The Gold Coast Read Online Free PDF Page B

responsibilities, instead of about revolution, the unemployed, and civil rights. My parents, Joseph and Harriet, who were liberal for their day and social class, would gripe about the message from the pulpit. I don’t think God meant for church services to be so aggravating.
    The problem with a church, any church, I think, is that unlike a country club, anyone can join. The result of this open-door policy is that for one hour a week, all the social classes must humble themselves before God and do it under the same roof in full view of one another. I’m not suggesting private churches or first-class pews up front like they used to have, and I don’t think dimming the lights would help much. But I know that years ago, it was understood that one sort of people went to the early service, and the other sort of people to the later one.
    Having said this, I feel I should say something in extenuation of what could be construed as elitist and antidemocratic thoughts: First, I don’t feel superior to anyone, and second, I believe fervently that we are all created free and equal. But what I also feel is socially dislocated, unsure of my place in the vast changing democracy outside these immediate environs, and uncertain how to live a useful and fulfilling life among the crumbling ruins around me. The Reverend Mr. Hunnings thinks he has the answers. The only thing I know for certain is that he doesn’t.
    Susan slowed down as she approached the village of Locust Valley. The village is a rather nice place, neat and prosperous, with a small Long Island Railroad station in the middle of town, from which I take my train into New York. Locust Valley was gentrified and boutiquefied long before anyone even knew the words, though there is a new wave of trendy, useless shops coming in.
    St. Mark’s is on the northern edge of the village. It is a small Gothic structure of brownstone with good stained-glass windows imported from England. It was built in 1896 with the winnings of a poker game playfully confiscated by six millionaires’ wives. They all went to heaven.
    Susan found a parking space by hemming in a Rolls-Royce, and we all hurried toward the church as the bells tolled.
    • • •
    On the way back, Ethel said, “I think Reverend Hunnings was right and we should all take in at least one homeless person for Easter week.”
    Susan hit the gas and took a banked curve at sixty miles per hour, causing the Allards to sway left and quieting Ethel.
    George, ever the loyal servant, said, “I think Father Hunnings should practice what he preaches. He’s got nobody but him and his wife in that big rectory of theirs.”
    George knows a hypocrite when he hears one.
    I said, “Mrs. Allard, you have my permission to take a homeless person into your house for Easter week.”
    I waited for the garrote to encircle my neck and the sound of cackling as it drew tight, but instead she replied, “Perhaps I’ll write to Mr. Stanhope and ask his permission.”
    Touché. In one short sentence she reminded me that I didn’t own the place, and since Susan’s father has the social conscience of a Nazi storm trooper, Ethel got herself off the hook. Score one for Ethel.
    Susan crested a hill at seventy and nearly ran up the rear end of a neat little red TR-3—1964, I think. She swerved into the opposing lane, then swung back in front of the Triumph in time to avoid an oncoming Porsche.
    Susan, I believe, has hit upon a Pavlovian experiment in which she introduces the possibility of sudden death whenever anyone in the car says anything that doesn’t relate to the weather or horses.
    I said, “Not too much spring rain this year.”
    George added, “But the ground’s still wet from that March snow.”
    Susan slowed down.
    I drive to church about half the time, then there’s the three-month boating season when we skip it altogether, so going to church is dangerous only about twenty times a year.
    Actually, I notice that when Susan drives to and from