Man, woman, and child(30)

When he reached the stands, he noticed Jessica



Beckvvith's foreign guest seated by himself. He trapped the ball under his foot, stopped short, and pivoted toward the stands.

"Hey!" he called.

"Yes?" Jean-Claude replied.

^Tou the French kid staying at the Beckwiths?"

"Yes."

"How come you're always just sitting around, huh?"

Jean-Claude shrugged.

"What is wrong with that?" he asked. He vaguely sensed that he was being challenged to something.

"How come you're always v^th Jessica Beck-with, huh?" Davey's tone was now distinctly belligerent.

"Uh—I am her guest. She is my friend." Jean-Claude was not quite sure how to respond. He was growing uneasy.

"She's my girl, Frenchie, do you understand that? My girl," Davey insisted, thumbing his expanded chest for emphasis.

"My name is not Frenchie," the boy said quietly.

Ahh, thought Davey, I've found a sore point.

"Yeah? Well, I'll call you whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want, how many times I want—plus ten more. Frenchie, Frenchie, Frenchie ..."

Davey was standing there, his right foot on the soccer ball, his right hand making a sophisticated gesture in conjunction with his nose.

Jean-Claude stood up.

Davey inhaled and drew himself to his full height, which was appreciably greater than the younger boy's.

"Gonna try something, Frenchie?" he taunted.

Jean-Claude slowly descended from the stands and approached Davey, whose game plan was now



to stand as tall as possible, emanating strength, thus striking fear into his smaller opponent.

"My name is Jean-Claude Guerin," the boy said quietly, still walking slowly toward him.

"And I say it's Frenchie. Sissy Frenchie Fruitcake."

Jean-Claude was now less than a foot away. Davey towered over him. "Frenchie Fruitcake," Davey repeated, grinning.

And then Jean-Claude kicked.

Not Davey, but the ball beneath his foot. Davey fell back onto his behind.

From far off, his departing soccer buddies caught sight of the young superstar's tumble and began to laugh. Davey rose from the ground, infuriated.

He started toward Jean-Claude, who backed up, still keeping the ball in control.

"My name is Jean-Claude," he repeated.

Davey lunged to kick the ball away. Jean-Claude deftly tapped it out of his reach.

Now the French boy dribbled toward midfield. Davey gave chase. He sprinted and lunged. Jean-Claude feinted and dodged. Davey could not get anywhere near the ball. The team guys now began to whistle and applaud. They had never seen such ball handling by so young a kid. They hadn't learned in school that European children begin kicking as soon as they begin walking.

The hoots and jeers now became audible even to the tired joggers on the far side of the field. Bernie was the first to notice. He could not believe his eyes.

"Holy shit!" he remarked. "The kid's an athlete!"

At first Bob did not bother to look up, assuming it was yet another of Bernie's panegyrics to his son. Then he did.

And he saw Jean-Claude feinting as Davey Acker-



man tackled for the ball—and this time landed face down in the dust.

He felt a shiver. My God, he thought, my son's fantastic! He stopped running to watch.

"Bravo, Jean-Claudel" he shouted. ''Bien joue, bien joue!"

''Beckwith," Bemie said quietly, "youVe gotta get rid of that kid before it's too late.''

''What the hell do you mean, 'too late'?"

^'Before you fall in love with him."



ilOW WAS YOUR RUN?" ShEILA ASKED.

"Not bad/' said Bob.

"Did you have a good time, Jean-Claude?"

"Yes, thank you."

"He played some soccer," Bob added, his voice unable to conceal his pride. "You should have seen him. He's really very good."

Jean-Claude beamed. Bob saw him in the comer of his eye and felt a further joy that his words of praise had so pleased the boy.

"How about washing up for dinner, Jean-Claude?"

"Okay, Bob," he said, and skipped out of the kitchen.

Bob kissed Sheila on the cheek. "Dinner smells great. What is it?"

"Just odds and ends."

"Can I help?"

"Yes. Peel some potatoes."

"Sure." He was happy to be doing something with her again—even if it was only KP. He put on an apron and began to peel.

One potato later. Sheila mentioned, "Evelyn called."

"To inquire if you're having a good time?"

110



"No. To ask if I could come to Cambridge tomorrow."

''She's got a lot of nerve. I sure as hell hope you told her where to go."

*'She pleaded, actually. It's pretty important."

"Honey, Evelyn Unger is a workaholic and a slave driver. The Harvard Press is not the New York Times. What couldn't possibly wait three weeks?"