Sport giggled, then took on a glazed expression as he watched the big pieces of steak his father was putting on each plate. He looked around the table and saw a great bowl of mashed potatoes steaming up around a lump of butter; a plate of big, thick-sliced tomatoes; a bowl of tiny peas, beautiful green tiny peas in butter with little bits of onion in them; a huge platter of corn on the cob; and a basket of hot biscuits.
“There,” said Kate, as each person got a plate of steak. “Now start the bowls around. And take some biscuits while they’re hot.” Sport grabbed a biscuit and passed the basket. “Take two,” said Kate. “You’re a big boy.”
She poured milk into his glass from the large blue and white pitcher in the middle of the table. It frothed and curled into the glass and he took a huge gulp. She poured from a bottle of red wine she had brought for her and Mr. Rocque.
“There,” she said, when all were served. “Bless this house.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Rocque and raised his glass. They laughed together and then started to eat. Mr. Rocque began to eat fast, cramming in one thing after another.
“Wait a minute,” said Kate. “If you eat this way every night, there won’t be room for the three of us here.”
Sport laughed, looking at his father’s face, and then wondered again if she would live there. He didn’t care now, only felt the corn against his teeth, the butter running down his chin, the peas, the tomatoes, the mashed potatoes, and the steak. Bless this steak, he thought, and plunged ahead.
“We’ll have to do the bedroom over,” said Mr. Rocque.
“With …” With what, Sport had started to say, then stopped, hoping he had not been heard. He took a gulp of cold milk.
“I’ve got some things in my apartment that will do fine,” said Kate with a sidelong glance at Sport, who gulped harder.
“I don’t come with much of a dowry,” said Mr. Rocque, laughing.
“Only a head full of books,” said Kate, “that will do nicely.” She took a bite of steak. Sport noticed that she ate delicately.
That night Sport lay in bed feeling how pleasant it was to have a full stomach. His father and Kate were talking softly in the living room. Soft music came from the radio. Sport lay quietly, listening to new sounds. It may not be true, he said to himself, watch out, it may go away. He fell asleep smiling.
BOOK
Two
CHAPTER
Eight
Sport got up in the morning and put on his jeans. He started out into the kitchen, yawning, planning to make the coffee as usual, and was confronted by the smell of bacon frying. “Wow,” he said under his breath. He went into the kitchen. Kate stood at the stove.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling.
“Good morning,” said Sport, and grinned from ear to ear.
“Sit down. Breakfast’ll be ready in a minute. The only thing I don’t know is … what do boys drink for breakfast?”
“Coffee,” said Sport, looking at her in wonder. The whole kitchen seemed different, not closed up, unused, not smelling of last night’s dishes the way it usually did when he came in in the morning. This morning everything was clean, smelled great, seemed to be filled with a yellow light. Kate wore a yellow dress.
“That doesn’t seem right,” she was saying. “I would have thought milk.”
“We don’t have enough milk,” said Sport.
“Oh yes we do,” said Kate, and going to the refrigerator, she opened the door and showed him two bottles. “And after today it’s going to be delivered. It’s cheaper that way and it’s better milk. Do you like milk for breakfast?” she asked.
“Sure,” said Sport.
She poured him an enormous glass. He gulped it.
“Easy,” she said lightly. “More coming up here.” She hummed a little to herself as she made scrambled eggs. “I hate to bring up an unpleasant subject,” she said, smiling at him as she turned the eggs, “but when does school start?”
“Monday,” said Sport. “That’s four days from now.”
“Well, no one had mentioned it. I was just curious.” She piled eggs on a plate, added four slices of bacon, reached in the oven, took out two hot rolls, put them on the plate, and handed the whole thing to Sport. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“It’s like dinner,” he said wonderingly.
“Eat. Dinner, he says. Wait’ll he sees dinner.” Kate smiled at him and went back to the stove.
He started to eat. He started to eat very fast. He had never realized how hungry he could be in the morning.
