William McGivern - Savage Streets

“Yes, I understand,” Colby said. “So?”

“Well, my idea is — what about re-creating one of those beautiful old keeping rooms in a photograph? Huge stone fireplace, spinning wheel, thick-beamed ceiling, brass pots and pans shining in the firelight. People naturally. Kids, a grandmother.” Weinberg slapped the top of the table. “And right in the middle of this beautiful, lovely antique room there’s a shining model of the Jet-chilled Atlas right where it belongs, in the heart of the home.”

Clem Shipley said, “You know, we had a room something like that in my grandfather’s place in Maine. At night the whole clan checked in for cocktails and...”

But Weinberg had the ball and was breaking for the open field. “Excuse me, Clem,” he said, “but I’d like to circle just one point. Once we establish that the refrigerator is in the most important room of the house — the heart of the home, that is — then we can sell hard on the kind of refrigerator to put in that room.”

“Yes, I see that,” Colby said. “How about doing a memo on this? Give me all your thinking. Well...” He put his hands on the table. “I’ll see you guys around.”

The day was still fine when Farrell got home that evening. In the vacant lot beside the Sims house six or eight boys were playing football. Bobby Detweiller waved and called to him: “How about throwing us some passes, Mr. Farrell?”

“Okay, I’ll get a sweater. Where’s Jimmy?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Farrell.” The young faces turned up to him seemed curiously blank, he thought. “He told us he’d come out.”

“Well, I’ll see what’s keeping him,” Farrell said.

Angey was watching television in the study with two of her friends, and Barbara was in the kitchen making a salad. He kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Where’s Jimmy?”

“Upstairs. Studying or moping, I don’t know which.”

“Why isn’t he out playing football?”

“I didn’t see any point in pressing him about it.”

“I’ll go and have a talk with him.”

Jimmy was at his desk, the lamplight shading his thin, intense face. Farrell said, “I just told your pals we’d be out to play a little ball. You’d better put on a sweater.”

Jimmy looked up quickly at him, his fine eyes bright with caution. “I don’t really feel like it, Dad. It’s okay if I just study, isn’t it? I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“You can do it after dinner, I think.”

“Gosh, do I have to?”

“Yes, you’ve got to,” Farrell said evenly. “Because you’re afraid. Isn’t that right?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“I think I do,” Farrell said. “They told you that you couldn’t play football until you’d given them fifteen dollars. And you only gave them twelve. I don’t blame you for being worried. But we’re not going to put up with that land of pressure.”

“Are you going out, too?” Jimmy said.

“Yes, of course.” Jimmy’s nervousness exasperated him, but he kept his tone pleasantly neutral. “So get a move on.” He went into his bedroom, removed his suit coat and pulled on a frayed woolen sweater, a relic of his college days; it was a letter sweater and the front of it still showed the faded area where a chenille monogram had been cut away a long time ago.

When he returned to the hallway Jimmy was waiting for him at the head of the stairs. Farrell put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I haven’t bothered you with too many fatherly talks in the past, have I?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Well, now it’s time for a short one. I’m making you do something you don’t want to do. If you were my size you might tell me to go to hell. But I’m bigger than you are, so you’ve got to do what I say whether you want to or not. Perhaps you don’t see any difference now between me and those kids who’ve been bothering you. Is that right?”

“No, I don’t feel that way about you.”

“I’m glad you don’t. As your father I sometimes have the unpleasant job of insisting you do things you’d rather not do. I try to use my best judgment and that’s all I can promise you for now and in the future. And in this case I believe it would be foolish for you to hide in here because a pair of bullies have told you you can’t go out. So let’s go.”

In the vacant lot the boys were waiting for him, and he threw passes for ten or fifteen minutes, enjoying their yelping, self-important excitement. Jimmy seemed to have come out of his depression, he thought; he was clamoring for his turn as frantically as the others, eyes bright with pleasure, his thin face flushed with the cold wind.

The last sunlight faded and the sky had turned slate gray. There was a smell of burning leaves on the wind, and the boys’ shrill voices pierced the dying day like the crying of birds. The homes along the quiet, tree-shaded street were lighted now and the soft, yellow illumination fell in pale, rectangular bars across well-tended lawns and shrubs.

Time was running out; there was just enough light for a short game. He called for the ball and told the boys to choose up sides. Bobby Detweiller kicked the ball toward him, but in his exuberance misjudged the distance and the football sailed over Farrell’s head and bounced out to the sidewalk. Several of the boys went streaking after it, excited as dogs on the trail of a rabbit, but something suddenly checked their clamor and brought the scrambling race to a halt. Farrell turned around and saw two husky teen-agers standing on the sidewalk grinning at the boys. One of them had retrieved the ball; he held it at his side, negligently, in one big hand. He was almost as tall as Farrell, with shining blond hair and a look of vacant, unintelligent energy in his broad, blunt face. In spite of the weather he wore only a white T shirt which was tucked into the belt of his tightly pegged blue jeans. He was built like a weight-lifter, with muscles that pulled the T shirt around him as tightly as a second layer of skin. The second boy was equally tall, but his body was flat and slender and controlled; he looked as if he could move very quickly if he wanted to. But his manner was lazy and negligent; a cigarette slanted across his mouth, and he tilted his head slightly to let the smoke drift up past his half-closed eyes. He looked weary and bored as he stared down at the boys, an ironical smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His skin was darkly tanned, and his hair was jet black. He wore jeans, a red sweater with an Indian head sewn on the front of it, and brightly polished black boots.

Farrell smiled at them. “Nice stop,” he said.

“Well, thanks, but it wasn’t really spectacular,” the blond boy said. He grinned at his companion. “Kind of routine, wasn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know.” He frowned, judiciously. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Run of the mill, I’d call it. You saw the ball bouncing along toward you, and you just picked it up. Nothing to it really.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You do the play-by-play real good.” He grinned at Farrell. “It was just bouncing along on the ground the way a football does, taking a crazy little jog every now and then.”

“That’s because a football isn’t round,” the other boy said, glancing at him from the corners of his eyes. “It’s different from a basketball, you see. A basketball now, it rolls along in a nice, straight line.”

The blond boy laughed softly. “I never thought of it that way.”

Farrell glanced at his watch. There wasn’t much time left and their elaborate leg-pull was getting on his nerves. “All right, let’s have the ball,” he said.

“Well, give him the ball,” the boy in the red sweater said. “Go on, you heard him.”

“Why should I do all the work?” The blond boy pitched the ball expertly to his companion. “You give it to him.”