The Tailgate (3 page)

“I can't believe you're here,” he said in her ear. “I. Can't. Believe. It.” He set her down. “You are in New Haven, Connecticut.” He looked genuinely shocked and delighted, like she was Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. Dabney was embarrassed. The other ten thousand people present had managed to get here without fanfare. Why was her arrival such a big deal?

But she knew why. She felt like she had flown without wings. It was that astonishing.

“You remember Mallory,” Dabney said. “And this is her boyfriend, Jason.”

Clen stepped forward and shook hands with Mallory and accepted the laundry basket from Jason.

“You're a lucky man,” Jason said. “That's some picnic.”

Dabney pulled out sandwiches for Jason and Mallory. “I'll see you tomorrow at ten sharp,” she said. “I'll meet you right here.”

“See ya,” Mallory said. She handed Jason her sandwich and turned to go.

Jason, however, being a properly raised Ipswich preppie, proffered a farewell. “Have fun, Dab. Thanks for the sandwiches. And hey, nice to meet you, Clen. Great girl you've got there.”

Clen said, “I know. Thanks for the safe delivery.”

Elation! They were arm-in-arm, he was happy to see her. The confusion and hesitancy she had heard in his voice over the phone the day before had been a figment of her imagination, or caused by Kendall's stalking. The first thing Clen did once Mallory and Jason walked away was to set the laundry basket down. He held Dabney's face and kissed her deeply. God, the rush, the chemistry—it was the same now as it had been during their first kiss at the top of the hill at Dead Horse Valley during an early snowstorm. December 1, 1980, when they were freshmen in high school.

“I want to take you back to my room right this instant,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Take me, take me.”

“But I can't,” he said. “Because the
Daily News
has a tailgate all set up and we're expected.”

Dabney felt cranky about the tailgate, even though Clen had warned her this was the first thing on the docket. She wanted him to herself, a ludicrous wish, she realized, as nearly the whole point of her coming to New Haven was to witness his life here—and the
Yale Daily News
was a large part of that life. The paper. It was as important as his coursework, or more so.

She said, “Maybe we can cut out on the game and go to your room?”

He said, “Cut out on the game?”

Ridiculous, right, she still wasn't thinking clearly—the valium, the beer. She sounded like a sex-starved fiend; she should explain, perhaps, that it wasn't the sex she wanted as much as the time behind closed doors, alone—Clen had a single—his attention shining solely on her.

“We're over here,” Clen said. He picked up his pace, the laundry basket held out in front of him. Dabney should have scoured the storage closets at Grays Hall for a proper cooler. She hurried along, trying to keep up. There was the same woody Clen had driven to Harvard in the year before, and next to it a cluster of card tables that looked like a raft cobbled together by desperate castaways.

“There you are, Hughes!” A guy/boy/man stepped forward. “And you brought your wash!”

“Shut up, Wallace,” Clen said.

It was Henry Wallace, Dabney realized, the editor in chief of the
Yale Daily News.
Clen never stopped talking about him. Wallace had been the one to recognize Clen's talents and make him a features editor as a freshman.

Clen set the laundry basket down on the tailgate of the wagon and ushered Dabney forward. “My girlfriend, Dabney Kimball.”

Henry Wallace was tall with curly brown hair and square black glasses. Like so many people Dabney had met in the past year, he had the unmistakable air of the well-bred prep-school eternally privileged. He took Dabney's hand and kissed it.

“A real live 'Cliffie in our midst,” he said. “I'm Henry David Thoreau Wallace, fellow citizen of your fine Commonwealth. Lovely to meet you.”

“Lovely to meet
you,
” Dabney said. “I've heard all about what a genius you are.”

“Cupe,” Clen said. He sounded embarrassed, and Dabney grinned at Henry.

“He talks about you all the time,” she said. “I've grown quite jealous of you, you know. Although I'm mad as the dickens that you have my beau on deadline this weekend.”

“Deadline?” Henry said. “The only person on deadline this weekend is the sports editor.” He searched over Dabney's head. “Reese better be in the stadium getting his pregame interviews, and not out getting wasted on bloodies.”

No deadline?
When Dabney turned to Clen with the question in her eyes he shook his head and handed her a plastic cup. “Vodka tonic,” he said. “For my 'Cliffie.”

Dabney said, “Are you still on deadline?”

