good-byes with other guests, giving me no opportunity to ask what she meant by her last oblique comment.
I exited into a sultry night, the air close and redolent of all that gross vegetation. I found my Miata and there, lolling in the passenger’s bucket, feet up on the dash, was Peter Gottschalk. He was smoking something acrid and I hoped it might be tobacco.
“Good evening,” I said as calmly as I could. I do not appreciate my pride and joy being occupied without my permission, especially by irrational acquaintances.
He patted the door. “Nice heap,” he said.
“It is,” I agreed. “And now I intend to drive it home. By myself. Alone.”
It didn’t register. I wasn’t certain he heard what I said.
“How was the party?” he asked.
“Very enjoyable.”
“Bloody bore,” he contradicted me. “I cut out fast. All those phonies.”
I was standing alongside the passenger door wondering if I would be forced to drag him out by the scruff. But his last denouncement intrigued me.
“Phonies?” I repeated. “You’re referring to the guests?”
His laugh was more of a snort. “I don’t even know all those stupid guests. I’m talking about the family and staff. Hypocrites, every one of them.”
“Surely not your father.”
“Him, too,” he said bitterly. “Maybe the worst. They think I don’t know what’s going on. I know damned well what’s going on.” He suddenly straightened and flicked away the butt of his cigarette. “Hey, let’s you and me make a night of it. We’ll go to the Pelican first for a couple of whacks and then take it from there.”
“Some other time,” I told him. “I’m getting audited by the IRS in the morning so I better get a good night’s sleep.”
I was afraid he might flare but he accepted the rejection equably. I suspected he was accustomed to rejection.
He climbed out of the car and stood on the slated driveway, swaying gently. He was a thin, almost gaunt chap with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes. His hair was a mess and it was obvious he hadn’t shaved for at least two days. But he was decently dressed in denim jeans and jacket. A cleaner T-shirt would have helped, but you did not expect to find him sleeping in a cardboard carton under a bridge. I mean he was reasonably presentable if you didn’t gaze too intently into those stricken eyes.
“Now I feel great,” he declared. “Just great.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said.
“Maybe I’ll cop the old man’s car and make a run to the Pelican Club myself.”
“Don’t you have your own wheels?” I asked.
“Nah. They grounded me. And took away my license,” he added.
I wanted to warn him, but what was the use? He’d never listen to me. I doubted if he’d listen to anyone.
“See you around,” he said lightly, and went dancing off into the darkness.
I drove home slowly in a weighty mood. The evening had left me with a jumble of impressions. It resembled one of those Picasso paintings in which all the figures seem to have six limbs and three eyes. And you view them frontally and in profile simultaneously. A puzzlement.
It was still relatively early when I arrived at my very own mini-abode. I could have spent an hour or so recording the evening’s events in my journal but I needed to sort out a plethora of reactions and try to find significance in what I had seen and heard. I disrobed and treated myself to a small marc and an English Oval to aid my ruminations.
After thirty minutes of heavy-duty brooding the only preliminary conclusion I arrived at was that when it came to dysfunctional families the Gottschalks were candidates for world-class ranking. It was a hypothesis given confirmation when my phone rang shortly before I retired.
“Archy?” the caller asked, and I recognized Hiram Gottschalk’s dry, twangy voice.
“Yes, Hi,” I said. “I tried to find you to offer thanks for a delightful evening but I couldn’t locate you.”
“You know that Caruso record I told you about. The one
I exited into a sultry night, the air close and redolent of all that gross vegetation. I found my Miata and there, lolling in the passenger’s bucket, feet up on the dash, was Peter Gottschalk. He was smoking something acrid and I hoped it might be tobacco.
“Good evening,” I said as calmly as I could. I do not appreciate my pride and joy being occupied without my permission, especially by irrational acquaintances.
He patted the door. “Nice heap,” he said.
“It is,” I agreed. “And now I intend to drive it home. By myself. Alone.”
It didn’t register. I wasn’t certain he heard what I said.
“How was the party?” he asked.
“Very enjoyable.”
“Bloody bore,” he contradicted me. “I cut out fast. All those phonies.”
I was standing alongside the passenger door wondering if I would be forced to drag him out by the scruff. But his last denouncement intrigued me.
“Phonies?” I repeated. “You’re referring to the guests?”
His laugh was more of a snort. “I don’t even know all those stupid guests. I’m talking about the family and staff. Hypocrites, every one of them.”
“Surely not your father.”
“Him, too,” he said bitterly. “Maybe the worst. They think I don’t know what’s going on. I know damned well what’s going on.” He suddenly straightened and flicked away the butt of his cigarette. “Hey, let’s you and me make a night of it. We’ll go to the Pelican first for a couple of whacks and then take it from there.”
“Some other time,” I told him. “I’m getting audited by the IRS in the morning so I better get a good night’s sleep.”
I was afraid he might flare but he accepted the rejection equably. I suspected he was accustomed to rejection.
He climbed out of the car and stood on the slated driveway, swaying gently. He was a thin, almost gaunt chap with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes. His hair was a mess and it was obvious he hadn’t shaved for at least two days. But he was decently dressed in denim jeans and jacket. A cleaner T-shirt would have helped, but you did not expect to find him sleeping in a cardboard carton under a bridge. I mean he was reasonably presentable if you didn’t gaze too intently into those stricken eyes.
“Now I feel great,” he declared. “Just great.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said.
“Maybe I’ll cop the old man’s car and make a run to the Pelican Club myself.”
“Don’t you have your own wheels?” I asked.
“Nah. They grounded me. And took away my license,” he added.
I wanted to warn him, but what was the use? He’d never listen to me. I doubted if he’d listen to anyone.
“See you around,” he said lightly, and went dancing off into the darkness.
I drove home slowly in a weighty mood. The evening had left me with a jumble of impressions. It resembled one of those Picasso paintings in which all the figures seem to have six limbs and three eyes. And you view them frontally and in profile simultaneously. A puzzlement.
It was still relatively early when I arrived at my very own mini-abode. I could have spent an hour or so recording the evening’s events in my journal but I needed to sort out a plethora of reactions and try to find significance in what I had seen and heard. I disrobed and treated myself to a small marc and an English Oval to aid my ruminations.
After thirty minutes of heavy-duty brooding the only preliminary conclusion I arrived at was that when it came to dysfunctional families the Gottschalks were candidates for world-class ranking. It was a hypothesis given confirmation when my phone rang shortly before I retired.
“Archy?” the caller asked, and I recognized Hiram Gottschalk’s dry, twangy voice.
“Yes, Hi,” I said. “I tried to find you to offer thanks for a delightful evening but I couldn’t locate you.”
“You know that Caruso record I told you about. The one
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