break, you’ll still have,” he said. “Or even a margin.”
The word brought cold into the room. Their dialogue was not for her. But when she put down her cup, they joined hands again, against her.
“Are you—are you in the theater too, Maury?” At the party where the green drink had been served, she had learned that this was how it was said, never ever “Are you on the stage?” Two young women, who, from their patented hair and figures like wax melted down a stick, she had assumed to be, had asked it of her—they had turned out to be models—and two young men had murmured it, “You in the theater, dear?” their eyes meanwhile, like almost everyone’s, on a girl, dressed like herself then, like Futtie here—who was. That girl, her round, boy-cherub head shaven “for that part, you know,” had hung on no one’s words, not even those which fell from her own prison-pale lips like rare gravel, but had seemed to be staring into a little cup where all the neuroses in the room were gathered to hers, all around her watching where she held it, hypnotically centered in her stubby, yellow-stained hand.
“In? You could say it. I monkey lights. Only trouble, I’m not in the union.”
“It’s very hard,” said Futtie. “The thitter.” Chin raised, she smiled suddenly, past Liz’s shoulder, across the room.
Liz turned, thinking a new person had entered it. The long rear wall held a solid line of posters like the one on the door upstairs. If she hadn’t been led straight in, she couldn’t have missed them.
“Joe saves them for her. All her favorites.” At that distance, not all the tags could be read, but the billboard code held. All the way down the line, heroes chinned life in the raw, blockbuster beauties offered it, each glimpsed from a heaven of word-bombs, a star on each megaphoned cloud.
“Even, he made one up for her special. Just brought it in one night, you could have knocked us over. ‘Here’s Fyush for someday,’ he says. ‘As drawn by someday Joe.’ What a guy! Except that it’s Futtie, you couldn’t tell a difference, it’s just exactly! Only with a redhead.”
Futtie gave a slight shrug. She gazed again at her navel. “The one at the end,” she said.
It seemed, indeed, exactly like.
“You must be going to miss them,” said Liz.
“To us, they been—like a family.” Maury’s head declined as he said it. “They split up for so long this time, it’s just bad luck for us.”
The three of them sat looking into their laps, in that pause which comes when the sad circumstances of friends are emotionally spoken of—to a stranger. The pause lengthened into what Liz had come to think of as the house-hunting one. It was the one that came when all the closets had been looked into with proper shrieks of embarrassment and demur, the unmade beds had been passed by, the half-eaten meal apologized for, the babies smiled at—when all too much had been seen. Then the eye of both parties averted, and even when buyer had mentally turned on his heel at first glance, now for a moment he rocked on an ankle to save face for all concerned, maintaining a look on his own that said, “We-ell…” I’ll let you know. But surely they all knew she was taking it; Maury had known from the first; the coffee had been meant to, well, ratify it—their coming relationship. Though she was not sure they had too much in common, they were going to be friends of a sort—she was going to live here. That was really the trouble, they were all too young for this sort of business. They’d all been impulsively friendly in the quick way one’s elders always cautioned against, and now they didn’t quite know how to exchange money—between friends. None of them had yet acquired the hard business shell that made one able. She liked them the better—they all had this in common.
But when they seemed to flinch as she fumbled with her bag, it was really too much—too much theater. And too unfair, just because she
The word brought cold into the room. Their dialogue was not for her. But when she put down her cup, they joined hands again, against her.
“Are you—are you in the theater too, Maury?” At the party where the green drink had been served, she had learned that this was how it was said, never ever “Are you on the stage?” Two young women, who, from their patented hair and figures like wax melted down a stick, she had assumed to be, had asked it of her—they had turned out to be models—and two young men had murmured it, “You in the theater, dear?” their eyes meanwhile, like almost everyone’s, on a girl, dressed like herself then, like Futtie here—who was. That girl, her round, boy-cherub head shaven “for that part, you know,” had hung on no one’s words, not even those which fell from her own prison-pale lips like rare gravel, but had seemed to be staring into a little cup where all the neuroses in the room were gathered to hers, all around her watching where she held it, hypnotically centered in her stubby, yellow-stained hand.
“In? You could say it. I monkey lights. Only trouble, I’m not in the union.”
“It’s very hard,” said Futtie. “The thitter.” Chin raised, she smiled suddenly, past Liz’s shoulder, across the room.
Liz turned, thinking a new person had entered it. The long rear wall held a solid line of posters like the one on the door upstairs. If she hadn’t been led straight in, she couldn’t have missed them.
“Joe saves them for her. All her favorites.” At that distance, not all the tags could be read, but the billboard code held. All the way down the line, heroes chinned life in the raw, blockbuster beauties offered it, each glimpsed from a heaven of word-bombs, a star on each megaphoned cloud.
“Even, he made one up for her special. Just brought it in one night, you could have knocked us over. ‘Here’s Fyush for someday,’ he says. ‘As drawn by someday Joe.’ What a guy! Except that it’s Futtie, you couldn’t tell a difference, it’s just exactly! Only with a redhead.”
Futtie gave a slight shrug. She gazed again at her navel. “The one at the end,” she said.
It seemed, indeed, exactly like.
“You must be going to miss them,” said Liz.
“To us, they been—like a family.” Maury’s head declined as he said it. “They split up for so long this time, it’s just bad luck for us.”
The three of them sat looking into their laps, in that pause which comes when the sad circumstances of friends are emotionally spoken of—to a stranger. The pause lengthened into what Liz had come to think of as the house-hunting one. It was the one that came when all the closets had been looked into with proper shrieks of embarrassment and demur, the unmade beds had been passed by, the half-eaten meal apologized for, the babies smiled at—when all too much had been seen. Then the eye of both parties averted, and even when buyer had mentally turned on his heel at first glance, now for a moment he rocked on an ankle to save face for all concerned, maintaining a look on his own that said, “We-ell…” I’ll let you know. But surely they all knew she was taking it; Maury had known from the first; the coffee had been meant to, well, ratify it—their coming relationship. Though she was not sure they had too much in common, they were going to be friends of a sort—she was going to live here. That was really the trouble, they were all too young for this sort of business. They’d all been impulsively friendly in the quick way one’s elders always cautioned against, and now they didn’t quite know how to exchange money—between friends. None of them had yet acquired the hard business shell that made one able. She liked them the better—they all had this in common.
But when they seemed to flinch as she fumbled with her bag, it was really too much—too much theater. And too unfair, just because she
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