Rich Friends by Jacqueline; Briskin Page B

that his dream of selling to The New Yorker was one more English Department cliché.
    â€œBut they haven’t gone?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œThen they are rotten?”
    â€œWe’ll work them into shape, old son, you and me together.” LeRoy Duquesne rubbed his hands together. “Let’s start with ‘Troopship.’”
    LeRoy Duquesne’s talents lay in critical analysis: he could stretch a paragraph on the blackboard and let it twitch, neither dead nor quite living, while he pointed his ferule at character, style, realization of theme, figures of speech. He performed the best damn autopsy in the English Department. Shuffling pages of “Troopship,” his voice ringing with passion, he covered the manuscript with his minuscule, spiky notes. Gene’s eyes occasionally would shift from paper to the sculptured features of LeRoy Duquesne, poet, critic, mentor, Progressive, and friend. He would agree, “That’s right.” “Uh-huh.” “Yes, the crap game should be deepened into symbolism.” “Yes, sure, I get it.”
    4
    The following Tuesday Caroline got a phone call from her grandmother. The right birthday gift for Em, Mrs. Van Vliet admitted, had her bewildered. Could Caroline help? And lunch with her?
    â€œSaturday,” Caroline agreed.
    Saturday, promptly at half-past eleven, the Daimler drove up Cordell Road. Caroline, feeling blissfully elegant (her pleasure enhanced by a gaping neighbor), stepped into the car as she would a perfumed bath. Joseph, tipping his cap, closed the door after her. “How was Arrowhead?” Mrs. Van Vliet inquired.
    â€œOn the way up, the motor boiled over—twice. It snowed the entire time. And Mrs. Duquesne insisted on serving her curried lamb—twice.”
    â€œDelightful,” said Mrs. Van Vliet dryly.
    â€œGrandmama, remember I told you Gene’s been writing about the Army? Short stories? Old luv, you wouldn’t believe how good they are. Sensitive. Fine. I cry each time I read them. Well, LeRoy Duquesne spent the weekend criticizing them.”
    â€œCriticize? That has an ominous ring.”
    â€œLeRoy Duquesne’s meant to be a renowned critic.” Caroline made a face. “Gene’s working like a dog, revising.”
    â€œDoes this mean he’s given up on the Holy Cause?”
    â€œWe’re still slaving on the petition, if that’s your innuendo, Grandmama.” Very French.
    â€œWill Gene sign?”
    â€œOf course not!”
    â€œThen he’ll be dismissed.”
    â€œFaculty firing—there’s one little threat I do not believe they’ll carry out.”
    A hand gloved in French kid brushed light as a butterfly wing on Caroline’s knee. “Caroline, remember those movie writers, the ones who refused to answer the House Un-American Activities Committee? Some went to jail. None’ll work again. Ever. The same goes for recalcitrant professors.”
    A remark as infuriating as unarguable: Mrs. Van Vliet numbered among her friends, Caroline was aware, three regents of the University of California.
    They had turned into the heavy traffic on Colorado Boulevard before either spoke.
    â€œMethinks we can work this out,” Mrs. Van Vliet said.
    â€œHis signing? Gene never will.”
    â€œYou two getting married,” Mrs. Van Vliet said without lowering her voice. She and Joseph would have considered it a breach of etiquette to hint that his protruding black ears might eavesdrop. “You’ve been sleeping together for almost a year.”
    Caroline’s cheeks burned brighter. Close as she was to her grandmother, she was also a daughter of her time. What girl in 1950 could admit sexual activity? And to another generation?
    â€œGod knows I’m no Puritan,” said Mrs. Van Vliet. “But let these long-term romances continue past a certain point and they fade. The girls drift from one