The Burnt Orange Heresy

The dinners had been purchased by the Negro maid who came every Wednesday to take care of the old man's laundry and to do his difficult cleaning. She also brought his other weekly food supplies. By buying these cheap TV dinners, she was probably knocking down on the food money. I didn't suggest this to him, but I discussed brand names, the brand-name fallacy, and wrote out a short list of worthwhile frozen food buys he could depend upon. He had a delusion that frozen foods were better, somehow, than fresh. Berenice started halfheartedly to tell him otherwise, but when she saw me shake my head she changed the subject to domestic wines. Debierue distrusted California wines, but I added the brands of some Napa Valley wines to the frozen food list, and he said he would try them. Other than tap water, all he drank, because French wines were too dear, was frozen orange juice.

The Gold Coast for some twenty miles inland, from Jupiter downstate to Key Largo, is tropical-not subtropical, as so many people erroneously believe. The tropical weather is caused by the warmth of the Gulf Stream, less than six miles off the coast. There is little difference between the weather in Miami and that of Saigon. Debierue's house, on a hammock, with a black swamp and the Everglades for a backyard, was depressingly humid. After eating the dry turkey dinner, my mouth felt as if it were dehydrated, and I couldn't drink enough fluid to unparch my throat. I poured another glass of orange juice (my fourth) and sensed, as I did so, a certain anxiety or impatience developing in the old man. As an experienced dinner guest, I have picked up an instinct about wearing out welcomes.

The sky had darkened from bruise blue to gentian violet, and it was only a few minutes after six thirty. It was much too early for him to go to bed, but even Berenice, who was not particularly observant, became aware of the old painter's restlessness. She winked across the table, tapped her wrist significantly, and gave me a brief, comical shrug. I nodded, and slid my chair back from the table.

"It's been delightful, M. Debierue, the dinner by candlelight," I lied socially, "but I have another appointment in Palm Beach tonight, and we have to drive back."

"Of course," he replied, standing, "but please keep your seat a few moments more. Already, you see, it is past the time for me to get ready. I must go to the movies tonight. I must go to the movies every night," he added, by way of fuller explanation, "and I must now change my clothes."

"The movies?" I asked stupidly.

His face brightened and he rubbed his hands together briskly. "Oh, yes, perhaps you did not see it-the Dixie Drive-in Movie Theater ..' He pointed in the general direction of the drive-in. "Tonight there are three long features, two films with the Bowery Boys and the film about a werewolf. And before these, the regular films, there are always two and sometimes three cartoons. The first long film tonight is The Bowery Boys Meet Frankenstein, a very special treat, no?' And if you will kindly drive me-"

"Certainly," I said eagerly, "I'll be happy to take you in the car."

"My ignorance," Debierue chuckled reminiscently, "it was the amusing thing. When I was first here and taking a walk one evening, I saw the automobiles driving inside the Dixie Drive-in Theater. I did not then know the American custom, and I thought that one must have the automobile to enter the movie. Never before had I seen the drive-in movies, and I said to myself, Why not see if the permission to go from the manager can be arranged?" So I talked then to the manager, M. Albert Price. He arranged for me to go, and gave me the Senior Citizen Golden Years' membership card." Debierue fumbled his wallet out of his hip pocket, extracted the card, which entitled him to a 15 percent discount on movie tickets, and proudly showed it to us. It was made out to Eugene V. Debs.

"That's very nice," Berenice said, smiling.

"M. Price is a very nice man," Debierue said, carefully replacing the card in his thin, calfskin wallet. "There are very good seats in front of the snack bar. The parents with the automobiles sometimes send their children to sit in these seats, and they are also for those patrons who do not have the automobile, as M. Price explained to me. Over to the right of these seats is the zinc slide and little swings, the Kiddyland for these, the children, who become tired of watching the movie screen. I like the children-I am a Frenchman-but the little children begin to make too much noise playing in the Kiddyland after the cartoons are finished. This arrangement is good for the parents inside the cars with speakers, but not for me. The noise becomes too loud for me. M. Price and I are now good friends, and he reserves for me each night a seat and special earphones. I hear only the movie with the earphones and no more the children."

I smiled. "Can you understand American English, the way the Bowery Boys speak it?"