Read Online El Paso: A Novel by Winston Groom - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Winston Groom
Ads: Link
the dim outskirts of the conversational buzz below, he began to consider his life and times.
Never mind the chilled relations between them now, Mrs. Shaughnessy had provided the Colonel with two children, the first of whom, Alexa, turned out a disappointment. Now thirty-four, she had never married and led a dissolute life in New York City. The adopted one, Arthur, who had come to them at age nine and was now thirty-two, had married and sired him two grandchildren, which made the Colonel exceedingly pleased.
But Arthur was in many respects all the things the Colonel was not, and it often pained him. What he had hoped for in Arthur was a mirror of himself, but he might have known it wouldn’t happen, since the boy wasn’t his own flesh and blood.
Those things the Colonel enjoyed, Arthur did not, and either buried himself in his collections of stamps, coins, and, yes, butterflies , or, more recently, devoted himself to tinkering with the Grendel , that infernal flying machine of his. Once, when Arthur was no more than eleven and had lived with the Shaughnessys for two years, the Colonel had tired of his excuses for not wanting to ride or box or shoot or play rough sports and determined to get to the root causes.
Shaughnessy had demanded of the orphanage that they turn over the names of Arthur’s true parents so that he could investigate them himself. The orphanage refused, even in the face of veiled threats to cut off his generous donations, but in the end Shaughnessy was somewhat relieved.
What if he had discovered Arthur was the child of a thief or prostitute or spies or worse?
No, he would work with what he had, and work Arthur he did, trying without success to remold him in his own image. The boy was maddening sometimes; he tried hard to please, yet let you know his heart wasn’t really in it.
It became apparent that Arthur had developed his own personality while in the orphanage and changing it would be difficult, if not impossible. Still, the Colonel had to pay a kind of grudging respect to his adoptive son. Even though he quit Groton, which, for all intents, removed him from consideration for Harvard, he’d worked hard at Boston College (though Beatie went into conniptions because it was a Jesuit school) and slaved at the railroad business until the Colonel began to depend on him for sound decisions and advice. Yet he remained disappointed that Arthur had not turned out to be the companion he needed in his later life, someone to ride and hunt and fish with, someone who shared his views, political, economic, and social.
The mirror, a perfect mirror, of himself.
PRESENTLY, DINNER WAS SERVED. The well-oiled guests, including Claus Strucker, who had consumed half a dozen glasses of schnapps, trooped into the ship’s dining hall, where a huge feast had been prepared. Strucker took note that the tables were set in the finest Irish linen and the mahogany chairs were covered in salmon and gray velvet with a big A for Ajax embroidered on the backs. The columns were strung with fresh green smilax and bright drooping ferns.
Following the elegant soups, salads, oysters, scallops, and crab meat, enormous trays of roast venison, partridge, pheasant, duck, hams, Atlantic salmon, mountain trout, halibut, swordfish, and lobster were offered. The wine flowed freely, as usual. At last, when coffee and desserts were being delivered, the Colonel took to a podium and over a newfangled broadcast system opened a speech.
“Gentlemen, we are gathered here this evening for a bit of relaxation,” he began, then hesitated. “While our ladies are at home, devising ways to spend our hard-earned dollars.”
There was much applause and the Colonel continued. “However, we must never forget that the price of liberty to conduct our affairs in such a way to make this great nation prosper is . . . eternal vigilance!”
Strucker, sitting twelve guests away, put down his dessert fork and made a mental note of this remark.
More applause,
Never mind the chilled relations between them now, Mrs. Shaughnessy had provided the Colonel with two children, the first of whom, Alexa, turned out a disappointment. Now thirty-four, she had never married and led a dissolute life in New York City. The adopted one, Arthur, who had come to them at age nine and was now thirty-two, had married and sired him two grandchildren, which made the Colonel exceedingly pleased.
But Arthur was in many respects all the things the Colonel was not, and it often pained him. What he had hoped for in Arthur was a mirror of himself, but he might have known it wouldn’t happen, since the boy wasn’t his own flesh and blood.
Those things the Colonel enjoyed, Arthur did not, and either buried himself in his collections of stamps, coins, and, yes, butterflies , or, more recently, devoted himself to tinkering with the Grendel , that infernal flying machine of his. Once, when Arthur was no more than eleven and had lived with the Shaughnessys for two years, the Colonel had tired of his excuses for not wanting to ride or box or shoot or play rough sports and determined to get to the root causes.
Shaughnessy had demanded of the orphanage that they turn over the names of Arthur’s true parents so that he could investigate them himself. The orphanage refused, even in the face of veiled threats to cut off his generous donations, but in the end Shaughnessy was somewhat relieved.
What if he had discovered Arthur was the child of a thief or prostitute or spies or worse?
No, he would work with what he had, and work Arthur he did, trying without success to remold him in his own image. The boy was maddening sometimes; he tried hard to please, yet let you know his heart wasn’t really in it.
It became apparent that Arthur had developed his own personality while in the orphanage and changing it would be difficult, if not impossible. Still, the Colonel had to pay a kind of grudging respect to his adoptive son. Even though he quit Groton, which, for all intents, removed him from consideration for Harvard, he’d worked hard at Boston College (though Beatie went into conniptions because it was a Jesuit school) and slaved at the railroad business until the Colonel began to depend on him for sound decisions and advice. Yet he remained disappointed that Arthur had not turned out to be the companion he needed in his later life, someone to ride and hunt and fish with, someone who shared his views, political, economic, and social.
The mirror, a perfect mirror, of himself.
PRESENTLY, DINNER WAS SERVED. The well-oiled guests, including Claus Strucker, who had consumed half a dozen glasses of schnapps, trooped into the ship’s dining hall, where a huge feast had been prepared. Strucker took note that the tables were set in the finest Irish linen and the mahogany chairs were covered in salmon and gray velvet with a big A for Ajax embroidered on the backs. The columns were strung with fresh green smilax and bright drooping ferns.
Following the elegant soups, salads, oysters, scallops, and crab meat, enormous trays of roast venison, partridge, pheasant, duck, hams, Atlantic salmon, mountain trout, halibut, swordfish, and lobster were offered. The wine flowed freely, as usual. At last, when coffee and desserts were being delivered, the Colonel took to a podium and over a newfangled broadcast system opened a speech.
“Gentlemen, we are gathered here this evening for a bit of relaxation,” he began, then hesitated. “While our ladies are at home, devising ways to spend our hard-earned dollars.”
There was much applause and the Colonel continued. “However, we must never forget that the price of liberty to conduct our affairs in such a way to make this great nation prosper is . . . eternal vigilance!”
Strucker, sitting twelve guests away, put down his dessert fork and made a mental note of this remark.
More applause,
Similar Books