“Take it easy,” said Kate, sitting down opposite him with only a cup of coffee. “There’s tomorrow morning, too, and the morning after and so forth.”
“What?” said Sport.
“Never mind, eat,” said Kate and laughed.
The phone rang. Sport kept on eating until it rang again and he realized that Kate hadn’t answered it. He looked at her. She looked at him. She had started to get up but looked uncertain.
“Want me to get it?” asked Sport.
“I think you better,” said Kate.
He jumped up and ran to the phone.
“Hello?” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice bellowed at him. “Is this the residence of Matthew Rocque?”
“Yes,” said Sport, wondering what she was screaming at and having a faint memory of having heard her voice before, an unpleasant memory.
“Is Mr. Rocque in, please?” yelled the voice.
“Yes,” said Sport, “but he’s asleep. Can I take a message?”
“Asleep?” screamed the woman, and Sport suddenly recognized her. She was the nurse who had yelled at him over his grandfather’s bed. “He can be awakened,” she cried. “Mr. Vane has passed away.”
“What?” said Sport. She was yelling so loud he couldn’t hear her.
“Mr. Vane has died,” she shouted.
“Oh,” said Sport.
“Is this Simon?” she asked, her voice dropping an octave.
“Yes,” said Sport.
“Simon. You must come right away. Your grandfather has gone to heaven.”
“Oh,” said Sport, thinking, What do I have to go for, if he’s already left for heaven?
“Wake your father.” She was shouting again. “our mother needs you now. Come over here.” The phone seemed to tumble out of her hands on the other end as there was a crash and then a click.
Sport hung up. He went back into the kitchen.
Kate was looking at him, but she didn’t say anything. He sat down.
“Grandfather died.”
“Oh, dear,” said Kate.
Sport said nothing; he picked up his fork and started to eat again. The food didn’t taste the same. He felt that perhaps he shouldn’t be eating, but he wanted to, all the same.
“Did you like him?” asked Kate.
“Sort of,” said Sport. He shoved a roll in his mouth.
“Was he a nice man?”
“I don’t know. He was nice to me.”
“Does … did your father like him?” Kate seemed tentative.
“I guess so,” said Sport. He could think of nothing beyond the fact that the nurse had yelled at him to come over there. I don’t want to go over there. I don’t ever want to go over there. Ever. If he’s dead, then there’s no reason to go.
“He doesn’t like my mother,” said Sport suddenly, and looked at Kate.
Kate smiled. “Want some more?” she said gently, looking at his empty plate.
“What? No,” said Sport. “Uh … no, thanks.”
She smiled and took his plate to the sink to wash it.
“Who called?” she asked as she came back with a new cup of coffee.
“The nurse,” said Sport. “She says we have to go over there.”
“Oh?”
“I guess I better wake up Dad.”
“I guess so,” said Kate. “I’ve got to be going to work. It’s a shame …”
“Well,” said Spo
rt, “he was old.”
“No, I mean”—she looked at him and smiled—“it’s a shame because your father wanted to work today. Now he’ll have to go over there.”
“Yeah,” said Sport. He knew his father hated appointments more than anything in the world. All I ask of the world, his father had said more than once, is just one day after another with nothing planned.
Sport got up.
“I’ll wake him,” said Kate quickly and stood up.
Sport looked at her and sat down again.
She went into his fathers room. His father groaned as he heard the door open.
In a few minutes his father appeared in the doorway. He smiled at Sport and rubbed his head. Kate was behind him. She went to the stove.
“Here,” she said, “a cup of coffee first. Before anything,” she added, and looked at Sport.
Don’t look at me, he thought, I don’t want to tell him anyway.
His father sat down and gulped the hot coffee. He looked up at Kate and grinned foolishly. Kate smiled at him. He gulped more coffee. “Well,” he said finally, “that’s more like it.” She got up and poured him some more coffee. He looked around and smiled at everybody.
“Well, now,” he said. “What’s everybody doing today?”
