Prizes (30 page)

First they watched a re-creation of the famous Battle of Lexington, in which the younger villagers preferred to play the defeated British because of the flashy red costumes. Then all would repair to the prof’s domain where, for one exceptional day, the scientists would disregard their own warnings against the cholesterol content of marbled steaks cooked over a carcinogenic charcoal fire.

Though their female roommates preferred to commemorate the original revolution by flaunting their own independence and working in the lab, Stella generously lent Vic and Sandy her four-door “shitbox.”

In the huge Morgenstern garden the shots fired were strictly from the lips to the throat. After the evening fireworks, Gregory let down his rapidly receding hair and led his guests in songs from the modern American folk repertoire.

His pièce de résistance was Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind.” In his inebriated state, the professor claimed that Dylan was a closet quantum physicist and the “answer, my friend,” was subatomic particles.

Exacting a promise from Sandy to drive them home, Vic then proceeded on a concentrated quest to juice and seduce, giving his friend a final bit of advice: “The best place to find pliant ladies is in the satellites surrounding Judy Morgenstern.”

“The Old Man’s daughter?”

“Bingo,” he replied. “Anyway, she’s a senior at Bennington—and you know about those types.”

Poor, introverted Sandy really did not know what his worldly companion was talking about. But he had an inkling.

And he found himself drawn to a circle of young people seated in the shade of an oak tree, listening to a very pretty freckle-faced guitarist with a reddish-brown
ponytail. She was wearing denim cutoffs and a Beethoven T-shirt.

Gosh, Sandy thought to himself. I never imagined that a daughter of Greg Morgenstern’s could be so good-looking. It almost casts doubt on genetics. I mean, if Rochelle was a goddess, this creature certainly qualified as a nymph. Too bad I don’t have the guts to talk to her.

At that point the singer coughed histrionically and uttered, “Will somebody please have some pity and get this poor girl a beer?”

The normally reticent Sandy heard a cue and pounced on it.

“I’ll get it,” he called out.

“Thanks. Be sure to take it from the bottom, where they’re really cold.”

He jogged over to the refreshment area, plunged his hand into the metal garbage can that was today serving as an oversized ice bucket, withdrew a bottle of Miller Lite, and hurried back to the parched performer.

“Thanks,” she murmured smiling. “You saved my life. Where’s yours?”

“Oh, I forgot,” he confessed with embarrassment.

Quickly offering him a sip, she suggested, “Why don’t you finish mine and get us both another.”

Yes, Vic’s prediction had been accurate. There were several attractive girls encircling the troubadour—at least half of them unattended. But Sandy was mesmerized by the singer, not the song.

After his third trip to the watering hole, he had swallowed enough liquid courage to sit down next to her and introduce himself.

He even emulated his father’s style. “Hi there. Raven’s the name, Chem’s the game.”

“Well, Raven,” she responded gaily, “do you have any requests?”

“To begin with,” Sandy remarked, “it would be nice to know
your
name.”

“I’m the Princess Judy,” she replied. “At least of these five acres. Greg’s my Dad—and even though I’m not into science, I’m still his best pal.”

“I don’t blame him,” Sandy remarked, calling upon his prodigious memory for ancient films. “As Bogart said to Claude Rains, ‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’ ”

“Oh,” she said her face brightening, “are you a
Casablanca
freak too?”

“I’m afraid I’m worse than that. I’m a movie loony. My dad’s in the business.”

“Just what does he do?”

“He’s a producer.”

“What’s he produced?”

“Me, for one thing.” Sandy grinned. “The rest is stuff on celluloid. Actually, if I didn’t want to make such a good impression on you, I’d confess that his greatest hit so far is
Godzilla Meets Hercules.
”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding—that’s my favorite bad film.” And then, quickly reining herself in, she added, “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“On the contrary,” Sandy replied. “As my dad says, ‘Put-downs are as good as Valentines, as long as you buy a ticket.’ ”

“I bet that helps you meet a lot of girls,” she offered.

“What?”

