The Troubled Air by Irwin Shaw Read Free Book Online Page B

When, in the middle of the season, Herres came up to his desk and in his casual and offhand manner offered Archer two tickets for the next football game, he was pleased and said he’d be delighted to go, although he had been religiously devoting Saturdays and Sundays to writing a play on Napoleon III that he had high hopes for.
    The stadium was really nothing more than two sets of field stands with a wooden fence around them, but there was a gala air about it, with the stands filled and the bands playing during the pre-game practice and the flags snapping in the raw October breeze. Herres had given Archer tickets high up in the stands, saying, “It’s the only place you can make any sense out of a football game. Down low, it’ll just look like a mob of ruffians beating each other over the head for two hours.” Seated in the last row, between Kitty, who had bought herself a yellow chrysanthemum for the occasion and who looked younger than most of the students this afternoon, and Nancy MacDonald, who was playing hostess in a grave, adult manner, Archer could see over the fence through the bare trees, down the hill to the buildings of the college. They looked peaceful and solid in the gray afternoon and for a moment he felt deeply attached to them and glad that he was spending his life here.
    “That’s Vic,” Nancy was saying, her voice betraying nothing. “Number 22. He’s throwing passes now, but he doesn’t do much of that in the game.”
    “He looks so large,” Kitty said. “It doesn’t seem fair, letting such a large boy play with some of those poor little undernourished ones.”
    They had all laughed and Kitty’s eyes had been dancing and lively. Kitty loved parties, dances, events of all kinds. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, Archer felt a little guilty, because he kept her so close to home all the time. He himself disliked noise and group hilarity, and stayed at home whenever he could and Kitty, although she sighed from time to time when he made her refuse an invitation, loyally smothered all complaints.
    He looked for number 22. He had brought a pair of binoculars and he put them to his eyes. Vic Herres emerged from the circular blur of the glasses. He did look enormous, with the shoulder pads and helmet, as he took the pass from center and ran back easily and threw with a jumping, flipping motion. He seemed bored but relaxed, in contrast to the tense excitement of the other boys around him. His hips seemed very narrow, sloping in from the spread of the shoulder pads and his legs, tight in the silk pants, were thick and long. When he moved, Archer realized what sports writers meant when they talked about the way an athlete handled himself.
    “Mr. Archer,” Nancy said in a low voice and Archer put down the glasses, “I have something here for the cold.”
    Archer looked down and saw that Nancy was holding a silver flask, keeping it low on her lap, and partially covered under a plaid blanket. He must have looked a little surprised, because Nancy said hastily, “It’s Vic’s. It’s his whiskey, too. He said not to press it on you, but to be quick with it if you showed unmistakable signs of exposure.” She smiled and Archer decided that he liked her very much.
    “Kitty,” he said, turning to his wife, “we’re being tempted with spirits by the younger generation. Look.”
    Kitty bent over and saw the flask. She looked at him doubtfully. “Here?” she whispered, with a quick flick of her eyes for the students and faculty members and alumni and parents crowded below them.
    “Vic said that’s why he got you tickets in the last row,” Nancy said. “There’s nobody around you and everybody’s looking the other way.”
    “Victor Herres is probably the most thoughtful man playing collegiate football this year,” Archer said. “He has my vote for All-American right now.” He took the flask and offered it to Kitty.
    Kitty giggled as she took the flask. “Gilded youth,” she said.