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Authors: Anne Tyler
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just accepted him. Like a compromise. What else could it be, with a man so meek and puny? He's one of those people with white shiny skin and five o'clock shadow. Duncan says-"
"But after all," said Alonzo, "better that than a motordrome rider. My first wife's girl married a motordrome rider."
"I would prefer a motordrome rider any day," Justine said. Then she sighed. "Oh well, I suppose nobody likes who their children go out with."
"It's true."
"When I was courting, my father locked me in my room one time."
"Oh?" said Alonzo. He squinted, following the arc of the baseball floating across the sun.
"I fell in love with my first cousin."
"Oh-ho."
"On top of that, my shiftless first cousin. He drank and ran around. For years he had a girlfriend named Glorietta, who always wore red. My aunts and my mother would whisper whenever they mentioned her, even her name.
Glorietta de Merino."
"Ah, Glorietta," said Alonzo, and settled back with his face tilted to the sky and his boots stretched out in front of him. "Go on."
"He made terrible grades all through school and dropped out the first year of college. Nobody could ever find him when they wanted him. While
// I was an only child. I tried to be as good as possible. Would you believe, until I was twenty years old I had never tasted liverwurst?"
"Liverwurst," said Alonzo, turning it over lazily.
"Because my family didn't happen to eat it. Not that there was anything wrong with it, of course, they just weren't in the habit of ordering it from the market. I didn't know there was such a thing as liverwurst! The first time I tasted it I ate a whole pound. But that was later. First I fell in love with my cousin, and went on trips with him and rode in his unsafe car and had to be locked in my room. Then I discovered liverwurst."
"But what became of him?" Alonzo asked.
"Who?"
"The first cousin."
"Oh," said Justine. "Why, I married him. Who did you think I was talking about?"
"Duncan?"
"Of course Duncan," said Justine, and she sat up again and shaded her eyes. "Cousin Duncan the Bad," she said, and laughed, and even Alonzo, drowsy and heavy in the sun, had to see how happy she looked when she located Duncan's spiky gold head glinting above the weeds.
4
Duncan and Justine Peck shared a great-grandfather named Justine Montague Peck, a sharp-eyed, humorless man who became very rich importing coffee, sugar, and guano during the last quarter of the nineteenth century. On any summer day in the 1870's, say, you could find him seated in the old Merchants' Exchange on Gay Street, smoking one of his long black cigars to ward off yellow fever, waiting for news of his ships to be relayed from the lookout tower on Federal Hill. Where he originally came from was uncertain, but the richer he grew the less it mattered. Although he was never welcomed into Baltimore society, which was narrow and ossified even then, he was treated with respect and men often asked his advice on financial issues. Once there was even a short street named after him, but it was changed later on to commemorate a politician.
When Justin Peck was fifty years old, he bought a sycamore-shaded lot in what was then the northern part of town. He built a gaunt house bristling with chimneys and lined with dark, oily wood. He filled it with golden oak furniture and Oriental screens, chandeliers dripping crystal, wine velvet loveseats with buttons and more buttons up and down their backs, heavy paintings leaning out from the walls, curlicued urns, doilies, statuary, bric-a-brac, great globular lamps centered on tasseled scarves, and Persian rugs laid catty-corner and overlapping. Then he married Sarah Cantleigh, the sixteen-year-old daughter of another importer. Nothing is known of their courtship, if there was one, but her wedding portrait still looms in a Baltimore dining room: a
"But after all," said Alonzo, "better that than a motordrome rider. My first wife's girl married a motordrome rider."
"I would prefer a motordrome rider any day," Justine said. Then she sighed. "Oh well, I suppose nobody likes who their children go out with."
"It's true."
"When I was courting, my father locked me in my room one time."
"Oh?" said Alonzo. He squinted, following the arc of the baseball floating across the sun.
"I fell in love with my first cousin."
"Oh-ho."
"On top of that, my shiftless first cousin. He drank and ran around. For years he had a girlfriend named Glorietta, who always wore red. My aunts and my mother would whisper whenever they mentioned her, even her name.
Glorietta de Merino."
"Ah, Glorietta," said Alonzo, and settled back with his face tilted to the sky and his boots stretched out in front of him. "Go on."
"He made terrible grades all through school and dropped out the first year of college. Nobody could ever find him when they wanted him. While
// I was an only child. I tried to be as good as possible. Would you believe, until I was twenty years old I had never tasted liverwurst?"
"Liverwurst," said Alonzo, turning it over lazily.
"Because my family didn't happen to eat it. Not that there was anything wrong with it, of course, they just weren't in the habit of ordering it from the market. I didn't know there was such a thing as liverwurst! The first time I tasted it I ate a whole pound. But that was later. First I fell in love with my cousin, and went on trips with him and rode in his unsafe car and had to be locked in my room. Then I discovered liverwurst."
"But what became of him?" Alonzo asked.
"Who?"
"The first cousin."
"Oh," said Justine. "Why, I married him. Who did you think I was talking about?"
"Duncan?"
"Of course Duncan," said Justine, and she sat up again and shaded her eyes. "Cousin Duncan the Bad," she said, and laughed, and even Alonzo, drowsy and heavy in the sun, had to see how happy she looked when she located Duncan's spiky gold head glinting above the weeds.
4
Duncan and Justine Peck shared a great-grandfather named Justine Montague Peck, a sharp-eyed, humorless man who became very rich importing coffee, sugar, and guano during the last quarter of the nineteenth century. On any summer day in the 1870's, say, you could find him seated in the old Merchants' Exchange on Gay Street, smoking one of his long black cigars to ward off yellow fever, waiting for news of his ships to be relayed from the lookout tower on Federal Hill. Where he originally came from was uncertain, but the richer he grew the less it mattered. Although he was never welcomed into Baltimore society, which was narrow and ossified even then, he was treated with respect and men often asked his advice on financial issues. Once there was even a short street named after him, but it was changed later on to commemorate a politician.
When Justin Peck was fifty years old, he bought a sycamore-shaded lot in what was then the northern part of town. He built a gaunt house bristling with chimneys and lined with dark, oily wood. He filled it with golden oak furniture and Oriental screens, chandeliers dripping crystal, wine velvet loveseats with buttons and more buttons up and down their backs, heavy paintings leaning out from the walls, curlicued urns, doilies, statuary, bric-a-brac, great globular lamps centered on tasseled scarves, and Persian rugs laid catty-corner and overlapping. Then he married Sarah Cantleigh, the sixteen-year-old daughter of another importer. Nothing is known of their courtship, if there was one, but her wedding portrait still looms in a Baltimore dining room: a
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