Authors: Bernard Malamud
“You’re on.” Roy’s voice was husky.
Gus covered his good eye and pretended he was a mind reader trying to fathom the number. His glass eye stared unblinking.
“Ten bucks,” he announced.
Roy’s throat went dry. He drew his wallet out of his pants pocket. Max took it from him and loudly counted up a five and four single dollar bills. “Nine.” He slapped the table and guffawed.
“Wonderful,” Memo murmured. “Three hundred I owe to you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“It was a bet. Will you take my IOU?”
“Wanna try again?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll lose your panties,” Max warned.
“On what?” Gus asked.
Roy thought. “What about another number?”
“Righto. What kind?”
“I’ll pick out a number from one to ten. You tell me what it is.”
Gus considered. “For the three hundred?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want me to write the number?”
“Keep it in your head.”
“Go ahead.”
“Got the number?”
“I have it.”
Again Gus eclipsed his good eye and took a slow breath. He made it seem like a kind of magic he was doing. Memo was fascinated.
“Deuce,” Gus quickly announced.
Roy felt as if he had been struck on the conk. He considered lying but knew they could tell if he did.
“That’s right, how’d you do it?” He felt foolish.
Gus winked.
Max was all but coming apart with laughter. Memo looked away.
Gus swallowed his Scotch. “Two is a magic number,” he crooned at Memo. “Two makes the world go around.” She smiled slightly, watching Roy.
He tried to eat but felt numbed.
Max just couldn’t stop cackling. Roy felt like busting him one in the snoot.
Gus put his long arm around Memo’s bare shoulders. “I have lots of luck, don’t I, babyface?”
She nodded and sipped her drink.
The lights went on. The m.c. bobbed up from a table he had been sitting at and went into his routine.
“Six hundred I owe to you,” Roy said, throwing Max into another whoop of laughter.
“Forget it, slugger. Maybe some day you might be able to do me a favor.”
They were all suddenly silent.
“What kind of favor?” Roy asked.
“When I am down and out you can buy me a cup o’ coffee.”
They laughed, except Roy.
“I’ll pay you now.” He left the table and disappeared. In a few minutes he returned with a white tablecloth over his arm.
Roy flapped out the cloth and one of the spotlights happened to catch it in the air. It turned red, then gold.
“What’s going on?” Max said.
Roy whisked the cloth over Gus’s head.
“The first installment.”
He grabbed the bookie’s nose and yanked. A stream of silver dollars clattered into his plate.
Gus stared at the money. Memo looked at Roy in intense surprise.
People at the nearby tables turned to see what was going on. Those in the rear craned and got up. The m.c. gave up his jokes and waved both spots to Roy.
“For Pete’s sake, sit down,” Max hissed.
Roy rippled the green cloth in front of Max’s face and dragged out of his astonished mouth a dead herring.
Everybody in the place applauded.
From Memo’s bosom, he plucked a duck egg.
Gus got red in the face. Roy grabbed his beak again and twisted — it shed more cartwheels.
“Second installment.”
“What the hell is this?” Gus sputtered.
The color wheels spun. Roy turned purple, red, and yellow. From the glum Mercy’s pocket he extracted a long salami.
Gus’s ears ran a third installment of silver. A whirl of the cloth and a white bunny hopped out of Memo’s purse. From Max’s size sixteen shirt collar, he teased out a pig’s tail. As the customers howled, Max pulled out his black book and furiously scribbled in it. Gus’s blue, depressed eye hunted around for a way out but his glass one gleamed like a lamp in a graveyard. And Memo laughed and laughed till the tears streamed down her cheeks.
Maybe I might break my back while I am at it,” Roy spoke into the microphone at home plate before a hushed sellout crowd jampacked into Knights Field, “but I will do my best — the best I am able — to be the greatest there ever was in the game.
