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  • The Scoreexcerpt from novel-in-progress Any More, Black Shoe
  • Kate Gray (bio)

You are Caliban, a mooncalf among men.

At dinner last summer with Dick’s parents, the country club members out of their whites and into their patterned sport coats, you knew what to do. Dress in the linen A-line, the not-so-low-cut blouse, the pearls not given by your mother at your cotillion, she who rose from ash, she with nothing to give but experience, not the parties and necklaces and trust funds of your peers. Watch for cues but don’t appear to be watching. In 1952, class is a dance so practiced it beats in the blood. It is blood.

“Sit here, Sylvia,” Mrs. Norton said to you. Her right hand brushed the napkin of a setting as she rounded the table, inspecting. You were placed first, the young woman, the rival.

“Dick next to me.” She settled behind a chair, her hands on the backrest. “Aunt Alma by Father, and Perry by Aunt Alma. There.” Boy, girl, boy, girl. She arranged her pieces.

You knew your place, not a Knight or Bishop on the board, nothing but a scholarship Pawn at Smith College working her summer days as a nanny and waitress. Stand by Dick. Wait to sit until Mr. Norton pulled out Mrs. Norton’s chair, until the nod of her head told him to push. At the same time she folded her perfect skirt beneath her. She was tucked in, the husband performing the ritual, turning powerful wife to powerless child, but her position was Queen. And she reached for her napkin, the white linen, pressed rigid and placed in the musk of her lap. From her sprang these strapping boys.

In your seat Dick tucked you into place, the place where you’re to prove you were more than a knave in skins. Speak when spoken to. Say something smart.

The waiter deferred, held his shoulders back.

“I’ll have a Tom Collins, not too sweet,” Mrs. Norton said. No hesitation. The waiter said nothing and nodded. The drink order proceeded from power: Mrs. [End Page 86] Norton, Aunt Alma, Mr. Norton, you, the older boy, the younger boy. No other time do old women speak before young men. Orders for cocktails are one measure age, one measure sex, all stacked with cubes of practice.

Never the same start to any dinner conversation, Mrs. Norton said, “Dick, how was your game today?”

“Fine, Mother.”

“What score?” Numbers were her comfort. Two boys. Married thirty years. Turning heads at fifty-five.

Dick brought the sweating water goblet to his lips. Your tongue knew the creases of those lips. His lips parted, and he poured down the water, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. His shave smooth this morning. His skin now damp from the evening’s heat. Mrs. Norton looked at his Adam’s apple. Dick placed the half-full goblet back above his knife. “82, Mother,” he said.

“Rather nice,” she said. “Don’t you think that’s rather nice, Father?” She could have been a clown clapping to distract, but she was blood looking for blood. If men fight for her favor, she is the bull in the ring, not the clown.

“Yes,” Mr. Norton said. “Fine.” He pulled the napkin from the table so that it opened in the air to his left, like a magician unveiling a dove. Mr. Norton was from the Midwest, Ohio, probably; his actions were not Yankee. You are from Wellesley. You know Yankee, how little to reveal.

“What did you shoot today, darling?” Mrs. Norton, a bull lowering its horns, leaned into her question and turned to Mr. Norton. Her pearl-clasp earring was white on her too tan earlobe.

Mr. Norton turned to Dick and looked for the right words in Dick’s eyes. You heard no words between them but read their message. They played numbers in the real world, Wall Street, Merrill Lynch investment banking, pre-med. This was a rivalry for which they had no heart. They knew she wanted them to compete; only one could be fittest. Mr. Norton fingered the fork with...

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