went off down the aisle, fingering the merchandise and talking about weaves. Gerard followed in languid pursuit, his cuffs coming undone.
His body ached as if, in trying on the suit, he had pulled some muscle.
Benedict was in deep thought, further ennobling his profile, which, Gerard noticed, he always checked from the edge of his eye as he passed a mirror. Only Gerard seemed to notice this breach of earnestness.
Before the Mortons had even hired him, Benedict had insisted on coming to their house, so that, as he said, he could get a better feel for the situation. Upon his arrival—in which he managed to make their doorbell chime with unprecedented portentousness—Gerard’s mother and two sisters had emerged from the kitchen and their week-long hysterics in order to fall into complete, reckless love with him, though Gerard could not tell if this was just an effect of Benedict’s good looks or in fact his confidence in a house of trembling, looseboweled men. The women had backed away, afraid they’d give in to their desire to touch him, but Benedict suggested that the entire family be present, that it was a family problem. After a dramatic pause, he added that it was also a family solution: the best thing going for Gerard was the fact that he came from a decent, caring home. He was a good boy from a good family, victimized by his own naiveté. Yes, naiveté. Whatever its credibility, the Mortons were grateful for the explanation, for it was the first they had received.
Gerard yawned heavily, hardly able to keep his head up. He could not outrun this avalanche of words and merchandise. An English blazer with gilt buttons was too showy. The twill was stodgy, not believable. The
polyester and cotton blend would look just-bought. Benedict decided he wanted collegiate.
In desperation the youth reached into a thicket of tweeds and, with a heavy shove, made a clearing. “How about this?”
“Too preppy,” Benedict said after a moment. “People are starting to resent that.”
“Well, I like it.”
“We’re talking retired schoolteachers here, civil servants, minorities. The minorities can be tough. Tweed’s not a bad idea, but we want something more SUNY.”
“I still like it,” Gerard insisted, though now that he had taken a good look at the jacket he realized that he’d rather be hung from the neck than be seen wearing elbow patches. As Benedict moved away, Gerard recalled that he had once applied to the state university at Fredonia—or, rather, that he had begun filling out the application. He had decided halfway through it that he didn’t want to attend college after all. “I think it’s pretty snazzy.”
“No one asked you,” Mr. Morton snapped.
“I’m going to be the one wearing the goddam thing.”
“And I’m going to be the one paying for it,” his father said, his voice down to a searing whisper. Benedict and the salesman were just out of earshot. “You’re lucky I don’t make you wear what I found you in when I posted bail, you little bastard.”
The night Gerard had spent in a holding cell had been a bad one. The arrest had been rough, and his jeans were torn above one knee and he had lost virtually all the
buttons to what had been an already frayed workshirt. And, although he did not recall being hit, a large bruise had erupted over his right eye. Worst of all, he had puked on himself, and the cops wouldn’t give him anything but a small, unclean towel. By the time morning came, he had forgotten that he had asked them to call his parents. He didn’t expect to be rescued; he would spend the rest of his life in jail, in these clothes. “Go ahead,” he said now. “See what I care.”
Gerard meant it: he saw himself before the judge and jury in rags or, better yet, naked. He would make no defense. The jury would not be shocked. They would understand him. They would take him into their arms, caress and soothe him. He would welcome their judgment, accept any punishment.
“Show me
His body ached as if, in trying on the suit, he had pulled some muscle.
Benedict was in deep thought, further ennobling his profile, which, Gerard noticed, he always checked from the edge of his eye as he passed a mirror. Only Gerard seemed to notice this breach of earnestness.
Before the Mortons had even hired him, Benedict had insisted on coming to their house, so that, as he said, he could get a better feel for the situation. Upon his arrival—in which he managed to make their doorbell chime with unprecedented portentousness—Gerard’s mother and two sisters had emerged from the kitchen and their week-long hysterics in order to fall into complete, reckless love with him, though Gerard could not tell if this was just an effect of Benedict’s good looks or in fact his confidence in a house of trembling, looseboweled men. The women had backed away, afraid they’d give in to their desire to touch him, but Benedict suggested that the entire family be present, that it was a family problem. After a dramatic pause, he added that it was also a family solution: the best thing going for Gerard was the fact that he came from a decent, caring home. He was a good boy from a good family, victimized by his own naiveté. Yes, naiveté. Whatever its credibility, the Mortons were grateful for the explanation, for it was the first they had received.
Gerard yawned heavily, hardly able to keep his head up. He could not outrun this avalanche of words and merchandise. An English blazer with gilt buttons was too showy. The twill was stodgy, not believable. The
polyester and cotton blend would look just-bought. Benedict decided he wanted collegiate.
In desperation the youth reached into a thicket of tweeds and, with a heavy shove, made a clearing. “How about this?”
“Too preppy,” Benedict said after a moment. “People are starting to resent that.”
“Well, I like it.”
“We’re talking retired schoolteachers here, civil servants, minorities. The minorities can be tough. Tweed’s not a bad idea, but we want something more SUNY.”
“I still like it,” Gerard insisted, though now that he had taken a good look at the jacket he realized that he’d rather be hung from the neck than be seen wearing elbow patches. As Benedict moved away, Gerard recalled that he had once applied to the state university at Fredonia—or, rather, that he had begun filling out the application. He had decided halfway through it that he didn’t want to attend college after all. “I think it’s pretty snazzy.”
“No one asked you,” Mr. Morton snapped.
“I’m going to be the one wearing the goddam thing.”
“And I’m going to be the one paying for it,” his father said, his voice down to a searing whisper. Benedict and the salesman were just out of earshot. “You’re lucky I don’t make you wear what I found you in when I posted bail, you little bastard.”
The night Gerard had spent in a holding cell had been a bad one. The arrest had been rough, and his jeans were torn above one knee and he had lost virtually all the
buttons to what had been an already frayed workshirt. And, although he did not recall being hit, a large bruise had erupted over his right eye. Worst of all, he had puked on himself, and the cops wouldn’t give him anything but a small, unclean towel. By the time morning came, he had forgotten that he had asked them to call his parents. He didn’t expect to be rescued; he would spend the rest of his life in jail, in these clothes. “Go ahead,” he said now. “See what I care.”
Gerard meant it: he saw himself before the judge and jury in rags or, better yet, naked. He would make no defense. The jury would not be shocked. They would understand him. They would take him into their arms, caress and soothe him. He would welcome their judgment, accept any punishment.
“Show me
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