HE WAS HURRYING, dodging around people on a crowded sidewalk. It was terribly important that he get there in time, and there wasn’t a moment to lose. A large woman stepped in front of him, and he sidestepped, but not quickly enough to avoid brushing against her shoulder. Turning toward him, her face registered displeasure—and then shocked horror. He looked down at himself and saw with dismay that he was stark naked. You can’t fool me, he told himself, this is just another one of those dreams. It was getting to be almost monotonous. But still, just to be on the safe side, he looked around for cover and shot into a handy doorway. He found himself in a large empty hall. Backing away from the glass doors of the entry, he bumped into a table and sat down on it. “May I help you?” a voice said, and he turned to find Diane Jarrett sitting behind the table. She was wearing the pink bikini. He’d been right about the dream. Here we go again, he thought.
As soon as he was fully awake, he got quickly out of bed. It was getting to be a bit embarrassing, even though Charlotte, who had always been very frank and matter-of-fact about such things, assured him it was a perfectly normal part of puberty. Which was all very well, except he still wondered if he wasn’t overdoing normalcy a bit lately. It did seem that a person with universal goals ought to guard against getting into a rut. He grinned, thinking what Max would do with that one. Fielding, the natural-born straight man.
During breakfast that morning, he decided to take up tennis again. He’d attended a tennis class as a kid, at Charlotte’s urging, and stuck with it for several years, progressing from terrible to mediocre. Though he hadn’t played much recently, it suddenly occurred to him that this would be a good time to get back on the courts. It would, that is, if he could get permission from T.J. to play at The Camp. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before. Diane played tennis, for one thing, and for another he obviously needed the exercise. The question now was, had he remembered to bring his racket. He vaguely recalled packing it, but he hadn’t seen it since they’d been in the cabin.
His mother and father had been engaged for some time in a very animated conversation regarding Disraeli and Queen Victoria, so he waited until there seemed to be a lull before he asked if anyone had seen his tennis racket. William stared at him blankly for a moment and then frowned. He’d lost track of the point he’d been about to make, he said, and was the whereabouts of a tennis racket a matter of such great urgency that it justified the interruption of a conversation?
James said he was sorry, but his father went on frowning. In the Fielding catechism, interruptions had always been one of the seven deadly sins. There wasn’t any use trying to explain. Although it just might be argued that what could happen to him in the next day or two, if he could find his tennis racket, was somewhat more urgent than something that happened to Disraeli over a hundred years ago.
After his father remembered the point he’d been about to make, he made it at some length, and when he had finished Charlotte said she was glad that was settled, and if James would look on the top shelf of his closet it might settle another matter, too. A few minutes later he was on his way to The Camp completely equipped for a game of tennis.
When he entered T.J.’s outer office, Lieutenant Carnaby was feeding the fish in a whole row of small aquariums built into recesses all along one wall. She was in uniform, the belted khaki tunic over longish shorts that were regulation dress in T.J.’s army. It was probably supposed to look dashing and romantic—Her Majesty’s officers on far-flung frontiers, or characters from a Hemingway novel—but the Lieutenant was short, frizzy-haired and shaped something like an old-fashioned milkbottle. The overall effect was pretty incongruous.
“Hello,” she said, backing out of a tank recess and tugging at the skirt of her tunic. “Fielding, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sss…” Uncertain about sir-ing a female officer, James let his salutation sizzle into silence.
“Did you want to see the major?”
“Not particularly. What I mean is, maybe you can tell me what I want to know. I just want to know if our Willowby pass gives us other privileges besides the use of the Commissary and the snack bar. Like the tennis courts, for instance? I mean, would it be all right if I came over now and then to play some tennis?”
The lieutenant frowned. “Well, I don’t believe that situation has come up before, so I just don’t know what the major would say. I think perhaps you’d better talk to him.”
James had been afraid of that. The major, it seemed, was in. In a few minutes James was standing at attention in front of the major’s enormous desk. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. In fact, everything in the room seemed to be standing at attention, including all the objects on the major’s desk and the hair on his closely cropped head. His khakis were immaculately pressed and his lean, freshly shaved face had an almost metallic gleam. “Good morning, Fielding,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
When James had explained what he wanted, the major got up and took some papers from an elaborate filing system and studied them carefully before he answered. “You realize, of course, Fielding, that in making a decision such as this, I must give first consideration to the needs of Camp residents.” He paused and looked at James sternly. James nodded, wondering if that meant “Forget it.”
