Expensive People Read Online Free PDF Page B

next to him a child, not interesting as misleadingly promised, but runty and worried, an old man already, with his mother's thin, hawkish, sniffing nose and his father's drooping eyes, shivering in the blast of heat that radiates from the front heater (will nothing ever get him warm, that doomed, damned child?). Of course, that is 1.1 am ten.
    Now, on the far side of the street (I am considering your point of view) is a handsome old house, set back from the sidewalk, English Tudor of an Americanized sort, with great hunks of plate glass and standard evergreen shrubs, etc. You've seen thousands of such houses. And now, if you'll turn—notice how cautious I am, wanting you to see and feel everything without confusion—if you'll turn you will see what those four people are staring at. Another house. A house, that's all. A bastardized French-American affair, brick painted white, with balconies of wrought iron fastened somehow beneath the four big second-floor windows, and a big double door with gold, or gold-platedbrass, knobs. The house has been built atop a hill, and all eyes are drawn to it. Banks and clumps of expensive evergreens run down in a friendly riot along the edge of the “circle” driveway to the street.
    What else do you need to know? An ordinary day, partly cloudy. But Nada, * my mother, will wear sunglasses if the sky is totally overcast; she is that kind of woman. Anything else? Automobiles passing by? Just a few, and they are either nondescript cars driven by Negro maids on their way to the Continental Market Basket or the post office or the Fernwood Dry Cleaners or to the movie houses, with a few children, all white, bundled in the back seat; or large cars driven by suburban matrons of any age driving to or from luncheons, to or from bridge games, receptions, showers, round-table discussions, sculpting class, painting class, ballet class, “Psychology for the Home” class, “Great Books of the 60's” class …
    Everything is sketched in. Now let us bring the scene to life.
    The Cadillac pulled up to the curb. My father, leaning forward, spoke around his cigar with the public deference one uses in Fernwood toward wives. “What do you think of this one, Tashya?”
    My mother was staring up at the house. The salesman, whose name was Howie Hansom, kept looking at the house himself though I could see that his face was getting strained. I could see his profile and the off-white of his eye. He and I were comrades in all this, but he did not know it or would not let on. If he happened to glance at me it was with the look you address to a squirrel: a pest supposed to be cute.
    “Well, Tashya, what say we try it?” Father said heartily. He stirred himself and gave the impression that everyone was moving, everything had come to life; that was Father's style. “I know you're exhausted, Tashya, but we're out here now and Mr. Hansom would be disappointed if we didn't go in. Wouldn't you, Mr. Hansom?”
    Mr. Hansom's profile tightened and he looked over at my parents, smiling. His smile was like a small, muted shriek, but they would never have noticed—something was in the air between them, some private, tugging tension. Mr. Hansom said, “I'd like very much to show you through this lovely house. I have the key here, of course …”
    “Tashya?”
    They waited. She drew in at last a long, exasperated breath, as if she'd been dragged all the way out here by these men and had no choice but to go through with their foolishness. Without answering, she opened the door and flung it out (a door that weighed a ton, built like a fortress), and we had a glimpse of her reddening, impatient ear, just the tip of it through her dark hair.
    “Ah, here we are. Fine, fine,” Father said cheerfully, rubbing his hands.
    We all got out and trudged up to the house.
    “Now, first of all, I'd like to know the price of this house,” Father said.
    “You'll notice that the house has three stories, and there is of course a swimming