“I’d like to come and study it. But I think I better not because the people might be there.”
“That’s smart,” young Tom said. “You’re smart, horseman.”
They went off and Thomas Hudson worked all afternoon. Andy watched for a while and then went out somewhere and David watched and read and did not talk.
Thomas Hudson wanted to paint the leap of the fish first because painting him in the water was going to be much more difficult and he made two sketches, neither of which he liked, and finally a third one that he did like.
“Do you think that gets it, Davy?”
“Gee, papa, it looks wonderful. But water comes up with him when he comes out, doesn’t it? I mean not just when he splashed back.”
“It must,” his father agreed. “Because he has to burst the surface.”
“He came up so long. A lot must have come up. I suppose it really drips off him or pours off him if you could see it fast enough. Is he on his way up or on his way down?”
“This is just the sketch. I thought of him as just at the top.”
“I know it’s just the sketch, papa. You forgive me if I butt in. I don’t mean to act as though I knew.”
“I like you to tell me.”
“You know who’d know would be Eddy. He sees faster than a camera and he remembers. Don’t you think Eddy is a great man?”
“Of course he is.”
“Practically nobody knows about Eddy. Tommy does, of course. I like Eddy better than anybody except you and Mr. Davis. He cooks just like he loved it and he knows so much and can do anything. Look what he did with the shark and look how he went overboard yesterday after the fish.”
“And last night people beating him up because they didn’t believe him.”
“But, papa, Eddy isn’t tragic.”
“No. He’s happy.”
“Even today after he was all beaten up he was happy. And I’m sure he was happy that he went in after him.”
“Of course.”
“I wish Mr. Davis was happy the way Eddy is.”
“Mr. Davis is more complicated than Eddy.”
“I know it. But I can remember when he used to be careless happy. I know Mr. Davis very well, papa.”
He’s pretty happy now. I know he’s lost the carelessness though.”
“I didn’t mean a bad carelessness.”
“I didn’t, either. But there is some sort of a sureness that he’s lost.”
“I know it,” David said.
“I wish he’d find it. Maybe he’ll find it when he writes again. You see Eddy’s happy because he does something well and does it every day.”
“I guess Mr. Davis can’t do his every day the way you do and Eddy does.”
“No, And there are other things.”
“I know. I know too much for a kid, papa. Tommy knows twenty times as much as I do and knows the damndest things and they don’t hurt him. But everything I know hurts me. I don’t know why it should, either.”
“You mean that you feel it.”
“I feel it and it does something to me. It’s like a vicarious sin. If there is any such thing.”
“I see.”
“Papa, you excuse me for talking seriously. I know it isn’t polite. But I like to sometimes because there is so much we don’t know and then when we do know, it comes so fast it goes over you like a wave. The way the waves are today.”
“You can always ask me anything, Davy.”
“I know. Thank you very much. I’ll wait, I guess, on some things. There’s some I guess you can only learn for yourself probably.”
“Do you think we better do this ‘rummy’ business with Tom and Andy at Bobby’s? Remember I got in trouble about the man saying you were always drunk.”
“I remember—when he’d seen me drunk on wine twice in three years—but let’s not talk about it. This at Mr. Bobby’s will be a good alibi in case I ever did drink. If I did it twice with that man I might do it three times. No, I think this is a good thing to do, papa.”
“Have you done it lately, the pretend-rummy scene?”
“Tom and I do some pretty good ones. But with Andy they’re much better. Andy’s sort of a genius on them. He can do horrible ones. Mine are sort of special.”
“What have you done lately?” Thomas Hudson went on drawing.
“Did you ever see me do the idiot brother? The mongolian idiot?”
“Never.”
“How do you like it now, Davy?” Thomas Hudson showed him the sketch.
“It’s fine,” David said. “Now I see what you were after. It’s when he hangs in the air just before he falls. Can I really have the painting, papa?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“There’ll be two.”
