We Were Beautiful Once (10 page)

Trent stuffed the card in his pocket.  There was no way of knowing what Jack may or may not have seen but he wanted to know how the wind blew.

“Jack, come up to my place next week.  We're having a pool party.  I'd  like you to meet my folks.”

Jack shot a look across at Trent, but if he had something to hide, his face did not show it.     “Who's coming?” he asked.

“A few friends, Gallagher from high school, guys like Steve Boddie, my sister with a few gals she hangs with.”

“Yeah, all right.”

The following week Jack's mother drove him to the Hamilton estate and dropped him off at the gate.  He walked up the gravel driveway to the back of the house where he found Trent and his friends.  Trent, beer in hand, grabbed Jack's arm.

“Come and meet my sister.”

At first Jack could not tell which of the three blonds standing together was Tracy, until Trent said, “Tracy, this is Jack O'Conner, the guy I told you about.”

“Hi.”  Tracy, beaming, pushed her hair off her face.

“Nice to meet you.  Trent talks about you all the time.”

She laughed.  “Nice to meet you too.  But Jack, let's get something straight: Trent never talks about me.”

Jack blinked a few times and forced a grin.

“Did you bring your suit?”

“No, but I'm not much for swimming.  I'm more for tennis, myself.”

Trent looked for a way out.  “Hey, I need another brew.  Jack, make yourself at home.  Beer's in the cooler.”

After exchanging the obligatory pleasantries with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, Jack stayed in viewing distance of Tracy.  Every so often he saw her glance back.  She was small, with perky breasts and thin legs, the kind of woman Jack never figured he had a chance with.  Later, when the crowd was leaving, Tracy and Jack talked briefly.  She was eighteen, unattached, and headed for Radcliffe in the fall.  She invited him to play tennis the following week and from that point on, holidays and summers, they were a couple, and although Jack did not date while at school, he put no restriction on Tracy dating the Harvard boys.     

***

Jack had a mile to go before reaching the mansion, all the while thinking about how the night would go, how Tracy's dad would welcome him: civil, but distant, inquisitive, but sour, not making Jack feel “at home.”  He remembered how Father Ryan felt about the Hamiltons.  His mother had invited the priest for supper, and while Jack sat on the porch, he overheard her remark, “My son's been dating the banker Hamilton's daughter.”  With the bluish aquarium tank gurgling in the background, Ryan told Mary things Jack was certain she needn't hear, like how the bank was mixed up in a judge fixing scandal in the thirties.  Ryan waxed on, his ruddy face puffing on his briar pipe, “The old man wasn't the first Hamilton to live in the mansion; the great grandfather was.  And before him, the first Hamilton in the area emigrated from England. Started the Congregational Church across from the old town green.”

“You don't say,” said Mary, frowning.

For the first time she noticed that two of the priest's fingers were bent—paralyzed or bent in position—when he tapped his pipe on the edge of the ashtray, and he had a little difficulty pulling out a pack of tobacco to refill the bowl.  She looked away as he fired up his Ronson and puffed hard until smoke poured from his lips.  The two were quiet.  With the pipe clenched between his teeth he quipped, “Yeah, your boy's girlfriend's great-grandfather preached on Sunday, rest of the week collected rents.”

The next day, Jack told his mother that he had overheard the conversation.

“Jack, I have no reason to dislike the Hamiltons, regardless of what Father Ryan may or may not approve.  You only get a few chances in life.  Do what's best for you, for you Jack...   if it means sticking close to the Hamilton's then don't pay no mind to Father Ryan...  do you hear?”

***

Jack shifted into second gear helping the Ford climb the final quarter-mile to the mansion—its front portico held by four pillars, glowing yellow and white beneath a three-quarter moon in a star filled sky.  It was nearly 9:00 when he passed the doorman and walked into the powder blue foyer.  To his right he saw the large art deco living room, beyond which six glass doors led to a veranda, a marble patio and the swimming pool.  To the left, a thin Negro with a narrow white mustache mixed drinks behind a marble top bar.  At the far end, five white-jacketed musicians from the Fred Bacon Quintet played Lester Lanin society music.  Though the party hadn't been billed formal, men came safely dressed in dinner jackets with satin lapels.  Women with short hair, curls and jeweled bracelets clutched clear martinis between their pinkish fingers and smiled without parting their lips.  Most dressed to the neck in beige or light pastel dresses, a few with quivering sequins reflecting hues from flowered vases, designer lights and abstract wall hangings.

Ordinarily, Jack avoided the inside of the mansion, preferring to stay by the pool, but tonight he had little choice.  He meandered to the edge of the room where he heard small talk: who was marrying, who was divorcing, who was sick with what, who was building a house or running for office, why Truman didn't nuke Moscow.  He smelled stuffed mushrooms.  A maid with obsidian eyes held up a silver plate with hors d'oeuvres.

