapidly and waited, she thought, for a lead from her, but she was unable to provide it.

  “I wish I could say the same thing about my wife.”

  “Oh, come on, you’re kidding. Everybody at the country club’s been talking about nothing else since you had lunch with her. Even the headwaiter think’s she’s a knockout. He dropped his menus when she walked in,” Mitch said, giggling like an errant schoolboy.

  “Well, if he can support her, he can have her with my compliments.”

  “Don’t make that offer around Park Knoll; somebody might take you up on it. A few of them might even be prepared to bid. When’s she coming back?”

  “In about two weeks.”

  “So you’re a lone wolf on the loose.”

  “You’re not suggesting that Jay ought to fool around,” Terry said.

  “Of course I am,” Mitch replied, “Only not here.”

  He laughed, and Terry and Jay joined him uncomfortably. If it went on much longer, she’d have to tell him. Perhaps that’s what Jay intended. You shoot a lame horse to put it out of its agony.

  “It’s healthy for a man to have a fling now and then.”

  “Does that apply to a woman as well?” Jay asked.

  “In some cases.”

  “Which ones?” he continued, unable to prevent himself from being drawn in.

  “I’m not sure. I’m afraid I’d relate that to a woman’s physical condition. If she wasn’t able to have children for instance. Then there’d be no danger. It would only boil down to such nonmedical factors as loyalty and love. Abstractions. With a man, it’s all so simple,
so superficial. He doesn’t have to feel very much, except a biological need. With a woman, it’s a total commitment . . .”

  “Must you go on and on . . .” Terry interjected.

  “Sorry,” said Mitch, and from the sad, empty look in his gray eyes, Jay thought he was sorry. He seemed older than thirty-five. Perhaps it was the way he parted his hair, unevenly on the left side so that the crown stood up in the back, or the understanding bedside manner he had to assume. In a way, he was nice-looking, but he had a weak, pliable mouth that gave him the appearance of someone docile and house-trained. His eyes watered a bit behind his tortoiseshell glasses, and Jay realized that Terry had embarrassed him.

  “My fault,” he said almost in defense of Mitch. “I asked the question.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mitch responded quickly, unwilling to accept Jay as a defender.

  “Maybe we’re all hungry,” Terry said to relieve the tension that had begun to hang on the warm summer air. She would’ve liked to say to Jay: Either do it or keep quiet, but don’t play around. She didn’t want to be left to put out a fire he had started.

  Dinner was uneventful. They gossiped about a number of people Jay didn’t know, discussed golf handicaps, whether Florida tans were better than Cape Cod’s, and Jay’s business success, which Mitch found even more fascinating than the orange soufflé that he had allowed to get cold. Terry was calmer over coffee, for whatever she had expected to happen seemed to have died as suddenly and as quixotically as a summer storm. They were over the hump - in limbo - she thought. Jay would go, and Mitch would forget about him until they ran into each other at Park Knoll. A superficial bonhomie might emerge over a drink, but the status quo would not be disturbed.

  Mitch poured Jay a large Rémy Martin with his coffee and then settled back in his armchair, which faced the stone fireplace, the only new feature in the room. Jay allowed himself to relax; he had achieved his purpose and seen Terry. Mitch wouldn’t give him any more uncomfortable nights. He’d work out some kind of arrangement with Eva, and nature would take its course. Jay swallowed his brandy and tried to move his glass away when Mitch came over with the bottle, but Mitch poured him another snifter.

  “I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Jay said. “And you’ve probably got a busy day tomorrow, right, Mitch?”

  “Not that busy. You don’t have to run, do you? My father was a lot like you. He came over from Ireland at the turn of the century. Settled in Boston with the rest of the Micks, even though he was from Northern Ireland and hated the church. In some way or another he managed to get into a bank as a messenger and by the time he died he was vice-president. Funny, the way he was so insistent on education. Sent me to the best schools - Andover, Harvard, forced me to become a doctor.”

  “You did like studying medicine,” Terry said.

  “I would’ve preferred doing what Jay did. I’m just a trained technician. He’s the pirate, the romantic figure, the man who has had none of the important advantages and who carries off the booty. I mean, if we were both young and Terry had to pick one of us, which one would she choose? I’m sure it’d be you.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Mitch,” Jay said awkwardly. He couldn’t believe that Mitch knew about them.

  “Well, she did pick a man over me once. I wonder what happened . . .”

  “Don’t be such an idiot! You’ve had too much to drink . . .” Terry was on her feet, her face drawn and cherry red.

  “Maybe you’ll pay me the compliment of being honest?”

  “About what?” Jay said, even though Mitch had spoken to Terry.

  “Well, for Christ’s sake, this little evening wasn’t supposed to wind up in a game of charades. You came over to say something to me, so let’s get it over.”

  “You seem to be pretty well-informed,” Terry said, sinking into the sofa next to Jay.

  “Private affairs are public knowledge in a small community, and the two of you haven’t exactly been discreet.”

  “You’re wrong,” Terry said.

  “Let’s try to work out a compromise . . . I’m prepared to allow Terry to have her little love life with you, provided she continues as my wife and looks after the children. Because that’s it, isn’t it? All that’s between you . . . going to bed!”

