Malvolio's this Puritan steward to a countess, but he thinks he's better than everybody, and keeps telling them to stop having fun, so they trick him into thinking the countess is in love with him, and she has him locked up as a madman.”
I gave Justin the long raised eyebrow I’d seen on the waiter at the Hillston Club. “You’re telling me I’m right for this part?”
“You’ve got the best lines. ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.’”
“Doesn’t sound like greatness you’re fixing to thrust upon me; sounds like public humiliation.”
“See!” He socked my arm. “Just what Malvolio would say. Blue Randolph's playing the countess, and I’m playing her drunk uncle.”
“Well, that fits. Who's Blue Randolph?”
“Oh, you know. Atwater's granddaughter. At the dance? Wearing bright red?” He pantomimed an hourglass.
“I seem to recall her.” We turned in at the YMCA, where the state flag was lowered to half-mast. A squad of women jogged past us, looking like they wished they hadn’t signed up. “Why don’t you ask Paul Madison to do this part?”
“He's playing the Duke. Well, just promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Justin tells me Paul's in a great mood today; he's already called him to leak the news that Briggs Cadmean had left his big ugly Gothic mausoleum of a house to Trinity Episcopal Church for a “rest home.” This was going to surprise people, since the old robber baron had attended First Presbyterian; not that he paid much heed to any moral reminders he might have heard there. Well, the Reverend Thomas Campbell might gnash his teeth on his pulpit over this raiding of wealthy parishioners, but I’ve about decided there's no con Father Paul Madison's not capable of pulling on unsuspecting sinners while they’re smiling indulgently at his unworldly face.
I said to Justin, “God, what a blabbermouth you are. What’d your cousin Buck do, come over at 5:00 A.M. with a copy of the will?”
“Oh, you know how families talk. It's going to be a convalescent home, and the stipulation is, anybody that worked more than thirty years at Cadmean mills can stay there free ’til they die.”
“Too bad my daddy couldn’t wait.”
In the locker room, Justin says, “You know, Alice told me you probably could have sued the mills over your father's death. Brown lung disease.”
“Yeah, and bought him a bigger tombstone. Or maybe I could have sued Haver Tobacco Company for those four unfiltered packs a day Daddy smoked. Or maybe just sue Adam for loving his wife.”
“Boy, you’re in a rotten mood.”
“Am I?”
“You know what? Sometimes I think you do it just on principle.”
“Well, hey, Justin, somebody's got to.”
Paul Madison was in a good mood. While jabbering about hisnew convalescent home, he kept passing the ball to Bubba Percy, who appeared to be catching up on lost sleep under the basket, so my Fuzz Five moved out of last place. Nancy White (a tough East Hillston kid who used to lead a girls’ gang that would tear your face off, and your hubcaps, too) ran about forty miles during the game, scored eight points, and yelled, “ Woman power! ” after every one.
Back in the locker room, I told Father Paul he ought to put in a good word with his Boss Upstairs for old Cadmean (now undoubtedly in hell, and as hot as one of his factory smokestacks), since the industrialist's opportune croaking had not only given Trinity Church more beds than that Porsche was going to buy them, it had temporarily saved George Hall's life. And Paul told me that at tomorrow's Mass he was reading Cadmean into the general prayer, plus dedicating the altar flowers to the repose of his soul.
I said, “You figure that’ll get the s.o.b. moved some place cooler?”
The rector blithely tossed his towel in the bin. “Any hell that poor old man was in, he left when he died. And God bless him for dying when he
I gave Justin the long raised eyebrow I’d seen on the waiter at the Hillston Club. “You’re telling me I’m right for this part?”
“You’ve got the best lines. ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.’”
“Doesn’t sound like greatness you’re fixing to thrust upon me; sounds like public humiliation.”
“See!” He socked my arm. “Just what Malvolio would say. Blue Randolph's playing the countess, and I’m playing her drunk uncle.”
“Well, that fits. Who's Blue Randolph?”
“Oh, you know. Atwater's granddaughter. At the dance? Wearing bright red?” He pantomimed an hourglass.
“I seem to recall her.” We turned in at the YMCA, where the state flag was lowered to half-mast. A squad of women jogged past us, looking like they wished they hadn’t signed up. “Why don’t you ask Paul Madison to do this part?”
“He's playing the Duke. Well, just promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Justin tells me Paul's in a great mood today; he's already called him to leak the news that Briggs Cadmean had left his big ugly Gothic mausoleum of a house to Trinity Episcopal Church for a “rest home.” This was going to surprise people, since the old robber baron had attended First Presbyterian; not that he paid much heed to any moral reminders he might have heard there. Well, the Reverend Thomas Campbell might gnash his teeth on his pulpit over this raiding of wealthy parishioners, but I’ve about decided there's no con Father Paul Madison's not capable of pulling on unsuspecting sinners while they’re smiling indulgently at his unworldly face.
I said to Justin, “God, what a blabbermouth you are. What’d your cousin Buck do, come over at 5:00 A.M. with a copy of the will?”
“Oh, you know how families talk. It's going to be a convalescent home, and the stipulation is, anybody that worked more than thirty years at Cadmean mills can stay there free ’til they die.”
“Too bad my daddy couldn’t wait.”
In the locker room, Justin says, “You know, Alice told me you probably could have sued the mills over your father's death. Brown lung disease.”
“Yeah, and bought him a bigger tombstone. Or maybe I could have sued Haver Tobacco Company for those four unfiltered packs a day Daddy smoked. Or maybe just sue Adam for loving his wife.”
“Boy, you’re in a rotten mood.”
“Am I?”
“You know what? Sometimes I think you do it just on principle.”
“Well, hey, Justin, somebody's got to.”
Paul Madison was in a good mood. While jabbering about hisnew convalescent home, he kept passing the ball to Bubba Percy, who appeared to be catching up on lost sleep under the basket, so my Fuzz Five moved out of last place. Nancy White (a tough East Hillston kid who used to lead a girls’ gang that would tear your face off, and your hubcaps, too) ran about forty miles during the game, scored eight points, and yelled, “ Woman power! ” after every one.
Back in the locker room, I told Father Paul he ought to put in a good word with his Boss Upstairs for old Cadmean (now undoubtedly in hell, and as hot as one of his factory smokestacks), since the industrialist's opportune croaking had not only given Trinity Church more beds than that Porsche was going to buy them, it had temporarily saved George Hall's life. And Paul told me that at tomorrow's Mass he was reading Cadmean into the general prayer, plus dedicating the altar flowers to the repose of his soul.
I said, “You figure that’ll get the s.o.b. moved some place cooler?”
The rector blithely tossed his towel in the bin. “Any hell that poor old man was in, he left when he died. And God bless him for dying when he
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