Michael Malone - Weebly

everything but the sports section, which she always
folded like a giant napkin on the breakfast table beside
Ernest's sculpted grapefruit. Current affairs rarely got
past her.
All her life Priscilla Hancock had kept herself
modern. As a teenager she'd been a fan of John Dos
Passos, of Chanel, Picasso, the Lubitsch touch, and the
Spanish Civil War. At boarding school she'd attended
meetings to keep America out of the Second World
War, then at Mount Holyoke meetings to help America
win it. Always in the first wave, even in a backwater
like Dingley Falls, Connecticut, Priss had timely taken
up, among other things, theater of the absurd, Dr.
Spock, minimal art, psychoanalysis, Ingmar Bergman,
the sack dress, banning the bomb, modern dance,
Antonioni, John Kennedy, Danish cookware, Ralph
Nader, Mandarin restaurants, Pierre Cardin, solar
energy, and belief in the guilt of Richard Nixon. The last
was a painful subject between herself and Ernest, who
would not relinquish faith (in the office, and so of
necessity in the man) until the resignation itself. Far, far
later than Priss.