Rich Rewards by Alice Adams Page B

what he was doing, and where and when. Or when I praised his work. I felt much affection for Tony, of a restfully unconversational sort; it had seemed to me that much too much of my life had been taken up in conversation, not all of it constructive, or even always fun.
    However, when Tony glanced down at my eggs and looked even more ashen, I knew absolutely what was wrong: the poor kid had a horrible hangover. I said, “Tony, for God’s sake, sit down. I can’t stand to see you looking like that.”
    He Sat, with a grimace, and I went to fetch him a dose of Fernet Branca, with a water chaser, and then for good measure a bunch of Brewer’s Yeast tablets.
    He got all that down, with some effort, and he said, “You’re right, I don’t feel too good today. Me and Whitey, we ran into each other over on Potrero, and we decided to quit fighting each other. After all, we was buddies, overthere. Then we went out to do some drinking, kind of to celebrate, and that man can really pour it down.”
    “Was Caroline along?” Instantly I wondered why I had asked that, and I very much hoped that it had not been out of curiosity about the sexual life of Tony Brown.
    “No, I don’t think she and him are getting along any too good these days.”
    That surprised me; I guess I had taken for granted the intense brother-sister connection that I had observed, and I may have thought too that Caroline would be an influence in bringing Tony and Whitey back together. She would want them to be friends, I would have thought.
    But then, not having had any, I don’t have too much instinct for sibling relationships. And one of the bad aspects of the only-child condition is that we are extremely inept at fights: we think that any fight is final; most of us are devastated by quarrels. In my imagination brothers and sisters fight all the time, in a cheerful bear-cub way, and then they quickly get over it—cleansed, as it were. But maybe they don’t.
    I asked Tony if Caroline and Whitey had had a fight.
    “No, nothing like that. They don’t fight too much. Whitey just gets real mean when he drinks, and I think Caroline’s pretty much had it with his shit.” He stood up then, announcing, “So am I, really tired of that man. I’m not going to do any more drinking with him, not any more.”
    I could not help feeling a mean-spirited sort of pleasure at the idea of Whitey’s being shunned by his former friend, and by his sister. But at the same time it was a little frightening, the thought of Whitey unleashed on the world, looking for trouble, and revenge.
    “Anyway, he’s talking about going up to Alaska, getting work on the pipeline,” Tony said.
    “That sounds like a good idea.”
    “His dad’s dead against it, but I don’t think that’s going to stop Whitey for long.”
    I didn’t think so either, and then I began to wonder what Agatha’s connection with Whitey was like, how she felt about him. At this point I did not feel I could ask her, and I wondered if she would ever say.
    Already Tony was looking much better, almost his old self, and I considered enviously the recuperative powers of youth—although he was probably not ten years younger than I was. And that morning, as always, I was struck by the extreme cleanliness of all his clothes, the bleached-out work shirts, and faded jeans, never ironed but always just washed. The combination of that soft pale blue cloth with his lovely brown skin was beautiful. And my appreciation of Tony did not arise from a generalized hard-upness, I am fairly sure. I think that under any circumstances I would have found him enchanting to look at, as lithe and graceful as a cat, with those luminous dark eyes and lovely thick dark lashes.
    Besides, as well as liking to look at Tony I
liked
him, and I daily blessed my luck in having him around. Incredibly enough, he was about to complete the work in the kitchen ahead of schedule, and to start on the small upstairs deck.
    Some sudden strong impulse made