“I know you dint ask for my opinion, but I still think you're crazy leaving school.”
She looked at his fisherman's knit turtleneck sweater and imagined herself on a tramp steamer to Brazil, coaching him for his third mate's examination.
“You could be right. I'll have to see.”
“You gonna work?”
“I've got a small inheritance my grandfather left me. I'll be okay for a while.”
“I'd put it in the bank if I was in your place. Believe me it isn't easy to accumulate a thousand dollars.” He reflected for a moment, seemed worried as old disasters in his life crowded his mind. “Take me for instance. I come to New York from Birmingham when I was a star on the Colonials. I had somethin’ people wanted. I got sore hands from shakin’ so much and signin’ autographs for grown-ups and kids; then I get dropped. Put on the waivers, which nobody claimed, and then I'm out on the street.” He blew out air from his mouth, his deflation complete. “I mean when you're here in New York and the press ain't interested and you're tapped out, then it's like being flushed down a toilet.”
What surprised her was his apparent lack of bitterness. She reached out to touch his hand, and discoverd that she'd begun to lead him. He didn't pull away from her, nor did he respond positively, simply letting her hand rest on his.
“You're honest, Sonny.”
He threw his head back and laughed, making her feel ridiculous.
“Any way you slice it, Jane, I'm a bouncer. You don't come to terms, and you wind up mooching drinks at bars, or shooting schmeck like a few parties I know. Which is nowhere. When I left football, I drifted around, but I had to have money for my kid, so I went to a mechanics school, but I got no real ability for engines excetera. I couldn't understand any of it, and yet I could learn the toughest, trickiest football plays. I was a standout at skull sessions, even the quarterbacks thought so. Plenty of times in a huddle, the quarterback turned to me, and said, Sonny, what do you think?” He pointed to the cans of film. “I brought some things over for you to see.”
“I'll bet you were great.”
“I had my moments.”
He rose, plugged in the projector, fixed the reel, then set it toward the white wall. The projector whined and a grainy black and white film, jumping out of frame, came on.
“Just fix this frame gizmo. I'm number twenty in the white jersey and we're in against the Steelers. Lost that one on a field goal with twelve seconds to go. This is some of my personal highlights”—he laughed sweetly—“and a few of the reverse of highlights.”
She watched lines jar each other for several minutes, then saw a hand-off to number twenty, who picked up blockers and went around the end for a sweep.
“Go, go, go, you mother,” Sonny cheered. “Into the end zone for six. How'd you like that?”
“God, you were fast,” Jane said, applauding.
“Fast? I did the hundred in nine point eight, which for a man weighing in at two hundred five and carrying ten pounds of equipment isn't bad. That was before they had all the lightweight stuff. In high school I was a triple threat, like Charlie Trippi at Georgia Tech. But then as you go on, you start to specialize. Become pro-efficient in one thing, two at the most.”
The teams changed, and she saw him in a dark jersey.
“We're on the road here against the Rams. Recognize the Colosseum?”
“I think so.”
“Now watch this. We were playing a winged T, and split T. This is before flankers, tight ends, and I'm being thrown a screen pass which was developed by Paul Brown into an art. Rosie Grier hits me.”
He screamed suddenly in anguish.
“What's wrong?”
“I fumbled. See where he hit me?”
“On the side.”
“In the kidney! I dint know till the season was over why I had so much trouble. Kidney stones. I urinated blood for three days after that. This was my worst game. I fumbled seven times in one half which is my personal NFL record. Can you imagine, that that's what I'm remembered for? Even today when I'm watching a game on TV and a team's got fumblitis, the announcer always comes up with my name. Sonny Jackson's record is still safely intact. I heard it so often that it don't bother me any more. But Wesley Junior walks out of the room. Kids have rabbit ears where their fathers are concerned.”
The film stopped but the projector continued and Jane got up to turn on the light.
“Don't,” Sonny said.
But it was already on, and she stood frozen to the switch as tears lazily lolled down his cheeks.
