"Sure thing. I'll have one with you." Ted went over to the liquor
cabinet.
When he returned, with the pair of drinks, Ann was in the room. Ann
said, "I could use one, myself."
Some of Henri's poise was back and all of his smile. "Mix her a strong
one, Teddy boy. Build up her resistance."
Hamburger, Ann had called it, but it was like ambrosia. The talk flowed
around Ted; food, fashion, furniture, flowers.
Henri was witty and articulate. Ann appreciative and responsive. Ted
present.
All the things he'd read, and nothing to say. Mann he'd read, and
Joyce. Shakespeare and Spinoza, Emerson, Shelley and....
And there was a lull momentarily in the conversation.
Ted said quickly, "I batted .314 at Houston. That's in the Texas
League."
Ann stared at him, smiling. Henri stared at him, smirking. They went
back to their discussion.
What weapons did he have? He sat there while the talk poured over him,
turning into a wrathful midget, hating them both.
At two, he rose, from the table, "I ... have a golf date. Hate to leave
you two alone."
"We'll try to get along, old boy," Henri said smilingly. "Keep your eye
on the ball."
Ann said, "Easy at the nineteenth hole, honey." She lifted her lips for
his kiss.
They were soft and cool.
He didn't have a golf date. He didn't want to leave them. But he
couldn't sit there, growing smaller and duller by the minute. He was an
artist and an athlete, not a worm.
* * * * *
He drove to the country club, and sat at the bar. Pete Orcutt and
Johnny Devlin came in about three-thirty, and they settled down in the
card room to some canasta.