been mink-lined.
We were alone, he and I, for a moment. He was shaving and dressing and I watched him as a child might, as though I myself didn’t perform these same rites every morning (orin the case of shaving, every third morning). When I told him in which Midwestern city I’d been born, he laughed and said, “But that’s where my patron lives, the real Everett Hunton.”
“Come again?”
William widened his blue eyes, smiled, and came over and sat on my lap. “Oh, look, I’ve gotten foam on your neck,” and he brushed it away. He swiveled in my lap, linked his hands behind my neck, and leaned back to look at me. With one more wiggle of his bottom he whispered, “I was wondering if I could get a rise out of you.” He stood and pretended to be a matron slowly raising a lorgnette to her eye to inspect the degree and angle of the damage she’d done. “I can’t tell if you pack a big basket or not.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“You’re not that naive.” He went back to his sink and mirror. “God, but do I feel like a tarnished angel around you.” He turned and held up a warning finger. “Equal emphasis on tarnished and angel.”
“You are angelic, William, a naughty angel,” I said, surprising myself with my low tone, which was the vocal counterpart to a lazy pat on a chorus girl’s fanny. William instantly responded with a shiver. “You think so? Oh, I was telling you about my ‘patron.’ He’d die if he heard me using that word; he tells everyone we’re cousins, though that’s just as dangerous—with these really old families the cousins are all present and accounted for.” He clapped his hand over his mouth. “No, I must change the subject. So, tell me, Ducky, are you hung or not?” He slapped himself, looked at his reflection, and hissed, “You slut, I didn’t say that.”
“Do I have a big penis? Oh, I suppose it’s just average.”
“Suppose? Darling, a real man might get away with vagueness about that one vital statistic, but it’s not as though you haven’t done major comparison shopping.” He laughedas an actress might, tossing his head back to emphasize his long neck.
His things were all severely, unexceptionably masculine and patrician—his cologne from Panhelicon, his shoes from Church’s, his suits, shirts, and ties from Brooks, his black lisle stockings knee-high and held up by garters, his hat from Lock’s in London: exactly the wardrobe lots of money and no confidence would have selected in London or New York, but here in homey old Michigan, where mothers ran up their kids’ clothes on the sewing machine, or ordered them in bulk from J. C. Penney’s, such garments looked exaggerated, certainly conspicuous. He even had a monogrammed silver hairbrush set, an old Vuitton trunk, a cut-glass sherry bottle. “Such a hoot!” he shrieked when I teased him. “Mad for High WASP camp! Only a retired English officer makes me get really hard.”
Suddenly he turned sad, sat on his bed, and hugged his knees, again as an actress might, this time for a meditative head shot staring into the setting sun beside a lake. His speech rhythms were unpredictable and snagged deep into my mind. “You see, we were dirt poor, real white trash. River rats—that’s what they call people who live so far down the hill they’re washed out every time it floods. We were river rats. William … Everett … Hunton, what a hoot …” He buried his face between his knees for a second. “Some day when we’re sisters I’ll tell you my real name, but if you snitch on me I’ll pull your braids and dip them in the inkwell.”
He was up and laughing again. “Champagne, I feel in the mood for champagne.” He twirled the two bottles ready and waiting in an ice bucket. “Where is that girl? Isn’t she fabulous! So glamorous! I can’t believe she likes me. I suppose you think it’s all frightfully lesbian, you horrid cynic!” And again he was back at my side, this time kissing me.
We were alone, he and I, for a moment. He was shaving and dressing and I watched him as a child might, as though I myself didn’t perform these same rites every morning (orin the case of shaving, every third morning). When I told him in which Midwestern city I’d been born, he laughed and said, “But that’s where my patron lives, the real Everett Hunton.”
“Come again?”
William widened his blue eyes, smiled, and came over and sat on my lap. “Oh, look, I’ve gotten foam on your neck,” and he brushed it away. He swiveled in my lap, linked his hands behind my neck, and leaned back to look at me. With one more wiggle of his bottom he whispered, “I was wondering if I could get a rise out of you.” He stood and pretended to be a matron slowly raising a lorgnette to her eye to inspect the degree and angle of the damage she’d done. “I can’t tell if you pack a big basket or not.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“You’re not that naive.” He went back to his sink and mirror. “God, but do I feel like a tarnished angel around you.” He turned and held up a warning finger. “Equal emphasis on tarnished and angel.”
“You are angelic, William, a naughty angel,” I said, surprising myself with my low tone, which was the vocal counterpart to a lazy pat on a chorus girl’s fanny. William instantly responded with a shiver. “You think so? Oh, I was telling you about my ‘patron.’ He’d die if he heard me using that word; he tells everyone we’re cousins, though that’s just as dangerous—with these really old families the cousins are all present and accounted for.” He clapped his hand over his mouth. “No, I must change the subject. So, tell me, Ducky, are you hung or not?” He slapped himself, looked at his reflection, and hissed, “You slut, I didn’t say that.”
“Do I have a big penis? Oh, I suppose it’s just average.”
“Suppose? Darling, a real man might get away with vagueness about that one vital statistic, but it’s not as though you haven’t done major comparison shopping.” He laughedas an actress might, tossing his head back to emphasize his long neck.
His things were all severely, unexceptionably masculine and patrician—his cologne from Panhelicon, his shoes from Church’s, his suits, shirts, and ties from Brooks, his black lisle stockings knee-high and held up by garters, his hat from Lock’s in London: exactly the wardrobe lots of money and no confidence would have selected in London or New York, but here in homey old Michigan, where mothers ran up their kids’ clothes on the sewing machine, or ordered them in bulk from J. C. Penney’s, such garments looked exaggerated, certainly conspicuous. He even had a monogrammed silver hairbrush set, an old Vuitton trunk, a cut-glass sherry bottle. “Such a hoot!” he shrieked when I teased him. “Mad for High WASP camp! Only a retired English officer makes me get really hard.”
Suddenly he turned sad, sat on his bed, and hugged his knees, again as an actress might, this time for a meditative head shot staring into the setting sun beside a lake. His speech rhythms were unpredictable and snagged deep into my mind. “You see, we were dirt poor, real white trash. River rats—that’s what they call people who live so far down the hill they’re washed out every time it floods. We were river rats. William … Everett … Hunton, what a hoot …” He buried his face between his knees for a second. “Some day when we’re sisters I’ll tell you my real name, but if you snitch on me I’ll pull your braids and dip them in the inkwell.”
He was up and laughing again. “Champagne, I feel in the mood for champagne.” He twirled the two bottles ready and waiting in an ice bucket. “Where is that girl? Isn’t she fabulous! So glamorous! I can’t believe she likes me. I suppose you think it’s all frightfully lesbian, you horrid cynic!” And again he was back at my side, this time kissing me.
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