“I guess lots of girls play up to you to get an introduction to your father.”

“I wouldn’t mind if
you
did,” he responded.

“Not a chance.” Judy strummed an angry chord. “The only thing I want to be less than a scientist is a movie star.”

Sandy was thrilled. Yet suddenly feeling his confidence waning, he proposed they walk over together and get another beer.

“Suits me.” She smiled, climbing to her feet. “I’m not driving.”

“Me either,” Sandy lied, thinking: If this girl likes me, I can
fly
home without a car.

The Morgensterns’ barbecues were renowned for their liveliness and longevity. It had been late afternoon when Sandy met Judy, but all time had dissolved after that.

They chatted endlessly about movies, until it became clear that guests were finally starting to leave.

It was almost midnight as Sandy made his way toward Professor and Mrs. Morgenstern to bid them good night.

Judy took his hand and whispered, “Will I hear from you or is this just a one-night stand?”

“Who’s standing?” he rejoined. “As Elizabeth Taylor said to Montgomery Clift in
A Place in the Sun,
‘Every time you leave me for a minute, it’s like good-bye.’ ”

“Wow, you’ve got an unbelievable memory, Sandy. By the way, who’s driving you home?”

“I am—that is, if I can find my car. In fact, I’m supposed to be taking Vic Newman.”

“Not in that state, you’re not,” Greg Morgenstern reprimanded as they approached him.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Prof,” Sandy conceded, his words slightly slurred. “Guess Vic’ll have to drive.”

“Have you seen him?” Morgenstern asked. “He’s under a tree—out cold.”

“I could drive them both, Dad,” Judy volunteered. “I switched to coffee about two hours ago.”

“But darling, you’re not a good driver at the best of times,” her mother interposed.

“Look at it this way,” Judy explained, “I’m the only one sober enough to do the job.”

“You’ll be careful?” Mrs. Morgenstern insisted.

“Stay loose, Mom. In Boston people drive the same—drunk or sober. I’m used to it.”

By the time they reached the house in Central
Square, Vic was ambulatory, and tactful enough to get out of the car and disappear inside.

As she turned to Sandy in the passenger seat, Judy whispered, “You’re really cute, did you know that?”

“No,” he replied. “I’m usually regarded as wallflower material.”

“Well, then you’re an attractive wall,” she responded playfully. “Anyway, stop being shy and tell me if we’re going to see each other again.”

“Hey, lady, this is only the first reel,” Sandy answered. “We’ll kiss gently and look forward to the ultimate clinch.”

And that was precisely what they did.

The next morning, Stella was outraged by what she deemed Sandy’s “sexist co-opting” of her vehicle.

“Stay loose, Stella. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Since when have you ever taken care of anything?” she said angrily.

Sandy did not wish to pursue this secondary matter, and proceeded to dial the Morgenstern household.

Like a nervous schoolboy—which, in a way, he was—he rehearsed his conversation, even going as far as jotting a few choice phrases on an index card.

Unfortunately, it was the prof’s wife who picked up the phone: Why had he not prepared for this eventuality! Quickly regaining his balance, he thanked her for her bounteous hospitality, and then, as casually as possible, asked, “Uh, is Judy around?”

“Yes. She’s sleeping.”

“Oh, in that case—”

“No,” Mrs. Morgenstern cut short his demurral. “She said to wake her if you called.”

Ohmigod. Then it wasn’t wishful thinking, Sandy realized. Maybe she really
does
like me.

A moment later Judy was on the phone, her voice still slightly husky with sleep.

“Hi,” she murmured.

“Hi,” Sandy echoed. “I’m, uh, just calling to be sure you got back all right.”

“Well, as you see, I did,” she answered.

Feeling somewhat fuzzy-headed, Sandy was temporarily released from his normal inhibitions. “Judy, I had the craziest dream last night.…”

“Tell me,” she urged. “I’m majoring in psych, so maybe I can interpret it for you.”

“I had this ridiculous fantasy that I kissed you,” Sandy joked. “But I guess I was imagining it, huh?”

