her, Jack. She’s not worth this.”
“Oh, you know her, huh?” Jack said.
“I know she’s not worth all this shit.”
“You said you liked her fine.”
“I lied.” I was trying to sound as though I was joking with him, but my tone sounded more bitter than funny, because if it hadn’t been for Jack I’d probably have thought she was worth any kind of shit I had to take.
“Thanks for nothing again, Erick,” and Jack hung up.
Reverend Shorr had been the pastor of St. Luke’s for as long as I could remember, going way back to when Pete was in his teens. Shorr was a thin little fellow with gold-rimmed glasses who always read his sermons and made them sound like instructions for assembling mail-order items. He was known as Reverend Snore by some of his parishioners. He wasn’t hail-fellow-well-met enough for a lot of them. He was too humorless and pedantic, and old-timers said he didn’t “look” like St. Luke’s.
Some years back Dad was on a secret committee bent on replacing Shorr with someone who had more charisma.
Pete kept saying it just wasn’t like Dad to concern himself with something so parochial. Pete kept nagging at Dad to find out the real reason Dad wanted Shorr out. (Pete always stuck up for losers; he had kind of an amused affection for old Snore, too).
Then Pete found out what was behind Dad’s rancor. It seemed Reverend Shorr had resigned from The Hadefield Club, known by some locals as The Hate-Filled Club, because the club discriminated against nearly everyone but rich WASPS, and wouldn’t even let Jews make visits there with members.
Dad was an old Hadefield man who’d been sponsored for membership by Mom’s family. Dad played golf there, swam off its beaches in summer, and wined and dined clients in the dining room. Although Mom eventually refused to swim or play tennis there, she still went to the club when Dad wanted to go. It was about the only place in Seaville where Dad ever did want to go.
Dad claimed Shorr had gone out of his way to make an issue of certain “traditions” the club had.
“Like the tradition of being rich, and privileged, and prejudiced?” Pete would ask Dad.
“There’s nothing wrong with being rich and privileged and selective,” Dad would answer.
“Prejudiced!” Pete would insist.
“Selective!” Dad would shoot back at him. “It’s a private club.”
I was around six or seven when these arguments between Dad and Pete were going on. They lasted through a whole long, hot summer. You could hear their shouts almost any night along the street we lived on. Jack and I would sit out on the curb, pretending to plug our ears with our fingers, me always marveling at Pete for taking Dad on that way. I wasn’t that kind of a fighter. Even if I had been a fighter, Dad would have been at the bottom of any list of potential opponents I’d put together.
Finally, at the end of that summer, on Dad’s birthday, Pete gave Dad a present that made Dad so angry, he actually took a swing at Pete. Dad never resorted to violence. He’d never hit Pete or me when we were growing up. But when he took this T-shirt out of the wrapping paper, held it up, and read it, he went for Pete.
The front of the T-shirt read:
and on the back it said:
“One great advantage to being subjected to one of old Snore’s sermons,” said Dad after church that morning, “is that he never captures your attention. I appreciated that this morning. I needed time to think.”
“I like Reverend Shorr,” said Mom. “He’s old-fashioned and he’s familiar.”
We were driving down Woody Path toward the ocean. We often went there after church. When it was raining, as it was that morning, we stayed in the car and watched the ocean.
“I can’t believe you don’t want to eat at The Club,” Mom said as we passed the Hadefield drive and went toward the public beach. “The Frog Pond isn’t known for very substantial food. Chicken. Fish.”
“That’s exactly what Phil told me
“Oh, you know her, huh?” Jack said.
“I know she’s not worth all this shit.”
“You said you liked her fine.”
“I lied.” I was trying to sound as though I was joking with him, but my tone sounded more bitter than funny, because if it hadn’t been for Jack I’d probably have thought she was worth any kind of shit I had to take.
“Thanks for nothing again, Erick,” and Jack hung up.
Reverend Shorr had been the pastor of St. Luke’s for as long as I could remember, going way back to when Pete was in his teens. Shorr was a thin little fellow with gold-rimmed glasses who always read his sermons and made them sound like instructions for assembling mail-order items. He was known as Reverend Snore by some of his parishioners. He wasn’t hail-fellow-well-met enough for a lot of them. He was too humorless and pedantic, and old-timers said he didn’t “look” like St. Luke’s.
Some years back Dad was on a secret committee bent on replacing Shorr with someone who had more charisma.
Pete kept saying it just wasn’t like Dad to concern himself with something so parochial. Pete kept nagging at Dad to find out the real reason Dad wanted Shorr out. (Pete always stuck up for losers; he had kind of an amused affection for old Snore, too).
Then Pete found out what was behind Dad’s rancor. It seemed Reverend Shorr had resigned from The Hadefield Club, known by some locals as The Hate-Filled Club, because the club discriminated against nearly everyone but rich WASPS, and wouldn’t even let Jews make visits there with members.
Dad was an old Hadefield man who’d been sponsored for membership by Mom’s family. Dad played golf there, swam off its beaches in summer, and wined and dined clients in the dining room. Although Mom eventually refused to swim or play tennis there, she still went to the club when Dad wanted to go. It was about the only place in Seaville where Dad ever did want to go.
Dad claimed Shorr had gone out of his way to make an issue of certain “traditions” the club had.
“Like the tradition of being rich, and privileged, and prejudiced?” Pete would ask Dad.
“There’s nothing wrong with being rich and privileged and selective,” Dad would answer.
“Prejudiced!” Pete would insist.
“Selective!” Dad would shoot back at him. “It’s a private club.”
I was around six or seven when these arguments between Dad and Pete were going on. They lasted through a whole long, hot summer. You could hear their shouts almost any night along the street we lived on. Jack and I would sit out on the curb, pretending to plug our ears with our fingers, me always marveling at Pete for taking Dad on that way. I wasn’t that kind of a fighter. Even if I had been a fighter, Dad would have been at the bottom of any list of potential opponents I’d put together.
Finally, at the end of that summer, on Dad’s birthday, Pete gave Dad a present that made Dad so angry, he actually took a swing at Pete. Dad never resorted to violence. He’d never hit Pete or me when we were growing up. But when he took this T-shirt out of the wrapping paper, held it up, and read it, he went for Pete.
The front of the T-shirt read:
and on the back it said:
“One great advantage to being subjected to one of old Snore’s sermons,” said Dad after church that morning, “is that he never captures your attention. I appreciated that this morning. I needed time to think.”
“I like Reverend Shorr,” said Mom. “He’s old-fashioned and he’s familiar.”
We were driving down Woody Path toward the ocean. We often went there after church. When it was raining, as it was that morning, we stayed in the car and watched the ocean.
“I can’t believe you don’t want to eat at The Club,” Mom said as we passed the Hadefield drive and went toward the public beach. “The Frog Pond isn’t known for very substantial food. Chicken. Fish.”
“That’s exactly what Phil told me
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