by Walker Percy
I won’t argue. She can send them to Eton if she likes. Mainly I’m glad to have her back. Very well, I’ll go to the awards dinner. There’s something else on my mind. But my acquiescence only makes her angrier.
“And not only that,” she says, fists still on hips.
“Yes?” I say, thinking how nice it would be, what with all this anger, flushed face, flashing eyes, if—and in fact say as much. “It certainly would be nice if we could fight it out in there.”
“And not only that,” she repeats.
“Yes?”
“For Tommy’s sake, you better remember you promised to take Van fishing.”
“I remember,” I say gloomily.
“All right.” Again she looks me up and down, me in my Bruno Hauptmann suit. “And get dressed, for heaven’s sake. And keep in mind about Van.”
What I keep in mind is her voluptuousness and distractedness. It is odd. At the height of her anger she’s both voluptuous and distracted, preoccupied by something. Her eyes do not quite focus on me.
9. THE AWARDS BANQUET is shorter and less painful than I had feared. I manage not to drink. What is surprising is that Ellen does—does drink—something she seldom did, and not merely drink but in the end gets so drunk I have to take her home. Sheri Comeaux explains why. Van Dorn let her down, did not invite her to the North Americans at Fresno.
John Van Dorn is doing a very graceful job emceeing the banquet and passing out trophies. He is talking about the summer soccer camp and plans for the soccer “program” during the academic year at Belle Ame. Afterward he passes out trophies. When he hands Tommy his trophy, a gold-colored statuette, he doesn’t let go, so there are the two of them holding the trophy while Van Dorn speaks. Tommy is embarrassed. He doesn’t know whether to keep holding on to the trophy or what to do with his eyes.
“I have one little suggestion for you moms and dads,” says Van Dorn, who is not embarrassed. “What would you say to giving up your sons and daughters to this program for four years? That’s all I ask. And what do I promise in return?” He pauses, looks at the moms and dads, looks at Tommy, speaks in a soft voice. “What I promise is a good shot at the Junior Olympic gold for this team four years from now in Olympia, Greece, where the original Olympics were held.”
Applause, cheering. From Tommy only relief when Van Dorn lets go of the trophy and he can sit down.
Ellen, surprisingly, is already drinking a lot. Ordinarily she’d be the proud mom, but she polishes off her third Absolut, smiles and applauds, and goes to the ladies’ room.
“Listen, Tom,” says Sheri Comeaux, pulling me close. We’re sitting at a table for four in the rear of the Camellia Room of the Holiday Inn. Bob Comeaux is silent and distant, as if we had had no dealings this morning. Their son Ricky also got a trophy, but a smaller, silver-colored one. “I have to talk fast. Ellen just found out Van’s not going to the North Americans and she’s taking it hard. She had her heart set on it. They’d have won for sure.”
Sheri’s a good sort. “Welcome home, Tom,” she had said earlier. “You have friends, you know—more than you know.” Sheri was a New Orleans nurse when she married Bob Comeaux. She’s not uptown New Orleans or Garden District, but she’s not Irish Channel or Ninth Ward either. French-Irish-Italian, she’d have gone to school at Sacred Heart, not with the Mesdames of the Sacred Heart Academy on St. Charles Avenue but at Sacred Heart parochial school on Canal Street. She and Ellen both married doctors, both took up duplicate bridge at the same time, neither having to work—Sheri because Bob was a successful doctor, Ellen because she and Marva made a lot of money in real estate. Sheri has the fond, slightly dazed look of many doctors’ wives.
“I better talk fast before she comes back,” says Sheri.
“Okay, talk fast.” Sheri is making me nervous because she’s drinking too, hanging on my arm, talking a lot, mentioning names, and making a point of it as if she knew about Bob and Mickey LaFaye. But she always comes back to Ellen.
“That girl is loaded! With talent I mean. I mean, she is some kind of genius and doesn’t even know it. Do you know what she did?”
“No.”
