“I sent her for some ice.”
She kissed him and gave him a quick hug. “I’m just off to pick up Mrs. Simpson. We’ve got a date tonight, you know.”
“Yes, I rode out with Sam. He reminded me.”
“Well, we’re on a kind of tight schedule. You’d better shower. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Where’s Jimmy?”
“Upstairs.” She hesitated, then said, “He’s on a scholarly kick lately.”
“What’s the matter, honey?” Farrell had just noticed the tense little frown on his wife’s forehead. She wasn’t a worrier and this particular frown, like that of a nearsighted person narrowing his eyes for better vision, was always an indication of trouble. “Anything wrong?”
“I’ve got to rush. You get showered, okay?”
When the door closed behind her, Farrell rubbed a hand slowly over the back of his neck. Angey returned with the ice bucket and asked if she could play her records. Farrell said all right and made himself a mild whiskey and water. Then he went upstairs and stopped at the doorway of his son’s room. Jimmy was hunched over his desk, the light from a reading lamp shadowing his small, alert face.
“Man at work, eh?” Farrell said. “How goes it?”
“Everything’s fine. Dad.” Jimmy glanced sideways at him, his eyes shadowed by the lamp behind his head. “There’s nothing wrong.”
Farrell sat on the edge of Jimmy’s bed and looked around the room. “I don’t know what else we could fit in here,” he said. Most of the available wall space was occupied with tanks of tropical fish and Jimmy’s cigar box collection. In addition, there was a cage of parakeets, two dismantled radios, a gum-dispensing machine and several boxes of picture albums and business ledgers which Jimmy had bought at an auction in Hayrack. He glanced at Jimmy’s desk and saw an open notebook covered with doodles and ticktacktoe games. “How come you’ve slacked off on football, by the way?”
“I don’t know. I got tired of it, I guess.” Jimmy drew a circle on the paper and began shading it with the broad tip of his pencil. He seemed disturbed by the conversation. “I’m not good at football,” he said, his voice rising and breaking childishly. “I couldn’t play it any good. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No, of course not. But I understand what Billy Sims meant now. He said you couldn’t play and I assumed your mother had clamped down for some reason or other.”
Jimmy glanced quickly at him. “How come you were talking to Billy about me?”
“Well, I saw the boys outside and asked where you were. Anyway, I think you’re too young to decide whether you’re good, bad or indifferent at any sport. Play for fun, that’s enough for the moment. By the time you get to prep school, you’ll probably know if you’re any good or not.” Farrell glanced at his watch. He knew he should be getting ready for the Wards’ party, but he did not like to leave his son in this cheerless mood.
“You know, maybe we should take in a few pro football games this fall,” he said. “You’ll see men who’re paid a lot of money to play make a foolish mistake every now and then. I’m serious. They miss blocks and drop passes just the way you boys do. They’re not perfect, and they’ve been playing the game for years. So you shouldn’t worry about making a mistake or two. It happens to the best. So how about it? Would you like me to pick up some tickets tomorrow?”
“All right,” Jimmy said, staring at the circle he had shaded with his pencil.
“You don’t sound excited about it.”
“Well, gosh, I said all right, didn’t I?”
“It’s a deal then.” Farrell walked down the hallway to his bedroom and put his drink down on the night table. Barbara had laid out his dinner jacket on his bed, and he remembered then that the Wards’ party was in honor of Mr. Hunter, one of the directors of the Faircrest development. They were dining at the country club, and on the train two mornings ago Ward had said, “Mr. Hunter rates a black tie, I guess.” The inference that his friends might not rate a black tie had not been allowed to hang awkwardly in the air. Ward had underscored it with a bold flourish. “If it were just our regular gang I wouldn’t bother,” he had said, shaking out his newspaper. “But with Mr. Hunter putting in an appearance, it’s a little bit special.”
Farrell took off his coat and tie, and stretched out on Barbara’s bed, adjusting his position so that his shoes rested on the footstead rather than the spread. He was tall enough to do this without difficulty; he was over six feet, and except for an additional eight or ten pounds he was very much as he had been fifteen years ago, with big arms and shoulders, a deep chest and narrow hips. Farrell had a long, angular face, dark gray eyes and brown hair cut close. The normal cast of his features was almost grave, but there was a humor about his eyes which frequently encouraged people to tell him their problems. His nickname in college had been Uncle; even then he had been a good listener.
Farrell glanced at the bedside clock. Six-thirty. The room was pleasantly warm, and the color scheme of grays and blues was restful. They had splurged a bit here, with wall to wall carpeting, and two handsome old walnut chests to supplement the built-in closet space. It was a very comfortable room, and Farrell rather wished he didn’t have to get up. He punched the pillow into a more comfortable position under his head and took a sip from his drink. It would have been agreeable to close his eyes and relax completely for a few minutes, but he could not anesthetize a nagging speculation as to what was behind the tense little frown on Barbara’s forehead. He knew that particular frown very well. It was different from her expression when the children were ill, or when she was working on her accounts, or when she was exasperated with him for playing an extra nine holes of golf on Saturday and leaving her to cope with the children and preparations for a party. This particular frown was different; it meant she was up against something she couldn’t handle, a problem she saw no way of solving.
Farrell had seen this frown the first day they had met, and now, sipping a drink in the quiet bedroom they had shared for years, his thoughts drifted back to that time...
He had called the Walker home from Philadelphia, saying hesitantly, “This is Lieutenant Farrell, John Farrell, that is. I called because I knew David Walker, he was in my platoon and I thought...”
That was as far as he had got; her excited voice cut him off. “Yes, of course, Lieutenant. David wrote us about you. Darn! Dad isn’t in just now. He’ll be so eager to talk to you. Where are you now?”
“In Philadelphia.”
“Dad’s gone to Pottstown for the cattle auction. He’ll be so disappointed he missed you.”
“Well, I could call later.”
“That would be wonderful.” He had heard her catch her breath. “But look! I know you must have all sorts of plans of your own, but could you possibly come out and spend the night with us? Dad would be so pleased. Could you squeeze it in? Please?”
“Well, I’d like to very much but my schedule is pretty tight. I’m supposed to be in Chicago tomorrow.”
“I shouldn’t be trying to pressure you this way. If you could call Dad later that would be wonderful.”
“Well, actually, I could probably make it all right,” he had said. That hadn’t been the truth; he was due in Chicago the next day to see an advertising agency about a job, and changing his plans meant giving up what in those days had been a very precious plane ticket. But he had not been able to resist the wistfulness in her voice.