“I’ll only take one to school and I’ll keep one at home at mother’s. Or would you rather keep it here?”
“No. She might like it. Tell me about some others that you did,” Thomas Hudson said.
“We used to have some awful ones on trains. Trains are the best because of the sort of people I guess. You don’t get those sort of people concentrated almost anywhere except on trains. And then they can’t get away.”
Thomas Hudson heard Roger talking in the other room and started to clean up and put away his gear. Young Tom came in and said, “How are you, papa? Did you work well? May I see it?”
Thomas Hudson showed him the two sketches and he said, “I like them both.”
“Do you like one better than the other?” David asked him.
“No. They’re both fine,” he said. Thomas Hudson could see he was in a hurry and that his mind was on something.
“How is it coming?” David asked him.
“It’s terrific,” young Tom said. “It will be wonderful if we do it right. They’re all down there now and we’ve been working on them all afternoon. We saw Mr. Bobby and Constable before they came. The way it’s been so far is that Mr. Davis is sodden and I’ve been trying to dissuade him.”
“You didn’t overdo it?”
“Hell no,” young Tom said. “You ought to have seen Mr. Davis. Every drink made a difference in him. But only imperceptibly.”
“What was he drinking?”
“Tea. Bobby’s got it in a rum bottle. He’s got a gin bottle fixed with water for Andy.”
“How did you try to dissuade Mr. Davis?”
“I pled with him. But so they couldn’t hear me. Mr. Bobby’s in it, too, but he’s using real liquor.”
“We better get down there,” David said. “Before Mr. Bobby gets too far ahead. How’s Mr. Davis feeling?”
“Wonderful. He’s a great, great artist, Dave.”
“Where’s Andy?”
“Downstairs practicing part of it in front of a mirror.”
“Is Eddy going to be in it?”
“Eddy and Joseph are both going to be in it.”
“They’ll never remember.”
“They only have one line.”
“Eddy can remember one line but I don’t know about Joseph.”
“He just repeats it after Eddy.”
“Is Constable in it?”
“Sure.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Seven with two girls. One nice-looking and one wonderful. She’s sorry for Mr. Davis already.”
“Oh boy,” said David. “Let’s go.”
“How’re you going to get down there?” young Tom asked David.
“I’ll carry him,” Thomas Hudson said.
“Please, papa, let me wear sneakers,” David said. “Let me wear Tommy’s sneakers. I’ll walk on the side of my feet and it won’t hurt them and it will look good.”
“All right. We might as well go. Where’s Roger?”
“He’s having a quick one with Eddy for his art,” young Tom said. “He was at bat a long time on that tea, papa.”
The wind was still blowing hard outside when they went into the Ponce de León. The peo
ple from the yacht were at the bar drinking rum swizzles. They were a nice-looking lot of people, tanned and dressed in whites, and they were polite and made room at the bar. Two men and a girl were at one end where the slot machine was and three men and the other girl were at the other end nearest the door. It was the lovely-looking girl who was at the slot machine end. But the other girl was awfully nice-looking, too. Roger, Thomas Hudson, and the boys came in straight. David even tried not to limp.
Mr. Bobby looked at Roger and said, “You back?”
Roger nodded hopelessly and Bobby put the rum bottle and a glass on the bar in front of him.
Roger reached for it and didn’t say anything.
“You drinking, Hudson?” Bobby said to Thomas Hudson. His face was stern and righteous. Thomas Hudson nodded. “You ought to cut it out,” Bobby said. “There’s a goddam limit to everything.”
“I just want a little rum, Bobby.”
“That stuff he’s drinking?”
“No. Bacardi.”
Mr. Bobby poured a glass and handed it to Thomas Hudson.
“Take it,” he said. “Though you know I shouldn’t serve you.”
Thomas Hudson drank the glass at a gulp and it was warming and inspiring.
“Give me another,” Thomas Hudson said.
