Hill—where he was never invited—and although he knew that Channing and Peabody were old Boston family names, he was unfamiliar with this strange coupling of the two. For all Wilbur Larch knew about this level of society, the Channings and the Peabodys might be throwing a party together and for the purpose of the invitation had agreed to hyphenate their names.
As for sailing, Wilbur Larch had never been on the water—or in it. A child of Maine, he knew better than to learn to swim in that water; the Maine water, in Wilbur Larch’s opinion, was for summer people and lobsters. And as for tennis or croquet, he didn’t own the proper clothing. From a watercolor of some strange lawn games, he had once imagined that striking a wooden ball with a wooden mallet as hard as he could would be rewarding, but he wanted time to practice this art alone and unobserved. He regretted the expense of hiring a driver to take him to the Channing-Peabody summer house, and he felt uncomfortably dressed for the season—his only suit was a dark, heavy one, and he hadn’t worn it since the day of his visit “Off Harrison.” As he lifted the big brass door knocker of the Channing-Peabody house (choosing to introduce himself formally, rather than wandering among the people in their whites at play at various sports around the grounds), he felt the suit was not only too hot but also needed a pressing, and he discovered in the jacket pocket the panties of the woman who’d aborted the birth of her child “Off Harrison.” Wilbur Larch was holding the panties in his hand and staring at them—remembering their valiant, epaulette position, their jaunty bravery on the woman’s shoulder—when Mrs. Channing-Peabody opened the door to receive him.
He could not return the panties to his jacket pocket quickly enough so he stuffed them into the pocket in the attitude of a handkerchief he’d just been caught blowing his nose in. By the quick way Mrs. Channing-Peabody looked away from them, Larch knew she’d seen the panties for what they were: women’s underdrawers, plain as day.
“Doctor Larch?” Mrs. Channing-Peabody said cautiously, as if the panties had provided her with a clue to Larch’s identity.
I should simply leave now, Wilbur Larch thought, but he said, “Yes, Doctor Larch,” and bowed to the woman—a great gunship of a woman, with a tanned face and a head helmeted in silver-gray hair, as sleek and as dangerous-looking as a bullet.
“You must come meet my daughter,” the woman said. “And all the rest of us!” she added with a booming laugh that chilled the sweat on Wilbur Larch’s back.
All the rest of them seemed to be named Channing or Peabody or Channing-Peabody, and some of them had first names that resembled last names. There was a Cabot and a Chadwick and a Loring and an Emerald (who had the dullest brown eyes), but the daughter whom Mrs. Channing-Peabody had designated to meet Dr. Larch was the plainest and youngest and least healthy-looking of the bunch. Her name was Missy.
“Missy?” Wilbur Larch repeated. The girl nodded and shrugged.
They were seated at a long table, next to each other. Across from them, and about their age, was one of the young men in tennis whites, either the Chadwick or the Cabot. He looked cross, or else he’d just had a fight with Miss Channing-Peabody, or else he would rather have been seated next to her himself. Or maybe he’s just her brother and wishes he were seated farther away from her, thought Wilbur Larch.
The girl looked unwell. In a family of tans, she was pale; she picked at her food. It was one of those dinners where the arrival of each course caused a complete change of dishes, and as the conversation lapsed and failed, or at least grew fainter, the sound of china and silverware grew louder, and a tension mounted at the dinner table. It was not a tension caused by any subject of conversation—it was a tension caused by no subject of conversation.
The rather senile
As for sailing, Wilbur Larch had never been on the water—or in it. A child of Maine, he knew better than to learn to swim in that water; the Maine water, in Wilbur Larch’s opinion, was for summer people and lobsters. And as for tennis or croquet, he didn’t own the proper clothing. From a watercolor of some strange lawn games, he had once imagined that striking a wooden ball with a wooden mallet as hard as he could would be rewarding, but he wanted time to practice this art alone and unobserved. He regretted the expense of hiring a driver to take him to the Channing-Peabody summer house, and he felt uncomfortably dressed for the season—his only suit was a dark, heavy one, and he hadn’t worn it since the day of his visit “Off Harrison.” As he lifted the big brass door knocker of the Channing-Peabody house (choosing to introduce himself formally, rather than wandering among the people in their whites at play at various sports around the grounds), he felt the suit was not only too hot but also needed a pressing, and he discovered in the jacket pocket the panties of the woman who’d aborted the birth of her child “Off Harrison.” Wilbur Larch was holding the panties in his hand and staring at them—remembering their valiant, epaulette position, their jaunty bravery on the woman’s shoulder—when Mrs. Channing-Peabody opened the door to receive him.
He could not return the panties to his jacket pocket quickly enough so he stuffed them into the pocket in the attitude of a handkerchief he’d just been caught blowing his nose in. By the quick way Mrs. Channing-Peabody looked away from them, Larch knew she’d seen the panties for what they were: women’s underdrawers, plain as day.
“Doctor Larch?” Mrs. Channing-Peabody said cautiously, as if the panties had provided her with a clue to Larch’s identity.
I should simply leave now, Wilbur Larch thought, but he said, “Yes, Doctor Larch,” and bowed to the woman—a great gunship of a woman, with a tanned face and a head helmeted in silver-gray hair, as sleek and as dangerous-looking as a bullet.
“You must come meet my daughter,” the woman said. “And all the rest of us!” she added with a booming laugh that chilled the sweat on Wilbur Larch’s back.
All the rest of them seemed to be named Channing or Peabody or Channing-Peabody, and some of them had first names that resembled last names. There was a Cabot and a Chadwick and a Loring and an Emerald (who had the dullest brown eyes), but the daughter whom Mrs. Channing-Peabody had designated to meet Dr. Larch was the plainest and youngest and least healthy-looking of the bunch. Her name was Missy.
“Missy?” Wilbur Larch repeated. The girl nodded and shrugged.
They were seated at a long table, next to each other. Across from them, and about their age, was one of the young men in tennis whites, either the Chadwick or the Cabot. He looked cross, or else he’d just had a fight with Miss Channing-Peabody, or else he would rather have been seated next to her himself. Or maybe he’s just her brother and wishes he were seated farther away from her, thought Wilbur Larch.
The girl looked unwell. In a family of tans, she was pale; she picked at her food. It was one of those dinners where the arrival of each course caused a complete change of dishes, and as the conversation lapsed and failed, or at least grew fainter, the sound of china and silverware grew louder, and a tension mounted at the dinner table. It was not a tension caused by any subject of conversation—it was a tension caused by no subject of conversation.
The rather senile
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