  “Not entirely,” Jay said. His face was contorted in anger.

  “You seem shocked by the suggestion. I thought you might react that way because basically philanderers are hypocrites - cheap, phony, sentimental, gutless puritans - who want to believe they’ve got some decency.”

  Jay made a lunge for Mitch, but Mitch turned his back.

  “I’m not going to risk an injury in a fight with somebody like you over a woman like Terry. Take her, she’s yours. You can pack your bags tonight and shack up in some motel. And when you’re together, try to tell each other that it isn’t sex that draws you together.”

  “It’s not!” Terry shouted.

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Mitch replied. “Convince yourself. Or better still, him!”

  Rhoda stood by the rail as the horses lined up at the starting gate. The wind from the track blew her hair, but the day was warm, and the field behind the tote board seemed unreal. She had never seen grass quite so green. Sports handed her a hot dog, and she wolfed it down in two bites.

  “I don’t like the clubhouse much.”

  “It’s better standing up here where you can see everything. Who’d you bet on?”

  “The light bay: number nine.”

  She looked it up on the program. “Regis. It’s six to one on the tote. Did you bet much?”

  “A grand. The jockey plays poker with a friend of mine and said they were going to give the pony a bang!”

  “A thousand dollars!” She couldn’t conceive of anyone betting such a huge sum on the outcome of a horse race. “That means if you win it’ll be six thousand dollars.”

  “Three thousand. The odds work in multiples of two.” He nibbled his hot dog abstractedly, his eyes darted from number to number as he studied the changing odds on the tote, and his body tensed like a greyhound’s when the starting bell rang and the automatic gates clanged.

  “C’mon baby,” he chanted. “Don’t break yet.”

  “How long is the race?”

  “Seven furlongs. I want her to break at the five-furlong post because the front runner’ll die by then.”

  The horse broke at the fourth furlong post and tore out in front of the two horses vying for the lead. By the sixth furlong Regis was five lengths ahead and increasing her lead.

  “Go, go, go, go, Regis,” Rhoda screamed, caught in a frenzy of excitement. She seized hold of Sports’ hand and squeezed it with all her strength until he forced her to release it. “We’ve won, we’ve won.”

  “Take it easy, Rho. They gotta make an official announcement and the judge has to look at the photo.”

  A voice over the loudspeaker said: “The judges have examined the photograph, and the Winner is Regis; second, Kelly Green; third, My Baby; fourth, Heaven Sent.”

  Numbers on the tote changed magically, and Rhoda pointed to it: “It’s seven dollars and fifty cents for win.”

  “That’s better than I thought. Thirty-seven seventy-five. Thank God they didn’t do a saliva test.”

  “How do you do it so fast?”

  “It’s my business, Rhoda. Percentages. I’m an engineer: angles and curves.”

  She guffawed delightedly and threw her arms around him. He pecked her on the cheek, studied his program over her shoulder and patted her behind with his free hand.

  “You bring me luck.”

  “Do I?” She was desperate for compliments, and she repeated: “I really do?”

  “Sure you do. I broke the jinx with you. A few more of these and I’m on my way to the top. Latkin gets his two grand and then . . .”

  “What then?”

  “We’ll see, huh?”

  “Who’s Latkin?”

  “A furrier who does some shylock
ing. Got a great business. When I’ve got maybe twenty big ones, I go into the same business. No headaches. Loan some other fall guys bread at a hundred percent interest per week and we’re on easy street.”

  By the end of the afternoon, Sports was jubilant and Rhoda in a state of bemused shock. He had won twelve thousand dollars and on the strength of it he proposed marriage. As they walked back to the car, a canary yellow Chevrolet convertible, she had a queasy feeling in her stomach.

  “But what about Neal? Shouldn’t we wait till he comes back from camp?”

  “That’s another seven weeks and means I can’t move into the apartment, ‘cause you want everything should be nice and respectable. And when he comes back, it’s liable to embarrass him. You wouldn’t like him to be at the ceremony?”

  “No, not really. It’s just that . . .”

  “If you don’t care for me, that’s another matter!”

  “You know I do. I wouldn’t be sleeping with you if I didn’t care.”

  “Then what’s stopping us? Tell me that, huh?”

  “It’ll take a few days for the license and blood tests.”

  “Why wait? Listen, we jump into the car and shoot down to Maryland, grab a judge and he marries us on the spot. Pronto. And on the way, we catch the Phillies in Philadelphia for the night game with Chicago, and we stay overnight. And Baltimore in the morning.”

  “God, Sports, it’s so exciting, so quick.”

  “Well, you knew I was serious. I mean you interduced me to your ex as the fiancé. Look, you’re free, white, and twenty-one.”

  “Yes, yes.” She felt exalted as the wind blew into her face and the car moved out of the traffic and onto the open highway. “We’ll stop by the apartment and I’ll pick up a few things and a suitcase.”

  “Haven’t got time, if we want to get to Philly for the night game. I’ll buy yuh everything new. So stop worrying about incidentals. You’re terrific, Rho, a terrific item. We’re gonna have ourselves a marriage that’ll be fun from morning till night.”

  “I need to have fun. I do. I get so blue at times when I think of what I’ve been through with Jay that I think I ought to end it all . . .”