'Damned coach,' he said, telescoping the message that he hadn't made the team. It was enough of a signal to set her mind racing to find something reasonably reassuring to say. Providentially, the Johnstown house was on the edge of a school attended mostly by black children.
'Any black kids on the team?' she asked. He held up one finger. 'Get a chance to play with any black kids?' He shrugged, obviously having no idea where she was leading him.
'Go to the schoolyards where the black kids play. Couple months of that and you'll run rings around those lily- white honkies.'
He took the advice, still sulking as he brushed aside her attempted caress of his shoulders. It was weeks later, when he suddenly broke out in black street talk, that she knew he had taken her advice. Pure chance, she had decided, but a definite icebreaker.
The sun was barely visible through the arborvitaes and would soon be hidden behind the cedar fence, leaving a soft hush in the air. From the kitchen two floors below, exotic, mouth-watering odors wafted upward. In the oven, Ann knew, was a crusting
God's in his heaven and all's right with the world, Ann thought, prompted by the smells and the delicious knowledge of her treasure chest of family secrets. The festivities were Barbara's original idea to celebrate Eve's summer-school victory, a B-minus in advanced algebra. Ann had spent half the summer sweating over that one with Eve, certain that her effort had lifted the grade by one whole letter jump.
And Oliver had embroidered the victory with his own contribution. He had bought Eve a silver Honda, which, unbeknown to the victorious scholar, lay in wait in the garage next to his prized Ferrari, rarely used but fondled and caressed like a precious baby.
'You mustn't breathe a word,' Oliver had warned. 'Not a word.'
Barbara had come to her that morning with two secrets.
'Josh made the team. But don't tell Oliver. It's a surprise. We'll spring it at dinner.' 'You said two secrets.'
'I just got a hell of an order. Chicken
Eve came into her room sometime later with a further announcement and Ann literally had to turn away to hide her amusement.
'You might think this dinner is for my B-minus, but Dad's got a topper to that. The firm picked up one of those big Fortune Five Hundred clients in New York. But don't tell Mom. He's going to break out the Chateau Lafite- Rothschild '59. When he does that, we're into heavy duty.'
Any more secrets and Ann was certain that she would burst wide open. Surprisingly, she didn't feel left out. She had her little secret, too, reminded of it again as she passed Oliver on the back stairs. He had just come from the sauna that he had built in the basement, complete with adjoining shower. Sometimes the family gathered there. Nakedness was not a hang-up, although in deference to Ann they no longer went about the house without robes, another secret that Josh had confided.
Passing him on the stairs, she turned quickly away as her eyes caught a tantalizing picture. The damp had curled his hair and the terry-cloth V showed a profusion of jet-black body turf down to his navel. She could not bring herself to look below that but she could not ignore the piny scent that his skin exuded, embellishing the exciting aroma of his maleness. Passing him this close, with him in a state of semi-undress, was dizzying.
'Soon,' he said, winking as he passed her. 'I'm going to give Eve the Honda keys at dinner.'
In the kitchen, Barbara was wearing a long mauve velvet at-home dress with a single strand of matched pearls and even Eve had parted for once from her jeans and was wearing a more fitting, preppyish outfit of pleated skirt, blouse, and saddle shoes. As always, when it came to clothes, Ann felt inadequate, despite the fact that she wore one of Barbara's beige slack-suit hand-me-downs, a far cry from the J. C. Penney polyester she had worn that first day.
As if by silent consent, Ann picked up the cooling banana bread and joined the procession to the library, which doubled as a kind of family den. They moved through the marble-floored foyer, over which glistened a huge crystal chandelier, hanging three stories high in x brass-banistered stairwell. From the foyer's corner, a tall clock in an inlaid-mahogany case offered seven chimes to underscore the Roman hour on its dial.
Oliver had built the walnut bookshelves in the library to hold their rows of leather-bound old books. Against a blank wall was a huge, carved nineteenth-century armoire, nine feet high, which he had fitted with shelves that now held an assortment of liquor. On the fireplace mantel was an array of Staffordshire figures. The Staffordshire collection was Oliver's pride and there were more than fifty figures scattered around the house -milkmaids, sailors, Napoleons, Garibaldis, Little Red Riding Hoods, and crude, rosy-cheeked farm boys.
On a marble table in the foyer were displayed what had become the legendary Cribb and Molineaux, poised in their eternal pugilistic confrontation. The story of the Roses' first meeting had been repeated in the household ad infinitum.
Over the library fireplace hung a large English oil, a hunting scene, appropriate to the leather Chesterfield couch and matching chairs in front of it.
It was, Barbara admitted, a mishmash room, but perfect for squatting around a heavy, low oak 'rent table,' on a Sarouk blue-and-red Persian rug, to have Sunday dinners.
'It seems to be the only time we're all together,' Barbara had told her, offering a mysterious, wistful look, disturbingly out of character.
By the time Oliver arrived, with Josh trailing smugly behind, the platters of