“However,” the major went on, “I see by our Facilities Use Records that the courts have not been fully utilized lately, so perhaps some of our tennis regulars would enjoy having a new adversary. Some fresh blood, as it were.”
James considered saying he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Instead he diplomatically admired the view from the office window and an assortment of rifles in an enormous gun case behind the major’s desk, while the files were being returned carefully to their proper place and a notation made on the back of James’ pass, to the effect that it had been extended to cover use of athletic facilities. It was a very successful stratagem—the major handed back his pass with what came fairly close to being a smile, and then personally escorted James back out through the outer office, pointing out other items for him to admire. Carried away by the success of his diplomacy, James fervently admired a bright green plastic tree, an enormous photograph of The Camp’s main entrance, and each one of the fish individually. They all looked pretty much the same. They were, the major said, belligerent little devils called Siamese fighting fish, which had to be kept in separate tanks to keep them from tearing each other into bloody scraps. By the time James left, he had been called upon to admire nearly everything in the office except Lieutenant Carnaby.
On his way to the tennis courts he stopped off at the snack shop to retrieve his racket and balls, which he had left with Fiona while he presented his case, not wanting to give the impression of overconfidence. He chatted for a while with Fiona, who was being bitter about the beautiful weather. It couldn’t be like this on her day off, could it? Oh no. Let her take the day off and the thermometer automatically dropped twenty degrees. But just let her be stuck behind this counter and look at it. Paradise.
James sympathized and, rather guiltily, headed for the tennis courts, detouring once more at the pavilion’s public restrooms; where it occurred to him to wonder if his use of the men’s room would be officially entered in the major’s Facilities Use Records.
On the courts, the only other person waiting for a partner was a ten-year-old boy, which wasn’t too unfortunate, since James was so rusty. He even managed to win the second game. Then the little kid and a couple of other players went home to lunch. The one remaining player on the courts strolled towards James, bouncing a ball on his racket. He was tall, good-looking, blond and probably a year or two older than James—and suddenly James knew where he’d seen him before. He hadn’t really observed him too carefully at the time—his mind, and eyes, having been on other things—but he was fairly sure that the guy was one of the jogging Jarretts. The one who was probably Diane’s brother.
“Hi. Want to play a game?” The invitation was given in a tone of voice that indicated complete indifference, one way or the other.
“Sure,” James said. “I’m pretty rusty though. You’ll probably annihilate me.”
The blond kid shrugged and headed for the far court. “My name is Mike,” he said over his shoulder. “Mike Jarrett.”
“I’m James Fielding.”
Nothing more was said for some time except for game calls and a few four letter comments on faults and misses. Mike was, as James had expected, much the better player; but after the first few games James was able to give him enough competition to make things interesting. Like his sister, Mike had a sleekly sturdy build and moved with smooth control, but he played a lazy and not particularly aggressive game, as if he didn’t really care about the outcome. Even when he faulted, you got the feeling that his muttered expletives were more for form’s sake than for any real anger at himself for messing up. After the third set he said he’d better be getting home.
“Me too,” James said, gathering up his equipment. As they left the court together and strolled across the bivouac area, he asked, “Do you spend much time here, at The Camp?”
“Yeah, quite a bit. Most of the summer and during vacations in the skiing season. And last year my dad took us out of school for a week during the hunting season, and we came up here.”
“Does your dad commute to work or does he have the summer off?”
“Well, you might say he commutes. His offices are in Sacramento, and during the summer he’s usually only here on weekends. He and my uncle have a plane and they fly up on Fridays and spend the weekend. Sometimes the rest of the family flies back with him, but usually we stay at The Camp during the summer. How about you? You visiting someone here? I mean, you’re not a regular resident are you?”
