Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [39]
The bored announcer was clicked off in midsentence, and Mrs. Hungerford came after me a moment later.
“They're all tickled to death, Mr. Mansfield,” she said happily. “Come on, they want to meet you!”
In one corner of the large living room, Tommy was engaged behind a small bar. Two middle-aged men got out of their chairs and crossed the room to greet me. Dr. McGuire was a thick-set man without a neck, and his gray hair was badly in need of cutting. Mt Hungerford, Sr., Tommy's father, was an older edition of his blond son, except that he no longer had his hair and the top of his head was bronzed by the Florida sun. Both of the men wore white dinner jackets and midnight blue tuxedo trousers. I acknowledged the introductions by nodding my head and shaking hands. The two wives remained seated on a long, curving white sofa, and didn't offer their hands to be shaken.
“I know you're all eager to hear Mr. Mansfield play,” Bernice announced to the room at large, “but you'll have to wait until he has a drink first.”
Welcome news. After dropping my guitar case on the sofa I headed for the bar.
“There's plenty of gin if you don't want Scotch,” Tommy suggested.
I poured two ounces of Scotch into a tall glass in reply, and added ice cubes and soda. An uneasy silence settled over the room as I hooked my elbows over the bar and faced the group. Bernice, or Tommy, one, had evidently informed them about my inability to talk, and they were disturbed by my silence. The two matrons, bulging in strapless evening gowns, had difficulty in averting their eyes from my face. I doubt if they meant to be rude, but they couldn't keep from staring at me. Dr. McGuire, standing with his back to the fireplace, lit a cigar and studied the tip through his bifocals. Only Bernice was at ease, sitting comfortably on the long bench in front of the baby grand piano, apparently unaware of her guests' discomfort. Mr. Hungerford, Sr., cleared his throat and set his glass down on a low coffee table.
“Bernice tells us you studied under Segovia, Mr. Mansfield,” he said.
“Yes,” Bernice replied for me, “That's what Mr. Vernon told us, didn't he, Tommy?”
“That's right. And he played a beautiful thing written by Dr. Albert Schweitzer. I hope he'll play it again for us.”
“African rock 'n' roll, I suppose,” Dr. McGuire chuckled from the fireplace. “That would be a treat!” When no one joined him in his laughter, he said quickly, “We're very grateful you came out to play for us, Mr. Mansfield.”
I finished my drink, lifted my eyebrows for Tommy Hungerford to mix me another. I took my guitar out of the case, and started to resting it with another “G” string to replace the broken one. While I restrung the guitar, Mrs. Hungerford asked her brother and the doctor to move chairs into the center of the room and form a line. She then had her guests sit in the rearranged chairs facing me, as I stood with one foot on the piano bench. Tommy Hungerford, smiling at the new seating arrangements, remained standing at the bar. I plucked and tightened the new string, and Bernice hit the “G” on the piano for me until I had the guitar in tune. Satisfied, I put the guitar on the bench and returned to the bar for my fresh drink. The small audience waited patiently, but Dr. McGuire glowered when Tommy insisted that I have another before I began. I shook my head, picked up my guitar and played through my three-song repertoire without pause.
The moment I hit the last chord I smiled, bowed from the waist and put the guitar back in the case. Bernice Hungerford, who had hovered anxiously behind the row of chairs during