Sport

by Louise Fitzhugh

  “Right,” said Sport. He tried to sound stalwart, but it came out a croak.

  Harriet was at the door. She was all dressed up. Sport led her into the room and over to the table.

  The boys all had their mouths full, but they nodded.

  “Hey,” said Chi-chi, “you look amazing, what?” He was trying to sound British but it came out vaguely Chinese.

  Sport looked at Harriet. He realized she didn’t even look like the same girl they’d seen in front of the school.

  “Thank you,” said Harriet to Chi-chi, whose large eyes opened wider.

  “Want some food?” said Harry, holding out a plate to her.

  “Thanks very much,” said Harriet.

  “Here,” said Seymour, “here’s a Coke.”

  What’s the matter with these guys? thought Sport. They’re all turning into dingbats. He went over to refill a glass of beer for a lady poet with three names. She was sitting next to a lady painter with her mouth full who grabbed Sport’s arm and said, “Who is that lovely dark little boy with the big eyes?”

  “You mean Chi-chi?” said Sport.

  “Yes. Lovely. I’d like to have him pose for me.”

  Sport shrugged and went over to Chi-chi and told him.

  “Ho-ho,” said Seymour, overhearing, “better get your track shoes out, Chi-chi.”

  “What was that?” said Harriet. “What happened? I didn’t hear. What happened?”

  Chi-chi said, “Just a dumb dingbat.”

  “What?” said Harriet. “What is that? What happened?”

  She might have kept this up indefinitely but for the fact that the door opened and in came Kate and Mr. Rocque. They both looked strangely beautiful, standing there in the doorway, all smiles, their friends jumping up all around them and running to kiss them, shake their hands, scream congratulations.

  Mr. Rocque saw Sport and picked him right up off the ground. Sport felt like an idiot so he struggled to get down. Kate leaned over to him and kissed him. Pete Rastoff came in and rushed at the food like he was trying to put out a fire. Marion Sommers shook hands with Sport. Everyone started yelling and talking at once. Sport worked his way back to the other kids. They were all staring at Kate.

  “Wow!” said Harry.

  “Now there’s a dame,” said Seymour.

  “She’s beautiful,” said Harriet.

  “Whooee,” said Chi-chi. “Hey, you’re some lucky guy, Sport.”

  “Yeah,” said Harriet. “She came and said hello to us already. She’s nice.”

  “Yeah,” said Sport, and grabbing a plate, he began piling things on it. He started to eat like he’d never eaten before. He looked over and saw Pete Rastoff still gobbling. All the kids continued eating the entire time they were there.

  “I’ve had four Cokes and eight tomato sandwiches,” said Harriet, sitting down suddenly as though her stomach had pushed her over.

  “How can you eat tomato sandwiches when there’s all this good food?” said Sport, his mouth full of pastrami.

  “I like tomato sandwiches,” said Harriet with dignity. “I did put a piece of ham on one of them, but it ruined the taste.”

  “Whyncha bring that friend of yours?” said Seymour, sidling up to Harriet. “What’s her name? Uh, Beth something?”

  “I didn’t know she was invited,” said Harriet.

  “You could’ve,” said Sport. “I didn’t think.”

  “I’ll give you a punch,” said Seymour.

  A man in the back of the room started playing a guitar. A guy with a beard jumped up and started dancing very fast.

  “He looks like he got an itch,” said Harry.

  From the small white purse she was carrying, Harriet pulled an even smaller notebook. She wrote furiously in it, looking up at the party every now and then.

  “Whatsamatter with her?” whispered Harry to Sport. “She work for the FBI?”

  Sport laughed. “Maybe she can’t remember anything ‘less she writes it down,” said Chi-chi.

  Harriet paid no attention to them. She kept on writing away. Everyone in the room was dancing suddenly. Chi-chi started doing a wild dance. Seymour stomped his feet a little, but he wasn’t very good.

  “I can’t dance,” said Harry.

  “I can’t either,” said Sport, thinking, I never even tried.

  Harriet looked up from her notebook. “Janie and I have to go to dancing school,” she said morosely.

