The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (10 page)
Read The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Online
Authors: Robert Rimmer
Remember tomorrow, Cynthia thought. The words slide into my mind and
gracefully pirouette to an old dancing tune. Remember tomorrow, born
in the afterglow of yesterday.
The orchestra hushed. Brasses muted. The body of the singer disappeared.
Only her face remained, glowing softly in a green spotlight. Flecks of
blue, yellow, green, bounced off the slowly moving crystal ball and were
flung on the dreamy faces of the dancers. "Remember Tomorrow." It was
sure fire. Hit Parade stuff.
Cynthia danced, the curves of her body against Yale's chest and stomach.
My tomorrows are yesterdays. Time has ceased to be marked by hours and
minutes. This moment alone is all. I feel this warmth. I feel this splendor.
The bloom has burst forth in full fragrance. I am all. "I am drunk, Yale,"
she said, pressing close to him. "And I love you."
Sway-slide-easily. Closed eyes. A thousand sounds trickle into the silence
of my brain like useless echoes chasing themselves from rock to rock. I am
a pebble cast into infinity. The rings spread out convolute and then expand
into echoless space. I am a warm, splashing ocean lapping the shore.
A creature of moons. A lovely twenty-eight-day flower; degenerating and
re-generating on moon currents.
"What are you thinking, Cindar?"
"What am I thinking, Cindar? About you, Yale, my darling. About the
warmth of you. About the warmth of us. Cindar is warm. Her breasts are
warm and suddenly conscious." She laughed, throwing her head back,
searching his face with her wide-set brown eyes. "Oh, Yale, Yale,
my dearest. You want to know a secret? I am tight! Gloriously and
maddeningly tight. Undid. Words and thoughts are bubbling through my
brain, half dressed, and I am embarrassed. But I can't help staring at
them because they are so lovely in their nakedness."
Yale drew her close and kissed her. "You're cute, Cindar. Let's smoke
the rest of this one out."
"Isn't getting glowing nice?" Cynthia smiled the feeling at everyone
she passed. Not that she could tell who they were. Dimly -- shadows,
but not substance. Not men and women from high up in skyscraper offices,
or freshly scrubbed from dirty factory jobs. Not men and women dressed
in Saturday night white linens, and flowered silks and crinkly seersuckers.
Not the gray haired man she had smiled at over Yale's shoulder. This was
not Rick Rocco's famous Golden Coach. It was a gray place. The colors
were whirling too fast, and their brilliance intermingled.
Cynthia's mind hummed a gay tune. Cynthia is Cindar, and Cindar glows.
Johnny Walker glows. Funny man with knee britches and a tall silk hat,
a man with an aerial beam casting his smile through a fog of uncertainty.
The puritan old maid has left for the night, and the usually quiescent
people downstairs have taken over the joint. Hell would break loose,
and the old lady that dwelled somewhere in her head would have a few of
her expensive vases broken. So, they could be mended, not so good as new,
but serviceable.
What if they could see her at Midhaven College? Cynthia Carnell, the pride
of French V, glowing. Wouldn't Professor Cartier be surprised! He didn't
drink. He didn't smoke. He wore a kimono. Why, he probably sits down to
pee! Cynthia broke into happy laughter. Yale squeezed her through the
crowd at the edge of the dance floor.
Why am I giggling and murmuring, "I love you," into Yale's ear? It's a
nice ear. Scrumptiously clean. Is this me giggling? Is this an outward
giggle or an inward giggle? "Yale!" Cynthia demanded, her mind suddenly
clearing. "Where are Sonny and Bee?"
"Probably still in there dancing." Yale guided Cynthia onto the wide
veranda that girded the rear of the Golden Coach. The roadhouse had been
so arranged that it backed onto a landscaped garden, with a parking lot
for automobiles on the far end. They walked in and out of the hammocks
and divans scattered along the porch, noticing the people sitting,
quietly talking, kissing, smoking. Near the end of the veranda Yale
found a secluded spot. He leaned against the low, white railing, held
the swaying Cynthia with one arm, and looked out into the darkness. I'm
in love, he thought. I'll always be in love and I'll always be lonely
and anxious like this because, no matter how much you're in love, you
always have within you a small untouchable island, an area so remote and
so unrevocable that no matter how much you care for someone you never
can communicate it.
He hugged Cindar against him and she, glad of his support, stayed close.
What am I afraid of, he wondered. I set goals for myself impossible to
attain, and I am emotionally shattered, just realizing the impossibility.
