taxicabs. And Johnny Fuselli in crime, she said, breaking out into gales of laughter. “He used to have something to do with slot machines in New Jersey.”
“Shut up, Kitt,” said Constant. “You talk too much.”
Gerald wanted his children to excel. He sat by the court and watched them play or stood on the green and watched them tee off, barking out instructions. “You should have used your backhand on that shot, Constant,” he called out. “And returned it to the other side of the court, where Des couldn’t reach it.”
“You’re right,” said Constant. He pulled up the front of his Lacoste shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. Weegie Somerset, who loved him then, watched from the sidelines, looking longingly at his exposed stomach and chest.
Gerald always wore a large straw hat to protect his white skin from the strong rays of the sun. Even with protection, his skin turned red with the minimum of exposure, and lotions were always being applied. He sat under an umbrella and removed his terry cloth robe only to go into the pool to swim his forty laps, dropping it at the edge of the pool so that he could put it on again instantly as he was walking up the steps to leave the pool. Grace came to thepool only after the sun had gone down. On my first day there, the afternoon of the celebration in honor of Constant, I was lying on a lounge chair by the pool, reading
Gatsby
, and I heard the following conversation between Gerald and Mrs. Steers, who seemed unaware of my presence.
“You’re not a popular man, Gerald,” said Mrs. Steers. “You have no close friends. Haven’t you noticed that? There are many people who are afraid of you, who will invite you to their house for dinner for that reason, but they don’t like you. You’re always on the telephone, but no one calls you up just to chat, No one invites you to play tennis. Do you think your children notice those things?”
“I have plenty of people to play tennis with,” replied Gerald.
“Yes. People you pay. Why keep bucking your head against the wall, Gerald? The old guard, what Cora Mandell calls the good families, are never going to accept you, no matter how much money you have, no matter how big your house is, no matter how many sets of Porthault sheets are on your beds.”
“Give me time.”
“It won’t happen, Gerald, believe me. You’re an outsider. You always will be. Oh, sure, they’ll take your contributions for the symphony. They’ll let you pay for the repairs to The Country Club after the hurricane damage. They’ll even have you to dinner once a year. But when your son wants to marry one of their daughters, you’ll see what they really think about you. To them, you’re a mick. You’re the butcher’s son who still smells of raw meat, and nothing you ever do is going to change that.”
Gerald winced. His face turned scarlet.
“I know, Gerald. That’s the world I grew up in,” she said.
“So what do I do?” he asked.
“Get out of there. You are simply in a wrong location.”
“I can’t.”
“For part of the year you can. There’s Florida. There’s California. You can buy a big house in Palm Beach, or a big house in Beverly Hills, and make a splash there. Less provincial. Your kids will be assimilated in a way that they’ll never be here.”
“What about home?”
“Use it for your country seat. Keep it up. Keep the gardeners. Keep the butler. Visit it a few times a year. It will be a reminder of who you are and what they’re missing. Because, by that time, they’ll be reading about you and your kids.”
“The butler couldn’t take care of that place.”
“That is a tidbit problem. What’s that cousin of yours? Sis Malloy? The one who knows where all the furniture goes. Move her in. Put her in charge of the house.”
“Grace will never want to leave.”
“Buy the new house first. Then tell her about it.”
“She won’t want to leave Cardinal.”
“Cardinals are a dime a dozen.”
“No, they
“Shut up, Kitt,” said Constant. “You talk too much.”
Gerald wanted his children to excel. He sat by the court and watched them play or stood on the green and watched them tee off, barking out instructions. “You should have used your backhand on that shot, Constant,” he called out. “And returned it to the other side of the court, where Des couldn’t reach it.”
“You’re right,” said Constant. He pulled up the front of his Lacoste shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. Weegie Somerset, who loved him then, watched from the sidelines, looking longingly at his exposed stomach and chest.
Gerald always wore a large straw hat to protect his white skin from the strong rays of the sun. Even with protection, his skin turned red with the minimum of exposure, and lotions were always being applied. He sat under an umbrella and removed his terry cloth robe only to go into the pool to swim his forty laps, dropping it at the edge of the pool so that he could put it on again instantly as he was walking up the steps to leave the pool. Grace came to thepool only after the sun had gone down. On my first day there, the afternoon of the celebration in honor of Constant, I was lying on a lounge chair by the pool, reading
Gatsby
, and I heard the following conversation between Gerald and Mrs. Steers, who seemed unaware of my presence.
“You’re not a popular man, Gerald,” said Mrs. Steers. “You have no close friends. Haven’t you noticed that? There are many people who are afraid of you, who will invite you to their house for dinner for that reason, but they don’t like you. You’re always on the telephone, but no one calls you up just to chat, No one invites you to play tennis. Do you think your children notice those things?”
“I have plenty of people to play tennis with,” replied Gerald.
“Yes. People you pay. Why keep bucking your head against the wall, Gerald? The old guard, what Cora Mandell calls the good families, are never going to accept you, no matter how much money you have, no matter how big your house is, no matter how many sets of Porthault sheets are on your beds.”
“Give me time.”
“It won’t happen, Gerald, believe me. You’re an outsider. You always will be. Oh, sure, they’ll take your contributions for the symphony. They’ll let you pay for the repairs to The Country Club after the hurricane damage. They’ll even have you to dinner once a year. But when your son wants to marry one of their daughters, you’ll see what they really think about you. To them, you’re a mick. You’re the butcher’s son who still smells of raw meat, and nothing you ever do is going to change that.”
Gerald winced. His face turned scarlet.
“I know, Gerald. That’s the world I grew up in,” she said.
“So what do I do?” he asked.
“Get out of there. You are simply in a wrong location.”
“I can’t.”
“For part of the year you can. There’s Florida. There’s California. You can buy a big house in Palm Beach, or a big house in Beverly Hills, and make a splash there. Less provincial. Your kids will be assimilated in a way that they’ll never be here.”
“What about home?”
“Use it for your country seat. Keep it up. Keep the gardeners. Keep the butler. Visit it a few times a year. It will be a reminder of who you are and what they’re missing. Because, by that time, they’ll be reading about you and your kids.”
“The butler couldn’t take care of that place.”
“That is a tidbit problem. What’s that cousin of yours? Sis Malloy? The one who knows where all the furniture goes. Move her in. Put her in charge of the house.”
“Grace will never want to leave.”
“Buy the new house first. Then tell her about it.”
“She won’t want to leave Cardinal.”
“Cardinals are a dime a dozen.”
“No, they
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