The Great Santini (51 page)

"Sure, Karen," Ben answered, although he was somewhat puzzled by her visit. When he saw her entering the room, Ben realized how very few times he and Karen had ever spoken to each other without another member of the family being present. "How's school going?"

"Fine. I'm the third smartest girl in the seventh grade."

"That's nice, Karen," Ben said.

"Guess what, Ben."

"I give up."

"I had my first period this week. That means I'm a woman now. That's what Mom said anyhow."

Ben resumed shooting the basketball toward the ceiling. Three times he shot, making sure his hand was parallel to the ceiling when he had followed through.

"What kind of grades did you get on your last report card, Karen? Mama told me you did real well."

"Mama says I can have babies now. You can't have a baby until you've started having your period."

"Have you talked to Mary Anne about this . . . thing?" Ben asked.

"Yes. She told me you'd want to hear all about it."

"Yeh, that's great, Karen. I'm sure glad you told me. Are you all keyed up for the big game tonight?"

"I was one of the last girls in my P.E. class to have a period. I was beginning to think I was never going to have one."

"Yeah, that must have been a big worry."

"I tried to tell Matt, but he didn't even know what I was talking about. He ran away. Matt is such a child sometimes."

"Yeah. Poor ol' Matt," Ben said, twirling the basketball on his middle finger. "Hey look, Karen, it's been a lot of fun talking to you, but I've really got to get my mind on the game."

"I'm going to be sitting with some girl friends from my school. We'll be right under the scoreboard. Will you wave to us during warmups?"

"Sure, but you'll have to watch close because I can't let Dad or Coach Spinks see me."

"These friends want to meet you after the game. Is that all right too?"

"Meet seventh grade peasants! Me? Of course, Karen. This is all so silly."

"They want me to get your autograph too."

"C'mon," Ben said, grinning.

"No, they want it."

"You're kidding. You're kidding. You've got to be kidding."

"I'm not either. They made me promise to get it before the game."

"Why do they want it? I mean, it seems ridiculous to me."

"You're the star. Here's some paper."

"This must be a great group of friends you've met here, Karen. They sound like real nice girls. What are their names?"

"Cynthia Waters and Mary Helen Epps."

"O.K.," Ben said as he wrote, speaking the words aloud. "To Cynthia, the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on, Passionately yours, Ben Meecham. And to Mary Helen, the most gorgeous creature on earth, Adoringly yours, Ben Meecham."

"Thanks, Ben. They'll love that. I'll see you at dinner."

"Before you go, Karen," Ben said rising and walking to his window," do you know about . . . well, let me put it this way. You know. Very simply. You were talking about how you could have a baby now. Do you know about how you have babies and all that kind of stuff?"

Ben could feel a blush moving the length of his body, one that in a matter of seconds would be a full five feet, ten inches tall. It was the first time that he ever thought a blush could have a measurable, quantitative dimension.

"Sure, Ben," Karen said simply. "You have sexual intercourse with a man."

"Yep. Well, it's been great talking to you, Karen, and I'll see you later on. It really has been great talking to you."

"Bye, Ben."

"Oh, Karen," Ben called.

"Yes."

"Congratulations on being a woman."

"Isn't it great?" Karen said and left the room.

"Is this all I get?" Ben asked when he joined the others at the dinner table.

"Your father makes out your menu before the game, sugah," Lillian said.

"Toast and tea isn't enough," he argued.

"You got to have a light meal, otherwise you'll blow your cookies all over the place," Bull explained.

"Hey, Dad, you know what I can do?" Matthew asked.

"Wait a minute, Matt, I'm talking to Ben. I think you can drive on this team son. They play man-to-man and that ought to be a piece of cake for you. At the beginning of the game, drive down the middle to see what they got. If somebody tries to stop you, lay the ball off."

"You know what I can do, Dad?" Matt repeated.

"Hold your horses, Matt. If you can get their big man, Sanders, in foul trouble early in the game, then it ought to be a piece of cake for the whole team. Now that little pimp of a guard they got, Peanut Abbott," Bull said; opening the newspaper and checking the name, "Yeah, that's the pogue's name. Well he says in the paper and I quote, 'Meecham will be lucky to score a point. We're going to cut his water off good.' How do you like them apples? Huh? I guess that gets your blood boiling. Huh? How about it?"

"Yes, sir," Ben said.

"Hey, Dad," Matt said.

"What in the hell do you want, Matt? For crying out loud."

"If you'd just listen to him, Bull," Lillian said.

The family stared at Matt, waiting for him to speak. Instead he rose from the kitchen table, went to the cupboard where the canned goods were kept, and removed a quart can of peaches. He set the can of peaches on the table in front of him.

"I can eat this whole can of peaches in less than sixty seconds," he announced.

A moment of quizzical silence passed.

"How do you know?" Lillian asked.

"I've been practicing," Matt answered.

"So that's where my peaches have been going."

"Here's fifty cents that says you can't," Mary Anne said, tossing two quarters on the table.

"I've never heard of this sport," Ben said.

"That's because I invented it," Matt answered.

"You're going to spoil your dinner, Matt," Lillian warned.

"Does it include the juice?" Karen asked.

"Of course," Matt said," the juice is the last part. That's my specialty."

"Why don't you take up baseball or something, Matt?" Bull said, spearing three slices of beef roast with his fork and reaching for the gravy.

Mary Anne went to the sink and returned to the table with a can opener. With dignity, Matthew opened the can of peaches and sat poised with a huge spoon he had selected from Lillian's silver service.

