Clarkton by Howard Fast Page A

indigestion—with what was within himself or his fellow human beings. At night, he fell asleep with the warm aroma of flesh; in the morning he woke with it, as on this Friday morning, when he turned in the restless preparation for consciousness, came in contact with his wife’s body, measured it, recognized it, opened his eyes and reacted to the sickly gray light of dawn, the cold air, the crowing of a cock somewhere in the distance, retreated mentally back under the covers, thought a few vagrant thoughts, and then examined Sally with normal, unhurried interest, a process that tuned her waking comfortably and happily.
    He was not one of those men who wake up surly. He was full of old-fashioned habits, like wearing a long flannel night-gown in preference to pajamas, and shaving with a carefully prepared lather in a big mug, and with a straight-edged razor too, and he liked to have his three kids scurrying in and out of the bathroom while he shaved. He liked the smell of fresh coffee and the smell of breakfast cooking while he shaved, and he always ate a big breakfast, fruit, cereal, eggs, ham or bacon, toast, and sometimes coffee cake too. In the rare moments when it occurred to him to think about it, he considered himself a goodhearted man, who, by the dint of certain additional virtues, had become about as successful as one ever did in his line.
    This morning, there were hotcakes instead of eggs on the Curzon table, a special treat for everyone in the family. They all had breakfast together, Sally in a pink housecoat, her yellow hair already combed, Curzon dressed except for his shirt, revealing the heavy woolen underwear he wore, and the three children, aged eleven, eight, and six respectively, the oldest a girl, the two youngest boys—all sitting around the kitchen table. Curzon prepared his hotcakes carefully and scientifically, preferring a stack of four, giving each an even layer of butter, then pouring honey on each one separately, then molding the four together, and pouring honey over the whole thing, like icing on a layer cake. This was always interesting to his wife and children, who lacked his precise approach to small matters, and they almost always paused in their own eating to watch him complete the process and take the first bite. When the first bite was down, they relaxed and joined with him, but somehow never completely divorced themselves from his particular gusto in the food, retaining at least a vicarious appreciation.
    It was while Curzon was at breakfast that the phone rang. One of Curzon’s few material concessions to success was that he had three telephone extensions in the house, one in the hallway, one next to his bed, and one in the kitchen; so that now he was able to reach out an arm and say “Hello” through a gratifying mixture of pancakes and coffee.
    It was Tom Wilson at the other end, his hearty, malleable voice booming loud enough for everyone in the kitchen to hear:
    â€œHello, Jack, did I catch you at breakfast?”
    â€œNot at all,” but with the unhappy realization that a break in the consumption of food ruins the delicious continuity of it, and letting some of that impatience creep in. Jack Curzon hαated any interruption that took him from the table before he had finished eating.
    â€œI won’t keep you a minute,” Wilson said. “I just thought I’d let you know that Ham Gelb is in town, and if everything’s clear I’ll be over with him and maybe Mr. Lowell round about ten or ten-thirty.”
    â€œWell, I’ll be damned,” Curzon said thoughtfully. “Ham Gelb.”
    â€œThe time all right?”
    â€œI’ll look for you,” Curzon said. Then he replaced the phone and said, to his family and to no one in particular, “Ham Gelb—now what do you know!”

2. L owell and his wife were finishing their breakfast, a silent affair for the most part, when Fern came down. As a rule, the Lowells had