Why can't I be like Sonny and leave things alone and not press them so
far? Why do I respond so violently? Even to the weather? I seem to absorb
the sadness of the night, and want to touch it. I float on sunshine,
yet I am happiest at night. Yale smiled to himself. I'm just a weird
character, he thought, and chuckled.
He flicked his cigarette over the shrubbery surrounding the veranda.
It showered sparks against the mudguard of one of the cars parked in
the lot, gleamed against the headlight and disappeared.
Like a sudden shift in the wind the breath of the music drifting onto
the veranda stopped. Other couples walked out into the cool evening air,
flushed from the close sweatiness of the dance floor. Cigarettes gleamed
in the darkness. Confident male whispers echoed back answers to the
sibilant husky sound of female voices.
The music of the spring evening took up where the orchestra left off.
Maple trees, their buds just fully emerged into yellow pink leaves,
shifted uneasily in the warm wind. Across the garden thousands of
fireflies careened through the air, disappeared, only to flash again
as they slid down another air current. The warm dampness of the late
spring evening filled the air with a rich earthy smell, and erupted in
wet drops on the silhouetted automobiles huddled in neat rows alongside
the building.
Cynthia clung to Yale oblivious to the sounds of laughter, and the
kissing, and the brown smell of cigarette smoke mingling with the
air. The conversation moved about them like an oscillograph reaching
peaked crescendos and diminishing into soft whisperings of the night.
On the top of the arcs a male voice slightly louder than the rest seemed
to dominate the peaks.
"I don't care what he thinks. It was a dirty trick. Someday the bastard
will get what is coming to him. Freedom, they call it, huh?" The voice
died away and then wafted back strong and full. "A man can't open his
mouth, that's what I say, and McGrew is a lousy, cheap chiseler, and
I'll tell him so someday."
A female voice pleading. "Why not forget it for tonight, Jim? Come on,
let's have another drink."
"Yale, I'm awfully tight." Cynthia said, pushing a lock of hair back on
her forehead. "When are we going?"
"Pretty soon. Are you going to be sick?"
"No." Cynthia's voice was doubtful. "At least I hope not."
Sonny Thompson walked up, peering into the dim light, eading Beatrice
Middleton by the hand. "Yale?"
"Yeah."
"We've been looking all over for you. We better get going. We got to
find a place to stay before it's too late."
"Where are we going?" Beatrice asked suspiciously. She knew what was
coming, but evidently hoped by some good fate to avoid it at the last
minute.
"We're going to find a bed to sleep in," Sonny said jovially. "Ye Gods,
stop looking as if you were going to an execution."
Yale drove the Ford slowly along the Post Road, trying to ignore the
argument going on in the back seat between Beatrice and Sonny.
They passed signs. Cabins -- running water -- Red Cross mattresses --
radio. Yale stopped the car questioningly.
"I won't stay in those places, they look like outhouses," Beatrice moaned.
"We can find better cabins than that," Sonny said, trying to pacify her.
"Let's find them then," Cynthia said. "I'm dead."
A few miles farther, Yale turned the car off the road into a small group
of what looked like miniature log cabins. An old lady came out of one of
them. Her hair was in wispy strings on her forehead and she clutched what
was once a maternity gown.
"Whatcha want?"
"Have you got two cabins?"
"Nope, got a double. Five dollars for tonight. Pay in advance." She
peered into the car. "You ain't married, are you? Well," she sighed,
"I suppose it ain't none of my business."
Sonny was about to say they would drive on and look for two singles when
Beatrice perked up. "We'll take it," she said firmly, probably figuring
in safety in numbers. She gave Sonny a sarcastic look.
"Sure, let's take it," Cynthia said sleepily. "I don't want to drive
all night."
In the cabin they stared at each other awkwardly. The only partition
between the two beds was a faded chintz curtain suspended on rings that
moved along a wire fastened between the exposed rafters.
The old lady had opened the single door of the bathroom, and given
detailed instructions on how to flush the toilet. She also expounded
on the fact that she expected the place to be picked up and not left
messy. Finally, after staring silently at the four of them, she left.
"This place makes me feel cheap," Beatrice said.
Sonny flopped on one of the beds. "Forget it, and have a drink. We've
got to sleep somewhere, haven't we? After all, you did pick the place.
If it had been up to me, I'd have kept looking."
Beatrice sat on the edge of the other bed beside Cynthia, and whispered
to her. "I don't like this. Let's get out of here."