“We were playing in this dinky little sectional over at Biloxi—this was before we met Van Dorn. It was good for nothing but black points of course. So there we were, two little bridge ladies with a bunch of other bridge ladies. It’s about four women to one man, and what men. And here he comes—surprise, surprise—God knows what they paid him to make an appearance. We were playing women’s pairs the first day and there he is, strolling around the tables watching the play. We were all nervous and giggling. I know you don’t know anything about the strange world of duplicate bridge, but having John Van Dorn show up at a sectional tournament is like Ivan Lendl turning up at the local tennis club. I mean, we’re talking world-class, Tom.” She finishes her drink. Bob Comeaux, to my relief, has gotten up and is talking to Van Dorn in the aisle. He’s listening intently to Van Dorn, looking down, arms folded, ear cocked. Van Dorn catches my eye, winks, makes a casting motion with his wrist. I nod.
“Yes, Sheri?”
“You got the picture? Us little bridge ladies trying to keep our minds on the game and him walking around, kibitzing. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“So next day, it’s mixed pairs. And we’re resigned to anybody we draw. We’re standing at the customers’ desk to get our partners and wondering who we’re going to end up with—you talk about dogs—I mean, you wouldn’t believe who I got. But anyway. There were a few professionals hanging around as usual. You know, you can get a life master or a professional, but you have to pay—personally I think the system stinks—it’s like a bunch of middle-aged ladies looking over the gigolos. But there we were, counting our little money to see if we can afford one of the L.M.s or professionals at least. Actually it’s the best way to learn, but I think it’s degrading. I look up and there he is. Oh, he’s a charmer. He introduces himself to both of us as if we were the famous ones. ‘You’re Mrs. More, I believe, and you’re Mrs. Comeaux?’ I nearly drop my teeth, but you know Ellen, laid back and cool. ‘Yes?’ she says.” Sheri mocks Ellen’s coolness. “He bows, I swear I think he even clicked his heels like a Prussian general, you know? He’s the perfect gentleman, but it’s obvious it’s not me he had in mind. Oh, he knew all about you too. ‘I know your husband’s work,’ he says to Ellen. ‘Magnificent!’ Ellen still hasn’t got the message. ‘But I’ve also seen your work—oh, I can tell in about thirty seconds,’ he tells Ellen. ‘I saw you pull that Steknauer finesse not once but twice.’ Then he turns to me as if Ellen’s not there. ‘Mrs. Comeaux,’ he says, there’s such a thing as card sense and there’s such a thing as a sixth sense. This lady knows where the cards are. I don’t know how she knows but she knows. I don’t think she knows how she knows either. It is as if she had a little computer stored in her head.’ Then he turns to Ellen and there’s Ellen going, Ah—uh—ahem, and so forth. So he says to Ellen, ‘Would you do me the honor of being my partner in mixed pairs today?’ ‘Well, ah uh,’ goes Ellen. ‘I don’t believe I have the—ah—’ And she’s actually going through her purse. I give her a nudge: Dummy! So he says, with another bow, ‘The fee is waived. The honor is mine.’ Well, let me tell you, I have to give Ellen credit. That gal’s got class. Without turning a hair she shrugs and says, ‘Very well.’ Very well, I’m thinking, Jesus. Of course, some of the old biddies were jealous, said he was interested in Ellen’s money, but that’s a lie. She’s a natural-born bridge genius.”
“Did they win?” I ask. I look at my watch. What is keeping Ellen?
“Win! They haven’t lost since. And now they’re not going to Fresno. I don’t get it. Old charmer turns into old asshole. Right, Tom?” She’s got another Tanqueray.
“Right. But why don’t you go see if Ellen’s—”
“Sure.” Her son Ricky comes up and shows her his trophy. She gives him a hug and me a wink. “Wonderful, darling.” After Ricky’s gone, she says, “You want to
know what those trophies look like?”
“What?”
“Like K.C. bowling trophies, right?”
“Right. Now—”
“You want to know something, Tom?”
“What?”
“You really screwed up, didn’t you?”
“I suppose I did.”
“But you know something?”
“What?”
