Oxfords
Walter Cummins
Twenty years ago, when they seemed on the verge of a friendship, Henry found Stuart Hartwick tolerable. That is, their wives got on well, and Stuart's conversation amused despite his arcane obsessions.
A few years from 30, Stuart bulked large and portly, formal even at leisure, his white shirts always crisp with starch, his trousers sharply creased, his black slip-on shoes gleaming. His speech, like the rest of him, resounded with precision, each word carefully chosen and articulated. His dark mustache was almost square, and red-veined jowls sagged over tight collars. Unlike Henry, whose brief adulthood had been pinched by academic poverty, he had traveled so widely, imparted such esoteric knowledge of Baltic ferries, Hapsburg palaces, rare wines, and fine silks that Henry found himself content to be an audience.
Their wives had met first, Henry's Elaine and Stuart's Winnie. Young mothers of eight-month-old babies, Joy and Stuart, Jr., nicknamed Tink by Winnie, the two women found immediate compatibility in talk of formulas, diaper services, and sudden fevers. But Henry couldn't imagine them exchanging a sentence before the babies. Winnie, slow and bland, seemed to have spent her life waiting for the identity that motherhood would bring. Elaine's dark eyes blazed with promise. In 50 years, when their grandchildren were parents, he still would be discovering her.
