Sport

by Louise Fitzhugh

  “Hi, Sport, how are you, man?” He flopped down in a chair.

  “Hey,” said Sport.

  “Hey, got any more?” Harry asked Seymour, pointing to the candy.

  “Yeah,” said Seymour, and going to the kitchen, he got four candy bars for Harry. They watched him eat in silence for a minute. He ate with great concentration, as though he were doing a math problem with his teeth.

  After two candy bars he joined the world again. “My blanking mother,” he said slowly, “had better watch her blanking self or I’m going to blank the blank out of her.”

  “What she do?” asked Seymour.

  “Got so blanking drunk that she fell out the window.”

  “Yeah?” Sport and Seymour yelled together.

  “Blanked right out the blanking window.” Harry was enjoying his audience.

  “You mean right out onto York Avenue?” asked Seymour.

  Harry nodded. “Splat,” he said.

  “Did she break anything?”

  “Are you kidding? Take more than that for my ol’ lady. Bounced like a ball, she did.” Harry’s accent got very British. In the last year he had taken to English clothes and ways. Today he was wearing a tight suit, the jacket buttoned all the way up over a turtleneck sweater, and high boots.

  “Hey, man, they’re good, those things you got there,” said Seymour, suddenly noticing.

  “Gear, what? Yeah …” said Harry, drawing out his breath in a long sigh as he looked down and admired his clothes. “But I tell you. I think something should be done about women.”

  “Like what?” said Seymour, eating again.

  “Like … well, you could start by getting rid of them.” Harry pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Wonder what it would be like?” said Seymour, a grin coming over his face. “With no women at all.”

  “Yeah,” shouted Sport. “That’s good. The League for Extermination of Women.” He turned it around in his mouth.

  Harry looked around and picked up a piece of paper. He wrote something. “If we make it League for the Extermination of Women Dangerous to Small Boys, the initials spell L-E-W-D with an S-B on the end!”

  “Hey, great,” yelled Sport.

  “We could have uniforms,” shouted Seymour.

  “Yeah,” cried Harry. “Maybe with red hats.”

  “Like the Black Muslims,” yelled Sport.

  “Don’t laugh, man,” said Harry, suddenly serious. “Not funny.”

  “Hey”—Seymour was laughing—“you a Muslim, Harry?”

  “I am for me,” said Harry. “I am with nobody.” He looked suddenly thinner in his dark suit, thin and hard as a post stuck in the ground. “Think anybody gonna care about you?” he asked suddenly, pointing a long finger at each in turn. “You, That’s who gonna care about you.” He said this so quietly, meanly, confidently, that a silence fell as he ended.

  “Not my blanking mother, anyway,” said Sport finally.

  “There you go,” said Harry, pointing at Sport. “Now you got the mush out your mouth.” He seemed to lose interest then, and walked over to the table to pick up a comic book. “Hey.” He turned back to Sport. “I didn’t think you even had one.”

  “I do. She just doesn’t live with me.”

  “Yeah?” Harry seemed interested.

  “She’s a beaut,” said Sport.

  “What she do?” Harry flopped into the chair. “Fall out of windows?”

  “No, but I think she’d like to throw me through one.” Sport saw himself sailing through the air past Brooks Brothers, all dressed up.

  “That’s what my blanking mother was just about to do,” said Harry, pausing dramatically.

  “What?” said Seymour. He and Sport looked at him.

  “She ran at me,” said Harry, nodding his head. “She ran at me to push me out the window and I ducked. I just slid down on the floor and she went flying past me.”

  “Wow!” said Seymour.

  “Geez!” said Sport.

  They stared at Harry in admiration.

  Suddenly Seymour jumped up. “Hey, it’s getting late,” he said. “We gotta help in the store. You wanta come, Harry?”

  Harry roused himself from the chair. “Naw. I gotta go on down the hospital.” He went past them and out the door without looking at either of them.

  “See ya, Harry,” said Sport.

  “Yeah,” said Seymour to Harry’s back. ‘Tomorrow, hey?”

  “Yeah, man,” said Harry and disappeared.