"Who will keep time?" Matt asked.

"I will," Mary Anne offered, checking her watch. "Ten seconds. Five seconds. Go."

With a slight splash, Matthew began scooping quartered slices of peaches into his mouth with such a zealous sucking and slurping that even his father paused to witness the divertissement. He did not chew the peaches, rather, he swallowed them whole as though they were live goldfish with bone and viscera intact. The juice rolled down his mouth and his neck, dripped on the table and matted his hair. As each second passed, the noise of the contest increased, for it became necessary for Matt to breathe at the same time he was eating. When peach juice began to flow from his nose and when Matthew had gagged twice, Lillian quietly excused herself from the table. But her son did not miss a stroke as he shoveled the peaches from the can to his mouth with extraordinary speed and endurance. When Mary Anne cried," Ten seconds left!" Matthew picked up the entire can, turned it upside down and drained the juice violently, his adam's apple straining and pulsing like a metronome. He slammed the empty can on the table a moment before Mary Anne called "Time. "His brother and two sisters gave him a standing ovation which lasted over twenty seconds. Bull just shook his head and concentrated on the roast beef. Once he looked up at a grinning, triumphant Matthew and said, "I'm raising a goddam peach eating champ. Jesus Christ!"

Outside his window he heard the sounds of hoofs drumming against the pavement. He looked down and saw Toomer pulling his wagon into the backyard. Grabbing his gym bag, he rushed down to see him. When he reached the back door, he saw Toomer presenting Lillian with the flowers he had not sold that day.

"Toomer, bless your sweet little heart for thinking of me. I'll put them in water right now and make an arrangement for my dining room table. Are you sure I can't pay you something?"

"No, m-m-ma'am. I k-kept them out for you."

"Ben, you see what Toomer brought me. Isn't that the sweetest, most thoughtful thing you ever heard tell of?"

"Ol' Mom," Ben thought," she can make people feel better over nothing than anyone I've ever met."

"Well, Toomer. I'm gonna have to bake you some sweet potato pie and bring it down to you sometime this week."

"No, ma'am. No n-need," the man answered, smiling.

"I didn't ask you if I could. I told you I was going to bring you a pie and I'm going to do it. May the Lord stick pins in my eyes if I don't."

She ran into the house to put the flowers into water before the family left for the game. Ben walked up to the mule and looked up at Toomer, who watched him with eyes that were dark and kind. It embarrassed Ben when he realized he had not seen Toomer at all since basketball season had begun.

"Hey, white boy," Toomer said.

"That's a nice looking donkey you got there," Ben said.

"That isn't no d-donkey, white boy. This here is Man o' War, the f-f-fastest mule in Ravenel County."

"Well that's about the ugliest mule I ever did see."

"That so. Well, I r-r-reckon you about the ugliest white b-b-boy I've ever seen too."

"How you been doin', Toomer. I've missed seeing you," Ben said, jumping up on the wagon seat beside the black man and punching him affectionately in the arm.

"Not so b-b-bad. Been readin' in the paper you some kinda shiny s-s-stuff now. You too much stuff to go h-h-hunt up Mr. Oyster this weekend?"

"We got an away game on Friday," Ben answered.

"Weekend only last one d-day for you?"

"I'm riding around with Sammy Wertzberger on Saturday. There's church on Sunday. How about Sunday afternoon?"

"That's good."

"I wish you could come see me play tonight, Toomer."

"I ain't no fool, white b-boy. Only a crazy nigger would go struttin' in the middle of them shabby d-dressin' white folk. But show 'em some strut tonight, white boy. Wiggle when they want to see some w-w-waddle."

"I will, Toomer. Thanks for coming by."

"Now don't play too good so you think you got too much s-s-stuff to come see Toomer."

"You know better than that, Toomer."

"Get off this wagon, white boy."

"Get this damn donkey out of this yard 'fore I call the police, flower boy."

"We got to take the challenge to them," Jim Don shouted.

"Yeah," everyone agreed.

"Their ass is grass and we're the lawnmowers," Art added.

There was a commotion at the locker room door and the manager's voice was raised in a shrill, feckless protest. "Ben, Ben, where are you, Ben?" a voice boomed.

Mortified and more than slightly irritated, Ben answered, "Back here, Dad."

Colonel Meecham walked into the alcove red-faced, expansive, and massive. It was the first time that Ben had noticed that his father had not changed into his civilian clothes since he had gotten home. Bull walked past several players to get to his son.

"There are college scouts from four different colleges in the stands tonight. Four colleges! You gotta gun it up tonight, boy. Those guys are looking for a scorer."

"Dad would you go back and sit with Mom for god's sakes. We're trying to get ready for a game."

"I'm trying to get you fired up, Ben. There's people come to watch you, son. You ought to go for about forty big ones tonight," Colonel Meecham said, unable to contain his ecstasy.

"Well help Ben get it tonight, Colonel," Pinkie said.

"Attaboy, Pinkie. I want all you boys to shine tonight. The largest crowd in the history of the school is out there screaming their lungs out. The cheerleaders are so happy they're . . . they're . . . they're jumping through their own assholes."

Ben could smell the heavy presence of bourbon on his father's breath. Beneath the flight jacket he could detect the slim outline of his father's silver flask. Since it was not a Friday and there was no happy hour, he had forgotten to keep track of how much liquor his father had consumed. But all the signs were there. Bull Meecham was approaching that prime meridian of inebriation that his wife, his sons, and his daughters, based on a grievously embattled history, had come to fear.