Imaginary Men by Enid Shomer

Heights and Groton and Andover. It wasn't just that they were rich. Money hadn't spoiled them, Paul said, it had refined them. They could afford to be nice to everybody, because jealousy was practically beyond them. They all had jolly nicknamesPuffer and Ships and Ironlegs for the boys, Beanstalk, Barnum, and Smash for the girls. Naturally, he'd also met kids from public schools; they were bright and well-off, too. The weekend had been a revelation to him. Riva tried her best to keep track of all the people in the anecdotes Paul tolda succession of minor pranks and triumphs over authority, at least half of which hadn't happened in San Antonio at all but had merely been retold there. "They made me feel like one of them," Paul kept saying. "They treated me like one of them."
"You were one of them, silly," Riva said. "You won the right to be there just like they did."
"I have to laugh now at the kids here at school, like Duke Weinstein acting so stuck-up because his father is the Pabst Blue Ribbon distributor. Ships Stewart's father owns a steel mill, and Donald, from Chicago, is the heir to the Quaker Oats fortune."
Now that Paul had had a taste of real money, his own poverty in relation to the wealth of the kids at Hoover High seemed less extreme. This despite the fact that his financial problems were never greater. He'd been accepted to GW, gotten a small loan, been turned down for the scholarship, and had no way of paying for the first semester. Somehow, though, when he talked about San Antonio, it soothed him. He had seen the effects of great wealth and they were

 

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so pleasant, so ordinary, that he was able to dismiss the present as a temporary state of affairs. He had, in short, learned that he was worthy, that poverty was indeed not a punishment but a caprice of fate. His pride softened and two weeks later, when Riva suggested that he meet Pop Goldring about borrowing the money for college, he agreed.
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"What kind of lawyer? Corporate? Tax? Malpractice?" Pop Goldring's voice was calm, like an animal grazing over a vast field. He spoke slowly, one question after another. The Spanish Inquisition, Riva thought. She had tried to prepare Paul for the interview. Now she had to sit quietly, without interfering or interrupting. She didn't want to make Paul look weak. He could answer any question himself, anyway. The worst would be about his family. His face would get red and blotchy and circles would spread under his armpits beneath his gray tweed sport coat. Inside the white collar of his shirt and the thin black suede tie she'd given him, his neck looked as delicate and vulnerable as an antelope's. The skin there was soft and smooth. His Adam's apple reminded her of his cock.
Riva studied the huge painting by her grandfather's Michelangelo. The watercolors were so soft and muted that the harlequins' bodies could have been clouds as easily as flesh. The jesters walked toward her as if borne in a wash of their own music and the sweet heavy breath of the ox.
"You plan to live at home?"
"I have to. If I could afford it, I'd join a fraternity and live at the frat house," Paul was saying.
"Your parents are a bad influence on you," Pop Goldring said. He flicked a gold Ronson lighter, and the end of his cigar glowed briefly while he sucked on it.
Paul said nothing.
"Your father drinks?"
"No, sir."
"Where does all the money go?"
"He gambles, sir."
"You're not a good risk." Pop turned away and pulled open a desk drawer.

 

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Riva stopped breathing. Paul's face flushed with rage or shame or both. He looked down at the floor.
"I couldn't give you the money directly. I'll pay the school. Like I'm going to do for Riva. For the first year. Then, we'll talk again. You'll pay me back when you're established."
"I'll put it in writing, sir." Paul's voice cracked with emotion as he stood and offered her grandfather his hand. "I don't know how to thank you enough, sir."
"I don't need it in writing. I build