Cockfighter (12 page)

Tommy drove the Olds and Mrs. Hungerford sat between us on the wide front seat. With the guitar case between my legs, my left leg was tight against her right leg, and I could feel the warmth of her body through my corduroy trousers.

“This isn't exactly a party, Mr. Mansfield,” she explained, as we drove through the light traffic of the after-midnight streets. “We all attended the Jacksonville Little Theater to see
Liliom,
and I invited the bunch home for a cold supper and a few drinks. It was a real faux pas on my part. There's plenty of food, but I didn't realize I was out of Scotch. But bringing you home to play will more than make up for my oversight, I'm sure. Don't you think so, Tommy?”

“If they're still there,” he observed dryly

“Don't worry,” Mrs. Hungerford laughed pleasantly, “I know my brother!” She turned toward me and put her hand lightly on my knee. “There are only two couples, Mr. Mansfield. Tommy's father and mother, and Dr. Luke McGuire and his wife. Not a very large audience, I'm afraid, after what you're accustomed to, is it?”

In reply, I spat out the window.

“But I know you'll find them appreciative of good music.”

A few minutes later we turned into a driveway guarded by two small concrete lions. Tommy parked behind a Buick on the semicircular gravel road that led back to the street. The two-story house was of red brick. Four fluted wooden columns supported a widow's walk directly above the wide, aluminum-screened front porch. The lawn slanted gradually to the street for almost a hundred yards, broken here and there with newly planted coconut palms. The feathery tips of the young trees rattled in the wind. She was wasting money and effort attempting to grow coconut trees as far north as Jax. The subtropics start at Daytona Beach, much farther downstate.

Mrs. Hungerford rushed ahead of us after we got out of the car. Tommy, carrying two sacked fifths of Scotch under his left arm and a six-pack of soda in his right hand, hurried after her. As I climbed the porch steps, Mrs. Hungerford switched on the overhead lights and opened the front doors. She held a finger to her lips as she beckoned me into the foyer with her free hand.

“Now, you stay right here in the foyer,” Mrs. Hungerford whispered excitedly, “so I can surprise them!”

Closing the front door softly, she followed her nephew into the living room. The voices greeting them contained a mixture of concern over the prolonged absence, and happiness at the prospect of a drink. Above the sound of their conversation, the clipped electronic voice of a newscaster rattled through his daily report of the late news.

The foyer was carpeted in a soft shade of rose nylon. The same carpeting climbed the stairway to the walnut-balustraded second floor. A giant split-level philodendron sat in a white pot behind the door. There was a spindly-legged, leather-covered table beneath a gilded wall mirror, and a brass dish on the table held about thirty calling cards. Out of long-forgotten habit I felt a few of the cards to see if they were engraved. They were. I turned my attention to a marble cherub mounted on a square, ebony base. It was about three feet high, and the well-weathered cherub looked shyly with its dugout eyes through widespread stubby fingers. A lifted, twisted right knee hid its sex, and three fingers of the left hand were missing. I removed my cowboy hat and hung it on the thumb of the mutilated hand.

The bored announcer was clicked off in midsentence, and Mrs. Hungerford came after me a moment later.

“They're all tickled to death, Mr. Mansfield,” she said happily. “Come on, they want to meet you!”

In one corner of the large living room, Tommy was engaged behind a small bar. Two middle-aged men got out of their chairs and crossed the room to greet me. Dr. McGuire was a thickset man without a neck, and his gray hair was badly in need of cutting. Mr. Hungerford, Sr., Tommy's father, was an older edition of his blond son, except that he no longer had his hair and the top of his head was bronzed by the Florida sun. Both of the men wore white dinner jackets and midnight blue tuxedo trousers. I acknowledged the introductions by nodding my head and shaking hands. The two wives remained seated on a long, curving white sofa, and didn't offer their hands to be shaken.

“I know you're all eager to hear Mr. Mansfield play,” Bernice announced to the room at large,” but you'll have to wait until he has a drink first.”

Welcome news. After dropping my guitar case on the sofa, I headed for the bar.

“There's plenty of gin if you don't want Scotch,” Tommy suggested.

