Fall 1962 • Vol. XXIV No. 4 FictionOctober 1, 1962 |

The Keyhole Eye

My Uncle Tom was the last of my grandfather's ten sons and was fourteen years old the year I was born. He left Princeton half-way through his freshman year to join the A.E.F. and was briefly a flier in France. I remember, or begin remembering, him best around 1920 when I would see him at my grandmother's. He looked like Wallace Reid—if you recall. I don't, but I know I thought so at the time. Later I equated him with one of Scott Fitzgerald's rich boys, and for years I scarcely thought of him at all. What has just happened is why I am writing this. He was always nice to me in an offhand way and called me "kid," which was racy of him because we were not supposed to use the word and were always being told that a kid was a goat, which of course it was not. I suppose I was a nuisance, but he never acted as if I were, and I used to hang around his bedroom at my grandmother's, much preferring it to my own. I know he was the first adult male I ever saw walking around naked, and the s

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