“I’m sorry, Sandy,” she responded with a pseudo-Teutonic Freudian accent. “But I must know whether this vas a pleasant experience.”

“To be frank, Judy—it was wonderful. I was sorry to wake up.”

“I’m glad,” she responded. “By sheer coincidence, I thought of you a lot too. Only I know it wasn’t a dream, ’cause I couldn’t fall asleep until nearly four.”

Sandy was suddenly short of breath. Never, in his twenty-two years of life, had he savoured the sublime experience of reciprocated affection.

He tried to disguise the fact that his heart was doing somersaults, and remarked matter-of-factly, “I’m afraid I have to talk business, Judy. I mean my roommate’s on my back about the car and I’ve got to return it to her before she goes through the ozone layer. I was thinking I might bike out to your place.”

“No. Actually, I planned to bring the car in and pick you up so we could have lunch.”

“That sounds fine to me,” Sandy responded with enthusiasm. “What time would be good for you?”

“Well,” she answered, “unless you want me to drive naked, I’d better put on some clothes, and have a cup of coffee first. Is an hour okay with you?”

“Great.” To which he quickly added a remark that surprised him: “And you don’t have to put on clothes on my account.”

She was even more attractive than Sandy remembered. Instead of ragged jeans and T-shirt, she wore a sleeveless, off-the-shoulder summer dress that plunged boldly.

They bought colossal submarine sandwiches and picnicked on the banks of the Charles.

They had scarcely been sitting for a quarter of an hour when he blurted, “When do you have to go back to school?”

She laughed. “Are you trying to get rid of me already?”

“On the contrary,” he declared, “I just want to know how much time I have to snow you.”

“What makes you think you haven’t snowed me already?”

“Well, frankly,” he confessed, “I’m not exactly Robert Redford—”

“Why are you so obsessed with external beauty?” she chided.

“Is there any other kind?”

“Maybe not in Hollywood, but there is where I come from. I mean, even if I hadn’t heard my father mention you a couple of dozen times this summer, just talking to you for a few hours last night convinced me that you’re smart as hell. And, if you must know …” She leaned closer and whispered, “I really think the sexiest part of a man is his brain.”

Incredulous, Sandy thought, Jesus, I might even stand a real chance with this girl.

The sleek, white, stretch Lincoln Continental glided up to the Beverly-Wilshire Hotel. Seated in the back, wearing an ermine coat and glistening with jewels, was Kim Tower. The chauffeur hurried around and bowed as he let her out. As she walked gracefully toward the portals, the doorman greeted her with a deferential salute.

Suddenly, a pair of menacing figures appeared, each brandishing Magnum .38 revolvers.

“Okay, lady,” growled the larger of the two. “This’ll teach you not to play in the big leagues.”

Kim had just enough time to register shock and cry out, “No! No!”

In the next instant both assassins fired. Struck in the neck and chest, Kim recoiled and fell back onto the sidewalk, rivulets of blood staining her white coat.

“My God, Sandy,” Gregory Morgenstern cried out in astonishment. “They’ve just killed your old girlfriend.”

Sprinting so fast that most of the coffee in the paper cups he was carrying splashed onto the floor, Sandy raced toward the lab table where the television, normally reserved for athletic events, had been turned to a “Movie of the Week.”

“That’s impossible,” he protested. “They were just showing the titles when I left.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg commiserated. “It doesn’t look like she had a very big role.”

“Did she at least get to say something?” Sandy asked with disappointment.

“Just a couple of words,” Morgenstern answered. “And then a kind of last gasp before she hit the deck.”

“That’s all? Just a lousy walk-on?”

“Well,” his teacher jested amiably, “
I’d
call it more of a ‘die-on.’ But I tell you, she looked like a million bucks.”

“Damn it,” Sandy railed. “She must have gotten typecast. I mean it always looked like whenever they had a part where someone croaked they gave it to her. I’m telling you,
that’s
what killed her career before she had a chance to prove herself.”