In Which the Family Business May Well Not Survive Another Generation

A car ride. Night. Silence.

LITTLE RIPLEY
Dad, I—

TOM RIPLEY (interrupting)
Yeah, Tommy?

LITTLE RIPLEY
It’s just not that—

(TOM RIPLEY chuckles mirthlessly.)

TOM RIPLEY
Not what? Not that big of a deal? You’re right, it was just three chords.

LITTLE RIPLEY
I froze, Dad! For five seconds, I froze! And Mrs. Freuwirth didn’t even n—

With one hand still on the wheel, TOM RIPLEY reaches across the center console and rips his son’s third-place sash off his little body, tearing the polyester in two. TOM RIPLEY rolls down his window and throws it out. At the stoplight, the window still down, TOM RIPLEY begins smoking a cigarette. Silence. Over and over again, TOM RIPLEY whistles the riff from “Sweet Home Alabama” between drags.

—Staff writer Eleanor M. Powell can be reached at ellie.powell@thecrimson.com.