dropped the peanuts to the concrete. “I know I must look silly, but my father was very strict. He would never let me come to this kind of thing. You understand that.”
But the game had started and P.T. was not aware of her talking until she pulled several times at his arm. “What?”
“I was just asking about your father.”
“What about my father?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you never mentioned him. So I wondered ...” She shrugged.
Dead. That was what she was asking. “Yes.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
P.T. nodded and turned back to the game. They sat in silence through the rest of the inning, and when the Cardinals took the field P.T. said, “He’s alive.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s alive!” Why so loud? “My father. He’s retired now but he’s alive. He played the organ. He was a musician. A fine musician. O.K.?” She was looking at him and he didn’t much like it, so he shoved the peanuts at her and said, “Have some more lobster,” and, happily, she laughed.
That night, after he had pulled his Packard to a halt in her driveway but before she had a chance to push at the door-handle, he kissed her. She was surprised and at first made token resistance, but as his strong arms held her in their circle, she honestly faced her own desire and kissed him back. When that was done, P.T. walked her up the stone steps to the great front door. Awkwardly, he kissed her hand (Fairbanks did it better) and probably it was funny, but she did not laugh.
Later, P.T. stood outside Randy’s, frozen. He was unable to think why he was unable to move, so he simply stood still, waiting. Eventually a gang of children began hooting at him from across the street and their derision freed him. P.T. reached into his pocket, scattered a handful of change into the street, roared as the children scrambled for the silver. Turning abruptly, he returned to his Packard and drove back to the Park Plaza Hotel, singing.
They were married in merciless heat and honeymooned for three months in Europe. P.T. spent a fortune—“You’re only nouveau riche once”—and on their return their house in the suburbs was finished, so they all moved in, P.T. and Emily and Emily’s Negro maid and P.T.’s father and an English couple named Saunders, who were to be the first in an endless stream of servants. In their second year of marriage Emily gave birth to their first son and three years later Walt came along, but between the two the crash came, hitting P.T. hard for a while. Three stores had to be closed and two more were on the verge, though he managed to avoid the shattering losses that claimed most of his competitors. Emily gave a lot of parties in between her seemingly constant social work, and the marriage looked exemplary for several years. It wasn’t, of course, but the initial decay went unnoticed. It was not until their seventh-anniversary party, at which P.T. arrived late, drunk and with several female companions, that his whoring became very common knowledge. Once it surfaced, however, he no longer took pains to hide it—Emily’s public humiliations were almost ritual now—and people took to shaking their heads in silent commiseration whenever Emily walked by.
Once—it was the day after a swimming party at the Kirkaby pool at which P.T. had struck Emily (it was the first time he had ever done that, in public)—Emily’s best friend, Adele Hosquith, asked her point-blank why she put up with it all. Emily—who was probably the person at the party least surprised by P.T.’s action since he was always at his crudest right after he had “been bad” (her word for it)—was embarrassed by the question and tried not to answer. But when Adele pursued, Emily simply stated what she understood to be true: that although he was undeniably at times somewhat less kind than she would wish, still, her admiration of him and for him was more than sufficient to cover any occasional imperfections. But underneath the explanation lay
But the game had started and P.T. was not aware of her talking until she pulled several times at his arm. “What?”
“I was just asking about your father.”
“What about my father?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you never mentioned him. So I wondered ...” She shrugged.
Dead. That was what she was asking. “Yes.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
P.T. nodded and turned back to the game. They sat in silence through the rest of the inning, and when the Cardinals took the field P.T. said, “He’s alive.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s alive!” Why so loud? “My father. He’s retired now but he’s alive. He played the organ. He was a musician. A fine musician. O.K.?” She was looking at him and he didn’t much like it, so he shoved the peanuts at her and said, “Have some more lobster,” and, happily, she laughed.
That night, after he had pulled his Packard to a halt in her driveway but before she had a chance to push at the door-handle, he kissed her. She was surprised and at first made token resistance, but as his strong arms held her in their circle, she honestly faced her own desire and kissed him back. When that was done, P.T. walked her up the stone steps to the great front door. Awkwardly, he kissed her hand (Fairbanks did it better) and probably it was funny, but she did not laugh.
Later, P.T. stood outside Randy’s, frozen. He was unable to think why he was unable to move, so he simply stood still, waiting. Eventually a gang of children began hooting at him from across the street and their derision freed him. P.T. reached into his pocket, scattered a handful of change into the street, roared as the children scrambled for the silver. Turning abruptly, he returned to his Packard and drove back to the Park Plaza Hotel, singing.
They were married in merciless heat and honeymooned for three months in Europe. P.T. spent a fortune—“You’re only nouveau riche once”—and on their return their house in the suburbs was finished, so they all moved in, P.T. and Emily and Emily’s Negro maid and P.T.’s father and an English couple named Saunders, who were to be the first in an endless stream of servants. In their second year of marriage Emily gave birth to their first son and three years later Walt came along, but between the two the crash came, hitting P.T. hard for a while. Three stores had to be closed and two more were on the verge, though he managed to avoid the shattering losses that claimed most of his competitors. Emily gave a lot of parties in between her seemingly constant social work, and the marriage looked exemplary for several years. It wasn’t, of course, but the initial decay went unnoticed. It was not until their seventh-anniversary party, at which P.T. arrived late, drunk and with several female companions, that his whoring became very common knowledge. Once it surfaced, however, he no longer took pains to hide it—Emily’s public humiliations were almost ritual now—and people took to shaking their heads in silent commiseration whenever Emily walked by.
Once—it was the day after a swimming party at the Kirkaby pool at which P.T. had struck Emily (it was the first time he had ever done that, in public)—Emily’s best friend, Adele Hosquith, asked her point-blank why she put up with it all. Emily—who was probably the person at the party least surprised by P.T.’s action since he was always at his crudest right after he had “been bad” (her word for it)—was embarrassed by the question and tried not to answer. But when Adele pursued, Emily simply stated what she understood to be true: that although he was undeniably at times somewhat less kind than she would wish, still, her admiration of him and for him was more than sufficient to cover any occasional imperfections. But underneath the explanation lay
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