Cynthia shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know about you, but I'm pooped."
Sonny passed the half empty bottle around. Cynthia refused it. Beatrice
reluctantly took it, examined it, and, in an act of bravado, took a long
swallow. Fiddling in the drawers of the one dresser in the room, Sonny
found a deck of worn cards and fanned them. "I don't feel sleepy. Do you
kids?"
The strangeness of the place, plus an awakened feeling of guilt and
nervousness, had all their minds racing. Sleepiness vanished before the
prickings of their consciences. Lounging on the edge of one of the beds,
they began to play a wild game of bridge with Yale and Sonny partners
against Beatrice and Cynthia.
Sonny kept bidding seven no trump, insisting that if Yale would play
properly with him they could make every hand. They continued to drink
until the bottle was empty.
"This is dull. Let's play strip poker," Sonny suggested.
Cynthia giggled. Beatrice, her eyes staring and dull, shook her head
emphatically no.
"How do you play it?" Yale asked.
"Simple." Sonny Thompson seemed to have a wealth of devious ideas tucked
away in his brain. "Did you ever hear of black jack or vingt et un
sometimes known as twenty-one?" Sonny flicked a card down in a circle to
each of them. "That's your underneath card. You bet against me. You bet
that you'll come closer to twenty-one than I do." He explained the values
of the cards. "Actually you have to bet on each hand, checking being unfair
in strip poker. I'll work around to each one of you in turn." He flicked
a card to Cynthia face up. It was an eight of spades. "What have you got
underneath?"
"A king."
"That's worth ten. An ace is worth eleven or one. You can stand on
eighteen or take another card hoping to come closer to twenty-one than
I will. If you go over, you owe me a piece of clothing. If I am under
eighteen or over twenty-one, I owe you a piece. If we are both even,
any amount up to and including twenty-one, there is no exchange. Once
you take off a piece you can't put it back on even though you win it
from someone else."
"It's too complicated," Beatrice complained.
"No, it's really simple. You'll see when we get started."
"It's not fair," Cynthia objected. "You both have more clothes on than
we have."
"We'll even up. How many pieces have you got, Bee?"
"None of your business," Bee said and then laughed. "Oh, all right, if
you want to know. I've got a dress, a slip, panties, a bra, stockings
and shoes. I don't want to play."
Sonny ignored her. "That's eight pieces counting each piece separately.
Yale and I have shoes, stockings, pants." He paused, scratching his head
as he tried to enumerate what they were wearing. "Underwear, shorts, shirt,
a tie and a coat. Let's see, that's ten. We'll take off our ties and coat
to even up."
"It's still not even," Beatrice said. "Your underwear top isn't as
crucial as our bras!"
Yale leaned back on the pillow. "My God, what complications." There was
more discussion. It was finally discovered that both girls were wearing
earrings and these were accepted as an extra piece of clothing giving
them each nine pieces against eight for Yale and Sonny.
"My mother says that it's bad for people to stand around naked together,"
Beatrice said in a whimpering voice.
The way she said it struck the three of them with a sense of almost
hysterical comedy. Beatrice looked at them indignantly. "What's so funny?"
"Your mother should see you now," Yale said. "Anyway, what's bad about
your body?" He actually wanted to know and would have been just as
agreeable to starting a discussion about the relativity of morals as to
proceeding with the game.
Beatrice looked at him coldly. "If you don't know by this time, Yale
Marratt, I'm not going to tell you. This whole thing is bad. If it ever
leaked out in Midhaven, we'd all be expelled."
Sonny dealt the cards. Cynthia made twenty-two. Yale stood on eighteen,
not showing his underneath nine of clubs. Reluctantly, Beatrice picked up
her cards. She refused to show them for a minute but finally acknowledged
that she had only seventeen. As the banker, Sonny played his hand. He
turned up a king, then a six. He'd have to pay each one of them a piece
of clothing if he stood pat. He drew another card and turned it over
hesitantly. It was a king.
"Twenty-six," Beatrice said, relieved. "You owe us all a piece."
"Pay up." Yale laughed. "The inventor of the game goes to the cleaners."
Sonny handed Cynthia and Yale a shoe each, and Beatrice a stocking. Yale
took the deal and won a piece from them all. Cynthia dealt and lost two
stockings and a shoe. It was Beatrice's turn and she dealt, protesting
that no matter what happened she wasn't going to undress all the way.
