Page 156 - What They Did to the Kid

144 Jack Fritscher

ink stand from Italy. A single lamp shown down upon it, spotting, I
felt, his cocky Roman credentials.
Opposite, under a priceless Venetian triptych of Mary, Joseph,
and the Child, stood a French spinet he had purchased in Florence.
His one uncontrolla ble passion, he had told the Sunday group, was
music. He invariably entertained them with his greatest classical hits
each Sunday. He played the piano, his courtiers said, expertly. With
music and readings of poetry, he charmed the suckups at his Sunday
soirees.
This night, two seminarians sat on the piano bench and knocked
out the usual four-handed duet of “Heart and Soul.”
“Penny for your thoughts.” Mike edged up beside me.
“This all reminds me,” I said, “of a poem by Robert Brown ing.”
“I like Browning,” Mike said, “but I like Kipling better.”
“I don’t know,” I said, “I’ve never kippled.”
We specialized in refurbishing old jokes.
“A poem,” I said, “by Browning. ‘The Bishop Orders His Tomb
at Saint Praxed’s Church.’”
“Ryan, why do you always confuse literature class with life?”
“For the same reason you confuse Bible stories with life.”
“Ape!”
“Monkey!”
“Beatnik!”
“When’s the debate start?” I asked
“Half an hour.”
I felt tricked. “You got me here early.”
“To get a taste of Chris’ style.”
“It’s bourgeois,” I said. “Not worker-priest.”
“Also, he wants us all to mingle first.”
“So,” I said shrugging, “that’s the curse that goes with the
diamond.”
“TV or not TV,” Mike said.
From Dryden’s corner of the room, the conversation heated up.
“But our battles don’t carry any universal overtones,” someone
protested.
“Ah,” Dryden prolonged the syllable as a sign. The room quieted.
“The causes,” he said, bringing his topic to the fore, “for the defeat

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