the Big Bounce (1969) (8 page)

I forgot you're a judge.

J
. P
. Today we eat at noon.

Ryan went to the garage and came back. I don't see the rake.

It's around by the front.

Ryan moved off again, rounding the corner of Mr. Majestyk's house into sun and evergreen shade, the sun hot on the thermopane picture window, flower beds edged with stones painted white: an Army-post garden except for the birdhouse and the plastic flamingoes feeding beneath it.

He picked up the rake and went down to the beach and started cleaning up, raking the charred wood and wrappers and pop bottles left from the hot dog roast. He'd have to get a box or something. But first he'd work along the beach and make about five or six piles. It was good being in the sun, hot, with a nice breeze every once in a while. He put on his sunglasses and lit a cigarette. There weren't many people around. The beer drinkers from No. 11 were still quiet, not talking yet. The couple from No. 10 were on a blanket, off by themselves. The little kids from No. 1 were playing in the sand and a few boys were fooling around with a plastic baseball and bat.

He watched the ball sail up against the sky in a high arc, an easy one, the kind you camp under that Colavito would punch his glove waiting for; as the ball came down he saw the girl in the bathing suit walking along the edge of the water, a good fifty yards off, but Ryan knew right away who it was: the dark hair and sunglasses, the slim dark girl figure in a yellow two-piece suit that was almost but not quite a bikini: flat brown stomach and the little line of yellow, good legs, thin but good.

She looked his way, brushing her hair aside with the tips of her fingers. She saw him, he was sure; but it didn't mean she recognized him, he could be just a guy raking the beach. Maybe he should wave or move down to the water to meet her, but he decided right away that would be dumb. He let her go by, watching now as she moved away, until she was so small she blended into the shapes and colors far down the beach.

If Ray Ritchie's beach house was in that direction, she was going home. If it was the other way, she'd be back. He thought about her looking at him in the bar and he thought about what Mr. Majestyk had said, about Ray Ritchie keeping her. He had never known a girl who lived with somebody. He knew all kinds of girls, but not one like that. She should have blond hair and great big jugs and be taller and older and wear high heels. And he remembered Mr. Majestyk saying, How old do they have to be?
He wondered how old she was and where she was from and where she had met Ray Ritchie and how he had got her to live with him, how he had put it when he asked her.

He would say something to her if she came back, but he couldn't think of what to say and began smoothing the sand again with the rake.

Just relax, he told himself. What's the matter with you? It was funny, he knew she was going to come back. It didn't surprise him at all to see her, finally, a spot of yellow in the distance, coming slowly, taking forever, but he still couldn't think of anything. He said in his mind, Hi, how you doing?
He said, Well, look who's here.
He said, Hey, where you going?
He said to himself, For Christ sake, cut it out.

Ryan moved closer to the water and started raking the sand, smoothing it, not looking at the girl but still seeing her, the slim dark legs and long hair.

He timed it right, straightening up when she was only a few yards off, to lean on the rake like a spearman.

She looked at him, then, unhurriedly, away from him. Ryan waited until she was past, so she would have to turn around.

Hey.

She took two or three more steps before turning half around slowly, legs apart, and looked at him.

I've been wanting to ask you something,
Ryan said. He gave her time to say what?

But she didn't. She waited.

And finally Ryan said, I was wondering what you were looking at me for in the bar?

She waited a moment longer. Are you sure I was looking at you?

Ryan nodded. I'm sure. You think it's about time we quit fooling around?

She smiled but barely. What's the matter with fooling around?
The wind blew her hair and she brushed it from her eye, the hair slanting across her forehead, dark brown and probably brown eyes.

I mean wasting time,
Ryan said.

I know what you mean.

She was at ease, studying him; he hung on to the rake handle and stared back at her.

I'm surprised to see you,
Nancy said. Bob Junior doesn't scare you?

If I want to stay around here, I guess it's up to me.

How did you get the job?

I don't know. The guy offered it to me.

For the summer?

I don't know. I guess.

You're not too sure of much, are you?

