The Natural (20 page)

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Authors: Bernard Malamud

BOOK: The Natural
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The ride home from Philadelphia usually took a little more than an hour but it was a bughouse nightmare because of the way the fans on the train pummeled the players. Hearing that a mob had gathered at Penn Station to welcome the team, Pop ordered everyone off at Newark and into cabs. But as they approached the tunnel they were greeted by a deafening roar as every craft in the Hudson, and all the way down the bay, opened up with whistles and foghorns …
In their locker room after the last game at Philly, some of the boys had started chucking wet towels around but Pop, who had privately wept tears of joy, put the squelch on that.
“Cut out all that danged foolishness when we still need one more to win,” he had sternly yelled.
When they protested that it looked at last that they were in, he turned lobster red and bellowed did they want to jinx themselves and cook their own gooses? As a result, despite all the attention they were receiving, the boys were a glum bunch going home. Some had secretly talked of celebrating once they had ditched the old fusspot but they were afraid to. Even Roy had fallen into low spirits, only he was thinking of Memo.
 
His heart ached the way he yearned for her (sometimes seeing her in a house they had bought, with a redheaded baby on her lap, and himself going fishing in a way that made it satisfying to fish, knowing that everything was all right behind him, and the home-cooked meal would be hot and plentiful, and the kid would carry the name of Roy Hobbs into generations his old man would never know. With this in mind he fished the stream in peace and later, sitting around the supper table, they ate the fish he had caught), yearning so deep that the
depth ran through ever since he could remember, remembering the countless things he had wanted and missed out on, wondering, now that he was famous, if the intensity of his desires would ever go down. The only way that could happen (he relived that time in bed with her) was to have her always. That would end the dissatisfactions that ate him, no matter how great were his triumphs, and made his life still wanting and not having.
It later struck him that the picture he had drawn of Memo sitting domestically home wasn't exactly the girl she was. The kind he had in mind, though it bothered him to admit it, was more like Iris seemed to be, only she didn't suit him. Yet he could not help but wonder what was in her letter and he made up his mind he would read it once he got back in his room. Not that he would bother to answer, but he ought at least to know what she said.
He felt better, at the hotel, to find a note from Memo in his mailbox, saying to come up and celebrate with a drink. She greeted him at the door with a fresh kiss, her face flushed with how glad she was, saying, “Well, Roy, you've really done it. Everybody is talking about what a wonderful marvel you are.”
“We still got this last one to take,” he said modestly, though tickled at her praise. “I am not counting my onions till that.”
“Oh, the Knights are sure to win. All the papers are saying it all depends what you do. You're the big boy, Roy.”
He grabbed both her palms. “Bigger than Bump?”
Her eyelids fluttered but she said yes.
He pulled her close. She kissed for kiss with her warm wet mouth. Now is the time, he thought. Backing her against the wall, he slowly rubbed his hand up between her thighs.
She broke away, breathing heavily. He caught her and pressed his lips against her nippled blouse.
There were tears in her eyes.
He groaned, “Honey, we are the ones that are alive, not him.”
“Don't say his name.”
“You will forget him when I love you.”
“Please let's not talk.”
He lifted her in his arms and laid her down on the couch. She sat bolt upright.
“For Christ sakes, Memo, I am a grown guy and not a kid. When are you gonna be nice to me?”
“I am, Roy.”
“Not the way I want it.”
“I will.” She was breathing quietly now.
“When?” he demanded.
She thought, distracted, then said, “Tomorrow—tomorrow night.”
“That's too long.”
“Later.” She sighed, “Tonight.”
“You are my sugar honey.” He kissed her.
Her mood quickly changed. “Come on, let's celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“About the team.”
Surprised she wanted to do that now, he said he was shaved and ready to go.
“I don't mean to go out.” What she meant, she explained, was that she had prepared a snack in one of the party rooms upstairs. “They're bringing it all up from the kitchen—a buffet with cold meats and lots of other things. I thought it'd be fun to get some girls together with the boys and all enjoy ourselves.”
Though he had on his mind what he was going to do to her later, and anything in between was a waste of time, still she had gone to all the trouble, and he wanted to please her. Nor was the mention of food exactly distasteful to him. He had made a double steak disappear on the train, but that was hours ago.
Memo served him a drink and finished telephoning the men she couldn't reach before. Though on the whole the players said they wanted to come, some, still remembering Pop, were doubtful they ought to, but Memo convinced them by saying that Roy and others were coming. She didn't ask the married players to bring their wives and they didn't mention the oversight to her.
At ten o'clock Memo went into the bathroom and put on a flaming yellow strapless gown. Roy got the idea that she was wearing nothing underneath and it gave him a tense pleasure. They rode up to the eighteenth floor. The party was already on. There were about a dozen men around but only four or five girls. Memo said more were coming later. Most of the players did not exactly look happy. A few were self-consciously talking to the girls, and the others were sitting on chairs gabbing among themselves. Flores stood in a corner with a melancholy expression on his phiz. Al Fowler, one of those having himself a fine time, called to him when was the wake.
