Michael’s face flushed a deep, embarrassed red. The Bradfords exchanged a quick, unmistakable glance across the table.
Richard leaned back in his chair. “So, Tom. Michael mentioned you live in South Boston. That’s quite a diverse area these days.”
“It is,” I agreed. “My neighbors are teachers, firefighters, nurses. Good people, every one of them.”
“Of course,” Patricia said, in a tone that plainly meant the opposite. “And you rent, I assume.”
“I own the apartment.”
“Smart investment,” Richard offered, though his tone suggested he thought it anything but. “South Boston’s been gentrifying nicely. You might turn a small profit when you decide to sell.”
“Not planning to sell.”
“Oh.” Patricia took a small sip of her wine. “Well. To each their own.”
The conversation continued in that register for a good while longer — polite on its surface, condescending in everything underneath. They asked about my car. Still running well? With eyebrows raised in mild disbelief. My education. State school. That’s practical, delivered like a small, careful insult wrapped in a compliment. My current activities. No country club membership. Oh, well, they are expensive, Patricia offered, as if that settled something important about who I was.
