Joshua Then and Now (7 page)

In succeeding summers on the lake, Joshua also took to a ritual of his own. After work, say around four o’clock, if he knew Pauline was playing tennis, he would load the kids into the old Hornby Jeep, drive out to the club, and settle with them on the grass overlooking the tennis courts. Oh, but his heart leaped to watch Pauline at play. Her honey-colored hair drawn back with a bauble, her fine arms tense, her long bronzed legs ready to spring. Chaste white shirt and shorts notwithstanding, she struck him as incredibly sexy. Pure joy, his Pauline.

All of which led to the incident and his becoming, albeit belatedly, a most unwilling part of the country club lore. “Remember the night Shapiro stormed into the clubhouse …”

Occasionally, after her game was done, he would wander out onto the court with the kids and Pauline would try to entice him into volleying with her.

“I’d only embarrass you, Pauline. I probably couldn’t even hit the ball.”

“You could never embarrass me, and if you’d only try we could play together.”

“Yes, yes,” the kids cried, bouncing up and down.

Joshua was tempted more than once, and then one day last summer he had finally yielded. Had he or Pauline been more observant that splendidly sunny Wednesday afternoon in August, a taste of autumn already in the crisp air, the leaves running to gold here and scarlet there, they might have noticed the small seaplane moored at the club dock. Mind you, there had been other seaplanes, other Wednesday afternoons.

Pauline lofted the ball at him, a lazy serve, and hello, hello, he caught it with his own racket, sending it back over the net. He was
still riding that unexpected triumph when he badly flubbed her return shot. Now he tried to serve, murderously of course, his racket swooshing through the air, utterly failing to connect with the ball. Pauline, calling out encouragement, served another ball and he took a chop at it, smashing it into the net. She tried again, he returned the ball, took her next shot and sent it back again, missing the shot that followed. Pauline served once more, imploring him not to rush the ball, and he managed another return. They were having fun, the children squealing at his every pratfall, and he did not notice that they had acquired an audience. An audience of one. A tall lean man, wearing a floppy straw hat, a gold necklace with a medallion attached, white silken trousers cut jaggedly below the knees, and espadrilles. He was seated on a bench, brooding, his skin stained dark as walnut by the sun. Joshua didn’t notice him. He was also unaware of his audience’s audience. The ladies drinking on the terrace had stopped talking, the more intrepid ones drawing closer to the courts. Joshua didn’t notice because at that moment nothing meant more to him than connecting with the ball, earning a satisfying thunk. Alas, the greater his ambition, the more inept he became. Even more baffling, Pauline didn’t seem to be having fun any more. She was flushed, agitated, and the next time he flubbed badly she suddenly snapped, “Had enough?”

“No, not yet,” he said, stupidly missing her distress signal as well as her next service, a surprisingly swift one.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she cried out, “it wasn’t that difficult to hit.”

Startled, he rushed toward the net. “Pauline, what in the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Damn,” was all she said. “Damn damn damn. And here he comes.”

The tall lean man with the straw-colored hair and twinkly blue eyes was striding toward him, his smile captivating, but a little too fully aware of its own charm. “Hi, there,” he sang out. “You must be Joshua.” Shaking Joshua’s hand with immense warmth, as if his
search for him had been long and arduous and the pleasures of this meeting indescribable, he also eased the tennis racket away from him, his manner benevolent but firm, much as Joshua had once relieved Alex of a hatchet he was then too young to handle. “I’m awfully pleased to meet you at last.”

Before Joshua could respond, he had scooped up the ball, bounced it once, twice, slid away, and sent it booming over the net with a sudden leap and a deft thrust of his racket. Pauline, swooping low after it, returned the ball with more anger than grace.

Seething, Joshua backed out of the court, only to discover that most of the ladies had now gathered round, rapt.

“Hey, why’d you let that guy take the racket away from you?” Alex asked, with his infuriating gift for reaching him.

“I think,” Joshua said as calmly as he could manage, “that that man just happens to be your uncle.”

Joshua couldn’t take his eyes off Pauline, who was now playing with more rage than skill, fiercely intent on winning. Charging the ball, attempting vicious serves, she was easily outplayed by a tolerant, seemingly bemused Kevin, who did not once need to extend himself. And then, without warning, the game took a poignant turn, settling into a kind of intimacy, the ball flowing between brother and sister, both of them playing superbly. The ladies, shedding years even as he watched, Westmount debutantes once more, oohed and ahhed to see such casually brilliant play from Kevin and such spirited moves from an aroused Pauline. Once or twice, they even clapped hands. Joshua, his cheeks hot, his stomach churning, grasped that he had reached a new plateau in his life among the gentiles. Something was clearly expected of him.