  “Whew,” said Harry. “What are you learning? The hustle?”

  “The waltz,” said Harriet sadly.

  The party got noisier and noisier. Kate came over to them once and asked them if they were getting everything they wanted. Sport tried to say yes but burped instead, which made her laugh.

  “Hey, Kate,” he said as she started to walk away.

  “Yes, darling?” she said, coming back to him.

  “You got a minute?”

  “Sure, what?”

  “Come with me,” said Sport, and taking her hand, he pushed through the crowd to his room. They went inside, and he closed the door.

  “What is it, darling?” said Kate.

  “I got a present for you,” said Sport as he unlocked the big drawer of his desk. “Here,” he said, turning around and handing her the books tied with white ribbon. The card on top said FOR KATE.

  “What’s this?” she asked softly. “Oh … ledgers?”

  “They’re my books that I keep the money in. I thought since you’re gonna keep the money now, maybe you …” He wound down. It seemed silly now, the whole idea of giving them to her.

  “Oh, my darling.” Kate grabbed him in a big hug, kissing the top of his head. “What a wonderful thing to do.” There were tears in her voice and in her eyes. “It’s all going to be so great,” she whispered, holding him close, then pulling back and drying her eyes with her hand.

  “Here,” said Sport and handed her his handkerchief.

  “Thank you. My, what a gentleman,” she said, laughing. “Oh, dear, I may cry again.”

  Sport kicked the floor with his shoe. “You could leave ‘em in here,” he said, gesturing to the books.

  “What? Oh, yes, I guess I can’t wander around the party with ledgers, can I?” She put them on the bed. “Although I’d like to. It’s the nicest present I ever got.” She turned back to him. “Thanks,” she said simply in a way that didn’t embarrass Sport at all.

  BOOK

  Three

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  Egbert held the door open. Sport got into the long car. Mr. Wilton said, “Hello. That isn’t a very big bag for a week’s stay.”

  “It’s got all the clothes I own,” said Sport, watching Egbert put the old overnight case of his father’s in the front seat. He felt terrible. His father and Kate were upstairs. They were all packed and had only been waiting until Mr. Wilton came for him. They would leave for the beach now. He wouldn’t see them for a week.

  “Are those your schoolbooks?” asked Mr. Wilton as the car pulled away from the curb. He pointed to the books Sport carried.

  “Yes, and one my father gave me to read,” said Sport.

  “Oh, lets see,” said Mr. Wilton and reached for the book. Sport handed it to him thinking, I don’t like that. It’s none of his fat business.

  Mr. Wilton laughed when he saw the tide.

  Sport was furious. The book was about the stock market. He was interested in the stock market and his father had bought the book for him. He had said, “Now that you’ll have some money you may want to learn how to invest it.” Sport had been delighted. What right had this man to laugh at it? He looked out the window and gritted his teeth.

  “That’s a good book,” said Mr. Wilton. “I’ve read it. There’s some very sound advice in it. Of course you won’t have to worry about that sort of thing for a while. Your money will all be invested for you until you’re thirty-five.”

  “I’m not worried about anything,” said Sport sullenly. He took the book back, put it wi
th his other books, and looked out the window.

  “I’m glad,” said Mr. Wilton. “I wish I could say the same.”

  There was a closed-in silence as the car slid along the street. Why do grown-ups all ask for sympathy? thought Sport. Kids don’t ever do that. What the friz does he have to be worried about? Here I am having to spend a week with a dingbat of a mother.

  After about ten blocks Mr. Wilton shifted in his seat as though he were uncomfortable and said, “What I mean is, I’m worried because you’re spending this week with your mother.”

  Why should you be worried? thought Sport, but he said nothing.

  “Your mother …” began Mr. Wilton, but didn’t finish the sentence. “I don’t know what she’s going to do with you.”

  What am I going to do with her? is the question, thought Sport.

  “She seems to be out all the time,” said Mr. Wilton, as though he were thinking aloud.