“It's over, Sonny.”
“Shit, don't you think I know that?” He wiped his eyes with his sleeves and smiled. “Sorry, I dint mean to swear.”
“I don't care.”
Standing he seemed to fill the room. She'd never been with a man as broad and rough-looking except in a crowd. The climate of loss he created suited her mood. For some irrational reason the emotion of physically big people always struck her as more serious. He didn't crumble but moved to a corner of the room and examined Mrs. Burke's Farberware collection of rare china objects. She wrapped her arms around his waist, surprisingly narrow. She'd begun with him on the perfect level, physical attraction, not as before with others, curious, testing herself, checking her reactions. There was something fine and instinctive about calling him.
“What do you want with me?” he asked.
“I like you.” She wanted to say that he didn't know her, so it would be a joy to be herself and act out of impulse. “We're orphans, it's so silly ... it's true.” She saw their two heads together in the mirror—his blue-black hair curly as a child's and her own straight, corn-colored; not a lioness in waiting but a girl incapable of remaining unattached. She found a convenient notch in the hollow of his shoulder, then pulled away, concerned that he'd think she was throwing herself at him. She was, but couldn't admit it. The specter of Luckmann intruded itself between them, a chicken bone that stuck in her throat.
“Shit, let's go grab something to eat,” he said.
They headed for a little place called Pete's Tavern around the corner which claimed O. Henry used to drink his beer there and sponge the free lunch. He sat her on a stool and stood alongside. He had a faraway glum expression on his face which made him seem somewhat dangerous. He started drinking quietly, methodically, and without interests in small talk. Jane might have been anywhere, with a stranger next to her eclipsing bad memories. He knocked back four double Jack Daniels. It had little effect on him, and she decided not to interfere with his silent musings. He stared straight ahead into the mirror without looking at himself and in a low voice said:
“At the end of the season, I went to a doctor and he wrote a report which I give to the coach. Coach reads it and says to me: Sonny, maybe you should've sat out for the season and since you dint you'll have a chance this comin’ year.... You've been cut from the roster. And that was it. The AFL was just terrible and I didn't want to play there, so I went up to Canada to try to get hooked to a team. The Silhouettes picked me up for sixty-five hundred dollars and I played in three games. On kickoffs and punt-returns only and the coach made me signal for fair catches whenever I got my hands on the ball. How do you like that? I wanted to run, just to stop my ass from freezin'.”
He sighed regretfully and she felt as though she'd picked up a phone on a crossed line.
Behind her a group of people were jostling for entry to the bar and Sonny moved them to another corner simply by glaring. Security in a look. She'd never had the experience of being with a man who could intimidate others by his physical presence, and it gave her a childish sense of power. Her instincts assured her that she had begun to communicate on a deeper level. She was so tired of glib men who struggled to make her laugh and spared no expense on dressing themselves to look as effeminate as possible, then spent the rest of the evening trying to seduce her. Bursting out of his gray tweed jacket, his black wool tie moved down a couple of inches from the open collar, Sonny demonstrated the virtu
es of unambiguous sexuality. She could be sure of him. There wouldn't be any of that shallow fencing she'd mistaken for cleverness. She held onto his arm.
“Today athletes endorse stuff, they got business managers or they sell insurance and stocks off season. The smart ones become sports commentators. I wound up on the balls of my ass in tap city. Order me another drink, I've gotta go to the john.”
She now belonged to the populous world of losers, alienated by missed opportunities, permanently grieving, and for the first time in years she felt comfortable. He settled back at his spot, smelling from Borax toilet soap, and sipped his drink.
“You do this pretty well.” She indicated the empty glasses that the bartender hadn't cleared.
“I break out every once and a while. Hate doin’ it on my own. Runs me anywhere from twenty-five to forty bucks, depending where it happens.”
“Then what do you do?”
“Dunno, nothing special. Run down to Luxor's for a steam in the morning to get myself together.”