Then, all at once, the mood of the game shifted again, and once more Pauline tried to knock Kevin literally out of the court. This time, however, he did not respond with tolerance. He absorbed Pauline’s wickedest shots, coaxed her out of position with hanging returns, and then slammed the ball into undefended corners. A
breathless Pauline, lunging, obviously flustered, was caught looking bad again and again. She was not being beaten, she was being punished. The ladies, who had been pressing against the fence, began to retreat from the court. Joshua desperately wanted to intervene, but had no idea how to manage it without further humiliating Pauline. Finally, mercifully, it was over; and Pauline and Kevin were strolling out to confront each other at the net. Brother and sister didn’t embrace, didn’t even touch each other. “Come on, Trout,” he said, laughing easily, “one more set.”

“God damn it, Kevin, what are you doing here?” he heard her demand sharply.

“I’m only here overnight. I’m flying to Georgian Bay in the morning to meet with some of the Argos people there. It’s big stuff this time, Trout. Awfully big.”

“Isn’t it always,” Pauline said, as Joshua joined them at the net, the children hanging back, bewildered.

“They’re thinking of putting together an offshore fund, and they need a good man out there. I took them out fishing. They talked to me about it in the boat. I told you that would be a good investment.”

“Kevin, you’re incorrigible.”

“I’m throwing a dinner party for some of the old gang here tonight,” he said, including Joshua in his appealing smile. “Tim Hickey, Dickie Abbott, and some of the others are driving in from town. Even Jane’s husband is coming out.”

“Now you’ve gone and done it. You really have. Would you please not tell any of them about your big deal?”

Ignoring her, he asked Joshua, “Don’t I even get to meet the kids?”

The children were brought forward and introduced.

“I’d be absolutely miserable,” Kevin said, “if the two of you didn’t join us for dinner.”

Pauline looked to Joshua for a response.

“The kids must be starving,” he said evenly.

But before they could get away, Kevin said, “Champers at seven.
And if you don’t mind, Joshua, I’ve brought one of your books along for you to sign for me. You have no greater fan in Bermuda.”

Pauline and Joshua didn’t talk on the bumpy ride home, but the children wouldn’t let go.

“I think he’s yucky,” Susy said, clinging to Joshua.

But Teddy was impressed. “He sure can play tennis.”

“Possibly,” Pauline said, “because he hardly does anything else.”

Joshua fixed drinks for both of them. Pauline boiled sweet corn for the children. “Gee, golly,” he said, once they dispersed, “my biggest fan in Bermuda. What does he take me for?”

“He’s leaving in the morning. We might as well go.”

“He’s your brother, you go. I’m going to stay here and watch the ball game with the kids.”

“I can’t go without you.”

“What is he, a year younger than you are?”

“Fourteen months.”

“Jesus, a man of his age dressing like Tom Sawyer. No, Peter Pan. He’s fucking pathetic.”

“But he wasn’t, once.”

That stung.

“Did you buy him his boat?”

“I lent him enough money for a down payment.”

“And he’s in such dire need he turns up here in a seaplane?”

“Returning here after all these years scared him. He had to make a splash. So he rented a plane.”

“We are a stiff-necked people,” Joshua said, pouring himself another drink. “That’s what we come from. Yessiree. A stiff-necked people. You should have seen yourself out there on that tennis court. Watching was indecent.”

Her cheeks burned.

“I thought,” he said, rounding on her, “that I could do nothing to embarrass you. You yelled at me out there.”

She stared at him, startled. Clearly, she didn’t even remember.

“With the kids out there, O.K., never mind, but right in front of the Westmount Pre-menopausal Hot Pants and Bigots Bend-an-Elbow Club.”

“I’m sorry. I apologize.”

“Champers with Peter Pan,” he muttered. “And what’s all that crap about meeting with the Argos people and offshore funds?”

“Another pipe dream, that’s what. Some of them probably got drunk on his boat, and when he turns up at Georgian Bay they won’t even remember that they invited him there.”

“Does he really live off fishing trips?”

“He lives off women, if you must know.”

“Why, that’s reprehensible.”

“Oh, you can be such a prick sometimes, darling.”

“We are a stiff-necked people.”

“They have reason to resent him, Josh, and if I don’t turn up tonight they are going to skewer him, and they will certainly gloat for the rest of the summer if
you
fail to show.”

“I’m not going to that little fart of a club, with its commodore in commodities, to have them watching and waiting for me to do something.”

