bills? Forgive me for saying, ‘Not her father.’”
“Certainly not!” Reinhart agreed with an enthusiasm that even Blaine took brief, frowning notice of before he went on.
“‘Oh,’ said she, goddamn her! ‘Oh, you’ve got no worry about that.’ And, ass that I was, I fell right into the trap.”
Reinhart could now see the essential cause of Blaine’s fury: he had always been the clever child, Winona the dope and dupe.
“I insisted on my point, you see,” said Blaine, spitting his words now. “‘Don’t be too arrogant,’ I said. ‘No means is foolproof. We weren’t ready for our second child when Mercer somehow conceived in spite of never having failed to take measures, and I doubt very much whether you, with your woolly mind, dear sister, could be relied on to’—well, so forth and on and on, and of course, malicious as she is, she gave me enough rope.” Here Blaine again showed the tragic mask he had worn on his arrival. “When I was finally ready for the kill, she did it!
“‘Don’t worry, Blainey,’ said she.” He spoke in a falsetto impression of his sister’s voice: “‘As it happens, my lover is a woman.’”
Reinhart put his hands over his mouth. For him it had been greatly preferable to hear this information from Winona herself. To have it repeated now by another (and by such another) was excessively dispiriting. He came out to swallow some air.
“It is unfortunate,” he said, “if you want my opinion. I can’t deny that. I doubt whether any person of the standard persuasion really thinks it’s preferable that someone is homosexual—still less a member of his own family. We can accept it, think it’s O.K., anybody’s right, not a hanging offense, and all that, and even applaud geniuses like Sappho and Michelangelo and Proust, but would you want your sister to be one? Not in the best of all worlds, probably.
“Then if you’re a parent, you wonder about your own contribution, by commission or omission.” He winced at his son. “But finally you recognize that whatever else it might be, it is a fact. And most things of a sexual nature have developed naturally, however unnatural they might seem to some. That is, people don’t just up and decide to deviate from the norm and against their own will, even in our decadent place and time. They would seem to be impelled by some force or another.”
“Hah!” savagely cried Blaine. “So are murderers!”
Reinhart smiled at him. “What keeps striking me as ironic is a memory of ten years ago. As usual we were on the wrong side of the fence from each other, but in a decade we seem to have changed sides. More importantly, and with all respect, your position has always been extreme. If I recall, in those days any person who defied the generally accepted standards of conduct, political, moral, or sexual, was a hero to you, whereas you were ready to shoot anyone identified as conventional. Now sexual inversion is criminally loathsome?”
One thing that was perhaps to be admired about Blaine: despite his emotion his control of the car was flawless. By now, by virtue of the expressway, they were clearing the outermost suburbs of the city, where there had still been fields when Reinhart came home from the War—more than thirty years before. Certain events seemed to remain in an eternal only-yesterday. To wear the clothes of a bygone era was to be in historic costume: pegged pants and padded shoulders were quaintly incredible, but it was still very real to remember the girl who broke one’s heart when one was so dressed.
Blaine answered loftily: “I think my gradual change of opinion has made sense. ‘Show me a man who’s not a radical at twenty, and I’ll show you a man with no heart. Show me a man who’s still one at forty, and I’ll show you a man with no brain.’ Or however it goes. I’m not forty, but I am a husband, a father, and I have had a certain success in my profession. I don’t want to hit below the belt,
“Certainly not!” Reinhart agreed with an enthusiasm that even Blaine took brief, frowning notice of before he went on.
“‘Oh,’ said she, goddamn her! ‘Oh, you’ve got no worry about that.’ And, ass that I was, I fell right into the trap.”
Reinhart could now see the essential cause of Blaine’s fury: he had always been the clever child, Winona the dope and dupe.
“I insisted on my point, you see,” said Blaine, spitting his words now. “‘Don’t be too arrogant,’ I said. ‘No means is foolproof. We weren’t ready for our second child when Mercer somehow conceived in spite of never having failed to take measures, and I doubt very much whether you, with your woolly mind, dear sister, could be relied on to’—well, so forth and on and on, and of course, malicious as she is, she gave me enough rope.” Here Blaine again showed the tragic mask he had worn on his arrival. “When I was finally ready for the kill, she did it!
“‘Don’t worry, Blainey,’ said she.” He spoke in a falsetto impression of his sister’s voice: “‘As it happens, my lover is a woman.’”
Reinhart put his hands over his mouth. For him it had been greatly preferable to hear this information from Winona herself. To have it repeated now by another (and by such another) was excessively dispiriting. He came out to swallow some air.
“It is unfortunate,” he said, “if you want my opinion. I can’t deny that. I doubt whether any person of the standard persuasion really thinks it’s preferable that someone is homosexual—still less a member of his own family. We can accept it, think it’s O.K., anybody’s right, not a hanging offense, and all that, and even applaud geniuses like Sappho and Michelangelo and Proust, but would you want your sister to be one? Not in the best of all worlds, probably.
“Then if you’re a parent, you wonder about your own contribution, by commission or omission.” He winced at his son. “But finally you recognize that whatever else it might be, it is a fact. And most things of a sexual nature have developed naturally, however unnatural they might seem to some. That is, people don’t just up and decide to deviate from the norm and against their own will, even in our decadent place and time. They would seem to be impelled by some force or another.”
“Hah!” savagely cried Blaine. “So are murderers!”
Reinhart smiled at him. “What keeps striking me as ironic is a memory of ten years ago. As usual we were on the wrong side of the fence from each other, but in a decade we seem to have changed sides. More importantly, and with all respect, your position has always been extreme. If I recall, in those days any person who defied the generally accepted standards of conduct, political, moral, or sexual, was a hero to you, whereas you were ready to shoot anyone identified as conventional. Now sexual inversion is criminally loathsome?”
One thing that was perhaps to be admired about Blaine: despite his emotion his control of the car was flawless. By now, by virtue of the expressway, they were clearing the outermost suburbs of the city, where there had still been fields when Reinhart came home from the War—more than thirty years before. Certain events seemed to remain in an eternal only-yesterday. To wear the clothes of a bygone era was to be in historic costume: pegged pants and padded shoulders were quaintly incredible, but it was still very real to remember the girl who broke one’s heart when one was so dressed.
Blaine answered loftily: “I think my gradual change of opinion has made sense. ‘Show me a man who’s not a radical at twenty, and I’ll show you a man with no heart. Show me a man who’s still one at forty, and I’ll show you a man with no brain.’ Or however it goes. I’m not forty, but I am a husband, a father, and I have had a certain success in my profession. I don’t want to hit below the belt,
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