“I always thought you were the best around here, the most honest and understanding—unlike some I could mention, namely Dr. Perfect here.” And here in fact is Bob Comeaux, who pays no attention to her even though she hasn’t lowered her voice. Instead, he leans past me, ear cocked with the same intensity, and speaks to the table: “I hope you’ve given some serious thought to our conversation this morning. Okay, Tom?” His hand rests heavily on my shoulder.
“Sure, Bob,” I say, not sure what part of the conversation he means. Probably Father Smith. “Sheri—” I turn to her, but she’s gone—to fetch Ellen, I hope.
Van Dorn, passing behind Bob Comeaux, makes a sign to me as if he did not want to talk to Bob. He holds up one hand open and a forefinger.
“Okay,” I say. “Six o’clock.”
Ellen comes back, seeming all right, and drinks two more Absoluts. She smiles and nods in her new unfocused way at nothing. She’s getting somewhat dreamy but seems on the whole composed and pleasant.
10. ELLEN IS NOT so drunk that she cannot get up the spiral staircase. But it is well that I am behind her, because I can assist her without seeming to, moving up behind her and in step, knee behind her knee, hands up the rail and almost around her. I fear she might fall.
Our new bedroom is on the third floor across a tiny hall from the children’s. Ellen bought two iron convent beds, now in high fashion, when the convent closed. What short narrow nuns. My feet stick out through the bars.
How to sleep with her? There’s no spoon-nesting on these cots. And she’s already flopped on one, dressed, filling it. She’s not passed out or even drunk, but open-eyed, dreamy, placative, and still smiling in the same moony way.
Well then, turn out the light and—
I turn out the light.
“Lights! “says Ellen.
I turn on the light. True, drink and dark can make you sick. I know. But she’s smiling.
I have an idea. “I have an idea.”
She waits, smiling.
“Let’s go downstairs to our old room.”
“Chandra.”
“Chandra’s not here.”
“How?”
“How to get down? We can go down to the kitchen and take the elevator.”
“All right.”
She seems agreeable. I am pleased.
She’s not too drunk to back down the stairs to the kitchen exactly as we came up, smiling at the joke of me keeping her safe.
Chandra’s room, our old bedroom, is spick and span. The Sears Best bed takes up half the room. There’s a photograph on the bed table of Chandra receiving the Loyola broadcast journalism award from Howard K. Smith.
“Undress,” says Ellen.
I begin undressing.
“Me.”
“What? Oh.” She’s leaning over toward me, arms outstretched, pullover blouse pulled half up. The neck drags across her short wiry wheat-colored hair, but it springs back into place.
She waits for me to undress her, smiling and cooperative, standing when standing is required, sitting, lifting herself. I finish undressing her; she is standing, naked, smiling and turning. She is tanned all over. There are no white areas. Compared to the convent beds, the Sears Best mattress looks as big as a soccer field.
Ellen starts for the bed. I start for the wall switch and turn out the light and head back.
“Lights!” says Ellen.
Very well. By the time I’ve turned on the light and come back, Ellen is in bed but is, to my surprise, not lying on her side as she used to but is on all fours.
Very well, if that’s—
“Well, bucko?”
Bucko?
“Cover,” says Ellen.
“You mean—” I say, taking the sheet.
“No.”
“I understand,” I say, and cover.
“All right,” says Ellen.
It is all right, though surprising, because we have never made love so. Her head is turned and I miss seeing her face. There is only a tousle of wiry hair, a glimpse of cheek and eyes, now closed, and mouth mashed open. She utters sounds.
Afterward as we spoon-nest in our old style, she drowses off but goes on talking. It’s a light, dreaming sleep, because the words I can understand are uttered with that peculiar emphasis people use when they talk in their sleep. It’s REM sleep. I can see her eyes move under her lids. I’m afraid to turn out the light.
“Schenken or K.S.?” she asks in her dream.
“Schenken?”
“Blackwood shmackwood.”
“All right.” I think she’s using contract bridge words. She’s playing in a tournament.
“Mud,” she says.
“Mud?”
“Bermuda Bowl, but no Fresno.”
