Best Friends by Martha Moody Page A

spending a lot of time away from work this week; only three or four hours a day at the office. He was taking a breather, he said; he liked to meet his daughter’s friends. When he went to work, he wore knit shirts and big-buckled belts, the same things he wore at home. He was the boss, Sally said, he didn’t have to dress for work. He didn’t even have to go in every day.
    Cocktails around back, outside the living room, on the wide flagstone patio with a low stone wall around it, overlooking the city.
    We were talking about Oberlin and Sally’s psychology course. Mr. Rose, like Sally, was anti-psychology. “All that explaining, that analyzing. I hate that. It’s like no one understands anymore that what is is. Why try to explain it? It’s like what turns people on. You can never tell what’ll ring your bell. It’s a mystery, a human mystery. I like people being mysterious. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
    Sally looked at me and grinned.
    â€œSo, I don’t know,” he continued. “The stuff you’re reading, it’s okay, but it’s too analytical. But it’s typical, I’ve got to say, it’s typical of your school. All those Oberlin pansies you got there staring at their navels.”
    â€œDaddy! They’re not pansies.”
    Sid winked at me. “I love it when she argues. Are you arguing with me, sweetheart? You’re not, you’re disagreeing. I want an argument, okay? I don’t want a simple denial, I want counterpoint.”
    â€œI don’t know why you call the men at Oberlin pansies. You don’t even know them.”
    â€œHow about that goofy professor of yours? What was his name, Mr. Biff? The one who drooled over your papers. What was his favorite poet? Hart Crane.” Sid lifted his fingers in his air and twittered his fingers—“ ‘Oh the youthful exuberance, the wordsmithing, the exquisite curiosity Hart Crane brings . . .’ Listen, I talked to my educated buddy: Hart Crane was a fruit. That Mr. Biff ’s not married, is he?”
    â€œMr. Gifford,” Sally said. “No, I don’t think he does happen to be married, but you have no proof—”
    â€œNo poof? No poof?”
    â€œDaddy!” It was the same two-toned intonation as her “si-ick,” high-pitched then low.
    â€œA lot of professors aren’t married,” I said. “That doesn’t mean they’re not normal.”
    â€œPoint,” Mr. Rose conceded.
    â€œSo what if Mr. Gifford is homosexual?” Sally asked, changing her tack. “Is a person’s being homosexual relevant to what he thinks or teaches or does?”
    â€œBetter point,” Sid said. “I like that.”
    â€œYou were making an inflammatory statement with no inkling of what you really wanted to say. You were teasing me. You were leading me on.”
    â€œMoi?” Sid reached for a carrot stick and chomped on it. “What do you think of this kind of conversation, Clare? You think it’s at all interesting or useful?”
    â€œSocratic method, I guess,” I mumbled, feeling foolish.
    But Sid was pleased. “That’s exactly right, Socratic method. We learned about that last year in Intro to Philosophy, right, Sal?”
    â€œWhat I can’t figure out is if you want your kids to argue and question things, why’d you send them to Catholic schools?” I asked.
    Sid raised his eyebrows. “Excellent question. Two reasons: first, the teachers are better, and second, I like the discipline. Children require discipline until they’re old enough to decide things for themselves.”
    â€œSo Sally’s old enough now. Being at Oberlin.” I couldn’t think of a more nonreligious school.
    â€œOf course. Sally’s an adult.”
    Sally shifted in her seat, looking flattered, and took another sip of Scotch.
    â€œNow, getting back to your English