Эд Макбейн - Last Summer

We did not, however, reckon with Rhoda, who seemed to sense our scheme the moment it was hatched. When Aníbal finished his second scotch, Rhoda immediately suggested that we order, but David said, “Perhaps Annabelle would like another drink.”

“I’m starved,” Rhoda said, and shot a pointed glance at me.

“Well, we have loads of time,” Sandy said, “there’s really not much to do here in town.”

“Except eat the big dinner,” I said, referring of course to the Hemingway story and pleased when David got the allusion and nodded.

“Sure,” Sandy said, “have another one.”

“Only if you join me,” Aníbal said.

“We’re ahead of you already,” David said.

“If Rhoda is hungry...”

“I’m starved, ” Rhoda said again, and again glanced meaningfully at me.

“Then...”

“Miss,” David said, calling the waitress, “another scotch and water here, please.”

“No, truly...”

“Make it a double,” Sandy said, and then smiled at Aníbal and whispered, “Save us the trouble of ordering another one later.”

“Sure, live it up a little,” David said. “What the hell, you came all the way out from the city.”

“But if Rhoda feels...”

“How was the traffic coming out?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Pués, ni malo, ni bueno,” Aníbal said. “So-so.”

“Where’d you leave the car?”

“In the lot. Near the ferry.”

“Here’s your drink,” Sandy said. “Salud.”

“Salud,” Aníbal answered, and drank. He shrugged at Rhoda, who now had a pained expression on her face.

“I’d like to see a menu,” she said. “Peter, would you ask the waitress for a menu?”

“Well, there’s no hurry,” I said. “Annabelle’s still drinking.”

“Peter...”

“Rhoda, there’s no hurry,” I said, and looked her straight in the eye.

“You promised,” Rhoda said, meeting my gaze.

“Eh?” Aníbal said, and smiled.

“Don’t blow it, Rhoda,” David warned.

“Eh?” Aníbal said again.

“Rhoda’s on a diet,” Sandy explained hastily.

“Why do you need a diet?” Aníbal asked gallantly. “You are very slim and nice.”

“Thank you,” Rhoda said.

“You are all very nice,” Aníbal said, and drank again. “Are you sure you will not join me?”

“No, but go ahead,” David said.

“Miss, another double,” Sandy said.

“No, please...”

“Drink up, drink up,” David said.

Aníbal drained the glass. Rhoda, fully aware of what was happening now, raised her eyes plaintively to mine, and I read in them for only an instant a sure accusation of betrayal, which I chose to ignore. If Aníbal felt like drinking, how were we doing anything so terribly wrong? I looked at Rhoda one last time, and turned away. On the seat of the red leatherette booth, Sandy took my hand in hers.

There were some swift currents swirling around that booth for the next ten minutes, and I began to get a little dizzy trying to cope with them all. Aníbal had completely entered into the spirit of the bacchanal now, recalling whatever annual feast it was the natives celebrated in the streets of Las Croabas on Holy Saturday, voluntarily ordering another double scotch, and swilling the stuff like water. His eyes were bright behind their spectacles, and I had seen that same brightness often enough in my father’s eyes to know that complete stupor was only a hairsbreadth away. I began to feel guilty about my role in getting him drunk. That was one of the currents, and it had nothing to do with anything Rhoda had said, nor anything to do with the signals her eyes had flashed. It had only to do with my father. It had only to do with this Puerto Rican connoisseur of good scotch who, like my father, might come to me in a predawn nightmare, and awaken me, and sit by my bed, and moan in inebriated cadence, “Oh, Peter, oh, Peter.” I suddenly remembered that day in the forest when Rhoda and I had listened to the sounds everywhere around us, and where I had lifted her lips to mine and kissed her without feeling even a suggestion of the metal bands. I thought of Spotswood, New Jersey, and of a clearing in bright sunshine, and a small boy in a striped beach chair, bare legs crossed, had my father been a drunk even then? it did not seem possible. Sandy’s hand over mine was warm and restless. I knew she was also holding David’s hand, and I remembered that night in the movie theater, and I thought of what she had admitted on the walk to the ferry, and of the townies wanting to get at her, and of David’s plans for her, and I suddenly got very excited and squeezed her hand tightly, and looked into Rhoda’s eyes, and for some reason had the strangest feeling I was watching Rhoda on film, as if the reality of Rhoda was rapidly fading, the reality was only Sandy’s hand and the promise beneath the cotton shift, the reality was here on this side of the table while the film, the illusion, was there across from us, Aníbal putting his hand over Rhoda’s on the tabletop and whispering, “Rosa, you a pretty muchacha , you know what that means? It means a pretty girl, Rosa.”

“Rosa ees a pretty gorl, sí, ” Sandy mimicked.

“A muchas pretty gorl,” David said.

“No,” Aníbal said, “no ‘muchas’ what we say is ‘ muy,’ we say ‘muy linda,’ that means ‘very beautiful.’”

“Thank you,” Rhoda said.

“De nada,” Aníbal said.

“ Muy linda , that ees you, Rosa,” Sandy said.

“There is a rose in Spanish Harlem...” David sang.

“Ahhh, sí , you know that song?” Aníbal said.

“Ahh, sí , I knew it muy bien, ” David said.

“ Muy bien , very good,” Aníbal said, and his elbow slipped off the table and he almost hit his chin on the tabletop. He burst out laughing, and I was suddenly frightened.

“Let’s eat,” I said, “I think we should eat now.”

“No, Annabelle wants another drink,” Sandy said.

“Annabelle enjoys el boozo mucho bien, ” David said.

“No more whiskey,” Aníbal said, “I may get drunk.”

“He may get drunk!” Sandy said, exploding into laughter.

“Tell us more about Spanish Harlem,” David said. “Tell us about the roses there.”

“Tell us about the rats there,” Sandy said.

“How about the rats here? ” Rhoda said, suddenly and sharply.

“Oh -ho! ” Sandy said.

“Olé!” David said.

“Ai toro!” Aníbal said, and picked up his napkin and waved it flirtatiously at Rhoda.

“Let’s order,” I said. “I think we ought to order.”

“Another drink, Annabelle?” David said.

“One more, but that is all,” Aníbal said, and smiled at Rhoda, and put the napkin back on his lap.

“Another scotch and water, miss,” David said to the waitress.

Aníbal was ossified by the time we got around to ordering. He told us all about a cousin of his who was a prostitute, and about another cousin who had been war counselor of a gang on 112th Street before he’d been busted by the cops, and who was now serving five years at Sing Sing, and he told us how he himself had once been picked up for carrying a knife, and of how he had got off with a suspended sentence even though he was eighteen at the time and could no longer be considered a juvenile offender. He told us he had seen West Side Story and rooted for the Puerto Ricans, but that his wish was to become a real American (like you, Rosa), which is why he had, when filling out the questionnaire, specifically asked for an American girl, and was somewhat surprised when they had supplied a girl who was of Chinese and Jewish ancestry, though of course Jewish is American, who is the Chinese, he asked, your mother or your father?