Man, Woman and Child (11 page)

"My name is Jean-Claude," he repeated.

Davey lunged to kick the ball away. Jean-Claude deftly tapped it out of his reach.

Now the French boy dribbled toward midfield. Davey gave chase. He sprinted and lunged. Jean-Claude feinted and dodged. Davey could not get anywhere near the ball. The team guys now began to whistle and applaud. They had never seen such ball handling by so young a kid. They hadn't learned in school that European children begin kicking as soon as they begin walking.

The hoots and jeers now became audible even to the tired joggers on the far side of the field. Bernie was the first to notice. He could not believe his eyes.

"Holy shit!" he remarked. "The kid's an athlete!"

At first Bob did not bother to look up, assuming it was yet another of Bernie's panegyrics to his son. Then he did.

And he saw Jean-Claude feinting as Davey Acker-

man tackled for the ball—and this time landed face down in the dust.

He felt a shiver. My God, he thought, my son's fantastic! He stopped running to watch.

"Bravo, Jean-Claudel" he shouted. ''Bien joue, bien joue!"

''Beckwith," Bemie said quietly, "youVe gotta get rid of that kid before it's too late.''

''What the hell do you mean, 'too late'?"

^'Before you fall in love with him."

ilOW WAS YOUR RUN?" ShEILA ASKED.

"Not bad/' said Bob.

"Did you have a good time, Jean-Claude?"

"Yes, thank you."

"He played some soccer," Bob added, his voice unable to conceal his pride. "You should have seen him. He's really very good."

Jean-Claude beamed. Bob saw him in the comer of his eye and felt a further joy that his words of praise had so pleased the boy.

"How about washing up for dinner, Jean-Claude?"

"Okay, Bob," he said, and skipped out of the kitchen.

Bob kissed Sheila on the cheek. "Dinner smells great. What is it?"

"Just odds and ends."

"Can I help?"

"Yes. Peel some potatoes."

"Sure." He was happy to be doing something with her again—even if it was only KP. He put on an apron and began to peel.

One potato later. Sheila mentioned, "Evelyn called."

"To inquire if you're having a good time?"

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"No. To ask if I could come to Cambridge tomorrow."

''She's got a lot of nerve. I sure as hell hope you told her where to go."

*'She pleaded, actually. It's pretty important."

"Honey, Evelyn Unger is a workaholic and a slave driver. The Harvard Press is not the New York Times. What couldn't possibly wait three weeks?"

"Gavin Wilson," she replied.

"Isn't he in Washington teaching the National Security Council how to attack Massachusetts?"

"Yes. But he'll be in Cambridge tomorrow. Only tomorrow."

"What does that have to do with you?"

"He's a big star on our backlist. And Evelyn wants to cash in on his new visibility and reissue his books."

"I thought university presses weren't supposed to be venal. Besides, Wilson's foreign policy stuff is old hat."

"Which is why Evelyn wants me to meet with him. She wants to convince him to do some revisions and updating."

"And for this you have to sacrifice a chunk of your vacation?"

She looked at him and said quietly, "I'm flattered to be asked, Bob."

He understood. Or at least thought he did. At this delicate moment she wanted some objective reafiErmation of her worth. He should be glad for her.

"Yeah," he said after another potato, "it is flattering, isn't it? Well, haven't I always said you were the best damn editor they had? I say it's about time they acknowledged it."

"And I say keep peeling," she replied cheerfully.

Bob had made a fire, and they were sitting peacefully, listening to the music of the waves.

''Hey/' he said as spontaneously as possible. "I've got an idea."

"What's that?" she asked.

"Why don't we drive up to Cambridge together?"

"What about the kids?" Ah, thought Bob optimistically, she's not averse.

"We could get Susie Ryder to sleep over."

"Sleep over?" He had tipped his hand a bit.

"Well, I thought we might give ourselves a break and stay over at the Lexington house. Just the two of us."

His eyes were saying. Come on, Sheila, we both need this.

"It's a bit impractical," she replied.

"Okay, then let's just go up, you have your meeting, I'll buy some records at the Coop, we can have an early dinner and come back."

Please, Sheila, he was thinking. Please see how badly I want to splice the broken wires of our relationship.

She mulled it over.

"Not this time. Bob," she said at last.

Well, at least it was a conditional rejection. "Not this time" had an implicit corollary of perhaps another time.

She stood up.

"I'd better get a good night's sleep," she said. And before he could rise to join her, she walked over to his chair, put her arm near his head, and whispered, "Thanks for asking."

Then she kissed him lightly on the forehead and started to the stairs.