I poured two ounces of Scotch into a tall glass in reply, and added ice cubes and soda. An uneasy silence settled over the room as I hooked my elbows over the bar and faced the group. Bernice, or Tommy, had evidently informed them about my inability to talk, and they were disturbed by my silence. The two matrons, bulging in strapless gowns, had difficulty in averting their eyes from my face. I doubt if they meant to be rude, but they couldn't keep from staring at me. Dr. McGuire, standing with his back to the fireplace, lit a cigar and studied the tip through his bifocals. Only Bernice was at ease, sitting comfortably on the long bench in front of the baby grand piano, apparently unaware of her guests' discomfort. Mr. Hungerford, Sr., cleared his throat and set his glass down on a low coffee table.

“Bernice tells us you studied under Segovia, Mr. Mansfield,” he said.

“Yes,” Bernice replied for me, “That's what Mr. Vernon told us, didn't he, Tommy?”

“That's right. And he played a beautiful thing written by Dr. Albert Schweitzer. I hope he'll play it again for us.”

“African rock ‘n' roll, I suppose,” Dr. McGuire chuckled from the fireplace. “That would be a treat!” When no one joined him in his laughter, he said quickly, “We're very grateful you came out to play for us, Mr. Mansfield.”

I finished my drink, lifted my eyebrows for Tommy Hungerford to mix me another. I took my guitar out of the case, and started to restring it with another G string to replace the broken one. While I restrung the guitar, Mrs. Hungerford asked her brother and the doctor to move chairs into the center of the room and form a line. She then had her guests sit in the rearranged chairs facing me, as I stood with one foot on the piano bench. Tommy Hungerford, smiling at the new seating arrangements, remained standing at the bar. I plucked and tightened the new string, and Bernice hit the G on the piano for me until I had the guitar in tune. Satisfied, I put the guitar on the bench and returned to the bar for my fresh drink. The small audience waited patiently, but Dr. McGuire glowered when Tommy insisted that I have another before I began. I shook my head, picked up my guitar and played through my three-song repertoire without pause.

The moment I hit the last chord I smiled, bowed from the waist and put the guitar back in the case. Bernice Hungerford, who had hovered anxiously behind the row of chairs during my short concert, led the applause.

“Is that all he's going to play, Bernice?” the doctor asked. “I'd like to hear more.”

“I think we all would,” his fat wife echoed.

I shrugged, and joined Tommy at the bar for another drink.

“No, that's enough,” Bernice said. “Mr. Mansfield has been playing all evening and he's tired. We shouldn't coax him. The concert is all over. Go on home. You've been fed, you've had your drinks, now go on home.”

Bernice herded the two wives out of the room to get their wraps, and their husbands joined Tommy and me at the bar for a nightcap.

“You play very well, young man,” Dr. McGuire said. “Did you ever play on television?”

I shook my head, and added Scotch to my glass to cut the soda.

“I think you should consider television, don't you, Tommy?”

“Not really, sir,” Tommy wrinkled his brow. “I'm not so sure that a mass audience is ready for classical guitar music. I'm trying to recall, but I can't remember ever hearing or seeing a string quartet on television. If I did, I can't remember it.”

“By God, I haven't either!” the doctor said strongly. “And certainly the string quartet is the most civilized entertainment in the world! Don't you agree, Mr. Mansfield?”

I shrugged my shoulders inside my jacket, and lit a cigarette.

He didn't want a reply, anyway. “But there's a definite need for serious music on TV,” he continued. “And, by God, the public should be forced to listen! No matter how stupid people are today, they can be taught to appreciate good music.” He banged his fist on the bar.

The two middle-aged men drained their glasses quickly as Bernice came into the room, and turned to join their wives in the foyer. Bernice crossed the room, and placed a hand on my arm. So far, she had never missed a chance to touch me.

“Mrs. McGuire would like to know if you'd consent to play for her guests next Saturday night. She's giving a party, quite a large one, and she's willing to—”

I shook my head and crushed out my cigarette in a white Cinzano ashtray.

“It's ‘no,' then?”

I nodded. She smiled, turned away and returned to the foyer to say good night to her guests and break the news to Mrs. McGuire.

“Tell me something, Mr. Mansfield,” Tommy said hesitantly. “Did you really study under Segovia?”