He stared at her, waiting for the words, and she stared back at him. He had never had trouble talking to people, especially girls, and the feeling tightened him up. He didn't like it and he thought, What are you being so nice for?

Nancy kept watching him, not smiling or rubbing it in, but watching him. She said, Do you want to start over?

I don't know,
Ryan said.

You could come to my house and play.
She raised her arm and pointed. That way, almost a mile. White stairs and a lamppost at the top.

I guess Mr. Ritchie's not here.

Nope.

Who's there with you? I mean, a maid or something?

Nobody.

Don't you get scared, alone?

She shook her head, touching her hair again. I like it.

What do you do?

Different things.

Like what?

Come tonight and find out.

I don't know.

He watched her shrug and turn away. She was expecting him to say something. He was sure she was waiting for it and that was good. He watched her walk off waiting for it, not able to look back now. They could shake their tail and expect the guy to sit up, but he had done enough sitting up for one day. She'd come by this afternoon or tomorrow, same time, same station. So why get excited? Right?

You're damn right, Ryan thought.

Chapter
7

ONCE WHEN JACK RYAN WAS THIRTEEN, he hung from the roof of their apartment building, four stories above the alley, to see if he could do it. The first time he tried it, he didn't hang all the way. He sat down on the edge, in the back of the building where there was no cornice, and rolled over and held on with his chest and forearms, his face close to the dry tar surface of the roof and his legs over the side. He pushed himself up, pressing his hands flat, until he could hook a knee over the edge and the rest was easy. He walked around the roof for a while, taking little breaths and letting his hands hang limp and flexing the fingers, the way a sprinter does before he turns and walks over to his lane and sets himself on the starting block. It was a summer morning and he was alone on the roof, above the round tops of the elms and the peaks of the houses and the chimneys and television antennas. He could hear cars on Woodward Avenue a half black away and a car below him in the alley moving slowly, squeaking, taking a long time to pass the building. When he was ready, he moved to the edge of the roof again and sat down with his legs hanging. He could do it and knew he could do it if he was careful and didn't let himself get scared or do anything dumb. But just knowing he could do it wasn't enough.

After, he would put on his dark blue sweatshirt with the cut-off sleeves and his baseball cap that was creased and squared the right way and go to Ford Field for practice. He would stand seven feet off third base in the sun and dust during batting practice and, with each pitch, crouch a little with his arms hanging loose, then wait for the next pitch, adjusting the squared cap, looking down at the good pocket in the Japanese glove and smoothing the ground in front of him with the toe of his spikes.

After practice and after lunch, sometime in the afternoon, he would bring some guys up on the roof and before they knew what he was doing he would be hanging from the eaves trough, four stories up. He could see their faces as he pulled himself up.

Do it or don't do it, he thought, sitting there that morning, and he did it: rolled over on his stomach and let himself down gradually, holding the edge of the trough, which was round and comfortable in his hand and didn't sag, until his arms were stiff above him, his toes pointing to the alley. Count to ten, he thought. He counted to five slowly, then began counting faster and almost started to pull himself up too quickly. But he made himself relax again and pulled himself up slowly, carefully, until his arms were over the edge and he was lying on his chest.

When he was up, away from the edge of the roof, he thought: Why tell anybody? If you can do it and know you can, what more do you want? That was a funny thing, he never did tell anybody or even hint at it. He kept it to himself. But every once in a while he would take it out and think about it.

He thought about it several times that morning while he raked the beach.

If you're not doing anything tonight,
Mr. Majestyk said, stop in and watch some TV.

I don't know. I might do something.

What's her name?
Mr. Majestyk grinned, sticking a hunk of pork chop in his mouth. Chewing it, he said, McHale's Navy is on. That son of a bitch you ever watch it?

I've seen it.

Donna had set the table on the porch: pork chops, scalloped potatoes, peas, applesauce, beer, homemade bread, fruit Jell-O for dessert. Ryan could hear her in the kitchen doing the pans.

It reminds me of when I was in the service,
Mr. Majestyk said. It isn't real, McHale's Navy. I don't mean we did things like McHale's. But it reminds me. You know the Seabees?

I think so,
Ryan said.