A small gesture. But it was the best thing that had happened to him in weeks.

ill, Sheila/' called Maureen the reception-ist. ''He's in Evelyn's office. Lucky you."

Funny, thought Sheila, as she started down the corridor toward the editorial department. Maureen's usually blase, accustomed to the likes of Kissinger and Galbraith parading by.

When she turned the corner, she saw him having coffee with Evelyn at her desk. He was long and lanky, with graying hair and square tortoise-shell glasses. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt reading GO BOSTON RED sox! She was somewhat startled, for she had prepared herself to meet a three-piece suit (the Washington influence) with a cultured English accent (the Oxford influence).

He stood up as she approached. He was very tall. Evelyn introduced them.

''Gavin, this is Sheila Beckwith, our number one editor."

"How do you do," said Wilson. (At least the accent was still there.) "I understand you've had to interrupt your holiday on my account. Via terribly sorry."

"On the contrary, I'm happy to have the chance of working with you, Dr. Wilson."

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"Gavin, please. And may I call you Sheila?"

"Of course. I know you're on a tight schedule. Would you like to come right to my office and begin?''

He smiled and turned to Evelyn. "You didn't exaggerate—she's a harsh taskmaster." And then, turning to Sheila, "May I get you a coffee en route?"

"Please," said Sheila. "White, no sugar.'*

By the time he entered her office, Sheila had already placed all three of his books on her desk and was spreading out some sheets of yellow paper.

He placed the containers of coffee on the corner of the desk and then sat down across from her.

"Thank you," she said. And then, to break the ice, asked, "Do you miss Cambridge at all?"

"Yes, I do. Though Washington does have its compensations. At Harvard one has one's share of glory, but working at the White House, there is that scintilla of power. Which I confess I quite enjoy."

"I admire your candor."

"In any case, if and when this administration's voted out, I do hope I'll be asked back here. If they'll welcome a prodigal son."

"Oh, they will," smiled Sheila, "especially since your books will have been reissued and updated."

"Well, I can see I'm being buttered up to do serious revisions," he said. "But to speak with that same candor you approve of, I was really thinking along the lines of, you know, 'Preface to the second edition' sort of thing. And then I could plead Washington pressures for not being able to revamp the whole business."

"Well, in that case, you don't need me," Sheila replied pleasantly but firmly, "and I don't think

the Press would reissue your books with nothing but cosmetic changes."

Wilson shifted a bit uneasily in his chair, took a sip of coffee and then looked at Sheila.

'Tou're not too bad in the candor department, either." He smiled. "Uh—what sort of things did you have in mind?"

''Well, these are only first impressions. Tve only been able to skim the books since Evelyn called me. But take The Re-Emergence of Postwar Germany. It was the best thing published in its time. It's not your fault that it came out just before Brandt began his Ostpolitik.'*

He affected a shght frown. "Mmm," he said. 'Tm afraid you're right. Anything else?"

*Tes, Fm sorry. But there are a lot of things we'd have to go over in detail. Still, if I were you, Fd take the time. Now that you're in the papers a little more than the average Harvard professor, some of your academic colleagues—which is to say everybody who didn't get appointed to the Security Council—will start trying to punch holes in your scholarship."

He smiled broadly. ''How do you know university politics so well?"

"My husband's a professor at MIT."

"Really? What's his field?"

"Statistics."

"Oh, a real brain. Fm always self-conscious when I meet that sort of mind. I can barely add a column of figures."

"Neither can Bob." Sheila smiled. "That's my job at the end of every month."

"Oh," said Gavin Wilson. "Then my admiration for you knows no bounds."

And now his smile did not seem to be solely for Sheila's arithmetical abiUty.

In any case, considering the ice fairly well broken, Sheila got back to business.

''So you can see you've got even more at stake in these revisions than we do/'

'Tes, but if I understand your drift, you're asking for an enormous amount of work."

She nodded. "But your editor is willing to do her share."

''That's a genuine inducement/' said Wilson, "so let's get on with it. I'll try not to be too depressed."

"May I continue to be frank?"

"By all means be brutal. Rather you than the critics. Besides, I have a resilient ego."

"Well," Sheila continued, ''Anglo-American Ke-lotions needs an updated epilogue, but otherwise it's in fine shape."

"Bloody lucky. Especially since that one got me my Harvard appointment. How about my Common Market thing?"

"Well," Sheila answered slowly, searching for tactful words, "even as we speak, that picture's changing. And you did make occasional predictions that have proved—well—somewhat off target."

