The Book of Knowledge by Doris Grumbach Page B

Ib, he stole her passbook and presented it at the glassed-in teller’s window together with a withdrawal slip. He was told he could not use it: her name, her maiden name, Grete Olssen, was on the account.
    After that, they endured each other in furious silence, broken only by expletives and business communication. They were united in their unspoken resolutions to avenge each other’s unbearable behavior. On the morning of the 27th of August, while Mrs. Ehrlich was dressing slowly with Grete’s help, Ib was taking his first bottle of ale from the bakery icebox. Now that all the boats had been lifted out of the water and heaped one upon the other in neat piles, he thought he might escape Grete’s witness of his drinking, take his bottle, lift down the top canoe, and go out for a peaceful, solitary late afternoon on the water. He might float around in the little hidden cove, the only break in the otherwise perfectly oval lake. There, unobserved from the shore and dock, he could drink his pale fire, dozing if he wished after its analgesic effects had dulled his senses. This would be his last chance for inebriated solitude, he thought. During these last days when camp was winding down, the help could ask permission to enjoy the pleasures of the lake.
    â€˜Not at all have I been on the lake, not once all this summer,’ he thought, filled with resentment against his job, the owners, the counselors, the campers, even Grete, although he could not have said why.
    He gathered up ten long loaves of bread and took them out to the truck that was to follow the seniors on their hike. As he lifted them into the back of the truck, one loaf escaped his grasp and fell into the dust.
    â€˜ Jeg er nerves, ’ he muttered. Carmen, the driver, free of his usual chores of lawn mowing and garbage collecting, laughed as he picked up the bread, blew on it, and put it with the others.
    â€˜Pretty early in the day to be blotto,’ he said to Ib.
    â€˜Horse. Turkey. Bastar.’
    Carmen laughed again. ‘Go put your head in the oven, Pop,’ the driver said.
    â€˜Italian pig,’ said Ib.
    He went back to the bakery and soothed his rage with a long draw on the bottle of ale. He floured his hands, began work on the dough for lunch rolls, put the layers for one birthday cake for tonight into the oven, expressed his opinion loudly to the hot oven concerning the driver’s unlawful origins, and then sealed his view with another insult-quenching drink.
    After the water-sports contests of last week, the Grays were twelve points behind the Blues for the summer’s total. Roslyn was a Gray and happy not be on the winning side. To her, Gray represented the uniforms of the courageous, radical rebels of the War Between the States, the gallant subjects of a school paper she had written this year. Only a few competitions remained to be played in these final days. They would decide the Blue-Gray struggle: junior field hockey, freshman volleyball, mediate handball. Roslyn hoped she would be overlooked in the final handball pairings-off, for inevitably she would lose, and the winners would gloat. She would hate the whole exultory conclusion, especially the banquet with its stupid awards and medals. And the silly singing of victory songs. Oh jeepers.
    But Rae insisted. ‘You’ve done nothing at all for the Grays, Roz. Time to get out and show some team spirit.’
    â€˜Jeepers,’ Roslyn said under her breath. ‘ Team spirit .’
    She walked as slowly as she could down to the handball court, bearing witness, she hoped, by her slumped shoulders and clenched fists, to her disdain for the world of competition. For a moment, as she passed the Amusement Hall, where she knew Fritzie was going to meet with other counselors to plan activities for the next day and for the departure, she looked in. There she was, the lovely Fritzie, and here she was, the captive Roslyn. Suppose, by some miracle, she were to win.