I am curious. I think these are places where bridge tournaments are held. Why no Fresno? I give her a shake, enough to bring her up into a waking dream, enough to talk. It’s like talking to a patient under light hypnosis.
“Why not Fresno?” I ask her, using the same quirky tone of her sleep-talking.
“You want me to stand around at the partnership table with all those other women?”
“Well, no,” I say. I didn’t think she’d been invited.
“I’d feel like a dance-hall hostess. For open pairing you just stand there while they look you over.”
“I see.”
“Noway.”
I am silent. After a while her eyes stop moving. She’s going to sleep but still talking.
“Schenken?” she murmurs, asking a question, I think.
“No,” I say, not liking the sound of it.
“K.S.?”
“No.”
“Roth-Steiner?”
“No.”
“Azalea?”
“Yes.” Azalea sounds better, whatever it is.
“Azalea,” she murmurs drowsily, smiling, and as drowsily she straightens and turns on her stomach. Before I know what she’s doing, she has swung around on the bed like a compass needle, dreamily but nonetheless expertly done a one-eighty, buckled and folded herself into me, her wiry head between my thighs.
We’ve not done this before either, but by now I’m not surprised and I’d just as soon.
When we’ve finished, she’s quite content to nestle again and go to sleep. “No Fresno,” she murmurs, does another one-eighty, settles into me.
“Very well,” I say. “No Fresno.”
I have an idea.
“Listen, Ellen. This is important.” I drop the dream voice and get down to business—just as you talk to a patient after fifty minutes on the couch when she swings around ready to leave. “Are you listening?”
She’s listening. She’s turned her head enough to free up her good ear from the pillow. She’s deaf in the other. It happened at Leroy Ledbetter’s bar. I tell her about it.
On the way home I stopped at the Little Napoleon, but not, I thought at the time, for a drink.
The Little Napoleon is the oldest cottage in town. It hails from the days when lake boatmen used to drink with the drovers who loaded up the pianos and chandeliers on their ox carts bound from France via New Orleans to the rich upcountry plantations. It is the only all-wood bar in the parish, wood floor worn to scallops, a carved wood reredos behind the bar—a complex affair of minarets and mirrors. Two-hundred-year-old wood dust flies up your nostrils. The only metal is the brass rail and a fifty-year-old neon clock advertising Dixie beer. I decided I needed a drink after talking to Bob Comeaux.
The straight bourbon slides into my stomach as gently as a blessing. Things ease. It is one condition of my “parole” th
at I not drink. But things ease nevertheless.
I buy Leroy Ledbetter a drink. He drinks like a bartender: as one item in the motion of tending bar, wiping, arranging glasses, pouring the drink from the measuring spout as if it were for a customer, the actual drinking occurring almost invisibly, as if he had rubbed his nose, a magician’s pass.
There is one other customer in the bar, sitting in his usual place at the ell, James Earl Johnson. He’s been sitting there for forty years, never appearing drunk or even drinking, his long acromegalic Lincoln-like face inclined thoughtfully. He always appears sunk in thought. His face is wooden, fixed. It might be taken to be stiff and mean with drink, but it is not. Actually he’s good-natured. In fact, he’s nodding all the time, almost imperceptibly but solemnly, a grave and steadfast affirmation. He’s got Parkinsonism and it gives him the nods, both hands rolling pills, and a mask of a face. He smiles, but it’s under the mask.
“What seh, Doc,” says James, as if he had seen me yesterday and not two years ago.
“All right. How you doing, James?”
“All right now!”
James comes from Hell’s Kitchen, a neighborhood in New York City. He was once a vaudeville acrobat and knew Houdini, Durante, and Cagney. He was with a Buff Hottle carnival that got stranded here fifty years ago. He liked it in Feliciana. So he stayed.
“What about Ben Gazzara?” I asked him years ago about an actor I admired, knowing that he too came from Hell’s Kitchen.
James would always shrug Gazzara off. “He’s all right. But Cagney was the one. There was nobody like Cagney.” He nods away, affirming Cagney. “Do you want to know what Cagney was, what he really was?”