C
. B
. Construction Battalion. We maintained this airstrip on Los Negros in the Admiralty Islands. You ever hear of it?

I don't think so.

New Guinea?

Ryan nodded. He could picture it on the map, above Australia.

Okay, north of New Guinea maybe four hundred miles,
Mr. Majestyk said. That's the Admiralties. We'd take and make bracelets and watchbands, you know, I
. D
. bracelets all out of stainless or aluminum and put in these cat-eyes you get from the gooks. Little round stone like half a marble, brown, black, and white, maybe some green. Then we'd sell this junk to the Navy Air Force guys and, Christ, clean up. Just junk, but the hotshots would trade you a bottle of whiskey you could get thirty-five bucks for, for a piece of junk. The First Cavalry, they secured the island before we got there. But not on horses.

They're in Vietnam,
Ryan said. I know they don't have any horses.

This place,
Mr. Majestyk said, they went in I think on the west side of the island, where it was all coconut trees and crap; then these Seabees would knock the goddamn coconut trees down with bulldozers to cut machine gun lanes. There was a story these guys, the First Cavalry, were still there before they went up to the Philippines and we used to sell them all kinds of crap they were trying to take the airstrip, dug in on one side, and these Japanese Geisha babes would come walking across the strip toward them bare naked, not a stitch on, honest to Christ, and these guys would yell, 'Throw up your hands.' But they wouldn't do it, they'd just keep on coming. So they let go wham, wham started shooting them down, and as the babes fell these grenades started going off that the babes were holding in their armpits. See what they were going to do? Get in among the American guys and then just lift up their arms.

Really naked, uh?

Not a stitch on.

They probably made them do it.

Well,
Mr. Majestyk said, you know you always think of the American guys doing brave things, but the guys on the other side they must've done some brave things too.
Mr. Majestyk finished his Jell-O, scraping the rim of the dish. Were you in the service?

I tried to enlist, but I got turned down. This buddy of mine went in and got into Special Forces, but they wouldn't take me. I wrecked my knee in school playing football and then I wrecked my back.

You had an accident with it?

No, it was just sore for a while, my back. Then one time I got out of the shower I was playing Class C ball then

You played ball?

In high school and then Class C.

Yeah? I managed a team in Legion.

I never played Legion. I played high school and Detroit Federation. Then Class C down in Texas. I was getting out of the shower and dropped the towel. I bent over to pick it up and it was like somebody put an icepick in my back you know, down the lower part?

Sure, I had that.

I was in bed two weeks. I couldn't move. You try to roll over it's the worst pain you ever had.

Yeah, that's the sacroiliac.

This doctor said I had a slipped disc.

Sure, the sacroiliac, right down at the base of the spine,
Mr. Majestyk said. I'd get it and go to this osteopathic doctor. He'd work on it and I'd feel good as new.

It doesn't bother me much now,
Ryan said. But every once in while I know it's there.

Well, you don't have to go in the service.

Ryan spooned his Jell-O, not looking up. I don't know, I thought maybe I might like it.

Well,
Mr. Majestyk said, the service is all right if you like that kind of life.

As they were finishing, one of the beer drinkers from No. 11 came in, knocking first on the screen door, and asked Mr. Majestyk if he could cash a check. Mr. Majestyk said he'd be glad to and the guy from No. 11 wrote one out for a hundred dollars.

Ryan watched Mr. Majestyk go into the living room. He watched him open the cabinet above the desk and take out a metal box. He watched him count out several bills, then close the box and turn the corner into the hall.

You always think you've brought enough,
the guy from No. 11 said, but you always need more.

That's right,
Ryan said.

The guy from No. 11 was looking into the living room.

You got a nice place.

If you like purple,
Ryan said.

