Falconer+-+John+Cheever

Falconer 120
suit was cheap and stained, and so were his tie and his vest. Even
his eyeglasses were soiled. He wore the felt hat to stress the
sovereignty of sartorial rule. He, the civilian judge, was crowned
with a hat while the penitents were naked, and with their sins,
their genitals, their boastfulness and their memories exposed they
seemed shameful. “Spread your cheeks,” said the doctor. “Wider.
Wider. Next—73482.”
“It’s 73483,” said Tiny.
“I can’t read your writing,” the doctor said. “73483.”
73483 was Tennis. Tennis was a sunbather and had a snowy bum.
His arms and legs were, for an athlete, very thin. Tennis had clap.
It was very still. For this ceremony, the sense of humor that
survived even the darkness of the Valley was extinguished.
Extinguished too was the convulsive gaiety Farragut had seen at
chow.
“Where did you get it?” the doctor asked. “I want his name and his
number.” With a case in hand, the doctor seemed reasonable and
at ease. He reset his eyeglasses elegantly with a single finger and
then drew his spread fingers across his brow.
“I don’t know,” said Tennis. “I don’t remember any such thing.”
“Where did you get it?” the doctor said. “You’d better tell me.”
“Well, it could have been during the ball game,” said Tennis. “I
guess it was during the ball game. Some dude blew me while I was
watching the ball game. I don’t know who it was. I mean if I’d
known who it was I would have killed him, but I was so interested
in the game that I didn’t notice. I love baseball.”
“You didn’t slip it up somebody’s ass in the shower,” said the
doctor.
“Well, if I did it was by accident,” said Tennis. “It was entirely by
accident. We only get showers once a week and for a man, a tennis
champion, who takes showers three or four times a day, when you