Sonny lost to Beatrice and Cynthia tied Yale. Sonny's stockings, shoes
and shirt were off in a tangled heap on the bed.
gracefully pirouette to an old dancing tune. Remember tomorrow, born
in the afterglow of yesterday.
The orchestra hushed. Brasses muted. The body of the singer disappeared.
Only her face remained, glowing softly in a green spotlight. Flecks of
blue, yellow, green, bounced off the slowly moving crystal ball and were
flung on the dreamy faces of the dancers. "Remember Tomorrow." It was
sure fire. Hit Parade stuff.
Cynthia danced, the curves of her body against Yale's chest and stomach.
My tomorrows are yesterdays. Time has ceased to be marked by hours and
minutes. This moment alone is all. I feel this warmth. I feel this splendor.
The bloom has burst forth in full fragrance. I am all. "I am drunk, Yale,"
she said, pressing close to him. "And I love you."
Sway-slide-easily. Closed eyes. A thousand sounds trickle into the silence
of my brain like useless echoes chasing themselves from rock to rock. I am
a pebble cast into infinity. The rings spread out convolute and then expand
into echoless space. I am a warm, splashing ocean lapping the shore.
A creature of moons. A lovely twenty-eight-day flower; degenerating and
re-generating on moon currents.
"What are you thinking, Cindar?"
"What am I thinking, Cindar? About you, Yale, my darling. About the
warmth of you. About the warmth of us. Cindar is warm. Her breasts are
warm and suddenly conscious." She laughed, throwing her head back,
searching his face with her wide-set brown eyes. "Oh, Yale, Yale,
my dearest. You want to know a secret? I am tight! Gloriously and
maddeningly tight. Undid. Words and thoughts are bubbling through my
brain, half dressed, and I am embarrassed. But I can't help staring at
them because they are so lovely in their nakedness."
Yale drew her close and kissed her. "You're cute, Cindar. Let's smoke
the rest of this one out."
"Isn't getting glowing nice?" Cynthia smiled the feeling at everyone
she passed. Not that she could tell who they were. Dimly -- shadows,
but not substance. Not men and women from high up in skyscraper offices,
or freshly scrubbed from dirty factory jobs. Not men and women dressed
in Saturday night white linens, and flowered silks and crinkly seersuckers.
Not the gray haired man she had smiled at over Yale's shoulder. This was
not Rick Rocco's famous Golden Coach. It was a gray place. The colors
were whirling too fast, and their brilliance intermingled.
Cynthia's mind hummed a gay tune. Cynthia is Cindar, and Cindar glows.
Johnny Walker glows. Funny man with knee britches and a tall silk hat,
a man with an aerial beam casting his smile through a fog of uncertainty.
The puritan old maid has left for the night, and the usually quiescent
people downstairs have taken over the joint. Hell would break loose,
and the old lady that dwelled somewhere in her head would have a few of
her expensive vases broken. So, they could be mended, not so good as new,
but serviceable.
What if they could see her at Midhaven College? Cynthia Carnell, the pride
of French V, glowing. Wouldn't Professor Cartier be surprised! He didn't
drink. He didn't smoke. He wore a kimono. Why, he probably sits down to
pee! Cynthia broke into happy laughter. Yale squeezed her through the
crowd at the edge of the dance floor.
Why am I giggling and murmuring, "I love you," into Yale's ear? It's a
nice ear. Scrumptiously clean. Is this me giggling? Is this an outward
giggle or an inward giggle? "Yale!" Cynthia demanded, her mind suddenly
clearing. "Where are Sonny and Bee?"
"Probably still in there dancing." Yale guided Cynthia onto the wide
veranda that girded the rear of the Golden Coach. The roadhouse had been
so arranged that it backed onto a landscaped garden, with a parking lot
for automobiles on the far end. They walked in and out of the hammocks
and divans scattered along the porch, noticing the people sitting,
quietly talking, kissing, smoking. Near the end of the veranda Yale
found a secluded spot. He leaned against the low, white railing, held
the swaying Cynthia with one arm, and looked out into the darkness. I'm
in love, he thought. I'll always be in love and I'll always be lonely
and anxious like this because, no matter how much you're in love, you
always have within you a small untouchable island, an area so remote and
so unrevocable that no matter how much you care for someone you never
can communicate it.
He hugged Cindar against him and she, glad of his support, stayed close.
What am I afraid of, he wondered. I set goals for myself impossible to
attain, and I am emotionally shattered, just realizing the impossibility.
