called.”
“Obviously.”
“Percival’s willing, I
think
. I also think he’ll talk to me at his place in Georgetown, where the collection’s almost got to be.”
“You don’t really believe he’ll let you anywhere near it.”
“I believe he will, Grace.”
“Put your dreams away,” she sang, “for another day.”
“Well, he
will
, I talked to him, we sort of struck up a tiny little rapport.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“We went to the men’s room together.”
“Spare me the details.”
“See you later maybe.”
“Who’s there that you’re whispering?”
“I’m taking care of a sick friend.”
“What’s he got, the clap?”
“Always a joy to talk to you, Grace.”
Rackets in hand they walked through the park in a northeasterly direction. Selvy pointed out a clearing in some trees beyond a children’s play area. They could make out two courts, both empty.
“Ever get bombed on sake?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Once, on one of those high-speed trains to Kyoto, I think it was, I nearly did myself in.”
“Dutch gin’s good for doing yourself in.”
“Where?”
“I was in Zandvoort for the Grand Prix.”
“Grand Prix of volleyball, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look,” she said.
“Those aren’t tennis courts, are they?”
“Those are volleyball courts,” she said.
They decided to play anyway. Because the nets were so high, they hit underhand shots exclusively and did a lot of dipping and knee flexing, using strange body English. A small girl watched from the top of a sliding pond nearby. Eventually a certain lunatic rhythm began to assert itself. The players got the feel of things. They appeared to enjoy playing within these limitations and started keeping score more diligently.
Moll chased an errant serve down a small hill and when she came back up to courtside found that Selvy was about forty yards away, heading across the lawn, racket in hand, toward a black limousine that was parked on the grass. The back door opened and he got in. She watched the car bump down off the curb back onto the roadway and then swing left and pick up speed, passing behind a knoll and out of sight.
The small girl standing atop the sliding pond also watched, from a somewhat better perspective. Moll looked at her and shrugged. The girl pointed, her index finger tracing the direction of the car. Finally her arm dropped to her side and she came sliding down the shiny ramp and walked off toward a group of parents and other children.
Moll stood for a while, scanning the area, two tennis balls in one hand, the racket in the other. One of the children shrieked, in play, and when Moll turned in the direction of the sound she saw Selvy walking toward her along a paved lane between two rows of benches. He was still fifty yards away when she said, softly: “You forgot your racket.”
She was back on the church bench, wearing Selvy’s long johns this time. He came out of the bathroom, still a little wet, with a towel around his waist, grinning at the sight of her in his underwear.
“I just used that towel.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Get a clean towel.”
“I’m fine. I’m happy. Leave me alone.”
He sat at the table, facing her, his thumbnail nicking the label on the bottle of Wild Turkey she’d set out.
“We may be the start of a new kind of human potential group,” she said. “Wear each other’s clothing.”
“It’s probably been done.”
“Get in touch with each other’s feelings by exchanging clothes. I see it becoming big. Huge rallies in ballparks and concert halls. When people join the movement they have to fill in forms telling what size clothes they wear. We need a name for it.”
He leaned across the table and poured an inch of bourbon into the glass she held in her lap. Then he filled his own glass and got some cold cuts out of the refrigerator and sat back down.
“Apparel Personality Exchange,” she said.
“Some mustard on
“Obviously.”
“Percival’s willing, I
think
. I also think he’ll talk to me at his place in Georgetown, where the collection’s almost got to be.”
“You don’t really believe he’ll let you anywhere near it.”
“I believe he will, Grace.”
“Put your dreams away,” she sang, “for another day.”
“Well, he
will
, I talked to him, we sort of struck up a tiny little rapport.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“We went to the men’s room together.”
“Spare me the details.”
“See you later maybe.”
“Who’s there that you’re whispering?”
“I’m taking care of a sick friend.”
“What’s he got, the clap?”
“Always a joy to talk to you, Grace.”
Rackets in hand they walked through the park in a northeasterly direction. Selvy pointed out a clearing in some trees beyond a children’s play area. They could make out two courts, both empty.
“Ever get bombed on sake?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Once, on one of those high-speed trains to Kyoto, I think it was, I nearly did myself in.”
“Dutch gin’s good for doing yourself in.”
“Where?”
“I was in Zandvoort for the Grand Prix.”
“Grand Prix of volleyball, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look,” she said.
“Those aren’t tennis courts, are they?”
“Those are volleyball courts,” she said.
They decided to play anyway. Because the nets were so high, they hit underhand shots exclusively and did a lot of dipping and knee flexing, using strange body English. A small girl watched from the top of a sliding pond nearby. Eventually a certain lunatic rhythm began to assert itself. The players got the feel of things. They appeared to enjoy playing within these limitations and started keeping score more diligently.
Moll chased an errant serve down a small hill and when she came back up to courtside found that Selvy was about forty yards away, heading across the lawn, racket in hand, toward a black limousine that was parked on the grass. The back door opened and he got in. She watched the car bump down off the curb back onto the roadway and then swing left and pick up speed, passing behind a knoll and out of sight.
The small girl standing atop the sliding pond also watched, from a somewhat better perspective. Moll looked at her and shrugged. The girl pointed, her index finger tracing the direction of the car. Finally her arm dropped to her side and she came sliding down the shiny ramp and walked off toward a group of parents and other children.
Moll stood for a while, scanning the area, two tennis balls in one hand, the racket in the other. One of the children shrieked, in play, and when Moll turned in the direction of the sound she saw Selvy walking toward her along a paved lane between two rows of benches. He was still fifty yards away when she said, softly: “You forgot your racket.”
She was back on the church bench, wearing Selvy’s long johns this time. He came out of the bathroom, still a little wet, with a towel around his waist, grinning at the sight of her in his underwear.
“I just used that towel.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Get a clean towel.”
“I’m fine. I’m happy. Leave me alone.”
He sat at the table, facing her, his thumbnail nicking the label on the bottle of Wild Turkey she’d set out.
“We may be the start of a new kind of human potential group,” she said. “Wear each other’s clothing.”
“It’s probably been done.”
“Get in touch with each other’s feelings by exchanging clothes. I see it becoming big. Huge rallies in ballparks and concert halls. When people join the movement they have to fill in forms telling what size clothes they wear. We need a name for it.”
He leaned across the table and poured an inch of bourbon into the glass she held in her lap. Then he filled his own glass and got some cold cuts out of the refrigerator and sat back down.
“Apparel Personality Exchange,” she said.
“Some mustard on