Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man

percussion, and Flannery on the clarinet. The River Five was Rudolph’s name for the band, because they all lived in Port Philip, on the Hudson, and because Rudolph thought it had an artistic and professional sound to it.

They had a three-week engagement, six nights a week, at a roadhouse outside Port Philip. The place, called Jack and Jill’s, was a huge clapboard shack that shook to the beat of the dancers’ feet. There was a long bar and a lot of small tables and most of the people just drank beer. The Saturday night standard of dress was relaxed. Boys wore T-shirts and many of the girls came in slacks. Groups ‘of girls came unescorted and waited to be asked to dance or the girls danced with each other. It wasn’t like playing the Plaza or 52nd Street in New York, but the money wasn’t bad.

As he played, Rudolph was pleased to see Julie shake her head in refusal when a boy in a jacket and tie, obviously a preppie, came over and asked her to dance.

Julie’s parents allowed her to stay out late with him on Saturday nights because they trusted Rudolph. He was a born parent-pleaser. With good reason. But if she fell into the clutches of a hard-drinking preppie, smooching around the floor, with his superior Deerfield or Choate line of talk, there was no telling what sort of trouble she might get into. The shake of the head was a promise, a bond between them as solid as an engagement ring.

Rudolph played the three trick bars of the band’s signature for the fifteen minute break, put his horn down, and signalled to Julie to come out with him for a breath of air. All the windows were open in the shack, but it was hot and wet inside, like the bottom of the Congo.

Julie held his hand as they walked out under the trees where the cars were parked. Her hand was dry and warm and soft and dear in his. It was hard to believe that you could have so many complicated sensations all through your body just holding a girl’s hand.

‘When you played the solo,’ Julie said, ‘I just sat there shivering. I curled up inside - like an oyster when you squirt lemon on it’

He chuckled at the comparison. Julie laughed too. She had a whole list of oddball phrases to describe her various states of mind. ‘I feel like a PI boat,’ when she raced him in the town swimming pool. ‘I feel like the dark side of the moon,’ when she had to stay in and do the dishes at home and missed a date with him.

They went all the way to the end of the parking lot, as far aways as possible from the porch outside the shack, where the dancers were coming out for air. There was a car parked there and he opened the door for her to slide in. He got in after her and closed the door behind them. In the darkness, they locked in a kiss. They kissed interminably, clutching each other. Her mouth was a peony, a kitten, a peppermint, the skin of her throat under his hand was a butterfly’s wing. They kissed all the time, whenever they could, but never did anything more.

Drowned, he was gliding and diving, through fountains, through smoke, through clouds. He was a trumpet, playing his own song. He was all of one piece, loving, loving … He took his mouth away from hers softly and kissed her throat as she put her head back against the seat. ‘I love you,’ he said. He was shaken by the joy he had in saying the words for the first time. She pulled his head fiercely against her throat, her swimmer’s smooth summer arms wonderfully strong, and smelling of apricots.

Without warning the door opened and a man’s voice said, ‘What the hell are you two doing in here?’

Rudolph sat up, an arm tightening protectively around Julie’s shoulder. ‘We’re discussing the atom bomb,’ he said coolly. ‘What do you think we’re doing?’ He would die rather than let Julie see that he was embarrassed.

The man was on his side of the car. It was too dark for him to see who it was. Then, unexpectedly, the man laughed. ‘Ask a foolish question,’ he said, ‘and get a foolish answer.’ He moved a little and a pale beam from one of the lights strung under the trees hit him. Rudolph recognised him. The yellow tightly combed hair, the thick, double bushes of blond eyebrows.

‘Excuse me, Jordache,’ Boylan said. His voice was amused.

He knows me, Rudolph thought. How does he know me?

‘This happens to be my car, but please make yourself at home,’ Boylan said. ‘I do not want to interrupt the artist at his moments of leisure. I’ve always heard that ladies show a preference for trumpet players.’ Rudolph would have preferred to hear this in other circumstances and from another source. ‘I didn’t want to leave anyway,’ Boylan said. ‘I really need another drink. When you’ve finished, I’d be honoured if you and the lady would join me for a nightcap at the bar.’ He made a little bow and softly closed the door and strolled off through the parking lot.

Julie was sitting at the other side of the car, straight up, ashamed. “He knows us,’ she said in a small voice.

‘Me,’ Rudolph said.

‘Who is he?’

‘A man called Boylan,’ Rudolph said. ‘From the Holy Family.’

‘Oh,’ Julie said.

“That’s it,’ said Rudolph. ‘Oh. Do you want to leave now? There’s a bus in a few minutes.’ He wanted to protect her to the end, although he didn’t know exactly from what.

‘No,’ Julie said. Her tone was defiant. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. Have you?’

‘Never.’

‘One more kiss.’ She slid towards him and put out her arms.

But-the kiss was wary. There was no more gliding through clouds.

They got out of the car and went back into the shack. As they passed through the door, they saw Boylan at the end of the bar, his back to it, leaning on it with his elbows behind him, watching them. He gave a little salute of recognition, touching the tips of his fingers to his forehead.

Rudolph took Julie to her table and ordered another ginger ale for her and then went back on the bandstand and began arranging the music sheets for the next set.

When the band played ‘Good Night Ladies’ at two o’clock and the musicians began packing their instruments as the last dancers drifted off the floor, Boylan was still at the bar. A medium-sized, confident man, in grey-flannel slacks and a crisp linen jacket. Negligently out of place among the T-shirts and enlisted men’s suntans and the young workingmen’s Saturday night blue suits, he strolled leisurely away from the bar as Rudolph and Julie left the bandstand.

‘Do you two children have transportation home?’ he asked as they met.

‘Well,’ Rudolph said, not liking the children, ‘one of the fellows has a car. We usually all pile into that.’ Buddy Westerman’s father loaned him the family car when they had a club date and they lashed the bass and the drums on to the top. If any of them had girls along, they dropped the girls off first and all went to the Ace All Night Diner for hamburgers, to wind down.

‘You’ll be more comfortable with me,’ Boylan said. He took Julie’s arm and guided her through the doorway. Buddy Westerman raised his eyebrows questioningly as he saw them leaving. ‘We’ve got a hitch into town,’ Rudolph said to Buddy.

‘Your bus is overcrowded.’ The fraction of betrayal.

Julie sat between them on the front seat of the Buick as Boylan swung out of the parking lot and on to the road towards Port Philip. Rudolph knew that Boylan’s leg was pressing against Julie’s. That same flesh had been pressed against his sister’s naked body. He felt peculiar about the whole thing, all of them clamped together in the same front seat on which he and Julie had kissed just a couple of hours before, but he was determined to be sophisticated.

He was relieved when Boylan asked for Julie’s address and said he’d drop her off first. He wasn’t going to have to make a scene about leaving her alone with Boylan. Julie seemed subdued, not like herself, as she sat between the two of them, watching the road rush at them in the Buick’s headlights.