“I thank you.” He finished with a gulp that echoed like an electric hiccup through the loudspeakers and sat down, not quite happy with himself despite the celebration, because when called on to speak he had meant to begin with a joke, then thank them for their favor and say what a good team the Knights were and how he enjoyed working for Pop Fisher, but it had come out this other way. On the other hand, so what the hell if they knew what was on his mind?
It was “Roy Hobbs Day,” that had been in the making since two weeks ago, when Max Mercy printed in his column: “Roy Hobbs, El Swatto, has been ixnayed on a pay raise. Trying to kill the bird that lays the golden baseball, Judge?” A grass roots movement developed among the loyal fans to put the Judge to shame (if possible) and they had quickly arranged a Day for Roy, which was held after the Knights had bounced into third place, following a night game win over the Phils, who now led them by only four games, themselves two behind the first-place Pirates.
The whole thing was kept a surprise, and after batting practice was over on this particular Saturday afternoon in early August, the right field gate had swung open and a whole caravan of cars, led by a limousine full of officials and American Legionnaires, and followed by a gorgeous, underslung white Mercedes-Benz and a lumbering warehouse van loaded with stuff, drove in and slowly circled the field to the music of a band playing “Yankee Doodle,” while the crowd cheered shrilly. Someone then tapped Roy and said it was all for him.
“Who, me?” he said, rising…
When he had made his speech and retired to the dugout, after a quick, unbelieving glance at the mountain of gifts they were unpacking for him, the fans sat back in frozen silence, some quickly crossing their fingers, some spitting over their left shoulders, onto the steps so they wouldn’t get anyone wet, almost all hoping he had not jinxed himself forever by saying what he had said. “The best there ever was in the game” might tempt the wrath of.some mighty powerful ghosts. But they quickly recovered from the shock of his audacity and clapped up a thick thunder of applause.
It was everyman’s party and they were determined to enjoy it. No one knew exactly who had supplied the big dough, but the loyal everyday fans had contributed all sorts of small change and single bucks to buy enough merchandise to furnish a fair-sized general store. When everything was unloaded from the van, Roy posed in front of it, fiddling with a gadget or two for the benefit of the photographers, though he later tipped off Dizzy to sell whatever he could to whoever had the cash. Mercy himself counted two television sets, a baby tractor, five hundred feet of pink plastic garden hose, a nanny goat, lifetime pass to the Paramount, one dozen hand-painted neckties offering different views of the Grand Canyon, six aluminum traveling cases, and a credit for seventy-five taxi rides in Philadelphia. Also three hundred pounds of a New Jersey brand Swiss cheese, a set of andirons and tongs, forty gallons of pistachio ice cream, six crates of lemons, a frozen side of hog, hunting knife, bearskin rug, snowshoes, four burner electric range, deed to a lot in Florida, twelve pairs of monogrammed blue shorts, movie camera and projector, a Chris-Craft motor boat — and, because everybody thought the Judge (unashamedly looking on from his window in the tower) was too cheap to live — a certified check for thirty-six hundred dollars. Although the committee had tried to keep out all oddball contributions, a few slipped in, including a smelly package of Limburger cheese, one human skull, bundle of comic books, can of rat exterminator, and a package of dull razor blades, this last with a card attached in the crabbed handwriting of Otto Zipp: “Here, cut your throat,” but Roy did not take it to heart.
When he was told, to his amazement, that the Mercedes Benz was his too, he could only say, “This is the happiest day of my life.” Getting in, he drove around the park to the frenzied waving and whistling of the fans and whirring of movie cameras. The gleaming white job was light to the touch of hand and foot and he felt he could float off in it over the stadium wall. But he stopped before Memo’s box and asked if she would go with him for a jaunt after the game, to which she, lowering her eyes, replied she was agreeable.
Memo said she longed to see the ocean so they drove over the bridge and down into Long Island toward Jones Beach, stopping when she was hungry, for charcoal-broiled steaks at a roadside tavern. Afterwards it was night, lit up by a full moon swimming in lemon juice, but at intervals eclipsed by rain clouds that gathered in dark blots and shuttered the yellow light off the fields and tree tops.