“No, 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.

“Hi Jack.”  She leaned in for a kiss.

“Hi.”  Eyes darting he puckered his lips and brushed her cheek.  “I forgot your corsage.”

“Oh 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.

“On 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.  

“But, 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 politics.”  With that, Trent walked over and pushed Jack in the pool.  The guys laughed, the discussion ended and Jack, blinking rapidly, looked up at Tracy, who stormed into the house.  Trent took a long swig of beer.  His friends were onto a different topic.

When Jack went home that night, he had met his mother coming in from work, beaten down from two shifts at the hospital.  He thought about how different his friends were, not because they were rich, not because they weren't Catholics, and not because they were Republicans, but because they worked differently and thought differently.  They'd never had to witness mothers trekking miles of greasy factory floors or Lysol scented hallways. They had money, power, call it what you will, but it guaranteed that they'd never fail.

***

Tracy thought that Jack seemed lost.  “Jack, Jack, are you in this world?”

“Sorry, I was looking at the band.”

“Look at me, please.”

“Trace, I'm a bit overwhelmed.  Guess I didn't expect this many people.”

“Relax, you look really handsome. I've never seen you in a tux before.”  She touched his cheek. “Monkey Cliff,” she said, teasing him with what her girlfriends called him.  He blushed like when he had first heard it.

“You look swell. I mean beautiful.”  He'd never said this to a girl before and was afraid it sounded phony.

Smiling now, Tracy looked Jack straight in the eye.  “Well, Mr. Jack, I think that's the first compliment you ever gave me.”

“You know I get tongue tied.”  He put his hand on the small of her back and looked past her where he spied her old man next to the bar.  A large man with thick silver hair, he could easily be mistaken for an ex-pro football player.  Tracy followed Jack's gaze.  “Let's say hi to Daddy.”  She grabbed his hand.  “You're cold, Jack,” she said, “you're not shaking, are you?”

“No, just... ” Jack did not press the thought. He knew Tracy played games with her father, bringing him all sorts of things—from wounded birds to weird friends—to get a reaction; maybe Jack was one of those “things.” She either tried getting his approval or shocking him, depending on her end game. At this point, Jack fit somewhere, but he didn't know exactly where.  Maybe she wanted the old man to see him dressed in a tux.

 Jack was aware of heads turning as they walked across the floor.  Athletically built, within a quarter-inch of six feet, he looked military trained, head back, eyes straight ahead.  Although this was the first time, he wore the tux with the confidence of a man who had worn one countless times—impeccably creased, without fold or wrinkle, from bow tie to black shoes.

Hamilton was a man accustomed to having other men hang on his every utterance.  Surrounding him were two local politicians Jeb Brookfield, Fairview's alcoholic selectman, and Gerry Mason, listless Town Clerk.  Both were shaking their heads.

“Daddy!” said Tracy, insistently.

Jack felt from when he had first met Hamilton that the old man did not like him, or at least did not like him dating Tracy, so when Tracy confessed that, “Daddy thinks I'm too young to be dating you,” and a month later, “Daddy thinks I need to find someone closer to home,” Jack wasn't surprised.  When he was with the pool crowd, Hamilton never gave Jack the chance to talk, cutting him off before he'd get to the end of a sentence.  Jack had told Tracy, “Your father can't stand me, Jack Prado O'Conner, dating his only daughter.”  

She had replied, “Jack you're imagining what's not there. Daddy just isn't that warm of a guy.”

“Daddy,” Tracy persisted, in a voice loud enough to hear over the band.

Focused on the politicians, Hamilton either did not hear his dear daughter or pretended not to. Sidling up, Tracy asked, “Daddy, may I interrupt?”

Hamilton stepped aside.  “What is it, my girl?”

The old man ignored Jack.

“Daddy, Jack wants to say hello.”

As Hamilton extended his large, soft, banker's hand,  Jack could not tell if the man was looking him directly in the eye or over his head.  In a deep voice, he said, “Oh...  hello, Jack.”  He took Jack's chilly hand and drew him into the perimeter guarded by the two sycophants.

“Hello, sir,” Jack used his deepest tenor.  When he spoke he usually impressed listeners by his maturity, although they were soon aware of his hesitating speech, which by some was  assumed as a sign of respectful diffidence.

“Jack, I'd like to introduce Mr. Brookfield and Mr. Mason, our First Selectman and our Town Clerk.”

Jack shook hands and nodded. “ How'd you do, sir.”

Brookfield let go his hand like he had touched a hot stove. “Well, son, tomorrow's a big day.  By noon you and Trent will be in Uncle Sam's Army.  It didn't take you boys long to grow up, did it?”

“Yes, sir, really lookin' forward to...  ”

Hamilton interrupted, “How tall are you, six feet?”

“More or less, sir.”

Jack felt Hamilton studying him, though he could not tell what he was looking for.