Little Boy by John Smith

Little Boy by John Smith

Author:John Smith [Smith, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literary, War & Military
ISBN: 9781913861063
Publisher: Boiler House Press
Published: 2022-04-01T03:00:00+00:00


7

It was New Year’s Eve. All were gathered in the Lodge, the venerable meeting hall of the original boys school. It was a rustic building of pine and aspen—like a log cabin on a grand scale. It had been handsomely decorated. There was red, white and blue bunting everywhere. There were streamers of crepe paper around the log posts, and on the enormous elk’s head, and on the wrought-iron chandeliers. Over the old stone fireplace, somebody had formed 1945 out of tin-foil. The hall was filled with tables and with people, sitting and standing. A piano was playing.

Mrs Oppenheimer sat with the children. She wore a simple Ceil Chapman sort of dress in dark blue silk, with a belt, her hair in its usual elegant disarray, and her hand, with its cigarette, upraised by her face. She observed the crowd, turning from time to time to the children’s card game when called upon.

‘My goodness,’ she said wearily. ‘You’re all so good at this.’

‘I have two jacks,’ said one of the children.

‘Oh? Oh yes, dear.’

A little cough escaped her lips.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Now, look at you, Paul, you were close. All you needed was a six or a three.’

The young Paul Teller studied his hand.

The cheerful murmur of voices swelled through the hall. It was cold outside. The windows were dark. It was like being in a ship. She put out her cigarette, drained her third glass of brandy and soda and lit another cigarette. At some distance, in the crush of the crowd, the long slender shape of her husband passed. He wore his dark suit. Fawners flocked about him. His pale head, hatless, received its praise, made its unintelligible replies.

It had been just a few days since her visit from the captain, and since they were in the habit of not mentioning things to one another, she had not mentioned it. In a way, she was enjoying it—knowing something he did not. But in a way, also, she did not want to have to mention his infidelity. She preferred to go on pretending it had not happened. For the truth was, Mrs Oppenheimer could not help but feel a tremendous and inexplicable attraction to her husband. He was, in spite of all, somehow less tedious than the rest of the human population.

The revelers passed the table in a constant recirculation. They were, in their formal dress, like week-old flowers—cymbidiums and cattleyas, faded and browned and limp at the extremities. There was Dr Teller with his terrible posture. There was the dome of the head of Dr Bethe, squinting, chewing on his bottom lip, his wife beside him. And there was Mrs Parsons being a marvelous hostess, and there Dr Serber, one of the sycophants from Berkeley, buck-toothed, wiping his nose, his eyes flitting left and right.

The trouble with people, thought Mrs Oppenheimer, is that they all run out after a certain point. You find out what they like and what pleases them and displeases them and that is that.



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