I grinned, and shook my head. After setting my glass down, I picked up my guitar case. Tommy laughed, throwing his head back.

“I didn't think you did, but I'll keep your secret till the day I die.”

Bernice Hungerford returned with a smile brightening her jolly face. I didn't know why, but I was attracted to this graceful, pleasant woman. She appeared to be so happy, so eager to please, and yet, there were tiny, tragic lines tugging at the corners of her full lips.

“I'll drive Mr. Mansfield back into town, Auntie,” Tommy said.

“Oh, no you won't!” Bernice said cheerfully. She took the guitar case out of my hand and placed it on the couch. “I'll drive him back myself. You can just run along, Tommy. I'm going to fix Mr. Mansfield something to eat—you could eat something, couldn't you?”

I shrugged, then smiled. She hadn't paid the twenty dollars yet, and I could always eat something. The cold buffet supper, however, didn't appeal to me. There were several choices of lunch meat, cold pork, three different cheese dips and pickles. I looked distastefully at the buffet table.

“Now, don't you worry,” Bernice said, patting my arm with her small, white hand. “I won't make you eat the remains of the cold supper. I'll fix you some ham and eggs.”

“Me too, Auntie dear?” Tommy grinned.

“No, not you. Don't you have a job of some kind to report to in the morning?”

Tommy groaned. “Don't remind me. Well, good night, Mr. Mansfield.” He shook hands with me, brushed his lips against his aunt's cheek and made his departure from the room. A few moments later the lights of his Olds flashed on the picture window as he made the semicircle to the street.

Now that we were alone in the big house, Bernice's composure suddenly disappeared. She blushed furiously under my level stare, and then took my hand. “Come on,” she said brightly. “You can keep me company in the kitchen while I cook for you.”

I followed her into the kitchen, and sat down at a small dinette table covered with a blue-and-white tablecloth. There were louvered windows on all three sides of the small dining alcove, but the kitchen itself, like those of most Depression-built homes, was a large one. The cooking facilities were up to date, however. In addition to a new yellow enameled electric stove, there was a built-in oven with a glass door, and a row of complicated-looking knobs beneath it.

“There's coffee left, but it's been setting on the warm burner so long it's probably bitter by now. I'd better make fresh coffee, if you don't mind waiting awhile, but by that time I'll have the other things ready. I think that coffee setting too long gets bitter, don't you? I've got some mashed potatoes left over from dinner, and I'll make some nice patties to go with your ham.”

Bernice kept a running patter of meaningless small talk going as she cooked, and I listened thoughtfully and smoked, watching her deft, efficient movements from my chair. She had tied a frilly, ruffled white apron about her waist, and it looked out of whack with her kelly green evening gown. She kept talking about pleasant things to eat, and I got hungrier by the second.

She wanted to please me, even though she didn't know why. She knew she was a good cook, and by cooking a decent meal for me, she knew I would be pleased. If I was pleased with her, I'd take her to bed. These thoughts probably never entered her conscious mind, but I sensed this, and knew instinctively that she was mine if I wanted her. As she chattered away, gaily, cheerfully, I learned that I did want her, very much so. She was a damned attractive woman, a little heavy in the thighs, perhaps, but I didn't consider that a detriment. I like women a little on the fleshy side. Skinny, boyish-type figures may be admired by other women, but not by most men.

I smiled appreciatively, showing my teeth, when she set the huge platter before me. The aroma of the fried ham steak, four fried eggs, and fluffy potato pancakes all blended beautifully as they entered my nose. Bernice poured two steaming cups of fresh coffee and sat down across from me to watch me eat, her face flushed from recent exertion and pleasure as I stowed the food away.

“I should have made biscuits,” she said, “but I could tell you were too hungry to wait, so I made the toast instead. Would you like some guava jelly for your toast?” She started to get up, but I shook my head violently, and she remained seated.

A minute later she smiled. “I like to see a man eat,” she said sincerely.

I've heard a lot of women make that trite remark: Grandma, Mother, when she was still alive, and a good many others. I believe women really do like to see men eat, especially when they're fond of the man concerned, and he's eating food they have prepared for him. I have never denied any woman the dubious pleasure of watching me eat. Outside of taking care of a man's needs, women don't get very much pleasure out of life anyway.