She spoke little, once remarking it looked like rain.
He didn’t answer. Though he had started off riding high (he had paid back the patrons of his Day by walloping a homer that drove in the winning run) he now felt somewhat heavy hearted. For the past two weeks he had been seeing Memo most every day but had made little headway. There were times when he thought yes, I am on my way up in her affections, but no sooner did he think that when something she did or said, or didn’t do or didn’t say, made him think no, I am not. It was a confusing proposition to want a girl you’d already had and couldn’t get because you had; a situation common in his life, of having first and then wanting what he had had, as if he hadn’t had it but just heard about it, and it had, in the hearing, aroused his appetite. He even wished he had not had her that night, and wondered — say he hadn’t — whether he would be in the least interested in her today.
In another sense it wasn’t a bad evening. He was with her, at least, and they were traveling together, relaxed, to the ocean. He didn’t exactly know where it was and though he liked the water, tonight he did not much care if they never came to it. He felt contentment in moving. It rested him by cutting down the inside motion — that which got him nowhere, which was where he was and she was not, or where his ambitions were and he was chasing after. Sometimes he wished he had no ambitions — often wondered where they had come from in his life, because he remembered how satisfied he had been as a youngster, and that with the little he had had — a dog, a stick, an aloneness he loved (which did not bleed him like his later loneliness), and he wished he could have lived longer in his boyhood. This was an old thought with him.
Hoping for a better fate in the future he stepped on the gas and was at once seized by an uneasy fear they were being followed. Since the mirror showed nobody behind them, he wondered at his suspicions and then recalled a black sedan that had been on their tail, he thought, all the way down from the city, only they had lost it a while back in turning off the highway. Yet he continued to watch in the mirror, though it showed only the lifeless moonlit road.
Memo said Jones Beach was too far and told him to stop the next time they came to a brook or pond where she could take off her shoes and go wading in the water. When he spied a small stream running along the edge of a wooded section between two towns, he slowed down. They parked across the shoulder of the asphalt and got out but as they crossed this wooden bridge to the grassy side of the stream, they were confronted by a sign: DANGER. POLLUTED WATER. NO SWIMMING. Roy was all for getting into the car to find another place, but Memo said no, they could watch the water from the bridge. She lit a cigarette, all in light, her hair and green summer dress, and her naked legs and even the slave bracelet around her left ankle gleaming in the light of the moon. Smoking, she watched the water flowing under the bridge, its movement reflected on her face.
After a while, seeing how silent she was, Roy said, “I bet I got enough today to furnish a house.”
Memo said, “Bump was coming up for a Day just before he died.”
He felt anger rise in his heart and asked coldly, “Well, Memo, what did he have that I haven’t got?” He stood to his full height, strong and handsome.
Without looking at him she spoke Bump’s name thoughtfully, then shook her head to snap out of it, as if it didn’t pay to be thoughtful about Bump. “Oh,” she answered, “he was carefree and full of life. He did the craziest things and always kept everybody in stitches. Even when he played ball, there was something carefree and playful about it. Maybe he went all the way after a fly ball or maybe he didn’t, but once he made up his mind to catch it, it was exciting how he ran and exciting how he caught it. He made you think you had been wishing for a thing to happen for a long time and then he made it happen. And the same with his hitting. When you catch one, Roy, or go up to hit, everybody knows beforehand that it will land up in your glove, or be a hit. You work at it so — sometimes you even look desperate — but to him it was a playful game and so was his life. Nobody could ever tell what would happen next with Bump, and that was the wonderful thing of it.”
Roy thought this is how she sees him now that he is dead. She forgets how hopping sore she was at him after that time in bed with me.
But Bump was dead, he thought, dead and buried in his new box, an inescapable six feet under, so he subtly changed the subject to Gus.
“Gus?” Memo said. At first her face was expressionless. “Oh, he’s just like a daddy to me.”