James explained about the Willowby pass. Then he started describing his visit to T.J.’s office, being amusingly satirical about Lieutenant Carnaby’s shorts and about how T.J. probably waited until no one was around and then put a couple of the fighting fish in together and thought brave macho thoughts about moments-of-truth and death-in-the-afternoon, while they chewed the fins off each other. Some of it Mike didn’t seem to get, but he did grin a few times. When they got to the beginning of Gettysburg Road, James turned up it, too. When Mike looked at him inquiringly, he explained about the footpath from the end of Gettysburg to Anzio, and how it was one of the routes he sometimes took on his way home. At the driveway to number seventeen, when Mike started saying good-by, James said, “Do you suppose I could get a glass of water? I’m dying of thirst.”
“Sure,” Mike said. “Come on up to the house.” As they turned up the long drive, James felt his heart shift into high gear, which, of course, was not a good sign. It probably meant that his brain was, as usual, getting ready to go into atrophy. It was really discouraging, since he’d almost been able to convince himself that it wouldn’t happen again. Not with Diane, anyway. Not after he’d already managed to hold a fairly normal conversation with her that day on the beach. But it had been Jacky who had made the difference then, by golf-balling him out of his usual self-conscious seizure and then by giving him something else to talk and think about—and he didn’t suppose he could count on Jacky’s clobbering him again today. For a moment he wished, or almost wished, himself out of the whole situation and on his way up Gettysburg Road toward the west gate and home.
In front of the Jarrett’s so-called cabin, a wide flight of stairs with rustic log bannisters led up to the first level of decks, but Mike led the way around to the back. At the rear of the house they crossed a patio paved with redwood rounds and furnished with all kinds of fancy outdoor chairs and lounges. In the large kitchen, quarry tile floors and rough-hewn wooden cabinets attempted to preserve the myth of the simple life in the face of such contrary evidence as a built-in barbecue grill, a microwave oven, a trash compactor and a refrigerator that belched ice cubes through a hole in the door. By the time the ice avalanche was over, there wasn’t much room in James’ glass for water.
“Wow,” he said to Mike. “Some kitchen.”
Mike shrugged. “It’s a kitchen,” he said. “If you like kitchens. Would you like to see the rest of the place?”
James had heard about the trophy room from Fiona, but he hadn’t really visualized it accurately. At least not in the proper scale. It was on the ground level, and it stretched from one end of the building to the other. Besides massive ceiling beams, an enormous fireplace, pool and Ping-Pong tables and a lot of leather furniture, it featured, just as Fiona had said, a huge assortment of dead animals. Parts of dead antelope, zebra, mountain goat, deer, moose, elk and buffalo hung from the walls, whole ducks and pheasants sat on shelves, an elephant’s foot sat by the door holding umbrellas, a disemboweled lion sprawled in front of the fireplace, and in the far corner, an entire polar bear crouched in perpetual rigor mortis. But deer seemed to be the Jarrett’s popular victim. One whole wall was covered so densely with deer heads that it had the weird, almost surrealistic effect of dozens of pairs of sad dead eyes peering out of a wintry forest of antlers.
James was overwhelmed. He was even more overwhelmed a moment later when Diane emerged from the depths of one of the enormous couches. Kneeling on the seat of the couch, she leaned on the back and yawned lazily. “Hi,” she said. “You woke me up.”
“What are you doing down here?” Mike said. “I thought you went in to town with Mom.”
“I decided against it. I came down here to read and went to sleep.” Turning to James, she smiled breathtakingly. Pointing her gun finger, she said, “Ka-pow. Look who’s here.”
James and Mike rounded the end of the couches. Diane was wearing very short shorts and a tight brown tee shirt that said PLAIN BROWN WRAPPER across the front. There was a magazine on the couch beside her.
“Hi,” James said, and then groping desperately for a conversational gambit, he picked up the magazine. “Is this what put you to sleep?” he asked.
The magazine was called The Outdoor Man, and the picture on its cover was of a man holding a rifle and wearing a day-glo orange vest and cap. He was smiling down at the body of a deer that lay at his feet.
Diane giggled. “Not really,” she said. Taking the magazine out of James’ hands, she pulled a copy of Penthouse out of the middle of it. “That’s just camouflage, in case Dad comes in.”
