"A dime! The hell 1 will."
The needless urgency of her refusal offends him, it sounds as if she wants a profit. Why does she think he'd steal from her? What would he steal? He dips into his coat pocket and comes up with coins and takes a dime and puts it into the little ivory jukebox that bums mildly on the wall by their table. Leaning over, close to her face, he turns the leaves listing titles and finally punches the buttons, B and 7, for "Rocksville, P—A." "Chinese food in Texas is the best Chinese food in the United States except Boston," he says.
"Listen to the big traveller," Ruth says. She gives him a cigarette. He forgives her about the dime.
"So you think," Tothero says steadily, "that coaches don't do anything."
"They're worthless," Ruth says.
"Hey come on," Rabbit says.
The waiter comes back with their chopsticks and two menus. Rabbit is disappointed in the chopsticks; they feel like plastic instead of wood. The cigarette tastes rough, a noseful of straw. He puts it out. Never again.
"We'll each order a dish and then share it," Tothero tells them. "Now who has favorites?"
"Sweet and sour pork," Margaret says. One thing about her, she is very definite.
"Harry?"
"I don't know."
"Where's the big Chinese—food specialist?" Ruth asks.
"This is in English. I'm used to ordering from a Chinese menu.
"Come on, come on, tell me what's good."
"Hey cut it out; you're getting me rattled." `
"You were never in Texas," she says.
He remembers the house on that strange treeless residential street, the green night growing up from the prairie, the flowers in the window, and says, "Absolutely I was."
"Doing what?"
"Serving Uncle."
"Oh, in the Army; well that doesn't count. Everybody's been to Texas with the Army."
"You order whatever you think is good," Rabbit tells Tothero. He is irritated by all these Army veterans Ruth seems to know, and strains to hear the final bars of the song he spent a dime to play. In this Chinese place he can just make out a hint, coming it seems from the kitchen, of the jangling melody that lifted his spirits last night in the car.
Tothero gives the waiter the order and when he goes away tries to give Ruth the word. The old man's thin lips are wet with whisky. "The coach," he says, "the coach is concerned with developing the three tools we are given in life: the head, the body, and the heart."
"And the crotch," Ruth says. Margaret, of all people, laughs. She really gives Rabbit the creeps.
"Young woman, you've challenged me, and I deserve the respect of your attention." He speaks with grave weight.
"Shit," she says softly, and looks down. "Don't bleed on me." He has hurt her. The wings of her nostrils whiten; her coarse make—up darkens.
"One. The head. Strategy. Most boys come to a basketball coach from alley games and have no conception of the, of the elegance of the game played on a court with two baskets. Won't you bear me out, Harry?"
"Yeah, sure. just yesterday –"
"Second – let me finish, Harry, and then you can talk second, the body. Work the boys into condition. Make their legs hard." He clenches his fist on the slick table. "Hard. Run, run, run. Run every minute their feet are on the floor. You can't run enough. Thirdly" – he puts the index finger and thumb of one hand to the corners of his mouth and flicks away the moisture "the heart. And here the good coach, which I, young lady, certainly tried to be and some say was, has his most solemn opportunity. Give the boys the will to achieve. I've always liked that better than the will to win, for there can be achievement even in defeat. Make them feel the – yes, I think the word is good– the sacredness of achievement, in the form of giving our best." He dares a pause now, and wins through it, glancing at each of them in turn to freeze their tongues. "A boy who has had his heart enlarged by an inspiring coach," he concludes, "can never become, in the deepest sense, a failure in the greater game of life.". He lifts his plump hand. "And now may the peace of God, et cetera. . ." He draws on his glass, which is mostly ice cubes. As he tilts it up they ride forward and rattle against his lips.
Ruth turns to Rabbit and asks quietly, as if to change the subject, "What do you do?"
He laughs. "Well I'm not sure I do anything any more. I should have gone to work this morning. I, uh, it's kind of hard to describe, I demonstrate something called the MagiPeel Kitchen Peeler."
"And I'm sure he does it well," Tothero says. "I'm sure that when the MagiPeel Corporation board sits down at their annual meeting and ask themselves, `Now who has done the most to further our cause with the American public?' the name of Harry Rabbit Angstrom leads the list."
"What do you do?" Rabbit asks her in turn.
"Nothing," Ruth answers. "Nothing." And her eyelids make a greasy blue curtain as she sips her Daiquiri. Her chin takes something of the liquid's green light.
The Chinese food arrives. Eager saliva fills his mouth. He really hasn't had any since Texas. He loves this food that contains no disgusting proofs of slain animals, no bloody slab of cow haunch or hen's sinewy skeleton; these ghosts have been minced and destroyed and painlessly merged with the shapes of mute vegetables, plump green bodies that invite his appetite's innocent gusto. Candy. Heaped on a smoking breast of rice. Each is given such a tidy hot breast, and Margaret is in a special hurry to muddle hers with glazed chunks; all eat well. Their faces take color and strength from the oval plates of dark pork, sugar peas, chicken, stiff sweet sauce, shrimp, water chestnuts, who knows what else. Their talk grows hearty.
"He was terrific," Rabbit says of Tothero. "He was the greatest coach in the county. I would've been nothing without him."
"No, Harry, no. You did more for me than I did for you. Girls, the first game he played he scored twenty points."
"Twenty—three," Harry says.
"Twenty—three points! Think of it." The women eat on. "Remember, Harry, the state tournaments in Harrisburg; Dennistown and their little set—shot artist?"
"He was tiny," Harry tells Ruth. "About five two and ugly as a monkey. Really a dirty player too."
"Ah, but he knew his trade," Tothero says, "he knew his trade. Harry had met his match."
"Then he tripped me, remember?"
"So he did," Tothero says. "I'd forgotten."
"This runt trips me, and over I go, bonk, against the mat. If the walls hadn't been padded I'd'a been killed."
"Then what happened, Harry? Did you cream him? I've forgotten this whole incident." Tothero's mouth is full of food and his hunger for revenge is ugly.
"Why, no," Rabbit says slowly. "I never fouled. The ref saw it and it was his fifth foul and he was out. Then we smothered 'em."
Something fades in Tothero's expression; his face goes slack. "That's right, you never fouled. He never did. Harry was always the idealist."
Rabbit shrugs. "I didn't have to."
"The other strange thing about Harry," Tothero tells the two women. "He was never hurt."
"No, I once sprained my wrist," Rabbit corrects. "The thing you said that really helped me -"