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Tom Thebus is singing in a monotone under his breath, singing in the sunlight that turns the croquet lawn on which he stands into a dazzle of green. “I’ll Never Smile Again.” His mind is not on the game that he is playing with Ralph and Grace Sapurty, but he interrupts the whispered and only partly recollected lyric of the song again and again to look over the lie of the balls and the possible shots that he considers for them as well as for himself: he does this with a casual professionalism, an insouciance carefully kind and tinged with camaraderie and humility, so that neither of his opponents becomes annoyed, ever, at his advice. On the contrary, they are flattered by his attentions.
He glints an occasional smile across the lawn at the woman who sits on a canvas chair in the shade of the umbrella trees at the very edge of the lawn, just this side of the large and beautifully tended kitchen garden. His smile is easy and warm, a smile that he thinks of as one of his good points. He is, indeed, vain about it, as he is vain about his small, scrupulously trimmed moustache and his wavy brown hair. She avoids his smile and his eyes, afraid, he knows, that he will discover in her eyes her admiration for and delight in him. She hides behind a copy of Liberty. But he knows that she admires him, and his actions, although performed as if he is not aware that she is considering each one of them with enormous care, are choreographed for her pleasure. He crouches now, his hair softly gleaming with rose oil, then stands straight, filling his briar from an old leather tobacco pouch. Mr. Sapurty is gesturing with his mallet toward two balls that lie close together on a slight incline beneath the heavy, powdery-blue flowers of a giant hydrangea. Tom Thebus, lighting his pipe, nods, and then gestures as well, using the stem of his pipe. It is a gesture that he has seen made in countless movies, and he imitates it flawlessly. Grace Sapurty shifts from one foot to another, smiling foolishly at him, her fingers touching the pink and yellow embroidered flowers on the bodice of her sundress.
Mr. Sapurty takes his shot. His ball hits the edge of the wicket planted at the base of the hydrangea and rolls down the incline. Tom Thebus smiles, not a smile of triumph, but one of good fellowship. “Brothers in difficult straits,” his smile says. “Tough luck,” it says.
Tough luck, he says. That’s a hard shot. He turns then and fires a glance straight at the woman in the shade and this time their eyes meet and she flushes, turns a page of her magazine, then another, looking down blindly at her lap. Tom walks toward his ball, his mallet on his shoulder, peering up with his eyes only toward a second-floor window that overlooks the lawn. He sees behind the dotted-Swiss curtain that hangs there the dark shape of the old man.
As he lines up his shot, his impeccably white shoes planted on either side of his mallet, he begins to whisper again. “I’ll never love again until I smile at you.” And then he sees, coming around the front of the house, the heavy-thighed body of Helga Schmidt. She is smiling a general greeting at all the figures on the lawn, her hand raised, but her eyes are twisted upward and to the left, focusing on the flat white of the dotted-Swiss curtain. Tom smiles as well, but not at Helga.
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Dear Alex,
How are you doing little brother? I’m writing to you at Lake Ronkonkoma because I seem to remember that this is about the time that you take your two weeks from the salt mines. I hope the kids are okay and of course the ball and chain. I’m only kidding, Susan. You must have that damn palace just about paid off by now. What about your plans about living there all year round? I guess it’s not so cheap to put in a cellar. And in times like these, oh boy.
I’m writing by the way, to thank you for finding out about this place for me at the office. It is, kid, just what the doctor ordered. It’s about a mile and a half or two down a dirt road to the nearest main road and about ten miles from there to Hackettstown which is the Big City around here. Netcong is the other way, maybe fifteen miles. And very quiet and cool in the evenings. Some skeeters at night but what can you expect in Jersey? At least they don’t wear shoes like people say. The people who run this place are your typical Germans, neat as a pin and run like clockwork. The meals they put on the table three times a day are enough to choke a horse. My table has five people plus yours truly and for breakfast for example there is always two platters of eggs, two dozen in all plus, ham and bacon and cereal and about ten gallons of fresh, and I mean fresh milk and coffee, not to mention bread and rolls and buns and biscuits, you name it. If you see me in the Fall and think you’re looking at another Hindenburg, I won’t be surprised, believe me.
I guess that Janet and little Tommy will be spending some time with you later in the summer after they come back from my dear sweet mother in law’s in Connecticut. If she starts in on me kid, do me a favor and take all her belly aching with a grain of salt, okay? Janet has a tendency to paint me all black and what really gets me is, she does it in front of the kid. Maybe you can get Susan to ask her to take it easy on me for Tommy’s sake. But for God’s sake don’t tell Janet you heard a peep from me about this because she’ll do the exact opposite as sure as hell. God only knows what she’s been feeding the kid about me but it gets my goat to be the villain of the piece. I know I have to bear a lot of the blame for this mess but it takes two to make a marriage, am I right! Gee how I envy you, kid. Susan is some peach.
Speaking of peaches, there is a gal up here who is in the same boat as me, divorced, maybe about 34, 35 and she is quite a looker. She’s got a boy about Tommy’s age and a nice kid too. She has her father with her too. A widower and the old geezer can’t stand me. But Marie, which is her name, likes me a lot and we get along fine. Don’t get any ideas that romance is on my mind. Once burned twice shy. It’s just nice that there is somebody my own age here and we can have some good clean fun and a few laughs. The old man and I play a lot of croquet and kid, is the old fart good? Oh brother. If I beat him once in a blue moon he gets so sore that he snaps at everybody the rest of the day.
Alright, I’m stopping here before I write a book. Give my love to Susan and tell her that I said you better be good to her because she is pure gold. And love to the kids too,
Tom
P.S. Don’t forget what I said about Janet and her tales. By the way, you wanted to know the name of the lake up here. Budd Lake is its name.
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I never dreamed when I saw you get out of the car that day — I remember you were wearing a knockout polka-dot dress — that we, that I, would feel this way. I mean, feel the way about you, I do.
Poppa will definitely warm up to you. He’s all discombobulated with Momma dead just six months. Don’t worry, please Tom, about Poppa.
I’m embarrassed to say, but I’ve been having trouble sleeping since the other night we walked back from the Hi-Top.
Of course I can go out with you! What makes you think I can’t go out with who I please, socially? My God, Tom, if you think Poppa’s such a tyrant …
We really have a barrel of laughs, Billy and I. He’s a swell kid. He reminds me so much, more and more, of my Tommy. I wish you could meet him.
Oh Tom, I feel like a high-school girl with her first crush. My first real crush was on a boy I worked with just out of high school. In a bank. He was full of fun. I feel just like that, but more.