I said, “What didn’t I notice?”
“You asked me why I was wearing the blue shirt, and I told you I had a surprise,” said my father.
Then I noticed.
Some guy’s dad had on a new pair of trendy blue-tinted prescription glasses, replacing the old owl ones.
They were the same kind Donald wore.
It used to be you could always see and hear us coming. My dad drove this old beat-up van painted gold with BROTHER PEGLER in black letters on both sides. There were speakers attached to the roof, and tapes of songs like “We’re Marching to Zion” to play through them.
Lately we drove around in a new dark-brown Cadillac Seville. In tiny gold letters on the door of the driver’s side, there were just the initials ACE.
Before we went anywhere to fund raise, Donald always prepared a profile of our hosts. Even though we were supposed to be having a friendly dinner with the Cheeks that Saturday night, Donald had done a profile on them.
My mother read it aloud on our way there, while she sat up in front next to my father, and I sat in the back seat.
Chester Cheek is the president of CHECKCHEEK SECURITY SYSTEMS, INC., a self-made multimillionaire.
Dr. Antoinette Young Cheek is one of these modern “therapists” whose Ph.D. is in music, not psychology. She has an extensive local practice, with many clients who are teenagers from “the better families” in Seaville.
She is an aggressive influence, skeptical about religious fund raising. (If the subject comes up, remember that a fifth of Christ’s teachings was taken up with stewardship. St. Paul felt it was just as spiritual to discuss money as it was the Resurrection. Et cetera.)
She is the power behind the throne. … He is more business-oriented, and has always been a philanthropist on a grand scale, but has never included religious organizations in his gratuities, except for a small amount yearly to First Methodist. They are members but infrequently attend services.
Their only child, Diane-Young Cheek, is a somewhat troubled teenager who has been in and out of a series of private and public schools.
Diane-Young is the reason they now make their home in Seaville—an attempt to raise her in a small-town environment. She is their weak spot, fairly friendless, and of a sly nature with a suicide attempt in her background. She is highly suggestible, which probably facilitated her healing.
Her mother is a balletomane. He is a member of A.A., and no liquor is ever served in their home.
At the last sentence, my father reached in his pocket for his Breathbrace and gave his mouth a spray.
“Guy, don’t drive with one hand,” said my mother.
“We’re not exactly fighting our way through traffic.”
Our car was the only one on the road leading down to the ocean.
“There’s a fog, though,” said my mother.
I said, “What’s a balletomane?”
“Donald says it’s someone interested in ballet,” said my mother. “Guy, you shouldn’t wear those blue glasses when you drive at night.”
“I can see, Rhoda.”
“How many martinis did you have, too?”
“I had one with Donald, do you mind?”
“I never mind if you take a glass of wine. After all, Jesus turned water into wine, but he didn’t turn it into gin and vermouth. There’s the turn,” my mother said. “This is their driveway. Did you know St. Paul said it was just as spiritual to discuss money as the Resurrection?”
“It’s all through the New Testament,” my father said.
A good three minutes later we were there in front of the Cheeks’ house—the driveway leading up to it was that long.
“Igor Sonnebend doesn’t have anything on the Cheeks,” my mother said. “You could put his Palm Beach house right down inside this one.”
“Igor could have a house like this if he wanted it. He’s just not ostentatious.”
“Wait a minute,” my mother said. “I must be losing my hearing. Did you just say that Igor Sonnebend wasn’t ostentatious?”
I said, “That’s what he said.”
“Dog pile on the rabbit,” my father said. “I’ll never understand what you two have against Igor.”
“I wouldn’t call him a rabbit,” my mother said.
Then she peered out the window at the Cheeks’ house. “Look at this place! This is like Buckingham Palace!”
Wispy glimpses of an enormous stone structure loomed before us like a mountain behind the fog.
“Check my breath, please, Mother,” said my father.
He blew at her and she said, “You’re awfully minty.”
Then we got out of the car and let the Cheeks’ valet park it.
You could hear the ocean waves crashing down on the beach, out in back of the house. You could smell and feel the salt spray.
“Don’t try and talk about ballet, because you don’t know anything about it,” my mother said.
“Who’s going to try and talk about ballet?” I said.
She said, “I’m talking to your father.”
“Who’s going to try and talk about ballet?” my father said.
“Oh, we have a parrot along with us this evening,” my mother said. My mother always made her little jokes when she was getting nervous.
“Who’s going to try and talk about ballet?” I said.
“Who’s going to try and talk about ballet?” my father said.
The truth was we were all getting nervous.
“Hush!” my mother whispered, giggling. “You two behave yourselves now.”
At the top of long stone steps, in the light of the open door, a butler was waiting, with a maid behind him to take our coats.
“Good evening,” the butler said. “My name is Grayson. The Cheeks want to thank you for not smoking.”
“We don’t any of us smoke,” said my mother.
When we were out of earshot of Grayson, my father said softly to my mother, “Don’t explain yourself to the help, Rhoda.”
“He explained something to me and I explained something back.”
Coming from a far distance down a long hall, under a gigantic crystal chandelier, a tiny woman approached.
My father, out of the side of his mouth, to my mother. “Don’t explain anything back to the help. It isn’t done.”
“The Peglers!” the tiny woman called out on her way to us.
My mother had on her best smile, but she
