“Come-on-ya-dope -lead me-pass it-I’m on the twenty-yard line-heave it!”
Teresa’s head snapped up from the book, and she sought the source of heinous interruption. On the sand, nearer the water, perhaps fifty yards off, were four grown men where before there
had been no one. Even at this distance, she could see that they were gigantic young men. Two were shoulder to shoulder bucking and bullying each other like angry elephants, in some sort of savage play. The other two were playing catch with a football, one, squat and intent, in denims, throwing to the largest of the four, in sweat shirt and trunks, who ran churning through the exploding sand to catch it.
Frowning her displeasure, Teresa continued to observe them. Like automata, the four continued their perpetual, unvarying movements, punctuating all with incomprehensible and often profane shoutings. For a while, they seemed to gravitate closer to her, and once the largest of the four came plowing within twenty yards of her, leaping high and easily, for one so brawny, to snatch the ball from the air. When he came down, he came down to a knee, then slowly rose, panting. She could see him plainly now: his dark hair cut in the so-called butch fashion and a red, open, perfectly wrought California outdoor face, with a faded gray sweat shirt emblazoned with the legend “Rams” covering a mammoth chest, tapering down to a narrow torso indecently covered by trunks so brief that a protective cup would have served as well. His thighs were bulging, and the legs were surprisingly slim.
Catching his breath, he looked up and saw Teresa staring at him. He grinned. Annoyed, she turned away and lifted her book. After a proper interval, she glanced over her shoulder. He was making his way back to his friends, bouncing the ball u-p and down in one hand.
Determined to ignore this’ temporary invasion of Constable’s Cove and its dominion, Teresa set her lips-again thin, since the paint had worn off-and reclined once more with Dowson. She reread the third verse five times, but the words blurred and made no sense. She could hear the lusty exertions nearby, and the occasional outcries, and much as she tried to think of Dowson, she thought only of Dr. Chapman. What did he ask women anyway? What did he expect to hear from them? What were the standards of satisfactory sex? But then, she reflected, Dr. Chapman would not know. He would know the quantitative pattern, but not what was best. Who was to determine what was best or right or gratifying? Suddenly, for the first time, she related Dr. Chapman’s inquiry to herself, her flesh, her bed, and she felt a thrill of apprehension and danger.
She looked off. All four were in the throwing and catching game
now, and after a few minutes she could see that the largest of them was also the most artful. By far the most artful.
Suddenly she stood up. She had been in the Cove only a half hour, instead of the usual hour or more, but now she wanted to be home, surrounded by the security of the statuary, and abstract oils, and rare old books, as far as possible from perspiration, and agility, and muscle. She wanted the sanctity of art, civilized, not artfulness, primitive.
With her volume in hand, she snatched up her blanket, hardly bothering to shake it out, and made her way toward the path, staring straight ahead at the small ridges of sand. At the foot of the path she paused briefly and looked off at the four barbarians. The largest was standing, hands on hips, legs spread wide, regarding her boldly (and, she thought in a flash, regarding himself, too, no doubt, as some embodiment of Hercules or Apollo). Suddenly, almost insolently, he waved to her. She shuddered, turned away, and hastened up the path to the convertible.
“Yes, I understand, Kathleen,” said Naomi Shields as she immersed herself deeper in the bathtub of hot water, awkwardly holding the receiver high to keep it from getting wet. “But, I repeat, I couldn’t be less