The Great Santini Part 38

"The Virgin Mary."

"Who is your second favorite?"

"That Greatest and Bravest of all fighter pilots-Bull Meecham," Bull said; then he made a sweeping gesture of dismissal with his arm. "O.K., the game is over, Mary Anne. Go knit bootees for your first kid or something. You're starting to bother me."

"Hey, Dad?" Mary Anne asked.

"Vamoose, Sayonara, Adios, Au Revoir, and beat feet it out of here," Bull snapped..

"Am I a Meecham, Dad? Can girls be real Meechams? Girls without jump shots. Or am I a simple form of Meecham? Like in biology. Mary Anne, the one-celled Meecham. Or maybe I'm higher than that. Maybe I'm a coelenterate Meecham."

"Yeah, Mary Anne, you're a simple form of Meecham. You're a girl. Now scram. I'm starting to lose my temper. I'm gonna give you a break and just pretend you're not here. I'm not gonna listen to you or answer when you speak," Bull said, hiding himself behind newsprint once more.

Mary Anne began a slow, arduously clumsy dance that began to accelerate as she circ.u.mnavigated her father's easy chair. What began as a dramatically delusory ploy to recapture her father's attention turned into a sad tarantella of girlish desperation. She began to sing as she danced around him. "h.e.l.lo, Dad," she sang, tickling beneath his chin as she circled him. "h.e.l.lo, Dad, it's me, your invisible daughter. You can't see me, but I'm always here. I'm always here, Daddy-poo. I can't shoot a hook shot. Or a jump shot. I can't drive down the lane or score the winning bucket. But I'm here anyway. Yoo hoo. Dad. It's me. It's the Phantom. Yes, it's Mary Anne the phantom girl, the real ghost of the old Huger Mansion. I'm always here hovering about, unseen, unheard, and unspoken to. Dad? Dad?"

"Beat it, Mary Anne, you caught a bad case of the weird somewhere today," the face behind the newspaper ordered.

Mary Anne knelt down and hugged her father around the knees. He made no response to her gesture at all.

"Dad, I have something very important to tell you," she said, in a voice that could not stop singing. "I'm pregnant, Dad. Yes, it's true. I'm pregnant."

She stopped and waited for the newspaper to drop beneath eye level. Bull was reading an account of a Celtic-Knickerbocker game that had gone into overtime.

"You didn't hear me, Dad. I'm pregnant. I'm going to have a baby."

Rising again, Mary Anne resumed her dance around the chair. This time she pulled at her father's earlobes and tousled his hair. "I'm pregnant with your grandchild, Dad."

"Get off my back, Mary Anne. Go to the kitchen and help your mother fix dinner. All I want to do is read the G.o.ddam paper."

"I'm pregnant by a Negro, Daddy. A huge, fat-lipped, kinky-haired Negro named Rufus. Did you hear me, Daddy? Your son-in-law is a Neeeegrooow. And your little high yellow grandchild is going to come up to you and say 'Pappy.' I didn't want to tell you this, Dad, but since we're baring our souls to each other, I feel I ought to tell you he's also a pacifist. A pacifist h.o.m.os.e.xual. But you'll get to like him after a while. Dwarfs are easy to like. Especially when they're crippled. And r.e.t.a.r.ded."

"Cut your yappin', Mary Anne. Go do your homework," her father said.

"I'm leaving, Dad. But I want you to know I can see through your gruffness," she said, reaching the first stair. She had stopped her song. "I can see right through it. And I want you to know that I understand. Just me. Just me."

As Ben awaited his father's call to dinner, he lay on his back, shooting a basketball toward the ceiling of his room over and over again. It was the wrist snap he worried about most before a game. If the wrist failed him, then the touch had fled and he would be forced to challenge the tall men who dwelled beneath the basket with swift drives that they would quickly move to intercept. Karen opened his door softly and asked, "Can I come in, Ben?"

"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."

"Yeah, 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. cla.s.s 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, Pa.s.sionately 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, quant.i.tative dimension.

"Sure, Ben," Karen said simply. "You have s.e.xual 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.

The late afternoon consisted of a series of chance meetings, quiet conversations, and controlled showdowns all dedicated to the belief that Ben required a matrix of silence for his fury to build against the invaders from Peninsula High School. When Lillian announced dinner, she did so in a barely audible whisper to Karen who bore the news to her father in a hushed voice, then carried it to the other children upstairs as though she were a nun carrying news of a friar's death. She mounted the stairs with estimable lightness.

"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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed.

"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 roast beef 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 divertiss.e.m.e.nt. 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 pa.s.sed, 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 G.o.ddam peach eating champ. Jesus Christ!"

At six-thirty, Ben finished packing his uniform and was waiting in his room for the summons from his father to leave for the game. Kneeling before the crucifix in his room, he mouthed a prayer that instantly shamed him and he renounced it as soon as he was certain that it had been fully articulated and received by the ear of G.o.d which he imagined to be as large and black as a galaxy. But his renunciation lacked the fire of the original prayer. Ben prayed for his own personal success. The team could lose, in fact could be beaten badly, but Ben wanted and needed a credible game while under the dispa.s.sionate gaze of college scouts. The prayer rose out of him obscenely.

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 embarra.s.sed Ben when he realized he had not seen Toomer at all since basketball season had begun.

"Hey, white boy," Toomer said.