112
PHILIP
L.
GREENE
"I'll help you," Rollie said, and he fell to his knees, and with
swift, precise sweeps of his hand he gathered marbles. Together
they popped the marbles back into the canister.
"Would you like to playa game?" Malcolm asked, as he held
the canister in his arms. He explained that he had become a
champion by playing for hours on the Oriental rug, not nearly
as
good as the Kerman on the floor now, but also full
of
intricate
patterns, with many targets that required control and patience. "Do
you see the fleur-de-lis in the center of the rug? You shoot for that.
Shall we start?"
They reached into the canister for shooting marbles. Rollie
selected a clear glass marble with light sweeping wisps of clouds.
Malcolm chose a yellow and blue swirl with a roughened surface,
his favorite shooter. Rollie held the marble in his warm palm and
felt a hollowness in his head. The port and the marijuana were
probably working their way in. He knew he should call Bonnie and
tell her not to worry, that he would
be
late playing marbles with
his
friend Malcolm, but she might try to reason with him and he
didn't want that.
"You know," he said, quickly, with a tone of candor that
promised a revelation, "this afternoon when I was discussing the
dichotomy . . ."
"Oh, that old thing," Malcolm said. "Come on, let's play."
"O.K.," Rollie said, ballooning out a gust of stale breath. He
looked at Malcolm on
his
knees, marble in hand, with
his
Chinese
kimono and
his
furry slippers, and wondered what it was all about.
"Shoot," Rollie said, feeling a catch in
his
throat, as he cast
Ius
first marble.