  Seymour locked the door and they ran down the steps. “Come on. Mom’ll kill me.” Seymour ran so fast, Sport had to jump three steps at a time to keep up.

  They ran into the candy store.

  “‘Bout time,” yelled Mrs. O’Neil above the noise of the line of jabbering, laughing men jammed against the counter. “Two Stooges I got working for me. Get back here. Here. You, Sport, make the toast, put out the butter, mayonnaise. Seymour, get on the grill.”

  “Grilled Seymour,” muttered Sport.

  “Coming up,” yelled Seymour, and they dove into work.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  At five thirty Sport knocked on the study door. “What?” came the muffled response. “It’s five thirty and if she’s coming at six, you better get dressed.”

  “Okay,” said Mr. Rocque. Sport could hear the electric typewriter go off, then some rummaging around and the door opened. His father looked red-eyed, exhausted, and about as far away as China. He looked down at Sport, smiled vaguely, and rumpled his hair. “Get a clean shirt on yourself.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “And let’s have a good time, son. You worry too much. Let’s go have a good dinner and go to the movies.”

  Sport looked at his father. His father did work hard. He knew that. It wasn’t his fault that all that working didn’t make much money. “Okay,” he said and smiled.

  His father stumbled into the shower. Sport went to his room and got out a clean shirt. He had already washed his neck and ears.

  “That you, Kate?” yelled his father.

  Kate must be her name. He hesitated a minute, hoping his father would hurry, then realized he wouldn’t and went to the door. She was standing right there when he opened it. “Hi,” she said and smiled. He liked her voice. She was tall and thin, with blond hair. Her eyes were wide and blue. She didn’t look like she had so much money as to be dangerous, although her clothes were good.

  “Think I could come in?” she asked softly. Sport turned red and, opening the door wide, he let her in.

  “Is your father here?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” said Sport. “Uh, sit down. He’ll be out in a minute.”

  She took off her coat and put it on the back of a chair. Sport grabbed it and hung it up.

  “Oh, Dad’s getting dressed. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thanks, I’ll wait. This is a nice apartment,” she said, looking around.

  She must be bats, thought Sport. Figures. When he gets a nice one, she’s crazy.

  “Well,” said Sport. He shrugged. Then he felt like a fool for shrugging, so he turned abruptly and went into the kitchen. He got a Coke out of the icebox and came back, trying to look nonchalant. His feet felt ten feet long. He sat down across from her and drank the Coke.

  She didn’t say anything, and in one way he was glad of that. He looked her up and down, then concentrated on her shoes. He had long ago discovered that women who never intended to marry had very sharp, very pointed, very delicate and special shoes as though they spent every bit of money they had on shoes and far be it from any baby to need anything that would deplete the shoe money. Women who could or could not marry, depending upon how they felt, had ordinary shoes. Kate’s shoes were just shoes.

  “Is there a snake under the couch or are my shoes on fire?” Sport almost dropped his Coke. Caught staring, he grinned. She laughed. At that moment the door opened and Mr. Rocque stepped out of his room.

  “Ah, Kate,” he said, and striding across
the room, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. Sport looked him over. He had on his best flannels, a red sweater, a striped shirt, and no tie. Good, he thought, the Olde Heidelberg.

  “Well, well,” said Mr. Rocque, “what’ll you have, Kate?”

  No, no, thought Sport, not what’ll you have, but will you have a beer.

  “What have you got?” asked Kate.

  Good girl, thought Sport.

  “Well… there’s some nice cold beer,” said Mr. Rocque, giving Sport a crucified look. Sport looked away stoically.

  “Sounds lovely,” said Kate.

  “Good,” said Mr. Rocque and whipped into the kitchen.

  Sport sat looking at his sneakers. There were sounds of glasses, bottle openers, and the muffled mutterings that always emanated from Mr. Rocque when he did anything. Sport couldn’t look up. He knew he looked silly sitting there staring at his feet, but he was caught in a vise of shyness.

  Mr. Rocque appeared finally with two glasses of beer.

  “Here,” he said triumphantly.

  Kate smiled and took a sip. “Cheers,” she said.

  “Cheers,” said Mr. Rocque, and then they looked at each other.

