Turner came and got him to drive him down to the station. Dad carried the black suitcase out to the car. Stoney had a little more weight on him and he looked heavier in the shoulders, but otherwise he was exactly the same.
Mrs. Turner said, “And what do you say, little man?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Stoney mumbled.
The car drove off. “Grateful little cuss, isn’t he?” Dad said.
“Maybe we’re the ones to be grateful,” mother said mildly.
We went back into the house. Dad was the one who, by accident, found out about the shoes. And I heard them talk and figure out together what had happened. The only way it could have happened was for Stoney Wotnack to get up in the middle of the night and put a high shine on every pair of shoes he could find. It must have taken him hours.
I saw Mother’s face. She had a shiny look in her eyes, and her voice was funny, the way it gets every fall with hay fever. That seemed to me to be a pretty funny reactionto some newly shined shoes.
She shook Dad by the arm and said, “Don’t you see, Sam? Don’t you see? He didn’t know how to do anything else.”
Dad looked at me and smiled. It was that same funny-looking smile that he wears when he walks out of a sad movie.
None of it made any sense to me. All I knew was that I’d spend the rest of the summer with Looie walking one step behind me, sucking on her hand.
Blurred View
The funeral was a wretched affair. I suppose it was done as tastefully as one would expect. But great gaudy swarms of Gloria’s friends from the television industry came up from the Los Angeles area. They were dressed sedately but still managed to seem like flocks of bright birds, men and women alike, their eyes bright and sharp and questing.
They had been at the inquest too, turning out in numbers that astonished the officials. I had not been surprised. If I had learned any one thing from my marriage, it was that those people are incurably gregarious. They have absolutely no appreciation of privacy and decorum. Their ceaseless talk is like the chatter of birds, and largely incomprehensible to the outsider.
After the funeral I settled a few final details before going away. The lawyer had me sign the necessary things. Gloria had managed to squirrel away more than I expected, and she had invested it very shrewdly indeed. My own affairs were in a temporary lull. Bernard, at the gallery, made the usual apology about not being able to move more of my work and offered his condolences—for the tenth time. I closed the Bay house and flew to the Islands.
Helen’s greeting was sweet and humble and adoring. She is a small, plain woman, quite wealthy, a few years older than I. She was most restful after the contentious flamboyance of Gloria. Her figure is rather good. During the weeks we had together she made several shy hints about marriage, but the unexpected size of Gloria’s estate gave me the courage to think of Helen as a patron rather than a potential wife.
We returned to Los Angeles by ship, in adjoining staterooms, and parted warmly in that city. She was to return to New York to visit her children and settle some business matters concerning her late husband’s estate, then fly back out to San Francisco to be near me.
I moved back into the Bay house and listed it with agood broker. It is a splendid house, set high over the rocks, but a little too expensive to maintain, and a little too conspicuous for the bachelor life I contemplated. Also, there was a silence about it when I was alone there that made me feel uneasy, and made it difficult for me to work in the big studio that Gloria and I had designed together.
After I had been there alone for five days, a seedy little man arrived in the afternoon. He drove up in a battered little car and came to the door carrying a big manila envelope in his hand.
He was trying to say he had something to show me. He was humble and nervous, and had a little recurring smile like a sudden grimace. He smelled sweaty.
Mrs. Turner said, “And what do you say, little man?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Stoney mumbled.
The car drove off. “Grateful little cuss, isn’t he?” Dad said.
“Maybe we’re the ones to be grateful,” mother said mildly.
We went back into the house. Dad was the one who, by accident, found out about the shoes. And I heard them talk and figure out together what had happened. The only way it could have happened was for Stoney Wotnack to get up in the middle of the night and put a high shine on every pair of shoes he could find. It must have taken him hours.
I saw Mother’s face. She had a shiny look in her eyes, and her voice was funny, the way it gets every fall with hay fever. That seemed to me to be a pretty funny reactionto some newly shined shoes.
She shook Dad by the arm and said, “Don’t you see, Sam? Don’t you see? He didn’t know how to do anything else.”
Dad looked at me and smiled. It was that same funny-looking smile that he wears when he walks out of a sad movie.
None of it made any sense to me. All I knew was that I’d spend the rest of the summer with Looie walking one step behind me, sucking on her hand.
Blurred View
The funeral was a wretched affair. I suppose it was done as tastefully as one would expect. But great gaudy swarms of Gloria’s friends from the television industry came up from the Los Angeles area. They were dressed sedately but still managed to seem like flocks of bright birds, men and women alike, their eyes bright and sharp and questing.
They had been at the inquest too, turning out in numbers that astonished the officials. I had not been surprised. If I had learned any one thing from my marriage, it was that those people are incurably gregarious. They have absolutely no appreciation of privacy and decorum. Their ceaseless talk is like the chatter of birds, and largely incomprehensible to the outsider.
After the funeral I settled a few final details before going away. The lawyer had me sign the necessary things. Gloria had managed to squirrel away more than I expected, and she had invested it very shrewdly indeed. My own affairs were in a temporary lull. Bernard, at the gallery, made the usual apology about not being able to move more of my work and offered his condolences—for the tenth time. I closed the Bay house and flew to the Islands.
Helen’s greeting was sweet and humble and adoring. She is a small, plain woman, quite wealthy, a few years older than I. She was most restful after the contentious flamboyance of Gloria. Her figure is rather good. During the weeks we had together she made several shy hints about marriage, but the unexpected size of Gloria’s estate gave me the courage to think of Helen as a patron rather than a potential wife.
We returned to Los Angeles by ship, in adjoining staterooms, and parted warmly in that city. She was to return to New York to visit her children and settle some business matters concerning her late husband’s estate, then fly back out to San Francisco to be near me.
I moved back into the Bay house and listed it with agood broker. It is a splendid house, set high over the rocks, but a little too expensive to maintain, and a little too conspicuous for the bachelor life I contemplated. Also, there was a silence about it when I was alone there that made me feel uneasy, and made it difficult for me to work in the big studio that Gloria and I had designed together.
After I had been there alone for five days, a seedy little man arrived in the afternoon. He drove up in a battered little car and came to the door carrying a big manila envelope in his hand.
He was trying to say he had something to show me. He was humble and nervous, and had a little recurring smile like a sudden grimace. He smelled sweaty.
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