Sunday's Children
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“You too.” I got out a coke.
No way could I miss it. Her hand was fluttering about and there was no mistaking a huge diamond, left hand ring finger.
“Ah ha! Mother lode!”
“Yes” All smiles.
“About time Billy made you an honest woman!”
“Ain’t it!”
I just sipped my coke and looked at her. God, I thought, how pretty! What a lucky bastard that Billy was. Had come up smelling like a rose, I thought.
“Well,” after a while. “When?”
“June. Billy’s got to transfer after this semester. We will go to Ohio and get married, then a trip somewhere, we don’t know, and next Fall Billy goes into med school.”
“Sounds like a winner. We’ll miss you two.”
She was radiant.
“What about your job?”
“Oh, we’ve talked about that. Billy thinks I can get on with another hospital wherever he winds up.” Then, after a moment, “It doesn’t matter.”
‘Right,” I said. “You will do well anywhere, Kiki.”
And I knew she would.
Charles came in. He did what all of us do, he dived for the refrigerator. He poured a glass of milk and came over. Kiki’s hand was resting quite still on the counter. I waited for Charles to notice.
He wiped a white mustache and said “Hey!” Reached over and picked up her hand.
Most unfortunately, I intercepted an exchange of glances that I really should not have.
“Great, Kiki.” Charles said.
“Yes, thanks.”
I suddenly felt bad. The light in the room seemed to dim somewhat and I couldn’t look at either of them. I knew something I should not know.
“When is the happy event?” Charles asked. I listened to Kiki give him the details, but I didn’t follow the conversation. I felt a dull ache in the pit of my stomach.. Hell, I knew.
God Damn him!
Charles went to his room. Kiki just sat there. When our eyes met, I saw that she knew I knew. Her eyes were dark as pitch. The pupils were wide.
“Got to go, Kiki,” I rose.
“Mason.” It was a plea.
Our eyes met again and held.
“We are pals, Kiki.” I said.
She swallowed nervously.
I said, “Billy is one hell of a good man; I will never hurt him. Or you. Never.”
God, don’t you dare cry, I thought.
She didn’t.
Low, almost as a whisper, I said, “Stay away from that son of a bitch.”
There was only a hint of a nod but her lowering lashes said yes.
I could kill him.
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About the Book
The house at 313 Monroe Street is an unsettling element in a staid neighborhood. It has no connection with the university. It is conveniently located not far from campus, or downtown, or numerous bars and liquor stores. The boys who lived there, sometimes their girls, are typical lusty, irreverent All American children, on their own and making the most of it.
Mason Clark, now an aging chairman of the board, recalls the goings on. For some reason, the others always thought of Mason, who was certainly no saint, as their Father Confessor. On him they unhesitatingly unloaded all of their dark secrets and dirty linen. At this late date, Mason, now feeling no compunction to remain silent longer, tells us every juicy detail, unembellished and unexpurgated.