  Uh-oh, thought Sport.

  The telephone rang. Sport jumped up and answered it.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, who is this?”

  Sport hated that. “Who is this?” he asked sharply.

  “This is Miss Carruthers, Mr. Vane’s secretary. Is Mr. Rocque there?”

  Sport knew Miss Carruthers. She had a large mole on her forehead with six hairs in it.

  “Yes,” he said. He turned to his father. “It’s for you, Dad.”

  “Oh?” said his father and came to the phone.

  “Hello. Yes. Yes, Miss Carruthers. Oh. Oh, that’s too bad. Oh, I see. Well … I don’t know. Well, he’s a little young for that sort of … I understand that. This sounds rather like an order, Miss Carruthers, a royal command…. I’m not being flip. I just can’t see that it would do any good. What? Not particularly. All right, put her on.”

  There was a long pause. Mr. Rocque turned and gave an exasperated look at Sport (who was now watching him). “It’s your grandfather …” he began, and then to the phone: “Oh, hello, Charlotte.” There was another long pause.

  “Now, Charlotte, take it easy. Don’t scream. Let’s think of this thing in as mature a way as possible … Will you stop screaming? … Now, look here, ol’ girl… well, you’re not young. … Besides, pleasing you and playing up to the old … Well, just tell me what good it will do … you will not come and get him…. Oh, for God’s sake, Charlotte, all right, I’ll bring him.” And he hung up on her.

  He turned back to the room looking as though he couldn’t remember where he was. He stood silent for a minute looking at them both.

  “Get your coat on, son,” he said briefly. Sport stood up. “I don’t know what to do about the evening, Kate. His grandfather is dying and his mother thinks he should be there. The old man has asked for him.”

  “Don’t be silly, Matthew. I couldn’t understand more.” She stood up. “We’ll have other evenings.” She smiled sympathetically, and Mr. Rocque’s face went from gloom to a sweet glow the way a smoldering fire will suddenly light itself.

  “I just have to drop him off. They don’t want me around there. Then I’ll take you home.”

  Sport stopped in the doorway to his room. “You gonna leave me there?”

  “They want you to spend the night, son.”

  “What for?” asked Sport, horror breaking over his face.

  “The old man … well, he may go before morning.”

  Sport looked at his father. He felt a kind of panic. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

  “That isn’t it…” began his father.

  “I can’t stop him,” said Sport, fear rising now in his throat. What do they want me for? he thought. What am I supposed to do?

  “I know it isn’t any of my business,” said Kate, “but it does seem a bit much.”

  Thank you, lady, thought Sport. He looked at his father, who looked uncertain.

  “I’ll call her back,” said Mr. Rocque, and went to the phone. Kate sat down again. She looked at Sport. Sport looked away.

  “Let me speak to Mrs. Rocque—Miss Vane, I mean,” said Mr. Rocque.

  He sounds nervous, thought Sport. Don’t you fink on me, Dad. Don’t do it. Not about this.

  “Charlotte. I’ll bring him over to see Mr. Vane, but he won’t spend the night.” Mr. Rocque sounded quite strong and definite. There was a long pause. “No. That’s definite. I’ll bring him over and then come back for him in an hour.” Another pause. “If it gets worse, I’ll stay there with him.”

  Yeah, Dad, yeah, thought Sport.

  “Sorry, Charlotte, that’s it.” And he hung up again. He turned around and looked at Sport. Then he smiled. “Just get a sweater and your jacket. We’ll go on over.” He turned to Kate. “If you don’t mind, maybe we’ll just go have a beer and wait for him.”

  “Good,” said Kate. “That sounds better.” And she smiled at Sport.

  Sport was too nervous to smile back. He went into his room. Have two beers, have a Scotch, anything, just don’t leave me in that house. He grabbed his jacket, put on a turtleneck sweater and his windbreaker over it. There was a hole in the sweater. Maybe she won’t see it, he thought, maybe she won’t start screaming.

  He went out into the living room just as Mr. Rocque was kissing Kate’s forehead. He started to turn back into his room but his father said, “Let’s go, son, and get it over with.”

