Bullet Park by John Cheever

But his strongest and strangest feeling, observing the boy’s air of mastery, was one of having been deposed, as if, in some ancient legend where men wore crowns and lived in round towers, the bastard prince, the usurper, was about to seize the throne. The sexual authority that Nailles imagined as springing from his marriage bed and flowing through all the rooms and halls of the house was challenged. There did not seem to be room for two men in this erotic kingdom. His feeling was not of a contest but of an inevitability. He wanted to take Nellie upstairs and prove to himself, like some old rooster, that the scepter was still his and that the young prince was busy with golden apples and other impuissant matters.
    “How did you lose your husband, Mrs. Hubbard,” Nellie asked.
    “I really can’t say,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “They don’t go in terribly much for detail. They simply announce that he was lost in action and that you are entitled to a pension. Oh, what a divine old dog,” she exclaimed as Tessie came into the room. “I adore setters. Daddy used to breed and show them.”
    “Where was this,” Nailles asked.
    “On the island,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “We had a largish place on the island until Daddy lost his pennies and I may say he lost them all.”
    “Where did he show his dogs?”
    “Mostly on the island. He showed one dog in New York—Aylshire Lassie—but he didn’t like the New York show.”
    “Shall we go in to lunch,” asked Nellie.
    “Could I use the amenities,” asked Mrs. Hubbard.
    “The what?” said Nellie.
    “The john,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
    “Oh, of course,” said Nellie. “I’m sorry …”
    Nailles carved the meat and absolutely nothing of any interest or significance was said until about halfway through the meal when Mrs. Hubbard complimented Nellie on her roast. “It’s so marvelous to have a joint for Sunday lunch,” she said. “My flat is very small, as are my means, and I never tackle a roast. Poor Tony had to make do with a hamburger last night.”
    “Where was this,” Nellie asked.
    “Emma cooked my supper last night,” Tony said.
    “Then you didn’t spend the night at the Crutchmans’?”
    “No, Mother,” Tony said.
    Nellie saw it all; seemed to be looking at it. Would she rail at the stranger for having debauched her cleanly son? Bitch. Slut. Whore. Degenerate. Would she cry and leave the table? Tony was the only one then who looked at his mother and he was afraid she would. What would happen then? He would follow her up the stairs calling: “Mother, Mother, Mother.” Nailles would telephone for a taxi to take dirty Mrs. Hubbard away. Nellie, her lunch half finished, lighted a cigarette and said: “Let’s play I packed my grandmother’s trunk. We always used to play it when Tony was a boy and things weren’t going well.”
    “Oh, let’s,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
    “I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Nellie, “and into it I put a grand piano.”
    “I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Nailles, “and into it I put a grand piano and an ashtray.”
    “I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Mrs. Hubbard, “and into it I put a grand piano, an ashtray and a copy of Dylan Thomas.”
    “I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Tony, “and into it I put a grand piano, an ashtray, a copy of Dylan Thomas and a football.”
    “I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Nellie, “and into it I put a grand piano, an ashtray, a copy of Dylan Thomas, a football, and a handkerchief.”
    “I packed my grandmother’s trunk,” said Nailles, “andinto it I put a grand piano, an ashtray, a copy of Dylan Thomas, a football, a handkerchief and a baseball bat …”
    They got through lunch and when this was over Mrs. Hubbard asked to be taken to the station. She thanked Nailles and Nellie, got into her Chesterfield, went out the door and then returned saying: “Oops, I nearly forgot my bumbershoot.” Then she was gone.
    Nellie cried. Nailles