The Development by John Barth Read Free Book Online Page A

mattersome than whether to run a few errands in Stratford or do some outdoor chores on the property before Sue's golf and Dick's tennis dates scheduled for later in the day.
    So they would go to the goddamn party, as Dick scolded himself for terming it out of Susan's hearing. Some hours later, at a break in whacking the yellow Wilson tennis balls back to Sam Bailey on the Heron Bay Club's courts (since Ethel's death, Sam had lost interest in playing for points, but he still enjoyed a vigorous hour's worth of back-and-forthing a couple of times a week, which had come to suit Dick just fine), he mentioned the upcoming event: that it would be his and Sue's first toga party, and that they'd be going more to have a look at their new neighbors' Loblolly Court mansion and get to know it's owners than out of any interest in funny-costume parties. To his mild surprise, he learned that Sam—although an Oyster Cover rather than a Rockfish Reacher—would be there too, and was in fact looking forward to "XXIV Septembris." As a longtime board member of the Club, Sam had met Tom and Patsy Hardison when they'd applied for membership, even before commencing their house construction. And while he himself at age eighty could do without the faux-Roman high jinks, his Ethel had relished such foolery and would have loved nothing more than another toga party, if the goddamn nonexistent Almighty hadn't gifted her with goddamn cancer.
    They resumed their volleying, until Sam's right arm and shoulder had had enough and the area behind Dick's breastbone began to feel the mild soreness-after-exertion that he hadn't yet mentioned either to Susan or to their doctor, although he'd been noticing it for some months. He
had
shared with both his life partner and his tennis partner his opinion that an ideal way to "go" would be by a sudden massive coronary on the tennis court upon his returning one of Sam's tricky backhand slices with a wham-o forehand topspin. "Don't you
dare
die first!" his wife had warned him. All Sam had said was "Make sure we get a half-hour's tennis in before you kick."
    "So tell me about toga parties," Dick asked him as they packed up their racquets and balls, latched the chain-link entrance gate behind themselves, and swigged water from the drinking fountain beside the tennis court restrooms. "What kind of high jinks should we expect?"
    The usual, Sam supposed: like calling out something in Latin when you first step into the room ...
    "Latin? I don't know any damn Latin!"
    "Sure you do:
Ave Maria? Tempus fugit?
After that, and some joking around about all the crazy getups, it's just a friendly cocktail-dinner party for the next couple hours, till they wind it up with some kinky contest-games with fun prizes. Susan will enjoy it; maybe even
you
will.
Veni, vidi, vici!
"
    "Excuse me?"
    "You're excused. But
go,
for Christ's sake. Or Jove's sake, whoever's." Thumbing his shrunken chest, "
I'm
going, goddamn it, even though the twenty-fourth is the first anniversary of Ethel's death. I promised her and the kids that I'd try to maintain the status quo as best I could for at least a year—no major changes, one foot in front of the other, et cetera—and then we'd see what we'd see. So I'm going for her sake as much as mine. There're two more passwords for you, by the way:
status quo
and
et cetera.
"
    Remarkable guy, the Feltons agreed at that afternoon's end, over gin and tonics on the little barbecue patio beside their screened porch. In Dick's opinion, at least, that no-major-changes-for-at-least-the-first-year policy made good sense: Keep everything as familiar and routine as possible while the shock of bereavement was so raw and overwhelming.
    But "Count me out," said Sue. "Twenty-four hours tops, and then it's So long, Susie-Q. But what I
really
want is the Common Disaster scenario, thanks"—a term they'd picked up from their estate lawyer over in the city, who in the course of this latest revision of their wills had urged them to