“In twenty minutes, Hudson,” Bobby said. He looked at the clock behind the bar.
By now the people were paying a little attention, but politely.
“What are you drinking, Sport?” Mr. Bobby asked David.
“You know damn well I’m off the stuff,” David said to him severely.
“Since when?”
“Since last night you know damn well.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Bobby said. He took a quick one himself. “How the hell am I to keep track of you goddam delinquents? All I ask is you get that Hudson out of here when I’ve got decent trade.”
“I’m drinking quietly,” Thomas Hudson said.
“You better.” Mr. Bobby corked the bottle in front of Roger and put it back on the shelf.
Young Tom nodded to him approvingly and whispered to Roger. Roger lowered his head on his hands. Then he raised his head and pointed to the bottle. Young Tom shook his head. Bobby picked up the bottle, uncorked it, and set it down in front of Roger.
“Drink yourself to death,” he said. “I won’t lose any sleep.”
By now the two groups were watching this pretty closely; but still politely. They were slumming all right but they were polite and they seemed nice people.
Then Roger spoke for the first time.
“Give the little rat a drink,” he said to Bobby.
“What will you have, son?” Mr. Bobby asked Andy.
“Gin,” Andy said.
Thomas Hudson was careful not to watch the people. But he could feel them.
Bobby put the bottle in front of Andy and set a glass by it. Andy poured the glass full and lifted it to Bobby.
“Here’s to you, Mr. Bobby,” he said. “The first one all day.”
“Drink up,” said Bobby. “You come in late.”
“Papa had his money,” David said. “His birthday money from mother.”
Young Tom looked up in his father’s face and started to cry. He kept himself from actually crying but it was sad to see and it was not overdone.
Nobody spoke until Andy said, “I’d like another gin, please, Mr. Bobby.”
“Pour your own,” said Bobby. “You poor unfortunate child.” Then he turned to Thomas Hudson. “Hudson,” he said. “Have another and get out.”
“I can stay as long as I’m quiet,” Thomas Hudson said.
“If I know you, you won’t be quiet for long,” Bobby said, vindictively.
Roger pointed toward the bottle and young Tom hung onto his sleeve. He’d controlled his tears and he was being brave and good.
“Mr. Davis,” he said. “You don’t have to.”
Roger did not say anything and Mr. Bobby put the bottle in front of him again.
“Mr. Davis, you have to write tonight,” young Tom said. “You know you promised to write tonight.”
“What do you think I’m drinking for?” Roger said to him.
“But, Mr. Davis, you didn’t have to drink this much when you wrote The Storm.”
“Why don’t you shut up?” Roger said to him.
Young Tom was patient and brave and long-suffering.
“I will, Mr. Davis. I only do it because you asked me to. Can’t we go back to the house?”
“You’re a good kid, Tom,” Roger said. “But we’re staying here.”
“For very long, Mr. Davis?”
“To the goddam end.”
“I don’t think we need to, Mr. Davis,” young Tom said. “Really I don’t. And you know if you get so you can’t see you won’t be able to write.”
“I’ll dictate,” Roger said. “Like Milton.”
“I know you dictate beautifully,” young Tom said. “But this morning when Miss Phelps tried to take it off the machine it was mostly music.”
“I’m writing an opera,” Roger said.
“I know you’ll write a wonderful opera, Mr. Davis. But don’t you think we ought to finish the novel first? You took a big advance on the novel.”
“Finish it yourself,” Roger said. “You ought to know the plot by now.”
“I know the plot, Mr. Davis, and it’s a lovely plot but it has that same girl in it that you had die in that other book and people may be confused.”
“Dumas did the same thing.”
“Don’t badger him,” Thomas Hudson said to young Tom. “How can he write if you badger him all the time?”
“Mr. Davis, couldn’t you just get a really good secretary to write it for you? I’ve heard that novelists did that.”
“No. Too expensive.”