Someone was pounding the keys of the upright piano against the wall. On the other side of the room, a brisk, pint-size chef with a tall puffed cap on, half again as big as him, stood behind a long, cloth-covered table, dishing out the delicatessen.
“Sure is some snack,” Roy marveled. “You must've hocked your fur coat.”
“Gus chipped in,” Memo said absently.
He was immediately annoyed. “Is that ape coming up here?”
She looked hurt. “Don't call him dirty names. He is a fine, generous guy.”
“Two bits he had the grub poisoned.”
“That's not funny.” Memo walked away but Roy went after her and apologized, though her concern for the bookie—even on the night they were going to sleep together—unsettled and irritated him. Furthermore, he was now worried how Pop
would take it if he found out about the players at this shindig despite his warning against celebrating too soon.
He asked Memo if the manager knew what was going on.
She was sweet again. “Don't worry about him, Roy. I'd've invited him but he wouldn't fit in at all here because we are all young people. Don't get anxious about the party, because Gus said not to serve any hard liquor.”
“Nice kid, Gus. Must be laying his paper on us for a change.”
Memo made no reply.
Everybody was there by then. Dave Olson had a cheerful blonde on his arm. Allie, Lajong, Hinkle, and Hill were harmonizing “Down by the Old Mill Stream.” Fowler was showing some of the boys how to do a buck and wing. The cigar smoke was thick. To Roy things did still not sit just right. Everybody was watching everybody else, as if they were all waiting for a signal to get up and leave, and some of the players looked up nervously every time the door opened, as if they were expecting Doc Knobb, who used to hypnotize them before the games. Flores, from across the room, stared at Roy with black, mournful eyes, but Roy turned away. He couldn't walk out on Memo.
“Some blowout,” Fowler said to him.
“Watch yourself, kid,” Roy warned him in an undertone.
“Watch yourself yourself.”
Roy threw him a hard look but Memo said, “Just let Roy head over to the table. He is dying for a bite.”
It was true. Though the thought of having her tonight was on the top of his mind, he could not entirely forget the appetizing food. She led him to the table and he was surprised and slightly trembly at all there was of it—different kinds of delicatessen meat, appetizing fish, shrimp, crab and lobster, also caviar, salads, cheeses of all sorts, bread, rolls, and three flavors of ice cream. It made his belly ache, as if it had an existence apart from himself.
“What'll it be?” said the little chef. He had a large fork and plate poised but Roy took them from him, to his annoyance, and said he would fix what he wanted himself.
Memo helped. “Don't be stingy, Roy.”
“Pile it on, honey.”
“You sure are a scream the way you eat.”
“I am a picnic.” He kidded to ease the embarrassment his appetite caused him.
“Bump liked to shovel it down—” She caught herself.
After his plate was loaded, Memo placed a slice of ham and a roll on her own and they sat at a table in the far corner of the room—away from where Flores was standing—so Roy could concentrate on the food without having to bother with anybody.
Memo watched him, fascinated. She shredded the ham on her plate and nibbled on a roll.
“That all you're eating?” he asked.
“I guess I haven't got much appetite.”
He was gobbling it down and it gave him a feeling of both having something and wanting it the same minute he was having it. And every mouthful seemed to have the effect of increasing his desire for her. He thought how satisfying it would be to lift that yellow dress over her bare thighs.
Roy didn't realize it till she mentioned it that his plate was empty. “Let me get you some more, hon.”
“I will get it myself.”
“Food is a woman's work.” She took his plate to the table and the busy little chef heaped it high with corned beef, pastrami, turkey, potato salad, cheese, and pickles.
“You sure are nice to me,” he said.
“You are a nice guy.”
“Why did you get so much of it?”
“It's good for you, silly.”
Roy laughed. “You sound like my grandma.”
Memo was interested. “Weren't you brought up in an orphan's home, Roy?”
“I went there after grandma died.”
“Didn't you ever live with your mother?”
He was suddenly thoughtful. “Seven years.”
“What was she like? Do you remember?”
“A whore. She spoiled my old man's life. He was a good guy but died young.”
A group of girls flocked through the door and Memo hastily excused herself. They were her showgirl friends from a Broadway musical that had just let out. She welcomed them and introduced them around. Dancing started and the party got livelier.
Roy polished his plate with a crust of bread. He felt as if he had hardly eaten anything—it was sliced so thin you could hardly chew your teeth into it.
Memo returned. “How about having something different now?” But Roy said no and got up. “Lemme say hello to some of the gals that came in.”
“You are all alike.” He thought she sounded jealous and it was all right if she was. The girls she brought him around to were tickled to meet him. They felt his muscles and wanted to know how he belted the ball so hard.
“Clean living,” Roy told them.
The girls laughed out loud. He looked them over. The best of the bunch was a slightly chubby one with an appealing face, but in her body she did not compare to Memo.
When he told Memo she had more of what it took than the rest of them put together, she giggled nervously. He looked at her and felt she was different tonight in a way he could not figure out. He worried about Gus, but then he thought that after tonight he would be getting it steady, and then he would tell her he did not want that glass-eye monkey tailing her around.
Memo led him back to the table. She pointed out what
she wanted for Roy and the chef ladled it into the plate. Her own came back with a slice of ham and a roll on it. He followed her to the corner table. He wondered if Flores was still standing in the opposite corner, watching, but he didn't look.
Gazing at the mountain of stuff Memo handed him, he said, “I am getting tired of eating.”
Memo had returned to the subject of his mother. “But didn't you love her, Roy?”
He stared at her through one eye. “Who wants to know?”

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