Suit Jacket Symbol Analysis

“Your father doesn’t believe in joining the American society,” said my mother. “He wants to have his own society.”

There were occasions when the clear running truth seemed to eddy, when he would pinch the vinyl of his chair up into little peaks and wonder if he was doing things right. But with time he would always smooth the peaks back down; and when business started to slide in the spring, he kept on like a horse in his ways.

“Maybe this suit not fit me,” fretted my father.

“Just don’t take your jacket off,” said the salesgirl.

He gave her a tip before they left, but when he got home, he refused to remove the price tag.

Of course, my father tried to eat a cracker full of shallots, and burned himself in an attempt to help Mr. Lardner turn the coals of the barbecue; but on the whole, he seemed to be doing all right. Not nearly so well as my mother, though, who had accepted an entire cupful of Mrs. Lardner’s magic punch and indeed seemed to be under some spell. […] I watched my mother take off her shoes, laughing and laughing as a man with a beard regaled her with navy stories by the pool. Apparently he had been stationed in the Orient and remembered a few words of Chinese, which made my mother laugh still more.

“Take off your shirt.”

“I do not taking orders like a servant,” announced my father stiffly.

“Take off your shirt, or I’m going to throw this jacket right into the pool, just right into this little pool here.” Jeremy held it over the water.

“Go ahead.”

“One hundred twelve-fifty,” taunted Jeremy. “One hundred twelve …”

My father flung the polo shirt into the water with such force that part of it bounced back up into the air like a fluorescent fountain. Then it settled into a soft heap on top of the water.

“You girls are good swimmers,” he said finally. “Not like me.”

Then his shirt started moving again, and we trooped up the hill after it, into the dark.