Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [75]
BOOM!
The pigeon shattered and the pieces rained down over the water like the fireworks at Whileaway.
I missed the first three pigeons, but then I began to get the hang of it. I hit four of the next six.
In the shooting range, the sound of the Remington had seemed somehow constrained, clipped, confined, and it got a little under your skin like the sound of someone biting on the blade of a knife. But here on the trout pond, the shotgun was resonant. It boomed like a ship’s cannon and the sound lingered for a full beat. It seemed to give shape to the open air, or rather to reveal the hidden architecture that was there all along—the invisible cathedral that vaulted over the surface of the pond—known to sparrows and dragonflies but invisible to the human eye.
Relative to the rifle, the shotgun also felt more like an extension of yourself. When the bullet from the Remington flitted through the bull’s-eye at the far end of the shooting range, the sound seemed independent of your finger pulling the trigger. But when the skeet shattered there was no question that you had commanded it so. Standing at the pulpit, peering down the barrel into the open air, you suddenly had the power of a Gorgon—the ability to influence matter at a distance merely by meeting it with your gaze. And the feeling didn’t dissipate with the sound of the shot. It lingered. It permeated your limbs and sharpened your senses—adding a certain self-possession to your swagger, or a swagger to your self-possession. Either way, for a minute or so, it made you feel like a Bitsy Houghton.
If only someone had told me about the confidence-boosting nature of guns, I’d have been shooting them all my life.
Dinner consisted of club sandwiches at six on a bluestone patio overlooking a salt marsh. But for a few men scattered among the cast-iron tables, the patio was empty. It was decidedly unglamorous, but not without its charms.
—Will you be having anything to drink with your sandwiches, Mr. Wolcott? the young waiter was asking.
—Just some iced tea for me, Wilbur. But feel free to . . . have a cocktail, Katey.
—Iced tea sounds perfect.
The waiter navigated the tangle of tables back toward the clubhouse.
—So, do you know everyone’s first name? I asked.
—Everyone’s first name?
—The front desk guy, the gun guy, the waiter. . . .
—Is that unusual?
—My postman comes twice a day and I don’t know his name.
Wallace looked bashful.
—Mine’s . . . Thomas.
—I’ve obviously got to pay more attention.
—I suspect you pay plenty.
Wallace was absently polishing his spoon with his napkin and looking around the patio. He had a serene gaze. He put the spoon back in its proper place.
—You don’t mind, do you? That . . . we’re having dinner here?
—Not at all.
—It’s part of the fun for me. It’s like when I . . . was a kid and we spent Christmas at our camp in the Adirondacks. When the lake was frozen, we’d skate all afternoon; and then the caretaker, an old Dubliner, would serve us cocoa from a zinc canister. My sisters would sit in the main room with their feet by the fire. But my grandfather and I, we’d sit in these big green rockers on the porch and watch the day draw to a close.
He paused and looked out on the salt marsh, pinning down a detail in his memory.
—The cocoa was so hot that when you got outside in the cold air a skin would form on its surface. It floated there a shade darker than the cocoa and it would come up in a single piece at the touch of your finger....
He gestured toward the whole patio.
—The cocoa was sort of like this.
—A little reward that you’ve earned?
—Yes. Does that seem silly?
—Not to me.
The sandwiches came and we ate without talking. I began to understand that with Wallace there were no awkward silences. He felt unusually at ease when nothing needed to be said. Occasionally ducks flew from over the trees and settled on the marsh with a flapping of wings and outstretched feet.
Perhaps Wallace was feeling relaxed in the run-down environment of his club—having exhibited