We Were Beautiful Once by Joseph Carvalko

 He smelled stuffed mushrooms.  A maid with obsidian eyes held up a silver plate with hors d'oeuvres.
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    From across the room, Jack caught Tracy’s eye.  She smiled coquettishly as she walked toward him.  He admired her rosy white All-American face, thin model-like body dressed in a high necked green brocade gown tightly fashioned about her tiny breasts, tailored past her boney hips.  Under the lights, her hair looked the color of honey and was tucked neatly behind her flat ears, which were adorned by pearls that picked up the emerald in her gown.  Jack beamed an easy, natural smile, one that complimented a strong jaw and near perfect teeth.  Beneath it all, though, he was edgy, feeling that Tracy’s father would be watching him all night.
    â€œHi Jack.”  She leaned in for a kiss.
    â€œHi.”  Eyes darting he puckered his lips and brushed her cheek.  “I forgot your corsage.”
    â€œOh Jack, you didn't.  I wanted that—to save it.”
    Jack knew she could be overly romantic, sometimes comically so.  “I'm sorry, I'll give you something else to remember me by.”
    Smiling devilishly, she cocked her head.  “Like what, Jackie boy?”
    Jack blinked fast several times. “You'll see.”  Jack did not intend to give her anything.  Over time he had come to know her and her friends, and he felt that they were spoiled—not in the affections of their parents, but by an overabundance of everything material.  All Tracy had to do was wish and it appeared, like the 1948 green MG roadster in the garage.  But that was only part of an aroma of resentment, jealously or what his friend Rossini called “social differences.”
    ***
    By the middle of summer ’47, Jack began spending Saturday nights at the Hamilton pool, where his friends would drink beer, listen to music and disagree about sports, religion, politics, you name it.  They argued over whether Truman or Dewey would make a better president: Jack for Truman, everyone else for Dewey.
    Tracy said, a wry look on her face, “If I were voting, I’d vote G.O.P.  Don’t pay taxes now, but pretty soon I will.  And, like Daddy says, we don’t want our money going to deadbeats.”
    Jack calmly replied, “I don’t want my taxes going to welfare, either.”
    Tracy nodded agreeably.
    â€œOn the other hand, I’d gladly pay taxes that go for defense, or things like that,” Jack continued.  “Some of us pay higher taxes, sacrifice so that our neighbors live decent, and... ”
    Gallagher interrupted, “Jack, you’re a goddamn socialist.  The whole idea’s Marxist.  If you give to those pulling at your coattails, they’ll never get off their ass.  It’s common sense, man.  Dig it?”
    Jack did not think much of Gallagher.  He was a gawky clumsy kid in the frame of an adult; his strongest talent was imitating his uncle, who had given him a job.  
    â€œBut, Tom, we give and take.  To get the balance right we need to do more, I don’t know... ” Jack said, trying to be conciliatory.
    Trent, with a touch of sarcasm, chimed in.  “You’re saying if I work hard, make more, then government should take more?”
    Tracy, not wanting to get further into the row, went to the radio and dialed in Dinah Shore howling “Buttons and Bows.”
    Ignoring the blast of music, Jack turned to Trent deferentially.  “No, I ain’t saying that. But my grandfather was a socialist from Europe, my father was a New Deal man.  A little like religion—once you are what you are, it’s hard to change.”
    Trent crushed his cigarette in an ashtray overflowing with butts.  “Ain’t that the truth,” he growled.  Then blowing out a plume of smoke deep from his lungs, he added, “Let’s have a beer and screw