He asked her in what way but she laughed and said, “That was a funny business you did with him in the Pot of Fire. How did you do all those tricks?”
“Easy. They had a magic act all laid out to go on. I walked into the guy’s dressing room and when they saw who I was they let me use his stuff just for the laughs.”
“Who showed you how to use it?”
“Nobody. I have done some different things in my time, Memo.”
“Such as what other ones?”
“You name it, I did it.”
“What you did to Max was a scream.”
A black cloud rolled like a slow wave across the moon. “It’s so strange,” she murmured, looking at the moving water.
“What is?”
For a time she didn’t speak, then she sighed and said she meant her life. “It’s been strange ever since I can remember except for a year or two — mostly the part with Bump. That was the good part only it didn’t last very long, not much of the good part ever did. When I was little my daddy walked out on us and I don’t ever remember being happy again till the time I got to go to Hollywood when I was nineteen.”
He waited.
“I won a beauty contest where they picked a winner from each state and she was sent to Hollywood to be a starlet. For a few weeks I felt like the Queen of the May, then they took a screen test and though I had the looks and figure my test did not come out so good in acting and they practically told me to go home. I couldn’t stand the thought of that so I stayed there for three more years, doing night club work and going to an acting school besides, hoping that I would some day be a good enough actress but it didn’t take. I knew what I was supposed to do but I couldn’t make myself, in my thoughts, into somebody else. You’re supposed to forget who you are but I couldn’t. Then I came east and had some more bad times after my mother died, till I met Bump.”
He thought she would cry but she didn’t.
Memo watched the pebbles in the flowing water. “After Bump I realized I could never be happy any more.”
“How do you know that?” Roy asked slowly.
“Oh, I know. I can tell from the way I feel. Sometimes in the morning I never want to wake up.”
He felt a dreary emptiness at her words.
“What about yourself?” she asked, wanting to change the subject.
“What about me?” he said gloomily.
“Max says you are sort of a mystery.”
“Max is a jerk. My past life is nobody’s business.”
“What was it like?”
“Like yours, for years I took it on the chin.” He sounded as if he had caught a cold, took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
“What happened?”
He wanted to tell her everything, match her story and go her a couple better but couldn’t bring himself to. It wasn’t, he thought, that he was afraid to tell her what had happened to him that first time (though the thought of doing that raised a hot blush on his pan, for he had never told anybody about it yet), but about the miserable years after that, when everything, everything he tried somehow went to pot as if that was its destiny in the first place, a thing he couldn’t understand.
“What happened?” she asked again.
“The hell with it,” he said. “I told you about myself.”
He watched the water.
“I have knocked around a lot and been hard hurt in plenty of ways,” he said huskily. “There were times I thought I would never get anywhere and it made me eat my guts, but all that is gone now. I know I have the stuff and will get there.”
“Get where?”
“Where I am going. Where I will be the champ and have what goes with it.”
She drew back but he had caught her arm and tugged her to him.
“Don’t.”
“You got to live, Memo.”
He trapped her lips, tasting of lemon drops, kissing hard. Happening to open his eyes, he saw her staring at him in the middle of the kiss. Shutting them, he dived deep down again. Then she caught his passion, opened her mouth for his tongue and went limp around the knees.
They swayed together and he turned his hand and slipped it through the top of her dress into her loose brassiere, cupping her warm small breast in his palm.
Her legs stiffened. She pushed at him, sobbing, “Don’t touch it.”
He was slow to react.
She wailed, “Don’t, please don’t.”
He pulled his hand out, angrily disappointed.
She was crying now, rubbing her hand across her bosom.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“How the hell did I do that? I was nice with it.”
“It’s sick,” she wept.
He felt like he had had an icy shave and haircut. “Who says so?”
“It hurts. I know.”
She could be lying, only her eyes were crisscrossed with fear and her arms goosefleshed.
“Did you go to a doctor?”