referred to as John Tribucci, Senior.”
Ann laughed. “Well, then, there’s always your father’s name.”
“Mario? No way.”
“Andrew is nice.”
“Then we’ve got Ann and Andy, the Raggedy twins.”
“I also like Joseph.”
“Joey Tribucci sounds like a Prohibition bootlegger.”
She made a face at him. “You come up with the most incredible objections. You’re still holding out for Alexander, right?”
“What’s wrong with Alexander?”
“It just doesn’t sound very masculine to me.”
“Alex is one of the most masculine names I can think of.”
“Mmm. But there have still got to be better ones.”
“I haven’t heard any yet.”
“Well—the last time you seemed to like Stephen.”
“But you weren’t exactly overjoyed with it, as I recall.”
“It kind of grows on you. I like John Junior better, but I guess I’m willing to compromise—for now, anyway.”
“All right, for now it’s Stephen. On to girls’ names, since the unlikely possibility does exist that I’ve fathered a female.”
“You,” Ann said, “can be a damned male chauvinist at times.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“And balls to you, love. Okay, you didn’t like Suzanne or Toni or Francesca, and I don’t like Pamela or Jill or Judith. But I’ve been thinking and I came up with three new ones, all of which are pretty and one of which even you are bound to like. The first is Hannah.”
“Somebody’s German maid,” Tribucci said. Then, when she glared at him: “Just kidding, it’s not bad. What’s the second?”
“Marika.”
“Better, much better. Marika Tribucci. You know, that has a nice ring to it.”
“I think so, too. In fact, it’s my favorite. But the third is also sweet: Charlene.”
Tribucci had been smiling and relaxed in Vince’s old naugahyde easy chair; now the smile vanished, and his eyes turned dark and brooding. He got to his feet and walked across to one of the front windows and stood looking out into the darkness.
Behind him Ann said, “Johnny? What’s the matter?”
He did not answer, did not turn. Charlene, he was thinking. Charlene Hammond. It had been a long while since he had thought of her and of the night on the deserted beach near Santa Cruz. The incident had been in his mind often for the first few months after it happened; but that had been thirteen years ago, when he was serving the last of his four-year Army stint at Fort Ord, and time had dulled it finally and settled it into the dim recesses of his memory. Even so, it had only taken Ann’s innocent suggestion just now to bring it all back in sharp, unwelcome focus.
He had met Charlene Hammond in late July of that year, on the boardwalk in Santa Cruz. She’d been blond, vivacious, ripe of body and suggestive in her mannerisms; not particularly bright, but at twenty-two and living on an Army base, you don’t really care about a girl’s intelligence quotient. They’d had a few dates—dances, shows, summer events—and when they’d known each other for three weeks, she let him make love to her in the back seat of her father’s car. He saw her again two evenings later, and that was the night they went to the beach—because the car was awkward and because they were young and there was something exhilarating in the idea of screwing out in the open with the ocean close by and the clear, vast sky overhead. Charlene had chosen the spot, and he’d known she had been there before for the same purpose; she hadn’t been a virgin for a long time.
They parked the car on a bluff and descended to a sheltered place under the cliff’s overhang where they couldn’t be seen from the road above. There they had spread out a blanket and opened cans of beer, made out a little, taking their time, letting the excitement build. Still, neither of them wanted to wait very long, and excitement builds rapidly on a warm, empty night with the sound of the surf murmuring and throbbing in your ears.
They were lying in a tight
Ann laughed. “Well, then, there’s always your father’s name.”
“Mario? No way.”
“Andrew is nice.”
“Then we’ve got Ann and Andy, the Raggedy twins.”
“I also like Joseph.”
“Joey Tribucci sounds like a Prohibition bootlegger.”
She made a face at him. “You come up with the most incredible objections. You’re still holding out for Alexander, right?”
“What’s wrong with Alexander?”
“It just doesn’t sound very masculine to me.”
“Alex is one of the most masculine names I can think of.”
“Mmm. But there have still got to be better ones.”
“I haven’t heard any yet.”
“Well—the last time you seemed to like Stephen.”
“But you weren’t exactly overjoyed with it, as I recall.”
“It kind of grows on you. I like John Junior better, but I guess I’m willing to compromise—for now, anyway.”
“All right, for now it’s Stephen. On to girls’ names, since the unlikely possibility does exist that I’ve fathered a female.”
“You,” Ann said, “can be a damned male chauvinist at times.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“And balls to you, love. Okay, you didn’t like Suzanne or Toni or Francesca, and I don’t like Pamela or Jill or Judith. But I’ve been thinking and I came up with three new ones, all of which are pretty and one of which even you are bound to like. The first is Hannah.”
“Somebody’s German maid,” Tribucci said. Then, when she glared at him: “Just kidding, it’s not bad. What’s the second?”
“Marika.”
“Better, much better. Marika Tribucci. You know, that has a nice ring to it.”
“I think so, too. In fact, it’s my favorite. But the third is also sweet: Charlene.”
Tribucci had been smiling and relaxed in Vince’s old naugahyde easy chair; now the smile vanished, and his eyes turned dark and brooding. He got to his feet and walked across to one of the front windows and stood looking out into the darkness.
Behind him Ann said, “Johnny? What’s the matter?”
He did not answer, did not turn. Charlene, he was thinking. Charlene Hammond. It had been a long while since he had thought of her and of the night on the deserted beach near Santa Cruz. The incident had been in his mind often for the first few months after it happened; but that had been thirteen years ago, when he was serving the last of his four-year Army stint at Fort Ord, and time had dulled it finally and settled it into the dim recesses of his memory. Even so, it had only taken Ann’s innocent suggestion just now to bring it all back in sharp, unwelcome focus.
He had met Charlene Hammond in late July of that year, on the boardwalk in Santa Cruz. She’d been blond, vivacious, ripe of body and suggestive in her mannerisms; not particularly bright, but at twenty-two and living on an Army base, you don’t really care about a girl’s intelligence quotient. They’d had a few dates—dances, shows, summer events—and when they’d known each other for three weeks, she let him make love to her in the back seat of her father’s car. He saw her again two evenings later, and that was the night they went to the beach—because the car was awkward and because they were young and there was something exhilarating in the idea of screwing out in the open with the ocean close by and the clear, vast sky overhead. Charlene had chosen the spot, and he’d known she had been there before for the same purpose; she hadn’t been a virgin for a long time.
They parked the car on a bluff and descended to a sheltered place under the cliff’s overhang where they couldn’t be seen from the road above. There they had spread out a blanket and opened cans of beer, made out a little, taking their time, letting the excitement build. Still, neither of them wanted to wait very long, and excitement builds rapidly on a warm, empty night with the sound of the surf murmuring and throbbing in your ears.
They were lying in a tight
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