“I’m going to work,” said Kate.
“So am I,” said Mr. Rocque very definitely and very happily.
“Uh, Dad,” said Sport.
“Darling,” began Kate, “someone called this morning and …” She looked at Sport.
“Well, what is it?” said Mr. Rocque.
“Gramps died,” said Sport quickly.
“Oh … oh, yeah?” said Mr. Rocque sadly, looking at each of them in turn. “He was a nice old geezer,” he said and shook his head.
“They want us to come over there,” said Sport after a minute.
“What for?” asked Mr. Rocque, beginning to sound outraged.
“I don’t know,” said Sport.
“Who called?”
“The nurse.”
“What does she know? What could they want?”
“Perhaps,” said Kate, “they need some help with arrangements.”
“With all that money?” snorted Mr. Rocque.
“Maybe there’s no man to do it all,” said Kate.
“There’s Wilton, his lawyer, any number of people,” said Mr. Rocque grumpily.
“Well,” said Kate, “I’m off to work.” She stood up.
“Aw,” said Mr. Rocque.
Kate ran a hand over his head. “I’ll see you two tonight. Any ideas for supper?”
“Steak,” said Sport.
They both looked at him and laughed. “Steak it is,” said Kate. She got her coat, waved to them, and was gone. The door closing after her made them both feel empty.
“Damn!” said Mr. Rocque.
“What?” said Sport.
“I wanted to work.”
“Work anyway,” said Sport eagerly. He didn’t want to go either.
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
“There must be some reason I’m needed there.”
“Call ’em up and see.”
“Yeah,” said Mr. Rocque. “Maybe I can do it all over the phone.”
Mr. Rocque got up and placed the call. He muttered so low into the receiver that Sport couldn’t hear anything. He came back into the kitchen, poured himself some more coffee, and sat down heavily.
“Have to go over,” he said.
“Why?”
“Oh, have to make arrangements for the funeral.”
“Why can’t Mr. Wilton?”
“He’s out of town.”
“Why can’t Mother?”
Mr. Rocque looked at his son. “If there’s a man around, women don’t do that kind of thing.”
“Why?” asked Sport.
His father looked at him. “That’s a very intelligent question, son. I’m not sure, but I would say offhand that in this culture, when there’s responsibility to be taken, men are supposed to take it.”
“Oh,” said Sport.
“It’s part of supporting a woman,” Mr. Rocque said rather uncertainly. “It’s part of a man’s job.”
“But Kate works,” said Sport. He thought of Mrs. O’Neil, who worked. The only women he knew who didn’t work were his mother and Harry’s mother.
“Aaagh,” said Mr. Rocque deep in his throat. “The trouble is, Sport, you have an unusual father. I do not go out to a job like ordinary men. We do not live in an ordinary way. Now, the normal, ordinary thing is that the man goes to work and supports the woman, takes over all outside responsibility, and in turn the woman runs the house.”
“But you’re not married to Mother anymore.”
“True,” said Mr. Rocque. “Very true,” he said slowly and seemed to disappear somewhere inside himself.
They sat for a minute in silence. Mr. Rocque scratched his head once. He leaned forward finally and said, “I guess the thing is, when you’ve once been married to someone, you retain a certain feeling of friendship. I know that your mother is incapable of getting this done, and it has to be done.”
Sport nodded.
“Someone has to do it,” said Mr. Rocque, sitting back.
“But how can you be friends with someone so mean?” Sport burst out.
Mr. Rocque looked at him. “I don’t mean friends like you and Seymour or you and Harry. I mean friends with someone you’ve once had a son with.” He smiled. “You’ll understand later, although I hope the situation never arises.”
Sport jumped when he heard the words “had a son with.” He never could seem to remember that his mother was really his mother.
“I hope that you get married and stay married and that you and your wife really care for each other and that she is nice.”
“Like Kate?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Rocque and broke into a big grin. “Like Kate.”
Sport looked away. His father was grinning in such a silly way that it embarrassed him. “Why do I have to go over there?” he asked his father.