  There was another silence, and then he said quite definitely, “This is what I’m trying to say to you, Simon. If you are unhappy this week, I want you to call me.” He took out a piece of paper and jotted down something. “Here is my phone number at the office and the hours I am there. Here is the number of my home. You may call me at any hour. I would like to know if something goes wrong.”

  It’s all wrong right now, thought Sport. It’s wrong now and it will stay wrong. He kept trying to remember what his father had said. That Charlotte would get sick of having a kid around. She makes me sick, thought Sport, she makes me sick right now.

  “Will you do that?” asked Mr. Wilton as Sport took the piece of paper.

  “Yes,” he said, thinking, I’d be scared to call you. If she caught me, what would she do?

  The car pulled up in front of the house.

  That night when Sport went to bed, he had never been so exhausted in his life. His mother had started right out by taking him to P. J. Clarke’s for brunch. He had gotten through a hamburger and a Coke, then sat for three hours while friend after friend after friend had joined her for Bloody Marys. There were always at least five people at the table, but not always the same people. They would come, drink, and leave, only to be replaced by more. Sport wandered away from the table several times and was not even missed.

  He was just thinking that it would be very easy to leave and take a cab to his apartment, when his mother noticed him. He went through another round of introductions. I’m some kind of midget escort, he thought as he bounced up again because some old lady came to the table.

  When finally there was no one else to greet, his mother said, “We’re going to Saks now.” She seemed to say it to the air, but then remembered he was there and added brightly, “Won’t that be fun?”

  “A barrel of monkeys,” said Sport, but the sound of his voice had made her deaf again.

  They made the sidewalk with Charlotte only staggering once as they went through the bar. The bright September sun hit their faces and blinded Sport as he took up his position near the curb to hail a cab.

  At Saks he sat on a spindly chair while she tried on clothes.

  She hailed another cab and they went to another store. At the end of the day they had gone to four stores and had hailed six cabs. I could get a job as a doorman easy now, he thought, as they got out of the last one in front of the house.

  “The next time, I’ll give you the money and you can pay for the cabs,” said Charlotte as they were going up the steps.

  “Whoopee,” said Sport sourly.

  “You must learn to be a gentleman,” she said briskly.

  When I’m with a lady I am, thought Sport. Kate’s face came into his mind and made him gulp. He had no time for feelings, however, because when they went in the front door, they discovered that the house was full of people.

  “Oh, Lord, I forgot,” said Charlotte. “Carrie is having people.”

  Carrie’s party turned out to be a simple little affair of two hundred people. Charlotte rushed Sport past the drawing room with a hissed, “Get upstairs. We must change.”

  He went into his room. He closed the door and walked around looking at everything. The room looked like a mausoleum. The furnishings were enormous. Sport felt like he had to crawl up on everything he sat on. There was even a little step stool to crawl into the bed.

  The lowest thing in the room was a chaise in the corner next to a window. He went and sat down.

  He stared around the room. It looks like something in a horror movie, he thought. Someone with a terrible face will step out of that armoire any minute. I’ll be frizzled if I’ll go down to any blanking party.

  He contented himself with pretending that he was talking to Seymour. Blanking woman took me to so many blanking stores, I’m blanked out. He could almost hear Seymour saying, “Give her a punch in the nose.”

  There was a knock on the door. Sport said nothing. The door opened anyway and a small man who looked like a Filipino stuck his head in.

  “I am to help you dress, no?” he said in a light voice.

  “No,” said Sport.

  “Dress for party. Miss Vane say I help you dress for party,” he said cheerily and bounced into the room.

  “I’m not going to the party,” said Sport.

  The man was at the armoire taking out Sport’s black suit. “Very nice,” he said. “Dress very nice for party.”

  What a jingle bell, thought Sport. He hoped a corpse would fall out of the armoire onto the man, but nothing happened. The suit was laid on the bed. The little man rushed to the chest and took out a shirt, tie, underwear.

  “Now,” he said gleefully, and reached for the buttons on Sport’s jacket.

  “I dress myself,” Sport shouted.

  “Very nice,” said the little man, and when Sport unbuttoned his jacket he helped him take it off.

