This is realistic fiction similar in style and tone to other mid-century male writers such as William Styron, Walker Percy, late John Steinbeck (The Winter of Our Discontent), Peter Taylor.
World War II is over and the unfortunately nicknamed Harold "Cleet" Kinsolving has just arrived back in the U.S. after serving in the Army Air Force. Carrying nothing but his duffel bag, he gets a job at a crop dusting operation in Kansas, talking the owner into letting him fly planes even though he has minimal experience. He happens to run into his best friend growing up, Neil Reardon, who has written a book and is giving a talk nearby. Neil offers Cleet a job as his assistant, which hardly sounds appetizing, but at much higher pay than the crop dusting operation. Cleet reluctantly accepts, hoping that the enormously wealthy Reardon family can loan him money to start an air freight business between the Pacific coast and Alaska. They head back to their hometown in Connecticut, which is ruled over by the Reardon clan. The Reardons draw people into their orbit, who then revolve around them like satellites.
It's never clear what united these two in friendship. In fact, Cleet is somehow Neil's only friend. Cleet is one-fourth Indian, an orphan with a wild streak and no money. In the Army Air Force, he was demoted one rank for insubordination. Neal is Irish Catholic and has just married lower middle class Georgia, who is now pregnant and enrolled in catechism classes. Cleet at first dislikes Georgia, but then grows to appreciate her.
Cleet becomes increasingly dissatisfied with the menial tasks Neil assigns, such as driving after Georgia and her sister who have disappeared hitchhiking, and babysitting Georgia's drunk father at a party. He confronts Neil about getting the loan for his air freight business, but Neil and his father have decided it's not a worthy project after all. In a fury, Cleet gets his revenge by basically raping Georgia, who loses the baby. He heads back to Kansas and crop dusting.
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pp. 115-116: "And he sensed, more and more every day that he spent among those archdoers, the Reardons, that being yourself was not enough. Nobody gave you anything in exchange for that; you couldn't get anything for it. Nobody wanted it. It was the thing he valued most in himself, but life was exchange. You had to be very good at doing something, whether it was splitting the atom or crooning. What a strange world, where no one paid any attention if you said, "I am"; they only listened if you said, "I do." The first question new acquaintances asked him was invariably, "What do you do?" always with a winning smile, since for all they knew he might answer, "I am a violin virtuoso earning two hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year." They wanted to know first and foremost what he did. And the next thing they wanted to know was how well he did it."
There's some wonderful descriptive writing about the very rich:
"The Reardons played games morning, noon, and night. Mr. Reardon thought certain kinds of games built character, Mrs. Reardon found they reduced what she called "bickering," and Neil took grim joy in anything competitive and Geraldine found games full of rich opportunities for arguing. At High Farms they played word games at breakfast, Identities at lunch, and Essences at dinner. They played croquet, softball, football, badminton, tennis, bowls, tag, red rover, chess, bridge, poker, checkers, and when all else failed, a lone Reardon played solitaire. They were never unoccupied. They felt that in being unoccupied they were not being true to their money, they were insulting its creativity. No one who was rich had a right to be bored. They read only in impatient snatches, reading being too passive. Neil was once described by Geraldine as the only writer in history who had written more words than he had read. They did not sit still or mope or contemplate or waste time or fidget or vegetate or mull; when Neil had twiddled his thumbs after both Georgia and Cleet eluded him it had been the burlesque of an action he could never have performed naturally. Mr. Reardon could not have recalled spending one unoccupied afternoon in his life. Mrs. Reardon was the high priestess of the telephone, maintaining a network of communications with friends and interests from coast to coast, with deep penetrations into Mexico and active bureaus in Europe. Except during the wartime restrictions on travel, Geraldine's social calendar left her little time for High Farms. She used it principally for changing clothes.
It was as though the energy which created the fortune burned as fiercely in the new generation as ever, but with no goal now, and where it had before pursued the next deal, it pursued a fox or a stag, the genius for investment gambling was turned to poker, the family tenacity transferred from commerce to tennis, the gift for grasping the moment's opportunity shifted from finance to tourism, the ability to organize complex situations quickly and efficiently passed from the world of business into the world of friends and picnics. All of the Reardons had excellent minds, and often the sense of waste was glaring, as these sharp intelligences focused all of their acumen on badminton strategy, or on how to lay out the new garden. They were beautifully equipped to earn a fortune, now that the fortune had been already earned." (p. 165-66)
p. 213: (Ken is Georgia's heavy drinking father.) "Ken now began to gather a personal dusk about himself, a soft and silvery cloud through which others were seen in a flattering, glowing blur, flattering not to him but to them."