He remembered Mr. Majestyk saying his daughter from Warren had picked out everything. The place wasn't decorated like a house in the north woods at all. There was purple-looking carpeting, only lighter. Purple and yellow and gray drapes. A purple-and-black-striped couch with silver streaks, or threads, in it, and two matching chairs. On the table in front of the window there was a lamp made out of driftwood. There were prints on the walls of streets that were probably supposed to be in Paris, with white frames. There was a hunting dog picture, too, over the black marble fireplace. There was a white portable Sylvania TV and facing it, Mr. Majestyk's chair. It had to be his chair, a black vinyl Recline-O-Rama, because Ryan could see Mr. Majestyk sitting in it in his undershirt watching TV with a picture pillow of the Mackinac Bridge behind his head. His daughter from Warren, Michigan, may have decorated the house, but Mr. Majestyk himself must have added all the signs on the built-in cupboard doors and other places:

DANGER, MEN DRINKING THERE'S ONLY ONE THING MONEY CAN'T BUY POVERTY I MISS IKE. HELL, I EVEN MISS HARRY

And over the desk the miniature red carpet with the gold crest. OFFICIAL RED CARPET WELCOME. WE'RE MIGHTY GLAD YOU CAME!

The signs were all right, but they didn't seem to go with the furniture. That was it, the place looked like it should be in Detroit, not up here. He should have, like, maple furniture you could put your feet on and a stone fireplace with the white stuff between the stones, the mortar.

Ryan watched Mr. Majestyk come into the living room from the hall. He opened the metal box again, taking a roll of bills out of his pocket.

I don't want to put you out,
the guy from No. 11 called in.

No trouble at all,
Mr. Majestyk said.

There was a piece of vacant frontage next to Mr. Majestyk's house. It wasn't owned by Mr. Majestyk, but he told Ryan to police it up anyway and bury all the debris. It was close to the Bay Vista and looked lousy with the beer cans and what was left of beach parties. Ryan fooled around with it, picking up cans and throwing them into the brush where the V
. C
.'s were dug in. He'd have to get the bulldozer to clear the heavy stuff, the charred logs and stones, and to dig a hole with. Come across the beach with the blade high, as a shield against the V
. C
. automatic weapons. Imagine doing that, cutting the machine gun lanes while the mothers were shooting at you.

He picked up a beer can, took two half steps, and threw it on a line into the brush.

Nice arm,
Mr. Majestyk said. He was at the edge of his front lawn; Ryan hadn't seen him come up.

I used to have one. I don't know where it went.

What'd you play?

Third mostly. Three summers in Class C. Then two summers I didn't play because of my back. I tried out again in June; my back felt okay and I figured I could make it.

Yeah?

But just two years out of it, sitting around, made a difference.

Mr. Majestyk grinned. You feel it already. Just wait, buddy.
He looked up at the sky and said then, It's going to rain. When it starts to blow like that.

Ryan looked up. The sun's out.

Not for long,
Mr. Majestyk said. You might as well go into town and get the paint; you won't be able to work outside.

What paint?

Paint. What do you mean, what paint?

How do I know what paint you're talking about?

I'll tell you,
Mr. Majestyk said. How will that be?

Dumb bastard. He was right about the rain, though. Ryan had the windshield wipers going before he was halfway to Geneva Beach. By the time he was in town and had found a place to park, the sky was overcast and the rain was coming down steadily.

There was more traffic for a weekday, more people with the same idea: in town because there was nothing to do. People, mostly kids and teenagers, running for stores and standing in the doorways, the cars creeping along and stopping double-parked to let them out or pick them up. It was funny how people didn't like to get wet. Ryan walked, he didn't hurry; and if he got wet, so what? What was wrong with getting wet?

He got the paint, then stopped in the drugstore for cigarettes, a bottle of Jade East, and the new issue of True. Coming out he saw the sky was clearing, brightening, with the sun beginning to show. He put the paint in the back of the station wagon, got in, and started the engine. A little sooner maybe, or later, he probably would have missed Billy Ruiz, but there he was coming toward the car, running hunch-shouldered and grinning. Billy Ruiz got in and slammed the door.

Man, I thought you left!
He was touching the seat and the edge of the dashboard. You got a car!

The guy I work for.

Work where you working?

A place out the Beach Road.
Ryan hesitated, watching Billy Ruiz and seeing the surprise and the grin still on his face. The Bay Vista.

Sure, I know where that is. You work there, uh?