peach-colored and somewhat smaller. It gave out a sound of organ music, which seemed a little odd under the circumstances; but Larry was a hi-fi bug and needed very little excuse to turn on the system. I saw the chunky shape of Jack Bates’s station wagon in the driveway; it was a red Willys with high-altitude head, oversized radiator and clutch, and four-wheel drive. I knew all about it because I had been invited to come along some Sunday and make my fortune—prospecting was his most recent enthusiasm—but I get enough of uranium and its by-products at work without spending my spare time looking for more.
Ruth met us at the door. She was wearing what seemed to be one of Larry’s old shirts and a pair of faded blue jeans—the western substitute for slacks, shorts, housedresses, riding pants, and just about any other practical garment you can think of. They’d use them for bathing suits if they had any water to swim in. Ruth’s were rolled to just below the knees, and had a good deal of paint on them, as did the shirt.
“You’re going to have to forgive the way I look,” she said. “Everything’s been so… so hectic tonight I knew I couldn’t sleep so I’ve been in the studio working like mad.”
We were shedding our coats. I asked, “Where are they?”
She gestured toward the sound of music. “They’re waiting for you in the living room, Greg. I’ll take Natalie into my private sanctum if she doesn’t mind an awful mess. I never do seem to get things organized… Oh, dear, don’t treat that lovely coat like that; let me hang it up in the closet!”
I left them being sweet to each other. When I opened the living-room door, the organ music almost knocked me down. I could feel the bass vibrations through the soles of my feet. The DeVry living room had an unbalanced look; no arrangement of furniture could shift the center of gravity far from the big, homemade corner enclosure that housed Larry’s loud-speaker system. At the other end of the room from the monstrosity, Larry and Jack were sitting side by side on the maple sofa without speaking. They had empty glasses on the low maple table in front of them—neatly set on coasters. As far as I’m concerned, there are two kinds of hospitality. One lets you set your drink down where you damn well please, trusting you to use a little judgment; the other keeps running after you with coasters. Strangely, this never used to bother me back in Chicago; but like many things about the DeVrys, it had started to get on my nerves lately.
I had the illusion that Larry and Jack looked small and far away, dwarfed by the giant sounds emanating from the contraption in the corner. The reproduction was really very good, as a matter of fact; if you closed your eyes you could almost imagine that you had the organ in your lap. Larry must have felt the jar as I closed the door. He certainly couldn’t have heard the sound, but he looked up, jumped up, and came over.
“Greg!” he shouted, shaking my hand as if he hadn’t seen me for months. “Glad you’re here! Come over and talk some sense into this guy.” I think that’s what he said; it was hard to make out over the noise. I made some gesture toward the roaring and screaming speakers. Larry walked over and cut the thing off. The silence was tremendous. “Just showing Jack the effect of my new dividing network,” he said. “Sit down, Greg. I’ll get some more beer.”
“None for me,” I said. “Coffee if you’ve got it.”
He nodded, and left the room. I walked across the rug in the unearthly silence and sat down in a chair not far from Jack. He was making a thing of lighting a cigarette. I leaned back and waited. There were some of Ruth’s paintings on the walls. Back east she had done all right with her landscapes, but out here she couldn’t seem to get the size of the country. The dunes at White Sands looked like Jackson Park Beach in Chicago. She did better with flowers. There was a cholla cactus in
Ruth met us at the door. She was wearing what seemed to be one of Larry’s old shirts and a pair of faded blue jeans—the western substitute for slacks, shorts, housedresses, riding pants, and just about any other practical garment you can think of. They’d use them for bathing suits if they had any water to swim in. Ruth’s were rolled to just below the knees, and had a good deal of paint on them, as did the shirt.
“You’re going to have to forgive the way I look,” she said. “Everything’s been so… so hectic tonight I knew I couldn’t sleep so I’ve been in the studio working like mad.”
We were shedding our coats. I asked, “Where are they?”
She gestured toward the sound of music. “They’re waiting for you in the living room, Greg. I’ll take Natalie into my private sanctum if she doesn’t mind an awful mess. I never do seem to get things organized… Oh, dear, don’t treat that lovely coat like that; let me hang it up in the closet!”
I left them being sweet to each other. When I opened the living-room door, the organ music almost knocked me down. I could feel the bass vibrations through the soles of my feet. The DeVry living room had an unbalanced look; no arrangement of furniture could shift the center of gravity far from the big, homemade corner enclosure that housed Larry’s loud-speaker system. At the other end of the room from the monstrosity, Larry and Jack were sitting side by side on the maple sofa without speaking. They had empty glasses on the low maple table in front of them—neatly set on coasters. As far as I’m concerned, there are two kinds of hospitality. One lets you set your drink down where you damn well please, trusting you to use a little judgment; the other keeps running after you with coasters. Strangely, this never used to bother me back in Chicago; but like many things about the DeVrys, it had started to get on my nerves lately.
I had the illusion that Larry and Jack looked small and far away, dwarfed by the giant sounds emanating from the contraption in the corner. The reproduction was really very good, as a matter of fact; if you closed your eyes you could almost imagine that you had the organ in your lap. Larry must have felt the jar as I closed the door. He certainly couldn’t have heard the sound, but he looked up, jumped up, and came over.
“Greg!” he shouted, shaking my hand as if he hadn’t seen me for months. “Glad you’re here! Come over and talk some sense into this guy.” I think that’s what he said; it was hard to make out over the noise. I made some gesture toward the roaring and screaming speakers. Larry walked over and cut the thing off. The silence was tremendous. “Just showing Jack the effect of my new dividing network,” he said. “Sit down, Greg. I’ll get some more beer.”
“None for me,” I said. “Coffee if you’ve got it.”
He nodded, and left the room. I walked across the rug in the unearthly silence and sat down in a chair not far from Jack. He was making a thing of lighting a cigarette. I leaned back and waited. There were some of Ruth’s paintings on the walls. Back east she had done all right with her landscapes, but out here she couldn’t seem to get the size of the country. The dunes at White Sands looked like Jackson Park Beach in Chicago. She did better with flowers. There was a cholla cactus in
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