“You don’t,” said his father. “Who said you did?”
“The nurse.”
“Frizzle the nurse. I say you don’t.” His father stood up. “Do what you like today. School starts soon. Which reminds me. Your mother was going to take you and buy you some clothes this weekend. I don’t know if she still wants to. I’ll ask her when I see her.”
“Oh, no,” said Sport.
His father laughed at his morose expression, then left to get dressed.
CHAPTER
Nine
Mr. Rocque was gone all day. When he got back that night, Kate was already there cooking dinner.
“Well, how’d it go?” she said brightly as he came into the kitchen.
“Woof,” said Mr. Rocque.
“Bad?” asked Kate.
“How about a drink?” said Mr. Rocque. Sport had never seen him so grumpy.
“You look like you could use it,” said Kate. She put ice and Scotch into a glass and handed it to him.
Mr. Rocque took a long swallow, made a face as though it tasted terrible, then let out a long sigh. “You know,” he said slowly, “if you have to die, and we have to die, you’d think it would be easier to die rich.”
Kate looked at him. “It is,” she said simply.
“Well, yeah. But on the other hand, now picture this. I go to the house and Charlotte is there sobbing dutifully, and Carrie is there putting on a very tidy show of hysterics. I say, okay, I’m going over to the funeral home now, and they both look up through their tears and practically in unison they say, ‘Not too expensive a casket.’ I haven’t, naturally, a price list of caskets on me, so I say, ‘What would you like? A nice pine box?’ and they’re both horrified. ‘Something suitable,’ says Carrie demurely. ‘No one will see it anyway,’ says Charlotte. ‘It will be covered with flowers.’ I see she has in mind a longish orange crate. ‘Randolph’s was very nice,’ says Carrie. Randolph is
her husband who is dead some four years. ‘I got Randolph’s for two thousand,’ she says, as though she got it on sale at Macy’s.”
“It’s incredible,” said Kate.
“So,” Mr. Rocque continued, “I say, ‘Shall I try for two thousand?’ and Charlotte looks at me and bursts into tears. ‘You always were brutal,’ she says to me!”
“I don’t believe it,” said Kate.
“Brutal! Are you ready for that?” Mr. Rocque poured himself another drink and sat down again. “They’re sitting there bargaining, and I’m brutal. So I leave. I go to the funeral home. Some man ushers me into a room full of caskets. I look at them. You could go to Europe in some of them, first class. They’ve got silver handles, gold even. He points to one that looks so much like a Mercedes, I get out of the way. He says, This is very nice.’ I feel like saying, ‘Listen, the guy’s dead, he won’t be able to trade it in next year,’ but I say nothing and ask the price. He says ten thousand. Are you ready?”
“Ten thousand dollars?!” yelled Sport.
“That’s right,” said Mr. Rocque.
“They’re ridiculous,” said Kate.
“Now here’s the payoff. That’s the lowest price they have.” Mr. Rocque looked around triumphantly.
“No,” said Kate.
“What’d you do then?” asked Sport.
“I say, very softly, because I don’t want to hurt him, I say, I think I’m in the wrong room.’ He looks very sad. I say, We’re interested in something a little less expensive.’ He looks even sadder. ‘It will be covered anyway,’ I say desperately, and he looks like he will cry. We stand there at a loss. I am not going to give in and he is not going to give in.”
“What happened then?’ said Kate.
“We’d still be standing there if Wilton hadn’t walked in.”
“I thought he was out of town,” said Sport.
“He was, but not far, evidently. He got the news and came right back. Well, when he walks in, the whole thing changes. He doesn’t even say hello to the guy, who is now wringing his hands like he’s got poison ivy. Wilton marches up to him, nods at me, and says, ‘Five thousand.’ The one in the black suit glides like with roller skates right over to an exact duplicate of the Mercedes and points to it. Wilton nods and that’s the end of it. We walk out.”
Sport Page 5