“Hey,” Mike said grabbing the Penthouse. “Where did you find that?”
“In Dad’s office. He thought he had them hid, but I found them.”
“Hoo man!” Mike said. “Excuse me kids while I look at all the pretty pictures.”
“Well, go away someplace. We don’t want to be disturbed by all the heavy breathing.”
Mike went off and flopped into a chair across the room.
“So how’s your back?” Diane asked.
“My back?”
“Where Jacky nailed you.”
“Oh that. It only hurts when I laugh.” Hope sprouted. He’d said something. He’d even managed to be weakly funny.
She smiled encouragingly and hope burgeoned. “Speaking of Jacky,” he asked, “is he around?”
“Why? Do you want to see him?”
“Well, not particularly. I just wondered if he was—within range.”
“Relax. He went to town with my mom.”
“Whew.” Pantomiming relief, James sat down on the couch.
Diane’s smile was welcoming—friendly—heart-splintering—mind-boggling. Giving a sudden little bounce of enthusiasm, she gestured around the room. “What do you think of our trophies?” she asked.
“Well,” James said, “it’s very impressive. I feel as if I ought to take off my hat. If I had one to take off.”
“Well, don’t take it off to me. I didn’t kill many of them. Just a couple of lousy deer.”
“Oh,” James said. He decided against explaining that what he’d meant was more like—as in being in the presence of the dead.
“My dad wouldn’t take me when he went to Africa. He said I was too young. He took Mike though, and he’s just a year and a half older. But I’ve been going deer hunting since I was twelve years old. Come here, I’ll show you.” Getting off the couch, Diane led the way to the deer wall and pointed out two of the smaller heads. One had three points on each antler and the other had only two—probably a teen-ager as deer went—and they went fast, obviously, if they got within range of a Jarrett.
The tour continued with Diane telling James where each of the animals had been killed and by whom. Most of the killing had been done by her father.
“But my dad says I’m going to be a really great hunter someday,” she said. “A lot better than Mike. Mike is still a little better shot than I am, but he just doesn’t really care that much about it. Dad says he just doesn’t have the desire.”
“The desire?”
“Yes, that’s what you have to have, to be a great hunter. My dad has it, and so do I. Mike just doesn’t have it.”
Glancing over at Mike, who was still avidly perusing Penthouse, it occurred to James that he seemed to have his fair share, at least in some areas.
“My dad says,” Diane was going on, “that it’s a shame they don’t have an event for hunters in the Olympics. Don’t you think they should?”
“Well, I guess I’ve never really thought about it,” James admitted, picturing a football field full of milling deer and a bunch of hunters running around the track taking potshots at them. “They could have a deer shooting contest and a pig sticking and maybe even a rabbit thumping.”
Diane looked at him coldly. “Okay, funny boy,” she said. “I meant shooting at targets.”
“Oh sure,” James said. “I was just kidding.”
She smiled angelically. “Ka-pow,” she said, shooting James through the heart with a tan finger. “Don’t try to kid me, sweetie. Hey! Do you like to play Ping-Pong?”
James was usually fairly good at Ping-Pong, but watching Diane jumping around at the other end of the table was hard on his powers of concentration. But he was having a wonderful time. He kept wishing that Max could see him now. Here he was playing Ping-Pong and kidding around with just about the sexiest girl he’d ever seen in his whole life. Max would be proud of him.
“Hey, Di,” Mike called suddenly. “Was that a car?”
Diane ran to the window. “It’s Mom,” she said. “Mom’s home.”
Mike got up and put Penthouse under the cushion of his chair. A few minutes later the healthy-looking blonde woman came in. When Diane introduced James, “Jill Jarrett was cool but friendly. She said that Di had to go down to the pool now for her diving lesson, but that she hoped James would come again. Diane walked out to the deck with him as he left. As he turned to go down the stairs, she made a little mouth at him like a kiss and he almost fell down the steps.
He was still walking on air as he went around the corner of the house and became aware of a rhythmical thudding noise. When he saw what was making it, he backed up and made a wide detour. It was Jacky. Dressed in pale blue overalls with bunnies on the front, he was busy squashing something with a toy shovel. He didn’t notice James as he tiptoed past.