Glum and Mighty Pagans

But in those suits, now that’s quite a combination. He looks like a hippie stock broker.”

“Always wore it like that. Even thirty years ago. Bad enough being named Horace LaMarque and a nincompoop. That hair’s just the icing on the cake. Monica says he bought another motorcycle. People like that, it makes you understand how we could have had a president like Gerald Mayaguez Ford. Talk about a dim bulb. I can just see Horace in the voting booth next year, torn between the Liberty Lobby or whatever those fanatics are called and Ronald Reagan. Quite a quandary. Then he’ll look down at Sunny and say ‘what do you think?’ And when Sunny goes woof woof, he’ll close his eyes and pull a lever.”

Behind her sunglasses Clara stared. “Sunny? Going woof woof? And in the voting booth? Libby! You’ve really gone off the deep end.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Darlinger snapped. “He takes that nauseating creature with him everywhere. Bad enough he had to name it after his daughter.”

“Oh. I thought you meant Sunny the girl.”

“No. Sunny the dog. Quite a participant in the electoral process, old Sunny boy is. A real kingmaker. Which way will Sunny dog go? None of the pollsters can ever predict. The canine vote -- that’s something you have to watch out for. Old Sunny boy’s a real card in the primary. Didn’t like Nixon, not too keen on Reagan either. One thing’s for sure -- Sunny’s a lifelong fan of Harold Stassen. Definitely a left-leaning wolf hound.”

Clara snapped off the radio, and they went down to Elizabeth’s Mercedes. Mrs. Darlinger liked to ride with all the windows open. She also liked to drive very fast. To distract herself from her aunt’s terrifying vehicular maneuvers, Clara sorted out the detritus in the glove compartment. There was an ancient pack of Winstons, a comb, a tube of lipstick, some crumpled road maps, the automobile registration, a snapshot of Clara in a bikini at Myrtle Beach, a pack of suppositories, and illegible list of some sort and a photograph of Paul, evidently stark naked, diving off a rock in Tahiti. Clara studied this for quite some time.

“That was taken five years ago,” Elizabeth said. “Hurry up buster. What do you think this is -- a parking lane? Always a problem getting him to keep his clothes on. Just like you. It must run in the family. Marilyn was that way. So was Frank. She had a load of pictures of him from the war. Here’s Frank, naked in Southern Italy. Here’s Frank, swimming naked outside Rome. Here’s Frank, with all his clothes off in Germany. Impression you got was he ran naked all over Europe. Ward used to be like that too, said clothes were a nuisance. Sometimes I think the whole family should’ve been packed off to a nudist colony. Check and make sure I remembered the gum.” Elizabeth always armed herself with at least two packs of Juicy Fruit before any flight.

They arrived at the airfield in record time, to find the six-foot Rita Longhill and her five-foot five inches husband quarreling over the lunch she had packed. Ray Longhill was a very determined man who reminded Clara of a terrier and spoke with a distinct Chicago accent. Rita, born on Long Island, had the unmistakably affected pronunciation of a New York snob.

“But darling, not everyone likes egg salad,” Rita was saying as they approached. “And you’re not, remember, the only one who will be eating.”

“The way you’ve arranged it, I won’t be eating at all.” Mr. Longhill barked back. “Dear.”

“You might have told me, sweetheart, what you wanted.”

“After twenty nine years, wonderful, you might have known.”

Clara and Elizabeth looked at each other. Clara pulled down her sunglasses and rolled her eyes. Elizabeth put on her “let me handle this” expression.

“What have we here? Ham and Swiss on rye,” Mrs. Darlinger began, rifling through the sandwiches. “Ham and Swiss on white bread. Ham and Swiss, hmm...ham and Swiss. And an extra -- ham and Swiss.” Elizabeth glanced up at Rita who, in her slacks, Merrill Lynch sweatshirt, gold hoop earrings, yellow tinted aviator glasses and yellow silk scarf tied at the side of her neck, did not in the least, Clara thought, inspire aeronautical confidence. Meanwhile Ray had turned a most interesting purplish hue. His dark eyes, behind his black rimmed glasses, seemed molten with suppressed rage.