to a popular and quite affluent synagogue in another suburb, famous for its intellectual life, where they heard Norman Mailer give a perfectly coherent, surprisingly pedantic talk on “The Great American Novel: When Is It Due?”
And Bebe Hofstadter herself came over one afternoon, bringing her laconic son Gustave and a copy of my mother's second novel for her to autograph. Nada flushed with pleasure and confusion and suggested that Gustave and I adjourn to the library. This “library” was just a pleasant room facing the south and hence sunny, with a fireplace in which no fire had been lit in my memory, and comfortable furniture that had no pretensions to the elegance and discomfort of the rest of the house. So Gustave and I wandered in awkwardly and tried to think of something to talk about.
“Nice house y'got here,” he said. I could tell by the booming, husky voice of his mother, coupled with her strand of pearls, that he lived ina house just like this, or better. We sat heavily in leather chairs facing the empty fireplace, both of us pretending weariness since this was a kind of convention with Johns Behemoth boys.
“Y'do the math yet?” he said.
“No, you?”
“No.”
Another convention Johns Behemoth boys observed briefly when together was a certain sluggish colloquialism, an attempt at toughness that fooled no one. We sat moodily in silence.
In the living room our mothers were chatting happily. “Just let me fix you one, just one,” Nada said. Gustave lifted his head as if listening. His mother's deep voice vibrated out to us, and one corner of his pale, thin mouth turned up.
“What d'ya think of—” I began, but he interrupted me by making a silencing gesture. He was listening to his mother. As far as I could make out she was chatting about another woman, or a family, or a horse, nothing much, and I resented Gustave's manner. He was in a few of my classes but we did not know each other. Like me, he sat alone at lunchtime in the brick-entombed cafeteria, and like all Johns Behemoth boys who sat alone, he had the look of being very content. I knew very little about him except that he had an extraordinary method for cheating in math, an invention of his own that he sold to other boys for five dollars apiece. The price was said to be reasonable. Night after night I prepared my homework, night after night I studied for tests until my brain rattled, but when the time came for a test I usually cheated. I knew all the answers, yes, but it wasn't enough to know the answers. Most Johns Behemoth boys knew most answers. But that wasn't enough: you had to be steady enough to take the test, and the only way to be steady was to allow no room for error. Even a mild blood clot on the brain would not be enough to keep us from scoring 90 on an exam, with our ingenious cheating devices.
“I want to hear what she's having. A little Scotch evidently,” Gustave said. He folded his arms, a twelve-year-old blond replica of myself, both of us with the same kind of glasses—clear, pinkish rims and lenses sadly thick for prepubescents. He glanced at me. “Your mother is a very beautiful woman,” he said. “What do you think of her writing?”
“I don't have any opinion.”
“Haven't you read it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Nada forbade me to look at anything of hers, of course, just as she forbade Father; neither of us could even enter her study. I made an impatient gesture as if Gustave were too stupid for me to bother answering.
“Well, I think I understand,” Gustave said sympathetically. “It's too personal—she's your mother of course. But, Richard, you should understand that it's always an awkward situation. Having a mother, I mean.” Here he hushed suddenly, listening again to his mother. She was complaining about her maid. I heard her expression, “that little colored chit,” several times. Gustave crossed and uncrossed his legs restlessly. He said, “You're very fortunate. Your mother is
And Bebe Hofstadter herself came over one afternoon, bringing her laconic son Gustave and a copy of my mother's second novel for her to autograph. Nada flushed with pleasure and confusion and suggested that Gustave and I adjourn to the library. This “library” was just a pleasant room facing the south and hence sunny, with a fireplace in which no fire had been lit in my memory, and comfortable furniture that had no pretensions to the elegance and discomfort of the rest of the house. So Gustave and I wandered in awkwardly and tried to think of something to talk about.
“Nice house y'got here,” he said. I could tell by the booming, husky voice of his mother, coupled with her strand of pearls, that he lived ina house just like this, or better. We sat heavily in leather chairs facing the empty fireplace, both of us pretending weariness since this was a kind of convention with Johns Behemoth boys.
“Y'do the math yet?” he said.
“No, you?”
“No.”
Another convention Johns Behemoth boys observed briefly when together was a certain sluggish colloquialism, an attempt at toughness that fooled no one. We sat moodily in silence.
In the living room our mothers were chatting happily. “Just let me fix you one, just one,” Nada said. Gustave lifted his head as if listening. His mother's deep voice vibrated out to us, and one corner of his pale, thin mouth turned up.
“What d'ya think of—” I began, but he interrupted me by making a silencing gesture. He was listening to his mother. As far as I could make out she was chatting about another woman, or a family, or a horse, nothing much, and I resented Gustave's manner. He was in a few of my classes but we did not know each other. Like me, he sat alone at lunchtime in the brick-entombed cafeteria, and like all Johns Behemoth boys who sat alone, he had the look of being very content. I knew very little about him except that he had an extraordinary method for cheating in math, an invention of his own that he sold to other boys for five dollars apiece. The price was said to be reasonable. Night after night I prepared my homework, night after night I studied for tests until my brain rattled, but when the time came for a test I usually cheated. I knew all the answers, yes, but it wasn't enough to know the answers. Most Johns Behemoth boys knew most answers. But that wasn't enough: you had to be steady enough to take the test, and the only way to be steady was to allow no room for error. Even a mild blood clot on the brain would not be enough to keep us from scoring 90 on an exam, with our ingenious cheating devices.
“I want to hear what she's having. A little Scotch evidently,” Gustave said. He folded his arms, a twelve-year-old blond replica of myself, both of us with the same kind of glasses—clear, pinkish rims and lenses sadly thick for prepubescents. He glanced at me. “Your mother is a very beautiful woman,” he said. “What do you think of her writing?”
“I don't have any opinion.”
“Haven't you read it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Nada forbade me to look at anything of hers, of course, just as she forbade Father; neither of us could even enter her study. I made an impatient gesture as if Gustave were too stupid for me to bother answering.
“Well, I think I understand,” Gustave said sympathetically. “It's too personal—she's your mother of course. But, Richard, you should understand that it's always an awkward situation. Having a mother, I mean.” Here he hushed suddenly, listening again to his mother. She was complaining about her maid. I heard her expression, “that little colored chit,” several times. Gustave crossed and uncrossed his legs restlessly. He said, “You're very fortunate. Your mother is
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