“What do you do for company?”
“I get my share when I'm in the mood, since you're asking. But I can take it or leave it. Girls are lousy drinking partners ‘cause all the time they're asking you to stop and eat somethin’ or they want to dance or catch a show. Right?”
“Am I like that?”
“I guess not.” He petted her like a dog. “Sorry I blew off about my football. Not like me to piss and moan. If I was any good, I would've stuck somehow. But lookit, if I had to do it over, I would've been a place kicker. You can go on for years. And you win ball games.” He pointed to the glasses in front of him. “I'm in double figures under an hour. Some accomplishment. Had a steak for lunch and when the booze can bounce off something I can drink all night.”
“I've seen a few experts myself.”
“Who's that?” he asked as though it might be someone he knew.
“My mother.”
“Really. I'd like to meet her.”
“I'll arrange an evening.”
“What're you getting sore about? I wasn't serious. Parents don't move me one bit. How's your father do in the juice department?”
“He can hold his own.”
“Sounds like you come from real nice people. My only match was Joy-Sue, my former. But I could never drink the same thing as her. Orange Blossoms or Southern Comfort. Like forget it. You wish you'd never been born. See this—?” He indicated a white scar under his chin. “Compliments of the Dinkler Tutweiler's men's room and Southern Comfort. Fell down and gashed it right open. Hurt like a mother for a week. The manager took me to a doctor and while I was gone, getting stitched up, Joy-Sue hustled two tricks. Come home in a chauffeured Lincoln with three hundred dollars in her kick. Nice mother Wesley Junior has. Man, I tell you, some of her numbers were not to be believed. Whole college team banged her when she was a cheerleader. That's what made her so great at the pep rallies. She had something to cheer about. And yours truly wound up marrying her, the weekend after homecoming in my senior year. I got a seventy-five-thousand-dollar bonus, and Joy-Sue blew sixty of it the first year we was married, which takes some doing in Birmingham, Alabama. Charge this, charge that. Two convertible cars which she totaled in eight weeks and come out of without a scratch.” He stopped, looked at her a bit bleary-eyed and pressed her hand to his mouth. “In a way, you remind me of her.”
“Sonny, you should write a manual on flattering women. It's just what the world's waiting for.”
“No, you're not like her, but there's something about the way you're stacked. Built, I mean.”
“Thanks, I'll remember you kindly.” She picked up her handbag and slipped off the stool which had begun to implant ridges on her backside.
“Hey, don't leave now. I'm sorry.” Contrite, he banished her anger. “You're nothin’ like Joy-Sue. Much better figure. Really outstanding. Come on, Jane, please, sit down.”
He stretched out his hand, seized hers and pulled her back to the bar.
“You hit a bar, have a few, and start to feel nice and relaxed, then the truth jumps out like a bald-ass squirrel. I look at all that flesh every night of the week and after a while I forget it belongs to somethin’ that's livin’ and breathin'. Just meat on a butcher's choppin’ block.”
At least he was honest and guileless; there was that in his favor, she thought. The other practical consideration was that she'd run out of people. He was still drinking at eleven o'clock. Jane gave up trying to pace herself and had a slurred glow. They nibbled at a shrimp cocktail he'd ordered earlier.
“I'm Nancy's daughter, so what can you expect?” Jane said.
“Sure you are. And you're probably a much better person than Nancy.”
“You can bet on that. You know what the most important quality of human behavior is, Sonny?”
“You got my ear, Jane. Lay it in.”
“The ability to say no.”
“I'll buy that. Wished I had you around years ago when it really counted. Nobody cares now if I say yes or no. What've I got, an opinion that anyone wants to hear?”
“I want to hear.”
“I haven't got a mean streak in me, that's my trouble,” Sonny told her.
“I haven't got one either and I don't think it matters.”
He was well into his second twenty-dollar bill and the load he was piling on hit him suddenly. He veered from side to side and she held onto his arm to prevent him from slipping. He shook her off, then, unexpectedly put his arm around her and kissed her cheek.
