you to meet my brother, Fin. Fin, this is my dear, dear friend Jack … Jordan, right? Jack Jordan. He’s come to take us golfing.”
Fin and Jack stood up and sullenly shook hands.
“You can call him Uncle Jack.”
“Another uncle?”
“Shut up, Fin,” Lady said, laughing.
Jack did not seem very happy about being an uncle, or about taking Fin along. “Oh come on, Lady. Golf is no fun for kids.”
“He’s brilliant at miniature golf.”
Uncle Jack was strong, strapping. His hair was silky and stylishly long. But it looked pasted to his big square rugged face, as if he were a paper doll.
“What are your interests?” Fin asked.
“My what ?”
When he was older, Fin tried to picture that day from Jack’s point of view. Jack, twenty-two years old, football star at Yale, soon-to-be vice president of something at his father’s business selling something, still living in the enormous, gracious seaside house in Sands Point, Long Island, with his doting parents. Jack hops in his car to make the trip into town to Charles Street in Greenwich Village, invited there by a mystifyingly beautiful girl he’s met at a party, Twilly Chandler’s party—“Quite a donkey roast, isn’t it?” the beautiful girl had said. “Who are you, anyway? I feel absolutely crapulous. Will you take me inside like the well-brought-up young man you undoubtedly want me to think you are?” And she had collapsed decorously into his arms, smiling, murmuring, “ Bravo ragazzo …”
And so, a few days later, enchanted by her eccentricity, her pale skin and wide dazzling smile, by the sense that she would do absolutely anything and probably already had, he sets off with visions of exotic positions and wild gasps of uncontrolled, uncontrollable pleasure, and he arrives at her street, such a promising street, so small and unlikely and bohemian, and he leaps out of his car, rushes up the steps, rings the bell, rings it again and then again, and then, full of his memory of that slender body relaxing into his own at Twilly Chandler’s donkey roast, of the lemony scent and the odd, arousing pale lipstick on those delicious lips murmuring their anachronistic and incomprehensible slang, he runs down the steps, two, three at a time, sees the gate, leaps over in a great gazelle-like motion—if only Lady could see him—and finds … Fin. Finds a younger brother, a skinny, weedy kid who whacks him in the face with a pink rubber ball, who runs away and leads him into a pile up with the old Negro maid, who makes him look like a jerk.
Golf was fun. Even tearing up the grass when you missed was fun. Fin got to steer the golf cart.
The next day Jack sent Lady flowers, a long box of roses wrapped in tissue, like something out of a movie. Even then, Fin didn’t worry. Corny flowers? Lady had gotten flowers before. You didn’t make your way into Lady’s heart with flowers. Fin didn’t worry the first time Jack took Lady out to dinner, either. Jack was a dumb jock. Not Lady’s type at all. The guy could barely speak. Jack wasn’t even as old as Lady. He was just out of college. He was no match for Biffi, worldly, cosmopolitan, bearded, funny Biffi. No match at all.
Jack did emanate a strong, athletic energy. That was true. But so what?
Fin opened the front door and said, “Hello. Lady will be down in a minute.” Fin was the gatekeeper. He was the sentry. Enter. Your audience with Lady has been arranged. She will receive you … and then toss you out on your ear. “Please sit down and wait.”
He followed Jack into the living room. He wondered if Jack used hair tonic to keep his light brown hair in place. Or spray. His boots were polished to a mirrorlike sheen.
“In Victorian England, men used to polish their boots so they could see up ladies’ dresses. In the reflection,” Fin said. It was one of the scattered odds and ends of information Lady occasionally came out with.
“Yeah, well, this isn’t Victorian England, is it?”
But
Fin and Jack stood up and sullenly shook hands.
“You can call him Uncle Jack.”
“Another uncle?”
“Shut up, Fin,” Lady said, laughing.
Jack did not seem very happy about being an uncle, or about taking Fin along. “Oh come on, Lady. Golf is no fun for kids.”
“He’s brilliant at miniature golf.”
Uncle Jack was strong, strapping. His hair was silky and stylishly long. But it looked pasted to his big square rugged face, as if he were a paper doll.
“What are your interests?” Fin asked.
“My what ?”
When he was older, Fin tried to picture that day from Jack’s point of view. Jack, twenty-two years old, football star at Yale, soon-to-be vice president of something at his father’s business selling something, still living in the enormous, gracious seaside house in Sands Point, Long Island, with his doting parents. Jack hops in his car to make the trip into town to Charles Street in Greenwich Village, invited there by a mystifyingly beautiful girl he’s met at a party, Twilly Chandler’s party—“Quite a donkey roast, isn’t it?” the beautiful girl had said. “Who are you, anyway? I feel absolutely crapulous. Will you take me inside like the well-brought-up young man you undoubtedly want me to think you are?” And she had collapsed decorously into his arms, smiling, murmuring, “ Bravo ragazzo …”
And so, a few days later, enchanted by her eccentricity, her pale skin and wide dazzling smile, by the sense that she would do absolutely anything and probably already had, he sets off with visions of exotic positions and wild gasps of uncontrolled, uncontrollable pleasure, and he arrives at her street, such a promising street, so small and unlikely and bohemian, and he leaps out of his car, rushes up the steps, rings the bell, rings it again and then again, and then, full of his memory of that slender body relaxing into his own at Twilly Chandler’s donkey roast, of the lemony scent and the odd, arousing pale lipstick on those delicious lips murmuring their anachronistic and incomprehensible slang, he runs down the steps, two, three at a time, sees the gate, leaps over in a great gazelle-like motion—if only Lady could see him—and finds … Fin. Finds a younger brother, a skinny, weedy kid who whacks him in the face with a pink rubber ball, who runs away and leads him into a pile up with the old Negro maid, who makes him look like a jerk.
Golf was fun. Even tearing up the grass when you missed was fun. Fin got to steer the golf cart.
The next day Jack sent Lady flowers, a long box of roses wrapped in tissue, like something out of a movie. Even then, Fin didn’t worry. Corny flowers? Lady had gotten flowers before. You didn’t make your way into Lady’s heart with flowers. Fin didn’t worry the first time Jack took Lady out to dinner, either. Jack was a dumb jock. Not Lady’s type at all. The guy could barely speak. Jack wasn’t even as old as Lady. He was just out of college. He was no match for Biffi, worldly, cosmopolitan, bearded, funny Biffi. No match at all.
Jack did emanate a strong, athletic energy. That was true. But so what?
Fin opened the front door and said, “Hello. Lady will be down in a minute.” Fin was the gatekeeper. He was the sentry. Enter. Your audience with Lady has been arranged. She will receive you … and then toss you out on your ear. “Please sit down and wait.”
He followed Jack into the living room. He wondered if Jack used hair tonic to keep his light brown hair in place. Or spray. His boots were polished to a mirrorlike sheen.
“In Victorian England, men used to polish their boots so they could see up ladies’ dresses. In the reflection,” Fin said. It was one of the scattered odds and ends of information Lady occasionally came out with.
“Yeah, well, this isn’t Victorian England, is it?”
But
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