But before Clen could answer, they were interrupted. “You brought a picnic to a picnic?” A girl with long, dark, straight, shiny hair was peering into the laundry basket. Her hair was so beautiful it was impossible not to stare. If Dabney had hair like that, she would have felt immodest.

“Maybe you think a Harvard picnic is naturally superior to a Yale picnic,” the girl said. “But I don't think anything from Harvard is superior.”

Dabney immediately felt defensive. This girl wore jeans, a camel-colored cashmere poncho, and large gold hoop earrings. She was pretty—gorgeous, actually. Her eyes were dark blue. Some of her luscious hair fell over her face as she gazed up at Clen.

“Aren't you going to introduce me, Hughes?” she said.

Dabney glanced at Clen. He looked supremely uncomfortable, and Dabney felt an unfamiliar rumbling in her gut. Jealousy, she realized.

“Jocelyn Harris, this is Dabney Kimball. Dabney, this is Jocelyn. Our arts editor.”

“Hi,” Dabney said. She offered a hand and Jocelyn shook it quickly as though a Harvard hand might give her a communicable disease. Then she reached into her buttery leather shoulder bag and brought out a pack of Newports and a matchbook that Dabney couldn't help noticing was from Mory's Temple Bar. Jocelyn lit two cigarettes and held one out to Clen, but he waved it away.

“No, thanks.”

“What, all of a sudden you don't smoke?” Jocelyn said. She offered Dabney a poisonous smile. “You don't smoke, do you, Dabney?”

Mute, Dabney shook her head. She wanted to say, Clen doesn't smoke either. Except clearly he did smoke. He smoked with this girl, Jocelyn. Dabney located a second valium in her jeans pocket, right next to the lucky silver dollar. She didn't want to be here. She would rather be at Harvard, in Solange's room, sitting on the persimmon silk pillow. Dabney washed the valium back with some of her vodka tonic. She had consumed nothing that day except pills and booze; she was turning into the Joan Collins character in
Dynasty,
minus the glamour.

Jocelyn shook the cigarette insistently at Clen. “Just take it, Hughes.”

“I don't want it, thanks.”

Jocelyn scoffed. “I don't get it. You're afraid to smoke in front of your friend here?”

His girlfriend,
Dabney thought.
I'm his girlfriend.
It suddenly seemed imperative that Jocelyn know this. She realized that Clen had not introduced her as such. He had just said,
This is Dabney Kimball.

Clen sighed. “Be nice, Jocelyn.”

At that second, Henry Wallace swooped in and took the cigarette from Jocelyn. He grinned at Dabney. “Our arts editor has a flair for the dramatic,” he said. “Which is why I hired her. I, for one, can't wait to taste a Harvard picnic.”

Dabney set out her picnic on the rickety card tables with a sense of purpose, relieved to have something to do with her hands while her thoughts fell to pieces. Clen didn't have a deadline, at least not one the editor in chief knew about. Or maybe Dabney had misunderstood. The valium was making her fuzzy. She felt like she was forty years old, matronly and persnickety; she would be in charge of children's birthday parties and soccer-team potlucks while this Jocelyn roamed the streets of Florence antiquing, or hopped from gallery to gallery in Soho. She, Jocelyn, had glamour, that hair, that sneer, those eyes like pure, hard sapphires, the way she wanted to push a cigarette on Clen, something she had held briefly in her mouth that would then go into his mouth. Dabney got it, or at least she thought she got it.
Trust. Cheat.
Jocelyn and Clen had been together.

She set out the sandwiches, the chips, and the onion dip, the cheese and crackers, the salted almonds, the plump, glistening olives. This
was
a better picnic than the Yale picnic, she thought. The “Yale picnic” consisted of tortilla chips and jarred salsa, a box of Triscuits, and a bowl of microwaved popcorn.

Glory was hers when the flocks descended on her sandwiches, devoured her dip. “God, what is
in
this? Heroin? It's out of this world!”

Clen wolfed two sandwiches without even breathing, saying, “Really good, Cupe. Really damned good.” He went over to the bar to make them some more drinks, and Dabney followed him. Somewhere, a marching band played.

She said, “So, tell me about Jocelyn.”

