Father wore his dinner jacket, which was in need of pressing. Richard Griffen wore his, which wasn't. Alex Thomas wore a brown jacket and grey flannels, too heavy for the weather; also a tie, red spots on a blue ground. His shirt was white, the collar too roomy. His clothes looked as if he'd borrowed them. Well, he hadn't expected to be invited to dinner.
"What a charming house," said Winifred Griffen Prior with an arranged smile, as we walked into the dining room. "It's so-so well preserved! What amazing stained-glass windows-howfin de si ¨cle! It must be like living in a museum!"
What she meant wasoutmoded. I felt humiliated: I'd always thought those windows were quite fine. But I could see that Winifred's judgment was the judgment of the outside world-the world that knew such things and passed sentence accordingly, that world I'd been so desperately longing to join. I could see now how unfit I was for it. How countrified, how raw.
"They are particularly fine examples," said Richard, "of a certain period. The panelling is also of high quality." Despite his pedantry and his condescending tone, I felt grateful to him: it didn't occur to me that he was taking inventory. He knew a tottering regime when he saw one: he knew we were up for auction, or soon would be.
"Bymuseum, do you mean dusty?" said Alex Thomas. "Or perhaps you meantobsolete."
Father scowled. Winifred, to do her justice, blushed.
"You shouldn't pick on those weaker than yourself," said Callie in a pleased undertone.
"Why not?" said Alex. "Everyone else does."
Reenie had gone the whole hog on the menu, or as much of that hog as we could by that time afford. But she'd bitten off more than she could chew. Mock Bisque, Perch a la Proven §ale, Chicken a la Providence -on it came, one course after another, unrolling in an inevitable procession, like a tidal wave, or doom. There was a tinny taste to the bisque, a floury taste to the chicken, which had been treated too roughly and had shrunk and toughened. It was not quite decent to see so many people in one room together, chewing with such thoughtfulness and vigour. Mastication was the right name for it-not eating.
Winifred Prior was pushing things around on her plate as if playing dominoes. I felt a rage against her: I was determined to eat up everything, even the bones. I would not let Reenie down. In the old days, I thought, she'd never have been stuck like this-caught short, exposed, and thereby exposing us. In the old days they'd have brought in experts.
Beside me, Alex Thomas too was doing his duty. He was sawing away as if life depended on it; the chicken squeaked under his knife. (Not that Reenie was grateful to him for his dedication. She kept tabs on who had eaten what, you may be sure. That Alex What's-his-name certainly had an appetite on hint, was her comment. You'd think he'd been starved in a cellar.)
Under the circumstances, conversation was sporadic. There was a lull after the cheese course, however-the cheddar too young and bouncy, the cream too old, thebleu too high-during which we could pause and take stock, and look around us.
Father turned his one blue eye on Alex Thomas. "So, young man," he said, in what he may have thought was a friendly tone, "what brings you to our fair city?" He sounded like a paterfamilias in a stodgy Victorian play. I looked down at the table.
"I'm visiting friends, sir," Alex said, politely enough. (We would hear Reenie, later, on the subject of his politeness. Orphans were well mannered because good manners had been beaten into them, in the orphanages. Only an orphan could be so self-assured, but this aplomb of theirs concealed a vengeful nature-underneath, they were jeering at everyone. Well, of course they'd be vengeful, considering how they'd been fobbed off. Most anarchists and kidnappers were orphans.)
"My daughter tells me you are preparing for the ministry," said Father. (Neither Laura nor I had said anything about this-it must have been Reenie, and predictably, or perhaps maliciously, she'd got it a little wrong.)
"I was, sir," said Alex. "But I had to give it up. We came to a parting of the ways."
"And now?" said Father, who was used to getting concrete answers.
"Now I live by my wits," said Alex. He smiled, to show self-deprecation.
"Must be hard for you," Richard murmured and Winifred laughed. I was surprised: I hadn't credited him with that kind of wit.
"He must mean he's a newspaper reporter," she said. "A spy in our midst!"
Alex smiled again, and said nothing. Father scowled. As far as he was concerned, newspaper reporters were vermin. Not only did they lie, they preyed on the misery of others-corpse flieswas his term for them. He did make an exception for Elwood Murray, because he'd known the family. Drivel-monger was the worst he would say about Elwood.
After that the conversation turned to the general state of affairs-politics, economics-as it was likely to in those days. Worse and worse, was Father's opinion; about to turn the corner, was Richard's. It was hard to know what to think, said Winifred, but she certainly hoped they'd be able to keep the lid on.
"The lid on what?" said Laura, who hadn't said anything so far. It was as if a chair had spoken.
"On the possibility of social turmoil," said Father, in his reprimanding tone that meant she was not to say any more.
Alex said he doubted it. He'd just come back from the camps, he said.
"The camps?" said Father, puzzled. "What camps?"
"The relief camps, sir," said Alex. "Bennett's labour camps, for the unemployed. Ten hours a day and slim pickings. The boys aren't too keen on it-I'd say they're getting restless."
"Beggars can't be choosers," said Richard. "It's better than riding the rails. They get three square meals, which is more than a workman with a family to support may get, and I'm told the food's not bad. You'd think they'd be grateful, but that sort never are."
"They're not any particular sort," said Alex.
"My God, an armchair pinko," said Richard. Alex looked down at his plate.
"If he's one, so am I," said Callie. "But I don't think you have to be a pinko in order to realise…"
"What were you doing out there?" said Father, cutting her off. (He and Callie had been arguing quite a lot lately. Callie wanted him to embrace the union movement. He said Callie wanted two and two to make five.)
Just then thebombe glac ©e made an entrance. We had an electric refrigerator by then-we'd got it just before the Crash-and Reenie, although suspicious of its freezing compartment, had made good use of it for this evening. Thebombe was shaped like a football, and was bright green and hard as flint, and took all our attention for a while.
While the coffee was being served the fireworks display began, down at the Camp Grounds. We all went out on the dock to watch. It was a lovely view, as you could see not only the fireworks themselves but their reflections in the Jogues River. Fountains of red and yellow and blue were cascading into the air-exploding stars, chrysanthemums, willow trees made of light.
"The Chinese invented gunpowder," said Alex, "but they never used it for guns. Only fireworks. I can't say I really enjoy them, though. They're too much like heavy artillery."
"Are you a pacifist?" I said. It seemed like the sort of thing he might be. If he said yes, I intended to disagree with him, because I wanted his attention. He was talking mostly to Laura.
"Not a pacifist," said Alex. "But my parents were both killed in the war. Or I assume they must have been killed."
Now we'll get the orphan story, I thought. After all the fuss Reenie's been making, I hope it's a good one.
"You don't know for sure?" said Laura.
"No," said Alex. "I'm told that I was found sitting on a mound of charred rubble, in a burned-out house. Everyone else there was dead. Apparently I'd been hiding under a washtub or a cooking pot-a metal container of some kind."