me to move in? Why do you want jailbait living with you?"
I studied her, trying to figure the angle of the rage. She took a pack of Garams out of her pocket, stuck one on her lip. The book of matches she'd left at breakfast was still there. I opened it, struck a match, and lighted the cigarette for her.
She sat back, glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, hair all free and messy, and the leopard coat still on, just a little womanshape and black sequins showing between the lapels.
"Well, why do you want me here?" Her voice was raw. "You feel sorry for me?"
"No," I said.
"I can find someplace else to live," she said. Hard, woman's voice coming out of the babymouth. Puff of smoke. Incense smell of the clove cigarette.
"I know that," I said. "I wanted you here after the first night we were together. I wanted you here this morning when you took off. Sooner or later I would have asked you. And whatever I feel about it all-guilt, you mow, that kind of thing-I'm sure of this. You're better off with me than living in a place like that one."
"Oh, so you feel this whole mess lets you off the hook, is that it?"
I took a deep breath.
"Belinda," I said, "I'm a pretty square guy when you get right down to it. Call it dull, call it unsophisticated, call it what you will, I think a kid your age should be at home. I think somebody somewhere is crying over you. looking for you-"
"Oh, if you only knew," she said, her tone low and bitter.
"But I can't know until you tell me."
"My family doesn't own me," she said harshly. "I own me. And I'm with you because I want to be. And the old rule still holds. I'll walk out the door if you ask me about my family."
"That's what I figured. You're saying you won't go home, not even after what happened tonight."
"That's not even a possibility," she said.
She looked away for a moment, biting a little at her fingernail, a thing I'd never seen her do before, the pupils of her eyes dancing as she looked around the room. Then she said:
"Look, I bombed as an American kid."
"How do you mean?"
"It didn't work for me because I am not a kid. So I have to make it on my own, either with you or without you. And I'm going to do it. I have to! If I move in with you, it's not because I'm scared. It's because, it's because I want to-"
'q know, honey, I know."
I reached across the table. I took her hand off the glass as she set it down, and I held her hand tightly. I loved the smallness of it, the tenderness, the way the fingers curled around mine. But it was pain to see her eyes squeeze shut, to see the tears spill down her cheeks just the way they had before, at the front door, when she was storming out.
"I love you too, you know," she said, still crying. "I mean, I wanted to be an American kid, I really did. I wanted it. But you're like a dream, you know, you're like some fantasy I made up that's better than that and, and-"
"So are you, little girl," I said.
Ar~rEv, she'd gone to sleep in the four-poster, I put her suitcase and things in the guest room. That could be her private place.
And I went upstairs to work on the punkchild carousel nude, the one of her with the witchy hair, and I painted into the afternoon without stopping, thinking the whole time about the strange things she had said. What a trio this would be, these carousel pictures.
Now and then I thought of the policeman who had recognized me. I thought of him writing down my name and address in his little notebook. I should have been afraid. I should have been a nervous wreck over all that, in fact. I was a man who had never gotten so much as a speeding ticket.
But it thrilled me. In some dark and secret way it thrilled me. She was here with me now, and I knew it was OK for her, had to be, and I was painting with a speed and power I hadn't known in years. Everything felt good to me.
[6]
ABOUT eleven that morning she woke up screaming. I came down as fast as I could. For a moment she didn't know where she was, who I was. Then she
I studied her, trying to figure the angle of the rage. She took a pack of Garams out of her pocket, stuck one on her lip. The book of matches she'd left at breakfast was still there. I opened it, struck a match, and lighted the cigarette for her.
She sat back, glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, hair all free and messy, and the leopard coat still on, just a little womanshape and black sequins showing between the lapels.
"Well, why do you want me here?" Her voice was raw. "You feel sorry for me?"
"No," I said.
"I can find someplace else to live," she said. Hard, woman's voice coming out of the babymouth. Puff of smoke. Incense smell of the clove cigarette.
"I know that," I said. "I wanted you here after the first night we were together. I wanted you here this morning when you took off. Sooner or later I would have asked you. And whatever I feel about it all-guilt, you mow, that kind of thing-I'm sure of this. You're better off with me than living in a place like that one."
"Oh, so you feel this whole mess lets you off the hook, is that it?"
I took a deep breath.
"Belinda," I said, "I'm a pretty square guy when you get right down to it. Call it dull, call it unsophisticated, call it what you will, I think a kid your age should be at home. I think somebody somewhere is crying over you. looking for you-"
"Oh, if you only knew," she said, her tone low and bitter.
"But I can't know until you tell me."
"My family doesn't own me," she said harshly. "I own me. And I'm with you because I want to be. And the old rule still holds. I'll walk out the door if you ask me about my family."
"That's what I figured. You're saying you won't go home, not even after what happened tonight."
"That's not even a possibility," she said.
She looked away for a moment, biting a little at her fingernail, a thing I'd never seen her do before, the pupils of her eyes dancing as she looked around the room. Then she said:
"Look, I bombed as an American kid."
"How do you mean?"
"It didn't work for me because I am not a kid. So I have to make it on my own, either with you or without you. And I'm going to do it. I have to! If I move in with you, it's not because I'm scared. It's because, it's because I want to-"
'q know, honey, I know."
I reached across the table. I took her hand off the glass as she set it down, and I held her hand tightly. I loved the smallness of it, the tenderness, the way the fingers curled around mine. But it was pain to see her eyes squeeze shut, to see the tears spill down her cheeks just the way they had before, at the front door, when she was storming out.
"I love you too, you know," she said, still crying. "I mean, I wanted to be an American kid, I really did. I wanted it. But you're like a dream, you know, you're like some fantasy I made up that's better than that and, and-"
"So are you, little girl," I said.
Ar~rEv, she'd gone to sleep in the four-poster, I put her suitcase and things in the guest room. That could be her private place.
And I went upstairs to work on the punkchild carousel nude, the one of her with the witchy hair, and I painted into the afternoon without stopping, thinking the whole time about the strange things she had said. What a trio this would be, these carousel pictures.
Now and then I thought of the policeman who had recognized me. I thought of him writing down my name and address in his little notebook. I should have been afraid. I should have been a nervous wreck over all that, in fact. I was a man who had never gotten so much as a speeding ticket.
But it thrilled me. In some dark and secret way it thrilled me. She was here with me now, and I knew it was OK for her, had to be, and I was painting with a speed and power I hadn't known in years. Everything felt good to me.
[6]
ABOUT eleven that morning she woke up screaming. I came down as fast as I could. For a moment she didn't know where she was, who I was. Then she
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