Clen filled their cups with ice and poured generously from the Popov bottle. He shrugged. “Tell you what? She works on the paper. Arts editor, flair for the dramatic.” Clen was overly enthusiastic with the tonic and the first cup bubbled over. “She can be a real bitch.”

Dabney accepted her drink and reached for a wedge of lime. “Well, yeah. I noticed.”

“Your picnic is beautiful, Cupe,” Clen said. “I mean, look, it's almost gone.” He gazed off, in the direction of the stadium. “Jocelyn's just jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” Dabney said. She wanted clarification. Was she jealous that Dabney went to Harvard? Was she jealous that Dabney could cook? Or was there some other reason, something that had to do with Clen?

Clen didn't have time to answer because at that moment, voices filled the air. The Whiffenpoofs were forming a semicircle in front of the
Daily News
tailgate. The Whiffenpoofs! Dabney felt a flutter of celebrity awe. She loved traditions like this; the most famous a cappella group in the country was
right here!
Dabney forgot about Jocelyn—she had disappeared into the crowd, anyway—and grabbed Clen's arm.

“The Whiffenpoofs!” she said. “They're going to sing!”

“That's what they do,” Clen said. He bent down and whispered in her ear. “Wallace's twin brother is the one in the middle. Ralph, his name is. Ralph Waldo Emerson Wallace.”

“You're kidding me,” Dabney said. Sure enough, the tall guy in the center looked exactly like Henry—same hair, same smile, same glasses.

“Henry asked Ralph to stop here,” Clen said, “because I told him you would want to see them.”

Dabney felt a thrill run up her backbone and explode in euphoria at the base of her neck. The Whiffenpoofs were here…to sing to her!

Ralph leaned in and hummed to give everyone the key, and they launched into “Ride the Chariot.”

Dabney swooned. The voices blended and separated and blended again, melodies, harmonies, top lines, bass lines.

“The Boxer.”

“Is She Really Going Out with Him?”

And one more—“Brown-Eyed Girl,” which was Clen and Dabney's song. Clen led Dabney to a clearing a short way from the car and they danced.

“Did you ask them to sing this?” she asked.

“What do you think?” he said.

Dabney looked down at her penny loafers. This time, she was surprised to see they were touching the ground.

It was almost a disappointment to head into the stadium. Dabney had managed to eat one chicken salad sandwich and grab a few bites of the onion dip before the bowl was licked clean. Everything she had brought had been devoured. So there! Dabney thought.

Harvard 1, Yale 0.

Dabney saw Jocelyn again inside the Yale Bowl. She was sitting three rows ahead of Clen and Dabney and five seats to their left. She was with a girl with curly blond hair and two guys/boys/men, one of whom was wearing a white cardigan sweater with a blue Y that looked like it had been rescued from a 1952 time capsule, and the other of whom wore a plain gray T-shirt and a baseball hat and seemed like he had just rolled out of bed.

Dabney prayed that either Letter Sweater or Boy Who Just Woke Up was Jocelyn's boyfriend.

There was a lot of fanfare before the game began. The Class of 1935 ran out onto the field—seventeen men remaining, more than double that killed in World War II, a moment of silence. The presentation of Handsome Dan, the bulldog, wild applause. Then, the Spizzwinks sang the national anthem; the Spizzwinks were the underclassman version of the Whiffenpoofs. The person who named these groups must have been smoking opium with Lewis Carroll, Dabney thought.

Then…kickoff! The crowd went bananas. Dabney and Clen stood up along with the rest of the stadium and cheered.

Jocelyn turned around and appeared to be searching for someone sitting behind them. She was wearing brown cat's-eye sunglasses.

The kickoff returner for Harvard was tackled on the twenty-five-yard line, and the crowd sat down.

Clen turned to Dabney. “Do you want anything?”

She said, “Nope, I'm good.”

He fidgeted in his seat. For all his enthusiasm about the game, Clen didn't really like to watch football, or any other sport. Dabney was much better at it. She had been the head of the Pep Squad at Nantucket High School and the editor of the yearbook, she had played tennis and sailed at the Nantucket Yacht Club, and she had surfed every beach on Nantucket that could possibly be surfed. She had fished for stripers off the tip of Great Point, and she had hunted for ducks on Tuckernuck with her father. She had written her college essay about the duck hunting, actually, tying it into her relationship with her father, which was important and special since her mother had left when Dabney was eight years old.