"Dead wrong, you mean. Like there'd never be a European parliament and all that. I'd make a pretty bad clairvoyant, wouldn't I?" He said it all with good humor, and then added, "Now I have a rather serious question."

"Yes?"

"What do you hear about a restaurant called Harvest?"

"Uh—it's quite good."

"Let's go then, shall we?"

Margo would doubtless be at her daily comer table. But what the hell—this was business, wasn't it?

Gavin dressed for lunch. Which is to say he put a dungaree jacket over his Red Sox T-shirt. When they got to the restaurant, it was rather late. Most people were having coffee and dessert—and Margo seemed to have left.

It was July, and Cambridge was an oven. So they ordered iced tea instead of an aperitif. Facing a long afternoon of editorial negotiations, they restricted their luncheon conversation to small talk.

"What is your husband working on at the moment?''

''Nothing serious. Our month at the Cape is strictly for reading paperbacks."

"Ah, a well-adjusted academic. Not too compulsive. Wish I could resist the furor scribendi. But Fm still driven to pubhsh. Do you have any children?"

This most innocuous of social queries jolted her out of the temporary amnesia she was enjoying.

"Uh—yes," she replied after a split second. "Two girls, nine and twelve. You?"

"Two. Quite grown up. My son's reading medicine at Oxford, Gemma's still at home with my ex-wife. But she'll be starting some sort of comparative literature thing at East Anglia this fall. I don't think they miss their father much, but Fm afraid I do them."

"You must get over there for the State Department now and then, don't you?"

"Oh, the odd forty-eight-hour whirlwind. I call them, but they're always too busy with something or other. I think my wife's propaganda has done its work."

"Are you on very bad terms—or shouldn't I ask?"

"Not at all. Yes, we are on extremely bad terms.

She's never forgiven me for joining the British brain

drain. Not that she has anything against America—

she's never been here. But she objects to it in principle. So, having made me choose between her and Harvard—never expecting I would take the latter-she's been a bit ill-disposed towards me ever since. Vm still fond of her, if that counts for anything. And I miss the children. Oh—but Vm repeating myself. Do forgive me for babbling on about boring domestic matters.''

He looked at her. She did not seem bored, but she was a very bright, attractive woman, and he was anxious to make a good impression.

"You're not boring me at all," she answered, genuinely happy to be discussing someone else's domestic problems. And then she asked him, "Are you bitter?"

He seemed unprepared for her question. "Do I seem bitter?" he asked.

"No, of course not," she said quickly, "and it was impolite of me to ask."

"Not at all," he protested. "It was just unnecessary."

Now she was surprised. "I don't understand," she said.

"You're perspicacious enough to have noticed without asking. You could tell before my monologue was halfway through that my pride was—shall we say—sprained. Why else would I have told you when we could have been discussing things of interest to us both?"

Sheila did not know what to say. She was curiously flattered. She had never considered herself perceptive about anyone except Bob and the children. But Gavin was obviously trying to flatter her. After all, he had a reputation for suavity.

As she was reaching for the credit cards in her purse, he put his hand on hers.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Paying the check/' she repHed. ''This was Harvard Press business."

'Tlease, I insist. All we did was talk about my domestic sorrows."

''No. I like to use my expense account. It makes me feel important."

She removed her hand, found her credit card, signaled the waiter and settled the bill.

"Thank you, Sheila," he smiled. "Are you always this persuasive?"

"Only when it comes to my job," she smiled back.

By five-thirty they had worked their way painstakingly through four chapters, marking in the margins where revisions or at least rechecking would be necessary. By now Sheila was getting tired.

"You'll have to excuse me, Gavin," she said, barely suppressing a yawn, "but Fve got a long drive back to the Cape. I can go through the rest of the chapters, make Xeroxes of the pages that need revision, and send them on to you in Washington "

He looked up from his bifocals and asked, "Must you?"

She nodded. "Fve got a family waiting. Anyway, the important thing is that we've met and agree on the changes."

"Yes," Gavin said. "I'm very glad we've met."

She started to gather her papers and put them into her zipper case.

"Sheila?" He was now standing, looking down at her. "Since the Press so graciously invited me to lunch, rd like to reciprocate by asking you to din-

ner.

She looked up at him. What had increasingly

impressed her all afternoon was not his good looks, but his manner. Patient and good-humored. Irony without cynicism.

"I really should be getting back," she protested in a way she hoped would not sound too definitive. "They expect me."

"Couldn't you ring them? After all, we*d be able to discuss more revisions."

She paused for a moment. What was her hurry to return to the minefield that she once called home?