“Do you want me to help you, Roger?” Thomas Hudson asked.
“Yes. You can paint it.”
“That’s wonderful,” young Tom said. “Will you truly, papa?”
“I’ll paint it in a day,” Thomas Hudson said.
“Paint it upside down like Michelangelo,” Roger said. “Paint it big enough so King George can read it without his spectacles.”
“Are you going to paint it, papa?” David asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” David said. “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard.”
“It won’t be too difficult, papa?”
“Hell no. It’s probably too simple. Who’s the girl?”
“That girl Mr. Davis always has.”
“Paint her in half a day,” Thomas Hudson said.
“Paint her upside down,” Roger said.
“Keep it clean,” Thomas Hudson told him.
“Mister Bobby, may I have another slug?” Andy asked.
“How many have you had, son?” Bobby asked him.
“Only two.”
“Go ahead,” Bobby told him and handed him the bottle. “Listen, Hudson, when are you going to get that picture out of here?”
“Haven’t you had any offers on it?”
“No,” Bobby said. “And it clutters the place up. Besides it makes me goddam nervous. I want it out of here.”
“Pardon me,” one of the men from the yacht spoke to Roger. “Is that canvas for sale?”
“Who spoke to you?” Roger looked at him.
“No one,” the man said. “You’re Roger Davis, aren’t you?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“If your friend painted that canvas and it is for sale I’d like to discuss the price with him,” the man said turning. “You’re Thomas Hudson, aren’t you?”
“Hudson is the name.”
“Is the canvas for sale?”
“No,” Thomas Hudson told him. “I’m sorry.”
“But the bartender said—”
“He’s crazy,” Thomas Hudson told him. “He’s an awfully good fellow. But he’s crazy.”
“Mr. Bobby, may I please have ano
ther gin?” Andrew asked very politely.
“Certainly, my little man,” Bobby said and served it. “Do you know what they ought to do? They ought to put your healthy charming face on the label of those gin bottles instead of that idiotic collection of berries. Hudson, why don’t you design a suitable label for a gin bottle that would reproduce the childish charm of young Andy’s face?”
“We could launch a brand,” Roger said. “They’ve got Old Tom gin. Why shouldn’t we put out Merry Andrew?”
“I’ll put up the money,” said Bobby. “We can make the gin here on the island. The little lads can bottle it and affix the labels. We can sell it wholesale and in detail.”
“It would be a return to craftsmanship,” Roger said. “Like William Morris.”
“What would we make the gin from, Mr. Bobby?” Andrew asked.
“From bonefish,” Bobby said. “And from conches.”
The yacht people did not look at Roger or Thomas Hudson nor at the boys now. They were watching Bobby and they looked worried.
“About that canvas,” the one man said.
“What canvas are you referring to, my good man?” Bobby asked him, downing another quick one.
“The very big canvas with the three waterspouts and the man in a dinghy.”
“Where?” asked Bobby.
“There,” said the man.
“Begging your pardon, sir, I think you’ve had enough. This is a respectable place. We don’t run to waterspouts and men in dinghys here.”
“I mean the picture there.”
“Don’t provoke me, sir. There’s no picture there. If there was a painting in here it would be above the bar where paintings belong and it would be a nude reclining full length in a proper shipshape manner.”
“I mean that picture there.”
“What picture where?”
“There.”
“I’d be happy to fix you a Bromo Seltzer, sir. Or call you a rickshaw,” Bobby said.
“A rickshaw?”
“Yes. A goddam rickshaw if you want it straight to your face. You’re a rickshaw. And you’ve had enough.”
“Mr. Bobby?” Andy asked very politely. “Do you think I’ve had enough?”
“No, my dear boy. Of course not. Serve yourself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bobby,” Andy said. “This is four.”
“I wish it was a hundred,” Bobby said. “You’re the pride of my heart.”
“What do you say we get out of here, Hal,” one of the men said to the man who wanted to buy the picture.