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- "Coffee, gentlemen, finally," Mrs. Antolini said. She came in carrying this tray
with coffee and cakes and stuff on it. "Holden, don't you even peek at me. I'm a mess."
"Hello, Mrs. Antolini," I said. I started to get up and all, but Mr. Antolini got hold
of my jacket and pulled me back down. Old Mrs. Antolini's hair was full of those iron
curler jobs, and she didn't have any lipstick or anything on. She didn't look too gorgeous.
She looked pretty old and all.
"I'll leave this right here. Just dive in, you two," she said. She put the tray down
on the cigarette table, pushing all these glasses out of the way. "How's your mother,
Holden?"
"She's fine, thanks. I haven't seen her too recently, but the last I--"
"Darling, if Holden needs anything, everything's in the linen closet. The top shelf.
I'm going to bed. I'm exhausted," Mrs. Antolini said. She looked it, too. "Can you boys
make up the couch by yourselves?"
"We'll take care of everything. You run along to bed," Mr. Antolini said. He gave
Mrs. Antolini a kiss and she said good-by to me and went in the bedroom. They were
always kissing each other a lot in public.
I had part of a cup of coffee and about half of some cake that was as hard as a
rock. All old Mr. Antolini had was another highball, though. He makes them strong, too,
you could tell. He may get to be an alcoholic if he doesn't watch his step.
"I had lunch with your dad a couple of weeks ago," he said all of a sudden. "Did
you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"You're aware, of course, that he's terribly concerned about you."
"I know it. I know he is," I said.
"Apparently before he phoned me he'd just had a long, rather harrowing letter
from your latest headmaster, to the effect that you were making absolutely no effort at all.
Cutting classes. Coming unprepared to all your classes. In general, being an all-around--"
"I didn't cut any classes. You weren't allowed to cut any. There were a couple of
them I didn't attend once in a while, like that Oral Expression I told you about, but I
didn't cut any."
I didn't feel at all like discussing it. The coffee made my stomach feel a little
better, but I still had this awful headache.
Mr. Antolini lit another cigarette. He smoked like a fiend. Then he said, "Frankly,
I don't know what the hell to say to you, Holden."
"I know. I'm very hard to talk to. I realize that."
"I have a feeling that you're riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall. But I
don't honestly know what kind. . . Are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
You could tell he was trying to concentrate and all.
"It may be the kind where, at the age of thirty, you sit in some bar hating
everybody who comes in looking as if he might have played football in college. Then
again, you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, 'It's a secret
between he and I.' Or you may end up in some business office, throwing paper clips at the
nearest stenographer. I just don't know. But do you know what I'm driving at, at all?"
"Yes. Sure," I said. I did, too. "But you're wrong about that hating business. I
mean about hating football players and all. You really are. I don't hate too many guys.
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