  I give up, thought Sport, and standing still, he allowed himself to be undressed and then dressed. If Harry or Seymour or Chi-chi could see me now, he thought, I would be laughed out of Manhattan.

  The little man brushed him off thoroughly and then stood back to look at the results. “Very nice,” he said.

  He propelled Sport toward the door, keeping a lovely smile on his face and only gently pushing. Nevertheless, Sport found himself downstairs in record time.

  The cocktail party was in full swing. Sport edged his way into the crowd, so short that he wasn’t noticed.

  “Rather soon after the death to have such a large party, don’t you think?” said a lady with a martini to a man with an old-fashioned.

  “Typical of Charlotte and Carrie,” said the man. “It’s a wonder they noticed he’s dead.”

  The martini lady went into a gale of laughter that made Sports ears hurt. He edged past another group, staying as close as he could to the wall and not looking at anyone so he wouldn’t be noticed.

  What will I do with myself? he thought frantically. I can’t just stand around this room all night. He thought of calling Seymour on the phone and screaming, “Help! I’m trapped in a Chinese cocktail party.” Seymour would laugh, but he wouldn’t be much help. He thought of what Mr. Wilton had said about calling him, but he didn’t know what he would say. Nobody was doing anything wrong to him. This was just the way his mother lived.

  “There you are, little darling.” His mother stretched a long arm his way and pulled him into the group. “Here he is, my little man,” she said loudly and pushed him around to show him off. She turned him to the right and left as though she wanted them to see all sides of him. I feel like I’m in the Westminster Dog Show, thought Sport. Maybe I should bark.

  “Hello there,” said a woman.

  “Hello, young fellow,” said a man.

  “My,” said a woman, somewhat ambiguously.

  “How old are you, dear?” said another woman, shouting above the noise.

  “Forty-seven,” said Sport.

  “You’re tall for your age,” trilled the woman, not having heard a thing.

  “Would you like some cranberry ju
ice?” asked Charlotte.

  “Cranberry juice!” shouted Sport. Oh, this is ridiculous. Wait’ll I tell Seymour, he thought, muttering “cranberry juice” under his breath.

  “Hello there, sonny,” said a strange-looking giant of a man. He leaned over to Sport. Sport almost fell down from his breath. He blew a great puff of pipe smoke into Sports face. “Come over here and talk to me awhile,” said the man. He motioned toward a love seat, and there was nothing to do but follow him. “I have a son around your age,” said the man, settling down on the seat and blowing more smoke.

  Sport squeezed into the tiny place left for him and coughed from the smoke.

  “He and I are having a little problem,” said the man.

  “I thought I might discuss it with an unbiased person of his own age.” Another whirl of smoke caught Sport right in the eye. Trying to look biased, he nodded through the smoke.

  “You see, I think it’s time he went off to school, but he wants to remain in New York.”

  “Why don’t you just pack him up and send him off?” asked Sport, wincing a little because a woman had just ground her high heel into his foot.

  “Ha-ha,” said the man, releasing a really foul stream of breath. Sport gasped. He pretended to reach up and scratch his face, but in reality he held his nose.

  “Oh, I don’t want to do that,” continued the man. “I want him to like the idea.” He looked at Sport and arched his eyebrows.

  “He doesn’t,” said Sport and held his nose again in case the man laughed. He seemed to make a habit of laughing when nothing was funny.

  “Well, heh-heh, I thought perhaps you might have some ideas about what might get him to like it.” The man gave Sport a pitiful look.

  “Maybe you should stop bugging him, you smelly old jingle bell,” said Sport loudly and jumped up and ran before the man could hit him. Across the room, he peered through the crook of an elbow and saw the man heave himself to his feet and lumber over to someone else.

  Aw, why’d I do that? thought Sport. He probably just doesn’t have anybody to talk to either. He put his hands in his pockets and moved around the room as though he had someplace to go. If I keep moving no one will say anything to me, he reasoned. It was hard, though, because he had to avoid both Charlotte and the smelly old man now. He went in small circles, staring at nothing. I’m hungry, he thought with irritation. I wonder when they have dinner in this joint.