Why can't I be like Sonny and leave things alone and not press them so
far? Why do I respond so violently? Even to the weather? I seem to absorb
the sadness of the night, and want to touch it. I float on sunshine,
yet I am happiest at night. Yale smiled to himself. I'm just a weird
character, he thought, and chuckled.
He flicked his cigarette over the shrubbery surrounding the veranda.
It showered sparks against the mudguard of one of the cars parked in
the lot, gleamed against the headlight and disappeared.
Like a sudden shift in the wind the breath of the music drifting onto
the veranda stopped. Other couples walked out into the cool evening air,
flushed from the close sweatiness of the dance floor. Cigarettes gleamed
in the darkness. Confident male whispers echoed back answers to the
sibilant husky sound of female voices.
The music of the spring evening took up where the orchestra left off.
Maple trees, their buds just fully emerged into yellow pink leaves,
shifted uneasily in the warm wind. Across the garden thousands of
fireflies careened through the air, disappeared, only to flash again
as they slid down another air current. The warm dampness of the late
spring evening filled the air with a rich earthy smell, and erupted in
wet drops on the silhouetted automobiles huddled in neat rows alongside
the building.
Cynthia clung to Yale oblivious to the sounds of laughter, and the
kissing, and the brown smell of cigarette smoke mingling with the
air. The conversation moved about them like an oscillograph reaching
peaked crescendos and diminishing into soft whisperings of the night.
On the top of the arcs a male voice slightly louder than the rest seemed
to dominate the peaks.
"I don't care what he thinks. It was a dirty trick. Someday the bastard
will get what is coming to him. Freedom, they call it, huh?" The voice
died away and then wafted back strong and full. "A man can't open his
mouth, that's what I say, and McGrew is a lousy, cheap chiseler, and
I'll tell him so someday."
A female voice pleading. "Why not forget it for tonight, Jim? Come on,
let's have another drink."
"Yale, I'm awfully tight." Cynthia said, pushing a lock of hair back on
her forehead. "When are we going?"
"Pretty soon. Are you going to be sick?"
"No." Cynthia's voice was doubtful. "At least I hope not."
Sonny Thompson walked up, peering into the dim light, eading Beatrice
Middleton by the hand. "Yale?"
"Yeah."
"We've been looking all over for you. We better get going. We got to
find a place to stay before it's too late."
"Where are we going?" Beatrice asked suspiciously. She knew what was
coming, but evidently hoped by some good fate to avoid it at the last
minute.
"We're going to find a bed to sleep in," Sonny said jovially. "Ye Gods,
stop looking as if you were going to an execution."
Yale drove the Ford slowly along the Post Road, trying to ignore the
argument going on in the back seat between Beatrice and Sonny.
They passed signs. Cabins -- running water -- Red Cross mattresses --
radio. Yale stopped the car questioningly.
"I won't stay in those places, they look like outhouses," Beatrice moaned.
"We can find better cabins than that," Sonny said, trying to pacify her.
"Let's find them then," Cynthia said. "I'm dead."
A few miles farther, Yale turned the car off the road into a small group
of what looked like miniature log cabins. An old lady came out of one of
them. Her hair was in wispy strings on her forehead and she clutched what
was once a maternity gown.
"Whatcha want?"
"Have you got two cabins?"
"Nope, got a double. Five dollars for tonight. Pay in advance." She
peered into the car. "You ain't married, are you? Well," she sighed,
"I suppose it ain't none of my business."
Sonny was about to say they would drive on and look for two singles when
Beatrice perked up. "We'll take it," she said firmly, probably figuring
in safety in numbers. She gave Sonny a sarcastic look.
"Sure, let's take it," Cynthia said sleepily. "I don't want to drive
all night."
In the cabin they stared at each other awkwardly. The only partition
between the two beds was a faded chintz curtain suspended on rings that
moved along a wire fastened between the exposed rafters.
The old lady had opened the single door of the bathroom, and given
detailed instructions on how to flush the toilet. She also expounded
on the fact that she expected the place to be picked up and not left
messy. Finally, after staring silently at the four of them, she left.
"This place makes me feel cheap," Beatrice said.
Sonny flopped on one of the beds. "Forget it, and have a drink. We've
got to sleep somewhere, haven't we? After all, you did pick the place.
If it had been up to me, I'd have kept looking."
Beatrice sat on the edge of the other bed beside Cynthia, and whispered
to her. "I don't like this. Let's get out of here."
Cynthia shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know about you, but I'm pooped."
