Fiction Ruined My Family by Jeanne Darst Read Free Book Online

and whisked it together and drizzled it on romaine lettuce with the bacon. It was insanely good. She made her own mayonnaise with herbs like tarragon and basil that made her chicken salad sandwiches fantastic. She didn’t overvalue cleanliness in her kitchen; Guinness frequently jumped up, twisted his neck sideways and licked the side of the butter while my mother worked away. I wouldn’t be surprised if we ate more than a few cigarette ashes in our lifetime. Butter and salt were practically rubbed on her own children before she’d give us a kiss hello. But the way she made anything was simply tastier than anyone else. I’ve never had buttered toast as good as hers.
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    DAD NOW WORE A SUIT to work every day, but I never got the feeling he was “new Dad” to go along with our new house, new dog, new town. He was definitely old dad. I never got the sense that he saw taking the train in every morning as anything other than another experience, like research. He didn’t seem like anyone else’s dad, in it, the grind, the rat race, for the long haul. His mind was always on the thing he’d rather be doing, writing. On weekends he took notes and worked on ideas and followed hunches.
    â€œWho’s up for a drive?” Considering the amount of carbon monoxide involved in going anywhere farther than town in our car, no one was ever up for a drive in our family. Eyes, mouths all contorted into polite interest mode. “I thought we’d head out to Sands Point and check out the real Gatsby mansion.” The idea flopped big-time: No one wanted to go look at some dumb house and get a school-like lecture. But somebody had to go with the guy; you can’t just let a man head off alone looking for a fictional town called East Egg, so I said I would go.
    It started to rain the minute the car got on the Hutchinson River Parkway. A little radio might have been nice but Dad didn’t allow anything but low jazz underneath his conversation, so I just stared ahead at the highway.
    â€œThis is gonna be terrific, Jean-Joe, I’m glad you came along. What the hell is wrong with those girls? They’re gonna be bedridden with regret when they find out what they missed out on. So what are you reading?”
    â€œUmmm. From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. ”
    â€œDon’t know it. Now, when do they read The Great Gatsby in school these days?”
    â€œI’m not sure.”
    â€œWell, I’ll try and find out. I hope to hell they don’t waste a lot of time on Salinger.”
    We got to the house in a little over an hour. We parked the car on the side of the road. It was now a total downpour. I didn’t have a rain jacket. We got out of the car and walked a bit. Dad had on his gray felt fedora, which he plunked on my head. “Now, this house here,” he said, as we stood in front of a gatehouse and a large gate with tall hedges on either side, “used to be the home of a Mrs. Belmont, a suffragette. Later bought by Hearst but he left it to go run his papers in the West and be with Marion Davies. Absolute monstrosity, torn down in 1940. It’s possible Fitzgerald was here, but this isn’t the Gatsby house.”
    â€œIt’s torn down?” I asked. He had said nothing of going to see a house that wasn’t in fact there anymore.
    He started walking down the street. I followed.
    I pushed the big hat back on my head and wiped the rain from my face. We crossed the road and walked back toward the death mobile. I wiped my eyes again, waiting for something to happen.
    â€œMost people think it was the Swope house not too far from here, but Fitzgerald was never at that house, he visited a different house of theirs. I’m going to hit the Great Neck library next weekend, have a look at the Great Neck newspapers. I have got a few hunches about some people Fitzgerald based his characters on.
    I nodded. I was freezing