Mr. Caudell used a very heavy hand on the booze bottle, and a lot of the guests were beginning to get that six o’clock glassy-eyed look, including Sandy’s mother, who laughed too loud habitually, even when she wasn’t high, and whose laugh, I now realized, Sandy had imitated on the ferry ride home that night the townies tried to rape her. (We really didn’t know whether rape had been their intention, but we constantly referred to that night among ourselves as The Big Rape Scene.) It was Sandy who kept the flow of food coming from the kitchen, and a good thing too, because otherwise all those swilling islanders would have floated out to England on a sea of alcohol. When the sun finally went down, everyone turned to face the ocean, as though paying obeisance to a familiar deity. There were the usual “oooohs” and “ahhhhs” accompanying the sunset, the unvaried reaction that came every night of the summer, as though each successive sunset were a new and exciting experience instead of an identical replay of the one that had taken place the night before. The Dynamiters played right through the scintillating display out there on the horizon, blasting the deck and the house and the island itself with their own rendition of “Gloria,” Deuce wailing the words and Phil feebly bolstering him. The drummer was a good musician but a loud one, and the other members of the group kept turning up their amplifiers louder and louder in an attempt to drown him out, all in vain. As the music got louder and louder, as Mr. Caudell’s drinks got stronger and stronger, as the sky and the ocean and the beach and the deck got darker and darker, the guests got noisier and noisier, so that there was a cacophony of sound hanging on the night air, canopied by the distant silent stars and a full moon that brought, for an instant only, renewed sighs of “ahhhhh” and “oooooh.” The conversation was deafening, it bounced from the deck, it reverberated against the rear wall of the house, it threatened to obliterate even The Dynamiters’ detonations. “Sandra, you’re a nice little girl,” Mr. Matthews said, and put his arm around her and squeezed her. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Matthews,” Sandy said, “but I must see if anything’s burning in the kitchen.” Frankie said, “Yes, but the terrible truth of Pinter’s plays is exactly what makes them so excruciatingly human,” to which Mrs. Collins said, “But I think his people are horrible,” to which Stuart in one of his rare contributions said, “All people are horrible, darling.”
“I adore these two boys,” Violet said, putting her fat arms around Frankie and Stuart. “I just adore them. We have no secrets from each other, do we, boys?” and Frankie said, “Not a secret in the world,” and Stuart merely nodded, looking pleased and embarrassed. Mr. Ogilvy, who was an editor at a publishing house said, “Yes, but try to understand the Negro’s viewpoint. If he is forced to become an expatriate in order to become a man, why should he cling to any fond memories of this country?” Agnes Bergman, who was a close friend of Sandy’s mother, said, “I’m sick of everybody always talking about the Negro. How about the white man, huh, how about him?” to which Mr. Ogilvy said, “You’d better get used to people talking about the Negro,” to which Agnes Bergman said, “Screw the Negro. I don’t have to get used to anything I don’t want to get used to,” and David asked her if she would like another drink.
Mr. Patterson, who was a television executive, said, “Yes, but why do you think kids today are experimenting with all this crap?” and Mrs. Anhelm, who ran a notions shop in Queens, asked, “Why?” Mr. Patterson, grateful for the cue, nodded and said, “I’ll tell you why,” and Mr. Mannheim, who taught speech and dramatics at Columbia University, said, “I deal with youngsters every day of the week.” Mr. Patterson said, “It’s rebellion,” and Mrs. Anhelm said, “It’s their sex drive, that’s what it is,” and a woman wearing high-heeled shoes and a black bikini over which she had thrown a lacy robe that looked like a peignoir, said, “I’m from St. Louis.” Mr. Patterson said, “They simply refuse to accept adult responsibilities.” Mr. Mannheim said, “You’d be surprised how many of them are smoking pot,” and Mrs. Anhelm said, “I once smoked Mary Jane at a party,” and the woman in the black bikini said, “It’s the Gateway to the West,” and Mr. Mannheim said, “Did it turn you on?” and Mrs. Anhelm said, “I only smoked half a joint,” and Mr. Patterson said, “They refuse to emulate,” and Mr. Mannheim said, “It isn’t hep to call it Mary Jane any more,” and the woman in the black bikini said, “Hip.”
“It isn’t quite your proper bag,” Deuce sang into the microphone, “the scene ain’t yours, it’s ours.”
“Yes, but if we possess the power to blast them to hell and gone,” Mr. Porter said, “then why don’t we use it? Why are we holding back?”
“It’s girl and boy,” Deuce sang.
“Let’s demolish them,” Mr. Porter said, “annihilate them!”
“And flower joy,” Deuce sang.
The man with Mr. Porter, his bald head peeling, his face as lobster red as Mr. Caudell claimed his got in the sun, said, “I agree of course,” and Mr. Porter said, “Do you agree?” and the bald man said, “Of course, but what about retaliation?” Mr. Porter considered this for a moment, and then said, “Let them retaliate! It’s a question of lasting power, that’s all. We’ll still be going strong after they’re all dead and gone, let the bastards retaliate. Do you agree with me?” The bald man said, “Of course, I agree with you,” and Mr. Porter said, “You agree with me, don’t you?” and the bald man said, “Of course.”
“It isn’t quite your proper bag,” Deuce sang, “the scene ain’t yours, it’s ours.”
I took their empty glasses and carried them to the bar.
“Hello there, Sammy,” Mr. Caudell said.
“It’s Peter,” I told him.
“Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,” he said, and laughed. “What’ll it be, Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater?”
“Two scotches and soda,” I said.
“Coming up. You want a little snort yourself, Peter, Peter pumpkin eater?”
“Thank you, I don’t drink.”
“Ho-ho, zat ees rich,” Mr. Caudell said.
“It’s true, though.”
“What do you do, Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater?”
“I don’t get you.”
“With Sandy,” he said, and winked.
“Why won’t you let us set it right?” Deuce sang.
“I still don’t get you,” I said.
“Love all day and love all night...”
“Forget it, pal,” Mr. Caudell said, and winked again, and mixed the drinks.
“Lulu had a baby,” someone sang over Deuce’s voice, “his name was Sonny Jim...”
“She put him in a pisspot...”
“Shhh, shhh, die Kinder,” someone said.
“It isn’t quite your proper bag...”
“Two scotches and soda,” Mr. Caudell said.
“The scene ain’t yours, it’s ours.”
I picked up the glasses and carried them to where Mr. Porter and the bald-headed man were still talking.
“Because Goldwater himself advocated defoliation,” Mr. Porter said, “don’t you remember that?” the bald man said, “Of course I remember it,” and Mr. Porter said, “You remember it, don’t you?” and the bald man said, “Of course.” Behind me, I heard my father telling someone, “I’m a connoisseur of good scotch,” and then he grabbed me as I handed Mr. Porter his drink, and swung me around, and put his arm around my shoulders and said, “C’mere, Peter, tell these good people, am I a connoisseur of good scotch, or am I a connoisseur of good scotch?” I looked him in the eye, and I said, “You are a connoisseur of good scotch, Dad,” and he said, “You bet your sweet ass I am.” I excused myself just as someone said, “Is that your son? How old is he?” Behind me, I could hear my father saying, “Sixteen going on twenty-four,” and then a woman laughed, and said, “He’s so big for his age.” Sandy was leaning over the deck railing, looking back over her shoulder as I approached.