Sonny passed the half empty bottle around. Cynthia refused it. Beatrice
reluctantly took it, examined it, and, in an act of bravado, took a long
swallow. Fiddling in the drawers of the one dresser in the room, Sonny
found a deck of worn cards and fanned them. "I don't feel sleepy. Do you
kids?"
The strangeness of the place, plus an awakened feeling of guilt and
nervousness, had all their minds racing. Sleepiness vanished before the
prickings of their consciences. Lounging on the edge of one of the beds,
they began to play a wild game of bridge with Yale and Sonny partners
against Beatrice and Cynthia.
Sonny kept bidding seven no trump, insisting that if Yale would play
properly with him they could make every hand. They continued to drink
until the bottle was empty.
"This is dull. Let's play strip poker," Sonny suggested.
Cynthia giggled. Beatrice, her eyes staring and dull, shook her head
emphatically no.
"How do you play it?" Yale asked.
"Simple." Sonny Thompson seemed to have a wealth of devious ideas tucked
away in his brain. "Did you ever hear of black jack or vingt et un
sometimes known as twenty-one?" Sonny flicked a card down in a circle to
each of them. "That's your underneath card. You bet against me. You bet
that you'll come closer to twenty-one than I do." He explained the values
of the cards. "Actually you have to bet on each hand, checking being unfair
in strip poker. I'll work around to each one of you in turn." He flicked
a card to Cynthia face up. It was an eight of spades. "What have you got
underneath?"
"A king."
"That's worth ten. An ace is worth eleven or one. You can stand on
eighteen or take another card hoping to come closer to twenty-one than
I will. If you go over, you owe me a piece of clothing. If I am under
eighteen or over twenty-one, I owe you a piece. If we are both even,
any amount up to and including twenty-one, there is no exchange. Once
you take off a piece you can't put it back on even though you win it
from someone else."
"It's too complicated," Beatrice complained.
"No, it's really simple. You'll see when we get started."
"It's not fair," Cynthia objected. "You both have more clothes on than
we have."
"We'll even up. How many pieces have you got, Bee?"
"None of your business," Bee said and then laughed. "Oh, all right, if
you want to know. I've got a dress, a slip, panties, a bra, stockings
and shoes. I don't want to play."
Sonny ignored her. "That's eight pieces counting each piece separately.
Yale and I have shoes, stockings, pants." He paused, scratching his head
as he tried to enumerate what they were wearing. "Underwear, shorts, shirt,
a tie and a coat. Let's see, that's ten. We'll take off our ties and coat
to even up."
"It's still not even," Beatrice said. "Your underwear top isn't as
crucial as our bras!"
Yale leaned back on the pillow. "My God, what complications." There was
more discussion. It was finally discovered that both girls were wearing
earrings and these were accepted as an extra piece of clothing giving
them each nine pieces against eight for Yale and Sonny.
"My mother says that it's bad for people to stand around naked together,"
Beatrice said in a whimpering voice.
The way she said it struck the three of them with a sense of almost
hysterical comedy. Beatrice looked at them indignantly. "What's so funny?"
"Your mother should see you now," Yale said. "Anyway, what's bad about
your body?" He actually wanted to know and would have been just as
agreeable to starting a discussion about the relativity of morals as to
proceeding with the game.
Beatrice looked at him coldly. "If you don't know by this time, Yale
Marratt, I'm not going to tell you. This whole thing is bad. If it ever
leaked out in Midhaven, we'd all be expelled."
Sonny dealt the cards. Cynthia made twenty-two. Yale stood on eighteen,
not showing his underneath nine of clubs. Reluctantly, Beatrice picked up
her cards. She refused to show them for a minute but finally acknowledged
that she had only seventeen. As the banker, Sonny played his hand. He
turned up a king, then a six. He'd have to pay each one of them a piece
of clothing if he stood pat. He drew another card and turned it over
hesitantly. It was a king.
"Twenty-six," Beatrice said, relieved. "You owe us all a piece."
"Pay up." Yale laughed. "The inventor of the game goes to the cleaners."
Sonny handed Cynthia and Yale a shoe each, and Beatrice a stocking. Yale
took the deal and won a piece from them all. Cynthia dealt and lost two
stockings and a shoe. It was Beatrice's turn and she dealt, protesting
that no matter what happened she wasn't going to undress all the way.
Sonny lost to Beatrice and Cynthia tied Yale. Sonny's stockings, shoes
and shirt were off in a tangled heap on the bed.
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