Object lessons by Anna Quindlen Page B

interest in three construction companies, two garment factories, and the cement company for which Tommy worked. He was very, very rich.
    He was rich enough to retire and be rich for the rest of his life, but he had no wish to. All he wanted to do was to manage the lives of his children, and to be left alone so he could become richer still. Already there were a few parishes in progressive suburbs which were simplifying their altars and the rites that took place upon them. John Scanlan predicted that by the year 2000 priests would be saying Mass in Bermuda shorts, handing out kaiser rolls at communion, and Scanlan & Co. would be bankrupt.
    “Now he’ll say ‘Then, good-by easy street,’” Maggie thought, looking down at her skirt.
    “Then, good-by easy street,” said John Scanlan, picking up his drink.
    “Pop,” said Mark, “we can diversify. We can modify. If the Church decides to simplify the vestments, change the altar cloths, it would take us three days to change the machines over from the old lamb motif to a simple plain cross. The church changes, we change with it.”
    “We are not talking about embroidery. We are talking about disaster.”
    “Jesus, why do I bother?” Uncle Mark said, refilling his glass from the cocktail shaker.
    “I often wonder the same thing,” his father said flatly.
    Maggie’s father pumped the piano pedals and stayed out of the way. His glass was empty but he made no move to refill it. Connie’s glass was still half full. She had a sheen of sweat on her upper lip, which even for early July seemed a bit extravagant.
    “Concerta?” said Mary Frances, leaning forward with a pleasant smile, like a woman in a magazine. “Another?”
    “No. Thank you. Really,” said Maggie’s mother, who had never been able to think of a term of address for her mother-in-law and so for thirteen years had called her nothing at all.
    “Well, let’s talk about Tom here,” Mr. Scanlan said, without looking at his middle son. “They’re ripping Tom’s backyard up. Making a shantytown. I have knowledge of this only secondhand, because no one saw fit to give us any of the contracts for this development. Be that as it may, it will be all over in that part of the world by next year.”
    “They dug six foundations in one day,” Maggie said.
    “Good girl,” said her grandfather. “Six foundations. Soon it’ll be thirty-six. They’re planning seventy-two houses for that site, and not houses I’d want to live in. That plasterboard stuff you can put your elbow right through. Maybe even septic tanks. Cheap kitchens. You know the idea: Come live where the other half lives.”
    “Maybe the development will bring property values up,” Tommy said. “Nice new development behind the old houses. Lots of people think those houses are better than the old ones.”
    “I think they’ll be beautiful,” said Connie. “I heard they’re going to have laundry chutes and garbage disposals in the kitchens. And sunken living rooms and patios.”
    There was a long silence. Maggie picked at a cuticle and avoided looking at her mother. It was a canon of the Scanlan household that old things were better than new ones. It was not to be argued with, like eating the cherry. Maggie chewed her little finger.
    “The first thing a man looks at is your hands,” Mary Frances said softly to Maggie, pulling at her granddaughter’s fingers, frowning at the dried blood in the corner of each bitten nail.
    “I heard they’re very nice houses,” Connie added, and Maggie could hear the anger in her voice.
    “No such thing, little girl. When you see them you’ll tell me different. Half basements. Wall-to-wall on slab. Property values over there will land in the toilet. Sheenies to the right of you. Sheenies to the left of you.” John took a big sip of his martini and smiled, a smile Maggie noticed was oddly like Monica’s. Maggie thought her grandfather’s eyes looked like the sapphires in her grandmother’s big