  His father and Kate had their coats on so they all went out the door and down the steps.

  “Where’s the car?” asked Sport.

  “Here, just in front,” said Mr. Rocque.

  “Wow, you got lucky.”

  Mr. Rocque opened the door of their small two-seater. “Here, Kate, let Sport get in back. There’s just room enough for him.” Sport climbed in. He always felt good in the back. It felt snug, like a ship’s cabin. When he sat in front he pretended he was driving a racing car, which wasn’t hard, considering the way Mr. Rocque drove. He laughed to himself. Kate was about to get her first demonstration of the world’s worst driving.

  They were off to a racing start. Mr. Rocque had forgotten that the car was still in gear, so when he started the engine, they leaped forward like a horse rearing.

  “Ride ‘em, cowboy,” said Kate.

  She has a sense of humor, thought Sport, which is good because she’ll need it.

  They swerved away from the car parked in front and did sixty down York Avenue.

  “He’s not dying right this minute, is he?” called Kate over the roar of the motor.

  “No,” yelled Mr. Rocque.

  “Then could we slow down?” screamed Kate. Sport giggled.

  “Sure,” said Mr. Rocque, slowing down so suddenly that there was a blare from a taxi behind. “Uh,” he said wonderingly, “that too fast for you?”

  “No,” said Kate, “I always breathe this way, in gasps.”

  Mr. Rocque now went twenty miles an hour. Sport started to chew his nails. “My, look at the scenery,” said Kate. They went two blocks and she couldn’t stand it any more. “Okay, okay, you win, but how about trying those numbers there in the middle? Like thirty and forty?” She looked at Mr. Rocque.

  “They’ve never been used,” said Sport. “They probably don’t work.”

  Kate gave a whoop of laughter and turned and looked at Sport with real appreciation. She almost broke her neck for her trouble because Mr. Rocque was off and flying again.

  “Navigator to Bombardier,” she yelled to Sport, speaking into an invisible microphone. “Watch your tail. I think the front part’s gone.”

  Sport started to laugh and couldn’t stop.

  “You know what it is?” said Kate confidentially. “It’s a machine, and he doesn’t believe in them.”

  Sport was still laughing. He began to li
ke Kate a lot. All the other girls had either screamed in terror or pretended to love the way he drove, which had only made him worse.

  “It’s as ridiculous to him as a coffee percolator,” said Kate, looking at Mr. Rocque as though he were a guinea pig in a laboratory, “and he drives it like one, I might add.”

  Mr. Rocque said not a word, but spun around corners, dove into side streets, hurtled across avenues as though he were a grumpy bus driver.

  “Here we are,” he said triumphantly, screeching up in front of a fire hydrant.

  “The tires!” said Kate. There was a terrible noise and Sport laughed.

  “What?” said Mr. Rocque.

  “Nothing,” said Kate. “I lost my head for a minute.”

  She turned to look at Sport. “Courage,” she said sweetly.

  “Just think, no matter what you go through, it won’t be half as bad as what I’ll be going through just trying to get a beer.”

  Sport laughed and was out of the car before he remembered to feel bad. Kate pulled his head down and kissed the top of it.

  “We’ll be back,” she whispered in his ear.

  His father unfolded himself from the car, straightened his jacket, and took Sport by the hand up the steps of his grandfathers brownstone. Sport looked back once and Kate waved. She’s nice, he thought, she really is nice.

  Mr. Rocque stood in front of the door. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to, Sport. Don’t let them push you around.” He looked into his son’s eyes a minute, then pushed the buzzer. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  Five

  A man in a white coat opened the door. Mr. Rocque nodded and said, “Hello, Howard, take good care of him.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rocque,” said Howard. Sport walked in after getting a little push from his father.

  “See you in an hour,” said Mr. Rocque and went down the steps.

  The door closed. Howard helped Sport take his jacket off. It came as a shock to Sport to realize that his father knew all the servants, that of course he would, because he had lived there, had been married to that witch. Married. Sport shook the thought out of his mind.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Howard in a kind way.

  “No, thank you,” said Sport. He stood very still, hoping no one would see the hole in his sweater.