Too Much Vanilla
The fine ladies and gentlemen dressed in their most expensive clothes and sat at the long table. The hostess, a fat old woman I called Aunt Dahlia, beckoned me forth. I deposited the heavy plates before each person, and each person avoided my eye for fear of getting the poverty all over their linen shirts and coattails. I stood back and watched as they devoured the gold and silver, some with relish, some with disdain. "Too much vanilla!" Mr. Orkin declared almost violently. "I thought I was invited to a classy dinner party. What is all this trollop?"
I watched my son, sitting there at the table, gobbling the gold despite his protests that it was no good. He has forgotten me since striking oil. His little brothers ask after him, and I lie. I tell them that he has not changed a bit; he is still kind and good-natured and generous. They believe me without question: how could the world be any other way?