“You're the best,” he said.
“Let's get you home...”
“Why, Jane? Why're you taking the trouble?”
“You move me. And I haven't been moved in a long time.”
She helped him walk to her car which was parked on Gramercy Square, and with some difficulty eased him into the passenger side. It was like trying to fit an E width, but she made it. As she pulled out, he reached out for her.
“No interfering with the driver.”
“Illegal use of hands?”
“No, Sonny, no. It's just that I'm not ready.”
He closed his eyes and before she reached Thirty-fourth Street he was asleep. The activity on West Ninety-Eighth in front of the park surprised her; the drug and homosexual traffic had reached rush-hour proportions. Pick-ups, quickies, and skin popping were in full swing and it made her nervous. She nudged Sonny, and he stirred.
“Hey, where the hell are we?”
“Home sweet home. I'm afraid to get out of the car.”
He stared through the window.
“Oh, this is nothin', you ought to see it weekends.”
He helped her out of the car, now in full possession of his senses, or at least acting as if he were. A few stumbles at the door indicated that it could go either way. The hallway of the building had the sour odor of lingering cooking which had nowhere to go. He was on the fourth floor.
“We used to be on the ground floor, but we got into this after we was robbed twice. Landlord give in to me ‘cause I slipped him a few hundred under the table.”
He fished in his pockets before locating the two keys. She entered a small dimly lit foyer which housed a plastic telephone table, a sack of laundry, and a large collection of Sports Illustrated.
On the left was a kitchen the size of a sardine can, stocked with dirty dishes and an order from the A&P in a carton waiting to be put away. Sonny with his attention to detail took out a can of Glade air freshener and sprayed as he walked. Sleep, old blankets, and fried salami combined with the Glade to create a unique fetor. Actually the place seemed more like a neglected locker room than an apartment where people lived. A three-way torch lamp in the living room, reaching an intensity of two hundred and fifty watts, revealed a wall of Sonny's memorabilia. Photographs of a lanky teen-ager in a football uniform gave on to more photographs as the running back filled out through college and the pros, tracing the historical development of his triumphs. On an old bureau, doing triple duty as bar, ironi
ng top, and trophy-display vault, were various plaques, small bronze statues of golden warriors about to punt, three bottles of Jack Daniels with old cheese jars serving as glasses, and some jeans waiting to be ironed.
“We got two bedrooms. Junior's in here.”
He directed her into a cubbyhole where a small boy snored peacefully in spite of the racket coming from the street as bartering reached its peak. Sonny pecked the boy's forehead, eliciting no response, and tiptoed out.
“Did you see him?”
“He looks like you.”
“Without a broken nose,” Sonny quickly noted. “My coloring and build.”
Cheese jars were rescued from the bureau, run through water in the kitchen, and Jane sank down on a tweed sofa which she discovered was a pullout bed.
“The maid comes once a week. Tomorrow's her day,” he explained. “Is bourbon okay with you?”
“I've been drinking it for four hours.”
“That's right.” He rubbed his eyes, still a bit fuzzy.
“Where do you sleep?”
“I got the master bedroom. TVs in there, too. Want to catch the Late Show?”
Sonny sat down next to her, tapped his glass forcefully against hers, and gulped his drink down.
“Hey, I just remembered I left the camera and film at your place.”
“It'll be safe.”
“Oh, I know that. Just that I hate to misplace things.”
He pulled her up from the sofa, stood awkwardly in the center of the room as if ready to dance, and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Jane, why don’ we go inside?”
“If you want to.”
“Don’ you?”
He took her hand and ushered her into the bedroom. His first action was to switch on the TV. It was a large neat room with a bed, two tables, a Panasonic clock-radio and a functional reading lamp. An Ellery Queen mystery magazine bent at the spine and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol revealed Sonny's penchant for mystery and heartburn. There were also six pillows on the bed and she looked quizzically at them.
Making Love Page 12
