Эд Макбейн - Last Summer

“Hi, Deuce.”

“Hi, David.”

“Deuce.”

“Great day, huh?” Deuce said.

“Yeah,” David said.

“Think we’ll be setting up out here on the deck?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “She’ll probably put you down there on the lawn.”

“Gee, I hope our extension cords reach,” Deuce said.

Sandy came out of the house again and said, “Mother wants you down on the lawn.”

“Gee, I hope our extension cords reach,” Deuce said again, and went down to tell the other boys in the group. They held a brief consultation at the bottom of the porch steps. One of the boys — it was difficult to tell which one because they were in a huddle — said in a high squeaky voice, “Well, why the hell can’t we play on the deck there?” and Deuce answered, “Because she wants us here on the lawn,” and another boy said, “I mean, man, they won’t even be able to hear us down here.”

“You fellows want a soda or something?” Mr. Caudell asked us.

“No, thank you,” David said.

“Hey, you look handsome,” Sandy said to me.

“Thanks.”

“You, too,” she told David.

“Here come the first guests,” he answered, and pulled a face.

The first guests were Violet, in a green muu muu, and Frankie and Stuart, the two fags who ran The Captain’s, down near the old ferry slip. The Captain’s was a shack overlooking the bay, and it had got its name because Frankie had decorated it with nets and anchors and lobster pots and buoys and all things nautical in an attempt to disguise the undisguisable fact that it was a shack. Neither Frankie nor Stuart were obnoxious fruits, meaning they didn’t go mincing around or making sexy little jokes about Oh, you’re such a cute one, I’d love to give you such a pinch , the way some faggots do, especially the ones in the city along Greenwich Avenue. Frankie had been living with Stuart for half his life, almost as though they were married. Stuart had a black handlebar mustache, and he never said very much. Frankie was blond, and he made up for Stuart’s reticence, talking almost nonstop in a high grating voice. They were both wearing Bermuda shorts and Italian sports shirts. Stuart also wore a wedding band.

“Hello, boys,” Violet said to us, “what a surprise! Hello, David,” she said, beaming, and David smiled and nodded, and then went inside to see if Sandy’s mother needed any help in the kitchen. I introduced Mr. Caudell to Violet and the others, and then drifted down to the lawn while he mixed drinks for them. Sandy’s mother heard voices and came out of the house. I was talking to Deuce when Sandy tiptoed up behind me and said, “Hi, handsome.”

“Hi, gorgeous.”

“You supervising the band?”

“Yep, getting everything organized down here, yep,” I said, and nodded. “You know ‘Paint It Black,’ Deuce?”

“Sure,” he said. “But that’s like from the days of the chariot races, man.”

“You know your fly is open?” Sandy whispered to me.

“No, but if you hum a few bars, I’ll fake it,” I said, and we both burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Phil asked, his head ducked to hide his acne.

“Private joke,” Sandy told him.

“Give me an E,” Arthur said to Deuce. Behind them, the drummer began a series of rolls designed to cause sections of the beach to break off and slide into the ocean.

“Not so loud, ” Sandy’s mother called from the deck. “Peter, tell them not to play so loud.”

“You heard her,” I said.

“Loud? We’re not even plugged in yet,” Deuce complained.

“Sandy,” her mother called, “may I see you a moment, please?”

Sandy went into the house and came out a few minutes later with a tray of canapés. I helped the Dynamiters lay out their extension cords across the lawn and into the house, where I found an outlet behind Mr. Caudell’s unslept-in cot. Then I retraced the whole process because the cord was trailing across the entrance door and I was afraid somebody would break his neck going in or out. What I finally did was unhook the living-room screen at the bottom, and pull the cords in through the window. One of Mr. Caudell’s old cigar butts was on the windowsill. David came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of glasses while I was plugging in the cords.

“The Dynamiters all set?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Looks like we’re in for a musical treat,” he said.

“Oh yes indeed,” I said.

“How’d you like old Short Fuse?”

“Uncommonly hilarious,” I said.

“I never thought he was humorous until today,” David said. “Shows how wrong you can be about a fellow.”

“Oh yes indeed,” I said.

“Where’s Sandy?”

“Out serving.”

“I’d better bring these glasses out.”

We went out together. The deck was fairly crowded now, and more people were coming up the boardwalk toward the house. I kept circulating among the guests, asking them if I might refill their glasses, and then asking them what they were drinking, and then carrying the empty glasses over to Mr. Caudell, who tended bar almost as excellently as he told humorous stories, point of fact. There wasn’t much to do in the beginning, but by four o’clock, when almost everyone had arrived, Sandy and David and I got fairly busy. Mr. Matthews, the island councilman, was there of course, an honored guest whom no one dared call Tom except his wife. (She, in fact, called him Tommy.) Everyone else called him Mr. Matthews, and they endowed the term of address with all the respect due the president of the United States. “Excuse me, Mr. Matthews, but we were wondering what your thoughts were on the proposed bridge to the island,” or, “Excuse me, Mr. Matthews, but I’d like you to meet my sister-in-law, who’s visiting for the weekend,” or, “Excuse me, Mr. Matthews, but did you personally arrange this wonderful sunshine?” Mr. Matthews, meanwhile, could not take his eyes off Sandy, and along about 4:15 he maneuvered her into a corner of the deck and began telling her about his deep-sea fishing exploits the day before (apparently he was a big fisherman, too) while simultaneously trying to cop a feel under the protective cover of the canapé tray. I went over at that point and asked him if he would care for another drink, and then I told Sandy that Mr. and Mrs. Friedman over on the other side of the deck were saying they would like some more shrimp, so she escaped him and blew a kiss at me as she went by, and I brought his glass to Mr. Caudell and said, “Bourbon and water, very heavy on the bourbon,” figuring the sooner we got the old bastard drunk and incapacitated, the sooner Sandy could relax.

David’s parents weren’t at the party because they had left the island the day before to attend a wedding in New Jersey. My parents, however, had arrived at about a quarter to four, and they kept calling me over to introduce me to this or that person, always seeming to take great pride whenever anyone said, “My, how big he is! Did you say he’s only sixteen?” (to which my father invariably replied, “Sixteen going on twenty-four”). Actually, I was not, and am not, a tall person for my age, and I was surprised each time my parents were taken in by such flattery, nor could I figure out why they seemed so thrilled to hear I was big . I performed as expected, though, smiling shyly, and sirring everyone to death, and then offering to serve up some more hors d’oeuvres or carry off a glass that needed replenishing. My father’s glass needed replenishing more than most people’s, but that’s because he’s a connoisseur of good scotch, as he is terribly fond of saying. One night, after having connoisseured a great deal of good scotch, my father came into the bedroom where I was fast asleep. I was ten years old at the time. He woke me up, and then sat by the side of the bed and began crying.