“You don’t have to do anything. Whatever are you talking about? He’s no threat to you. He’s no threat to anybody any more. But don’t make it impossible for me. I don’t want to go there alone.”

“Go, Tinkerbell. Enjoy. I really don’t mind.”

“Take me, Josh.”

“No.”

When Pauline finally emerged from her dressing room, showered and scented, touched with just a hint of eye make-up, her honey-colored hair freed of its restraining bauble, his Pauline, looking achingly beautiful in a white linen shift calculated to enhance her tan, he was consumed with regret. “I don’t mind driving you,” he said ruefully.

“I’ve already ordered a taxi,” she replied, her voice also subdued.

He trailed after her onto the front lawn. “Stay. I’m beginning to feel horny.”

“Stop it. Please, Josh,” and she ran into the oncoming taxi lights, gesturing for old Orville Moon to stop.

Wizened, mottled old Moon, with his lizardy eyes and yellow teeth, did not care for Joshua. Once he had stopped him in the village post office and asked, “Will you be needing a hunting license this autumn?”

“No.”

“I figured.”

Joshua lingered on the lawn for a while, watching the ancient, battered taxi clatter off into the night. Fallen apples, soft, rotting, were everywhere. The trees needed spraying and pruning. The lawn smelled sweetly of cut grass, decay, and Pauline’s perfume. She would have dabbed herself behind the ears, on the backs of her knees, and between her breasts. I married a whore.

The children, sensing his filthy mood, retreated to the safety of their beds. Except for Alex, naturally. Alex flicked on the
TV
set to watch the Expos. Joshua freshened his drink and started out for the porch. “Hey, Dad, I want to quit school.”

“Everybody’s demented today. You’re only seventeen, Alex.”

“So were you when you quit.”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

If Reuben had still been there, Joshua knew what he’d say. His father had actually lasted ten days with them this summer before he began to itch for the streets again. Once, during his visit, Joshua had wandered out after work to discover his father and Alex on the grounds, just this side of the tilting boathouse, with their boxing gloves and helmets on. Reuben Shapiro, once rated “Prospect of the Month” by the exacting Mr. Nat Fleischer, was instructing his grandson, even as he had once coached Joshua, in the fine art of jabbing, attended by Susy and Teddy, the cornermen, ready with towels and pails of water; and by a giggly Pauline, serving as referee.

“Now you try that once more,” Reuben said. “Only remember: my chin’s not here, it’s another foot away. So when you jab at it you’re still gathering speed, get it, you’re not slowing down, anticipating bone, but still coming at me. And then, kid, it’s stick, stick, and away you go. O.K., Pauline, let’s hear it.”

“Ding-a-ling,” Pauline called out. “Ding-a-ling.” And Joshua, filled with delight, thought, Hey, we’re some family. We really are some family.

Drinking out on the porch, glaring at the country club lights across the lake, Joshua realized that he was eventually going to have to get out the Jeep and fetch her. Hell. And then, suddenly, there was a resounding crack of thunder, a rumbling across the water, and the lake was leaping with lightning. He was being pelted. But before retreating into the house, he did notice the clubhouse lights fail. A moment later, even as the lightning struck again, their own lights went out and he was bumping into things, cursing, hunting for a flashlight. O.K., he was going to fetch her, but should he take a knife? Like that other time on Ibiza.

Ibiza, my God, he reflected, dashing for the Jeep, he hadn’t thought about Ibiza in months.

Joshua decided to make a soup. That was constructive. It wasn’t avoiding work. Soup was nourishing for the kids, his responsibility these days. He poured the boiling water into a pot. He cubed six carrots and plunged them into the water. Oh shit, he forgot to peel them. The hell with it. He chopped some cabbage, discarding the moldy bits, diced some celery limp with age, adding salt, pepper, six Knorr chicken cubes, a handful of frozen peas, and last night’s corncobs retrieved from the garbage pail. Never mind, they add taste. He also found some mushrooms, a little slippery, somewhat fuzzy here and there, and wiped them with a dishtowel before adding them to the pot. Then he discovered some abandoned baked potatoes in the bottom tray and scooped them out, mashing vigorously, as they say,
before dumping them into the pot for thickening. Waste not, want not. Slicing onions, he sneaked a glance at his wristwatch and noted that it was only 9:30. His rule was that only if he honestly didn’t get anything done before 11 a.m. could he write off the rest of the day. Even opening a tin of tomatoes and chopping parsley, even counting time to stir for taste, he would still be done before ten, when Mrs. Zwibock arrived for the day. Mrs. Zwibock, with her mindless chatter.