After this, he reached on tiptoes for the olive oil and vinegar. Instants later he was scientifically measuring ingredients into a bowl. He then looked up at his enraptured audience and said:
"I need—I do not know the English for de VaiV*
"Jessie?" Paula asked her sister.
"We haven't had that word yet. I'll go look it up." And she sprinted toward the CasselVs in the living room. There were sounds of frantically ruffled pages and at last a triumphant shout of "Garlic!"
"Wow," said Paula to Jean-Claude. "Are you gonna be a French chef when you grow up?"
"No," the boy replied. "A doctor."
Jessie hurriedly reentered in search of garlic and a garlic press.
"WTien will they be home?" asked Paula.
"Well, Dad is jogging on the high school track
with birdbrain Bemie. He'll be just in time to be too late to do his share. Depending on the trafSc, Mom should be here around seven."
''She'll be real excited when she sees youVe made that blanket stew for her."
''Blanquette. I hope so. I—uh—Jean-Claude, could I ask you to—uh—taste the sauce?"
''Of course, Jessica." He walked over to the pot, dipped the wooden spoon in and brought it to his mouth.
"Mmm," he said softly, "very interesting."
"But is it good, is it good?'' Jessica persisted.
"Superb," the little boy replied.
It was a triumph of international diplomacy.
B
lJ o you see that fantastic kid? Isn't he great I I can hardly believe he's my son!"
As the two fathers circled the Nanuet High School track, Bernie kept touting his son's athletic talents. At this moment, Davey Ackerman was on the infield, scrimmaging with some of the older soccer honchos.
''He's pretty good," Bob conceded.
"'Good? Beckwith, the kid's fantastic. He's ambidextrous. He's got all the moves. I mean, he's really pro material. Don't you agree?"
"Uh—sure," said Bob, not wanting to interrupt his friend's paternal fantasy. Besides, his legs still bore some bruises from that collision with Bernie's pride and joy.
''It's my business, after all," Bernie continued. *'The kid is everything I wasn't. Look at him slide by those fullbacks!"
"Yeah," Bob answered noncommittally.
Bernie glanced at his friend and understood. His tone of voice was sympathetic. "You know, women's sports are getting to be really big too."
"Huh?"
"If you started your girls on a program now,
they'd have a chance for athletic scholarships. I could maybe even help."
"They hate sports, Bern."
''Whose fault is that?'' replied the advocate of athletes, subtle accusation in his voice.
"They take ballet," Bob offered.
"Well, that's great prep for the high jump. And I think Jessie's gonna be tall. She could be a great high jumper, Beckwith."
"Why don't you tell her, Bern?"
"I don't know. For some reason she thinks I'm a clown. Doesn't she know I'm the top of my field?"
"Yeah. But I guess she's going through an anti-high-jump phase."
"Sit her down. Bob. Speak to her before it's too late."
They jogged along for another half mile, their increasingly labored breaths punctuated by Bemie's gasps of "Great" and "Fantastic" whenever Davey showed his style.
"Good workout," Bemie said when they reached the finish line and began to talk. "You should run during the year, too, Beckwith. I mean, how the hell do you stay so thin? You don't even play squash."
"I worry a lot," said Bob, and kept walking.
The soccer game had now disbanded and only Davey Ackerman remained, to practice kicking goals. Bemie could concentrate on other things. He turned to Bob.
"You seem down for some reason, Beckwith."
"It's nothing, Bern."
"Actually, when I think of it. Sheila looked a little down yesterday too. I mean, everything's okay with you guys, isn't it?"
Bob did not reply.
"Sorry. Stupid question^ Bob. Nothing's ever wrong with you two."
Bob looked at him. "I gotta talk to someone, Bern."
''What am I here for, Beckwith?''
''Got five minutes?"
"Of course. Wanna sit on the stands?"
"Yeah."
They picked up their sweat clothes, wandered over to the flimsy wooden bleachers, climbed to the highest step and sat down.
"Okay, okay," said Bernie. "What the hell's the matter?"
Bob was too upset to start at the beginning.
"You know the French boy I brought over yesterday?"
"Yeah—the exchange kid. Nice-looking."
"He's mine."
"What do you mean?" Bernie was normally far from obtuse, but something visceral prevented him from understanding Bob's statement.