Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith (best books to read now .TXT) 📕

semiprivate grade school which offered sports and arts and crafts classes five days a week from nine to four in summer. It was the first summer that Trixie had caught on to swimming, and she did so well that she won first prize in a swimming contest for her age group. Vic was glad Trixie hadn't wanted to go to camp this summer, because he liked to have her with him. He supposed he had the Petersons' comparative lack of money to thank for Trixie's being with him. Charles Peterson, an electrical engineer in a leather factory in Wesley, made less money than most of Little Wesley's inhabitants. Or, rather, he supported his family on what he earned, whereas many people in Little Wesley, like himself and Phil Cowan, for instance, had incomes with which to supplement their earnings. Melinda, to Vic's regret, looked down on the Petersons as a bit uncouth and couldn't see that they were no more uncouth than the MacPhersons, for example, and that perhaps what she objected to was their white clapboard house. Vic was glad it didn't bother Trixie.

       In a distinguished British publisher's annual that came out in June, the Greenspur Press of Little Wesley, Massachusetts, was cited for "typography, fine workmanship, and general excellence," a tribute Vic valued more than any material success that could have come to him. It was Vic's boast that in the twenty-six books he had published, there were only two typographical errors. Xenophon's 'Country Life and Economics' was his twenty-seventh book, and there were as yet no errors that either he or his meticulous printer, Stephen Hines, could find, though they had the added peril of the left side of the pages being in Greek. The likelihood of typographical errors in spite of rigorous proofreading was going to be the subject of an essay that he would write one day, Vic thought. There was something demoniacal and insuperable about typographical errors, as if they were part of the natural evil that permeated man's existence, as if they had a life of their own and were determined to manifest themselves no matter what, as surely as weeds in the best-tended gardens.

       Far from noticing any coolness in their friends—which Melinda still insisted she did—Vic found their social relations much easier. The Mellers and the Cowans no longer issued an invitation tentatively, half-expecting that Melinda would make a date with Ralph or somebody else at the last minute, as she often had. Everybody treated them as a couple now, and as a couple supposedly happy and getting along. Vic had loathed, in the last years, being coddled by understanding hostesses, being pressed to take second helpings and big pieces of cake as if he had been a neglected child or some kind of cripple. Perhaps his marriage with Melinda had been something short of ideal, but there were certainly many worse marriages in the world—marriages with drunkenness, with poverty, with sickness or insanity, with mothers-in-law, with unfaithfulness but unfaithfulness that was not forgiven. Vic treated Melinda with as much respect and affection as he had at the beginning of their marriage, perhaps with even more now, because he realized she missed Ralph. He did not want her to feel bored or, lonely, or to think that he was unconcerned if she did feel that way. He took her to two or three more shows in New York, to a couple of Tanglewood concerts, and on one weekend they drove up to Kennebunkport with Trixie to see a play that Judith Anderson was in, and they spent the night at a hotel. Nearly every evening Vic came home with a little present for Melinda—flowers, a bottle of perfume, or a scarf he had seen at the Bandana, the only chic women's shop in Wesley, or simply a magazine that she liked, like 'Holiday', which they didn't subscribe to because Melinda said it was expensive and that the house was already cluttered with magazines that came every month, though 'Holiday' in Vic's opinion was better than many of the magazines whose subscription they continually renewed. Melinda's sense of economy was odd.

       She had never wanted a maid, for instance, and yet she never did much to keep the house straight, either. If the bookshelves were ever dusted, Vic did it—about every four months. Occasionally Melinda would get started with the vacuum cleaner, and give up after one or two rooms. When people were due to come over, the living room, kitchen, and bathroom were "checked," Melinda's undefined term. But she could be relied on to keep a supply of steaks in the freezing compartment of the refrigerator, green vegetables and potatoes and plenty of oranges, and one of the things that Vic appreciated very much in her, she could be relied on eventually to come home for dinner with him regardless of what she did in the afternoon. Perhaps she considered she owed him this much, Vic didn't know, but she was as determined about it as she was determined sometimes to keep her appointments with her lovers. And about once a week she managed to cook one of his favorite dishes—frogs' legs provençale, or chile, or potato soup, or roast pheasant, which she had to get from Wesley. She also saw to it that he was never out of his pipe tobacco, which had to be ordered from New York and was hard to keep track of because Vic smoked his pipe sporadically, and sometimes the tobacco humidor was in the living room and sometimes in the garage or his own room, which Melinda seldom went into. Vic thought that his friends, even Horace, did not always remember the nicer things about Melinda, and Vic often took the trouble to remind them.

       On Saturday night of the July fourth weekend, Vic and Melinda went to the annual dance at the club, the biggest affair of the summer. All their friends were there, even the Petersons and the Wilsons, who didn't