traffic called for all of his attention. His father said, “I didn’t really look.”
“You didn’t?” his mother asked. “He was unusual for a Canadian in that his skin was an olive tone. He might have been Greek or Italian—handsome! You know what I dislike about Canada?” she added. “They don’t really have minorities here. They don’t have the blacks and Hispanics like we do. Everyone here is lily-white. Everyone here is a WASP.”
Time to speak up—he had to; this couldn’t stand. He put a hand to his rearview mirror and said, “You’re sitting next to a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant, Mom. My wife. Your daughter-in-law. For whom ‘WASP’ is a derogatory term.”
His mother leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “ ‘WASP’ isn’t derogatory,” she said. “It’s a description. It describes. Don’t you know that?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t know it. ‘WASP’ is derogatory.”
For the next hour—until they reached the hot springs—he regretted having broken a rule about his mother, his own three-part mantra: not worth it, you lose, keep your mouth shut.
There was snow on the ground at Harrison Hot Springs, or the remains of snow, a patch here or there, eroding to slush beneath the rain. Fortunately, they’d reserved ground-floor rooms with sliding glass doors, only steps from the adult pool, which boiled and steamed like a cauldron and at the moment steeped a dozen or so couples. Bathers came and went in white terry-cloth robes, padded along the covered walkways in zoris,toweled off in the frigid air, and knoodled in furtive corners. They were mostly Japanese—young couples with good haircuts, fashionable—engaged in misty giggling, teasing, and grappling while in easy reach of poolside drinks.
The judge, after putting on what his father called “swim trunks,” prepared his own poolside drink—whiskey and water in an aluminum water bottle—and told his wife that, contrary to her repeated assertions on the matter, she looked fantastic in a bathing suit. “Right,” she said, then in a well-knotted bathrobe left for the indoor round pool since it was the warmest on the premises at 104 degrees. The judge tried his drink, knocked on his parents’ sliding door, waited for them to do the things they always did before they went out—use the bathroom, take pills, discuss footwear, discuss food—and then, because the patio was rain-slicked, he took his mother by one arm and his father by the other and led them to the steps, with sturdy rails, that gave access to the adult pool. Stoutly, on wide and dimpled legs, hands on her hips, his mother waded forward while his father, after a spate of preparatory heavy breathing and a few stated hesitations—“Oh boy, this is hot”…“Not my cup of tea”—immersed his drooping frame at last.
“Okay,” said the judge. “I’ll be right over there.” He pointed. “In the pavilion.”
“Go,” said his mother. “The two of you deserve some lovey-dovey time.”
The judge gave a little farewell wave and, carrying his water bottle, went into the pavilion and hung his robe on a peg. Finally—after a day of battles, hassles, and irritations—he parked himself, with a sigh, in the water beside his wife,whose cheeks looked flushed, even scalded. “Your mother’s in extra-fine fettle,” she observed. “On a roll. In her element. Long drive with captive audience.”
“Sorry,” said the judge.
“Of course she meant ‘WASP’ as an insult—obviously.”
“It’s true,” said the judge. “But let’s take the high road. There’s no point getting into it with her.”
He unscrewed his water bottle. The pool pavilion, lit by wall sconces against the winter dark outside the glass, was hushed and steamy and, like the adult pool outside, had a libidinous effect on bathers. Here, too, were couples at play. They made the judge feel pleased with his life, and in particular with his wife, who at fifty-four did look
“You didn’t?” his mother asked. “He was unusual for a Canadian in that his skin was an olive tone. He might have been Greek or Italian—handsome! You know what I dislike about Canada?” she added. “They don’t really have minorities here. They don’t have the blacks and Hispanics like we do. Everyone here is lily-white. Everyone here is a WASP.”
Time to speak up—he had to; this couldn’t stand. He put a hand to his rearview mirror and said, “You’re sitting next to a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant, Mom. My wife. Your daughter-in-law. For whom ‘WASP’ is a derogatory term.”
His mother leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “ ‘WASP’ isn’t derogatory,” she said. “It’s a description. It describes. Don’t you know that?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t know it. ‘WASP’ is derogatory.”
For the next hour—until they reached the hot springs—he regretted having broken a rule about his mother, his own three-part mantra: not worth it, you lose, keep your mouth shut.
There was snow on the ground at Harrison Hot Springs, or the remains of snow, a patch here or there, eroding to slush beneath the rain. Fortunately, they’d reserved ground-floor rooms with sliding glass doors, only steps from the adult pool, which boiled and steamed like a cauldron and at the moment steeped a dozen or so couples. Bathers came and went in white terry-cloth robes, padded along the covered walkways in zoris,toweled off in the frigid air, and knoodled in furtive corners. They were mostly Japanese—young couples with good haircuts, fashionable—engaged in misty giggling, teasing, and grappling while in easy reach of poolside drinks.
The judge, after putting on what his father called “swim trunks,” prepared his own poolside drink—whiskey and water in an aluminum water bottle—and told his wife that, contrary to her repeated assertions on the matter, she looked fantastic in a bathing suit. “Right,” she said, then in a well-knotted bathrobe left for the indoor round pool since it was the warmest on the premises at 104 degrees. The judge tried his drink, knocked on his parents’ sliding door, waited for them to do the things they always did before they went out—use the bathroom, take pills, discuss footwear, discuss food—and then, because the patio was rain-slicked, he took his mother by one arm and his father by the other and led them to the steps, with sturdy rails, that gave access to the adult pool. Stoutly, on wide and dimpled legs, hands on her hips, his mother waded forward while his father, after a spate of preparatory heavy breathing and a few stated hesitations—“Oh boy, this is hot”…“Not my cup of tea”—immersed his drooping frame at last.
“Okay,” said the judge. “I’ll be right over there.” He pointed. “In the pavilion.”
“Go,” said his mother. “The two of you deserve some lovey-dovey time.”
The judge gave a little farewell wave and, carrying his water bottle, went into the pavilion and hung his robe on a peg. Finally—after a day of battles, hassles, and irritations—he parked himself, with a sigh, in the water beside his wife,whose cheeks looked flushed, even scalded. “Your mother’s in extra-fine fettle,” she observed. “On a roll. In her element. Long drive with captive audience.”
“Sorry,” said the judge.
“Of course she meant ‘WASP’ as an insult—obviously.”
“It’s true,” said the judge. “But let’s take the high road. There’s no point getting into it with her.”
He unscrewed his water bottle. The pool pavilion, lit by wall sconces against the winter dark outside the glass, was hushed and steamy and, like the adult pool outside, had a libidinous effect on bathers. Here, too, were couples at play. They made the judge feel pleased with his life, and in particular with his wife, who at fifty-four did look
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