The room had been magicked. Gone were all the pieces of furniture that to Fred meant home and security; gone was his sacred, rather shabby, rather faded red arm-chair, in which, alone, the evening paper tasted right; gone the couch on which, ritually, Hazel and he had listened to the radio side by side; gone the Maxfield Parrish painting of maidens dancing in twilight; gone the shiftless pile of magazines on a table with dragons’ feet clasping glass balls; gone the stuffed head of the deer he had (illegally) shot in Quebec; gone was everything that made home stuffy, ugly and lovable.

Sara had redecorated the room in plum colour and dull gold, rich as mince pie and sombre as the thoughts of a defeated Congressman. The furniture was dethroned Louis Quinze. And on the walls, replacing a nest of cheerful photographs showing Hazel with a watering pot, Fred in wading boots, complete with shotgun, Howard with a toy wagon, and Sara reciting James Whitcomb Riley, was one lone painting of the Towers of Rouen, which towers, taken jointly, resembled a fish fork.

‘Isn’t it distinguished! Hasn’t it real dignity!’ bubbled Sara.

‘I didn’t — I don’t . . .’ endeavoured Fred.

‘It’s just on trial, of course.’

‘Well, it’s certainly swell, but I don’t think it quite suits your mother and me.’

‘Suits me, all right,’ said the treacherous Hazel, all the fanatical love of possessions in her eyes.

‘Look, Father; if one’s own people don’t back you up, how can you expect me to make a career with other people?’

He was warning himself, ‘She’s got some reason. You were asking for it, Freddie.’ He temporized, ‘If I did decide I liked the room, when I got used to it, how much would all this set me back?’

‘I can do it for nineteen hundred dollars, Father.’

‘Ouch!’ said Fred, but feebly, as he turned for comfort to Hazel, saw her acquisitive glow and knew that he was sold.

‘We-ll, I couldn’t possibly pay it all in a lump.’ So, for Fredk Wm, his home was turned into a house; and a house was easier to leave than was a home.

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Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:57

The Prodigal Parents, by Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 29

Cold ham, pineapple-and-cream-cheese salad, scalloped potatoes, tea, beer, vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce — it was a Cornplow family supper again, with Cornplow family food, at Howard’s flat.

Before supper, Howard and he had what Fred would have called — would have called? He did call it that! — a heart-to-heart talk, taking refuge in the bedroom from the bustling domesticity of Hazel and Annabel and the stateliness with which Sara sat and read the New Yorker.

Not in the four and a half months since the firm of Bogey & Cornplow had been founded had they been out of the red. It was only slightly irritating to Fred to go on contributing, but it was disturbing to have Howard expect advice on every contract, expect him to lure to the Bogey & Cornplow office every prosperous person Fred met in agency or club or church.