"Well, actually, I might be able to stay over with a friend in Cambridge."

"Splendid. You ring them from here, and FU nip into Evelyn's ofiSce and book a table."

As soon as she was alone, she dialed Margo at the gallery.

"Darling—are you in Cambridge again? Have things exploded at the Cape?"

"No. I had to do some work at the Press. In fact, if you don't mind, I may call you later and ask if I can stay over."

"Oh, that's wonderful. Hal's off fishing with his children. All they probably catch is the tuna I packed for them. That means we can have a midnight party like the old days in Joss. Shall we meet for dinner?"

"Uh—no. I've got a few more hours of work."

"Then you definitely must stay. FU chill some wine. Oh, this'll be fun."

Then she called Bob and told him. He did not conceal his disappointment.

"What about the kids?" he asked plaintively.

"You're there," she replied. "They can manage without me for one night."

"I can't manage without you," he answered.

The place was dimly lit, the checkered tables crowded with an insalata mista of young college couples and noisy Italian families.

They relaxed easily into friendly conversation.

^Tou seem to enjoy your work/' Gavin remarked.

''I do," Sheila replied.

^*Well, you're bloody good at it. I mean, it's a rare editor who doesn't hide behind coy euphemisms when they think a paragraph is total rubbish."

"Tell me about Washington," she said.

'Tell me more about you," he countered.

"Fve told you everything, really. My life's pretty conventional compared to yours."

Again she had deliberately shifted the topic back to him. Vm not that fascinating, he told himself. Still it was refreshing to encounter someone who could actually resist talking about themselves.

*'Do you see the President much?" she asked.

^'There's no such person. With rare exceptions, the Oval Office is occupied by well-tailored actors who read scripts written for them by a team of writers—of whom I am one. Actually the present incumbent is more like that robot chap in Star Warsr

'Tou're being naughty," she smiled.

"Oh, I thought I was being irreverently charming."

"You were that too. In fact, you're everything the columns say you are."

"Am I? I never read the things."

"Neither do I," said Sheila, "but my staff clip them and put them on my desk."

He looked straight into her mischievous green eyes and said, "Touch6." And added, "Perhaps I need a new scriptwriter."

"No," she answered. "Just an editor." Almost as she said it, she realized the embarrassing ambiguity,

and added as quickly as possible, "Fd love to hear more about our robot President."

''No," he said emphatically. "You can read Jack Anderson for that. Tell me about your other authors. Are they all as vain as I?"

At least this was a topic that did not make her uneasy.

"I don't usually have much personal contact with them. Most of our editing is done by mail."

"Lucky me," he said warmly.

The ambiguity of his remark made her too shy to speak.

Gavin gazed at Sheila's face across the candles, wondering why this lovely woman seemed—despite her playful outward manner—to emanate such sadness.

"You know, you're extremely attractive. Sheila," he said.

She tried desperately to look happily married.

"Do you think Tm just flattering you?" he asked.

^Tes," she said.

"Don't believe everything you read. I'm not playing the devious rou6."

"I never thought so," she replied, convincing neither of them.

"Good," he said. "I'm glad. That means you'll accept my invitation for a nightcap without any superfluous qualms."

"No, really, I can't. My friends are expecting me."

"The Sheraton Commander's midway between there and here."

His hotel. God, was he predictable. And so persistent. What a linel Did he ever actually succeed with it?

Of course he did. Because in other circumstances he might well succeed in making her believe she was attractive and desirable. How ironic that it hap-

pened now, when she was at the very nadir of her confidence as a woman.

"'Sheila?" Gavin repeated, still awaiting her response.

"Uh-I would love to .. /'

'Tine."

"But really Fm exhausted. I wouldn't be much fun.'' He could construe that in accordance with the subtext of his own intention.

"Some other time then," he said good-naturedly, and rose to help her from her chair.

They drove in silence (past the Commander) to the Harvard Press. He waited while she got into her car.

"Thank you, Gavin," Sheila said.

And he replied, "I can't tell you how much I look forward to working with you."

A

h! You weren't working overtime. You had a date/'

"I had dinner with an author, Margo/'

*'I don t care if he was a trapeze artist. He was a man and you were out with him. By my definition, that's a date. Now tell me everything^

As she sat down on the couch, Sheila realized that this was the first time in her life that she actually 'wanted to share her intimate thoughts with Margo.

"May I have a glass of that wine," she said.

Margo poured her some. ''Now let's hear everything. Oh, isn't this just like the Vassar days?"

Was it? Things were much more frivolous then. And much less married.