Stanley Elkin - Boswell

“Your lovely wife and yourself aren’t Jewish, if I may ask, are you” —she leaned across my chest and read my card—“Mr. Boswell?”

“No, we’re not, Mrs. Taylor.”

“If I may say so without giving offense, we Jews are usually better sports than you gentiles. Do you play badminton, sir?”

“No.”

“It’s not important,” she said. Sighing, she settled back into the deep seat.

“It’s just that a nice game of mixed doubles helps to break the ice,” she said suddenly. She laughed and turned around to address the couple behind us. “I was just telling Mr. Boswell here that a nice game of mixed doubles helps to break the ice. Pass it on.” She turned back to me. “Your wife is very lovely. I noticed it. You two must be very happy. But tell me, she isn’t native-born, is she?”

“She is the former Principessa Margaret dei Medici of Italy,” I said.

“That’s very funny,” she said. “That’s really very funny.” Then she startled me by reaching over and taking my hand. “I like goyim,” she said, leaning back against the seat dreamily.

“Some of my best friends are Jews,” I offered gallantly.

We had come out of the tunnel and were driving down the New Jersey Turnpike through country that looked like a huge, well-kept golf course. Mrs. Taylor had fallen asleep holding my hand and I took it back as gently as I could. Behind and around me I could hear the mixed doubles speculating about our destination. There seemed to be a strong feeling that we were going to Washington, D.C. Sylvia Fend didn’t believe this. “Washington in the summer?” she kept saying. “Are you kidding? The heat is terrific.” In two hours we had crossed into Pennsylvania and in another half hour the bus had left the turnpike. After a while the driver pulled off onto the side of the road and Eddie, who had been sitting in the back with Gloria, went up to speak to him. As he passed through the bus he was booed. He held up his hands good- naturedly.

“We’re lost,” Al Medler said. “The thing to do is keep calm.”

“It’s a rest stop,” J. Y. Krull said. “Come on, Gloria, it’s a rest stop.” Everybody laughed. Gloria thumbed her nose at J. Y. Krull. “Gloria!” he said.

“Well, come on then,” she said and stood up and stepped into the aisle. J. Y. Krull bolted out of his seat and everyone laughed.

“Oh, sit down,” Emma Lewen said, pulling at J. Y. Krull’s arm.

Mrs. Taylor had awakened and was rubbing her eyes. “Why’ve we stopped?” she asked. “Are we there?”

“Al Medler says we’re lost,” I said.

“What a way to run a railroad,” Mrs. Taylor said.

The bus turned around ponderously; apparently the driver had made a wrong turn ten miles back. Harris leaned across the aisle toward me. “Eddie’s sore,” he said. “The company lost about five bucks because of that mistake.”

“Really?” I said.

“Figure it out,” he said.

In another hour the bus turned into a twisting, pot-holed, narrow trail. After about twenty yards it was clear that the driver would not be able to go further.

“We’ll have to walk the rest of the way,” Eddie announced. “It’s not far.”

No one knew where we were, but clearly we were in the country. In the wooded foothills of something. Eddie made an announcement: “The Holiday-of-the-Month Club has brought you all for an unforgettable August weekend to beautiful Camp Starglow, just outside Windsor, Pennsylvania.” He explained that it was a kids’ summer camp but that we’d have it all to ourselves because the first session had just ended and the second wouldn’t begin until the middle of the next week. “Be careful what you leave lying around, won’t you?” he said. Everybody laughed.

Mrs. Taylor turned to me happily. “Did you bring your camping equipment?” she said.

“Mrs. Taylor,” I said, “despite my hearty good looks, I have a low sperm count and am a troubled man and a lousy sport.”

“You goyim,” she said, crinkling her nose.

“Just warn your husband,” I said calmly, “that if he so much as shakes hands with my wife I will break his legs for him.”

Mrs. Taylor stopped smiling. I could see I had disappointed her. She was not, after all, a bad woman; perhaps she was not even as silly as she seemed to be. Maybe this was just a routine — probably it was. At any rate, as she squeezed by me I felt I ought to make it up to her in some way. I pinched her behind. She turned on me furiously.

“It’s all talk, you,” she said in a low, dark voice. “That’s all it is,” she hissed. She began to cry.

“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

The people filing past stopped to look at us. Spotting his wife, Taylor moved up the aisle through the crowd. “Here, what is this?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s a mistake.”

“Marvin, be careful,” Mrs. Taylor sobbed.

“What is this?” Marvin said uncertainly.

“He’ll hurt you,” she said.

“Nobody’s going to hurt me,” Marvin said. His knees, below his Bermuda shorts, were shaking. I felt sorry for him.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just told your wife a filthy story and she took it the wrong way.”

“Oh,” he said, clearly relieved. “Is that all it is?” He lowered his voice and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Honey,” he said, “you’ve got to be a sport about these things.” He winked at me.

“What’s going on?” Eddie said. He looked at Mrs. Taylor. “Hey, now,” he said, “the Holiday-of-the-Month Club is supposed to build up confidence. Otherwise what’s the good?”

“My fault,” I said.

I pushed past the people shuffling off the bus and caught up with Margaret. “Margaret, it’s a mistake,” I said. “Let’s pay the driver to take us back to the city.”

“Oh, Boswell,” Margaret said, “you’ve lost your sense of humor. My God, I know! You’re jealous of Marvin Taylor.”

“Nonsense,” I said, “it’s all t-a-l-k.”

The Taylors passed us. “See you later,” Marvin said significantly. He touched Margaret’s shoulder.

“I’m not a jealous man,” I said. “You have reason to know that. But I won’t raise another man’s child.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Accidents happen.”

“Do you actually think I’d sleep with Marvin Taylor?”

“Look, let’s not talk about it. You know how I feel.”

We followed Eddie to the guest lodge, and each couple was assigned a room. “Look,” Eddie said, “there’s something else. There are some cabins — not enough to go around or there wouldn’t be any problem, but I’ve got thirty keys. Who doesn’t think he’ll be wanting one?” Everybody groaned. “What a bunch,” Eddie said. “I never saw such a bunch. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” They laughed. “No volunteers, hey? No good sports in the crowd? Well, all right, all right We’ll auction them off. Proceeds to charity.”

“Crap,” Harris whispered to me. “He’d put the money in his pocket.”

Eddie help up a key and asked for a bid. The men laughed, but no one offered him anything for it. “All right,” he said at last, “I’ll throw them up in the air and you stallions can fight for them.” He flung the keys as high as he could and they came clattering down on the wooden floor of the lodge. Everyone scrambled for the loose keys. Eddie stood on the stairs and laughed. “What. a bunch,” he said. “Oh, well.”

In our room Margaret and I were changing into our bathing suits when someone tapped on the door. “Who is it?” Margaret asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought this was Mrs. Schmidt’s room.” It was Mrs. Taylor’s voice.