Emory admires you to distraction. He says you’ve got the best legs in town.”
The men met her at the door, took her into the kitchen, and fixed her a drink. “Why is it,” asked Reggie, “that real pretty girls like Christine never go around talking about their unconscious minds?”
Emory kissed her loudly on the cheek and said, “This one’s got it, hasn’t she, boy? This one’s really stacked.”
In the living-room, Monica was saying, “I’m so tired of novels about sensitive boys and their first sex experiences. You know how it is, Edith; they slink home in disgust, feeling degraded and guilty. Sometimes they flip their lids, sometimes they jump out of windows, they’re all so delicately adjusted and refined.”
Mrs. Marcusson took a swallow of sherry and said solemnly, “Sex is a wholesome and normal experience.”
One of Reginald’s long, pale eyes was set a little lower than its mate, like the migrating eye of a flounder at the beginning of its journey. He patted Christine’s shoulder and said, “Is everything under that black satin dress really
you
?”
Christine took her drink and said, “I get it from the upholsterer. He comes in twice a week and fluffs me out.” She laughed and pulled away, thinking:
Rhoda probably did follow the boy downthe beach. Maybe he ran out on the wharf to get away from her, and she followed him. Maybe he backed away from her and fell among the pilings. I don’t know whether this happened or not. But anyway it’s the worst thing I have to face—
“Now, the sort of book I’d like to read,” continued Mrs. Breedlove, “is one about a boy who hasn’t a smidgen of delicacy in him.” She took a sip from her glass, giggled, and went on. “My little boy is an ordinary, nasty little boy who’s going to be an ordinary, nasty little man when he’s grown. He works in a grocery store after school, I think; and he saves his nickels and dimes until he’s got enough for his first visit to the town whore, who’s old and fat, and hasn’t had a bath all over since Armistice Day.”
Mrs. Trellis laughed shrilly; then, as though realizing how loud her voice sounded in the room, she composed herself, sat up in her chair, and said, “If you’ll write it, I’ll buy a thousand copies.”
Christine thought:
But if the boy backed off into the water, and Rhoda was there, why didn’t she call out to the guard who saw her on the wharf? Why did she run away? Why did she leave the boy to die?
She turned her head and shuddered inwardly. “But I won’t keep going over this,” she said to herself. “It’s strange and terrible. I won’t think about it again.”
“My nasty, average little boy,” said Mrs. Breedlove, “came out of the place smirking and rolling his eyes. He whistled and swaggered from side to side. He’s wondering if he can talk his old man into letting him quit school and take a full time job at the bag factory. That way, he can make more money, and pay more visits to the greasy old whore who’s just taken his virginity. My boy’s going to be such a dear,
normal
boy!”
Emory stuck his head out and said, “If you girls are going to talk dirty, Reggie and I’ll have to leave the room.”
The girls went into whirlwinds of laughter, and Monica, catching his eye, shouted for him to open another bottle of thegood sherry as her guests wanted another sip before they got down to business; then, turning to Mrs. Marcusson, she said, “I want to apologize for Emory’s condition, my dear. Emory’s drunk.” Emory dropped an ice cube, kicked it under the stove, and said, “Well, look who’s talking!”
While he got out the sherry, Christine and Reginald came into the living-room and sat down. Christine said she’d been thinking about the conversation they’d had the last time she’d seen him. He’d told a story then of a woman who’d poisoned her niece for insurance. What she wanted to know now was when did such people start their careers? Did
The men met her at the door, took her into the kitchen, and fixed her a drink. “Why is it,” asked Reggie, “that real pretty girls like Christine never go around talking about their unconscious minds?”
Emory kissed her loudly on the cheek and said, “This one’s got it, hasn’t she, boy? This one’s really stacked.”
In the living-room, Monica was saying, “I’m so tired of novels about sensitive boys and their first sex experiences. You know how it is, Edith; they slink home in disgust, feeling degraded and guilty. Sometimes they flip their lids, sometimes they jump out of windows, they’re all so delicately adjusted and refined.”
Mrs. Marcusson took a swallow of sherry and said solemnly, “Sex is a wholesome and normal experience.”
One of Reginald’s long, pale eyes was set a little lower than its mate, like the migrating eye of a flounder at the beginning of its journey. He patted Christine’s shoulder and said, “Is everything under that black satin dress really
you
?”
Christine took her drink and said, “I get it from the upholsterer. He comes in twice a week and fluffs me out.” She laughed and pulled away, thinking:
Rhoda probably did follow the boy downthe beach. Maybe he ran out on the wharf to get away from her, and she followed him. Maybe he backed away from her and fell among the pilings. I don’t know whether this happened or not. But anyway it’s the worst thing I have to face—
“Now, the sort of book I’d like to read,” continued Mrs. Breedlove, “is one about a boy who hasn’t a smidgen of delicacy in him.” She took a sip from her glass, giggled, and went on. “My little boy is an ordinary, nasty little boy who’s going to be an ordinary, nasty little man when he’s grown. He works in a grocery store after school, I think; and he saves his nickels and dimes until he’s got enough for his first visit to the town whore, who’s old and fat, and hasn’t had a bath all over since Armistice Day.”
Mrs. Trellis laughed shrilly; then, as though realizing how loud her voice sounded in the room, she composed herself, sat up in her chair, and said, “If you’ll write it, I’ll buy a thousand copies.”
Christine thought:
But if the boy backed off into the water, and Rhoda was there, why didn’t she call out to the guard who saw her on the wharf? Why did she run away? Why did she leave the boy to die?
She turned her head and shuddered inwardly. “But I won’t keep going over this,” she said to herself. “It’s strange and terrible. I won’t think about it again.”
“My nasty, average little boy,” said Mrs. Breedlove, “came out of the place smirking and rolling his eyes. He whistled and swaggered from side to side. He’s wondering if he can talk his old man into letting him quit school and take a full time job at the bag factory. That way, he can make more money, and pay more visits to the greasy old whore who’s just taken his virginity. My boy’s going to be such a dear,
normal
boy!”
Emory stuck his head out and said, “If you girls are going to talk dirty, Reggie and I’ll have to leave the room.”
The girls went into whirlwinds of laughter, and Monica, catching his eye, shouted for him to open another bottle of thegood sherry as her guests wanted another sip before they got down to business; then, turning to Mrs. Marcusson, she said, “I want to apologize for Emory’s condition, my dear. Emory’s drunk.” Emory dropped an ice cube, kicked it under the stove, and said, “Well, look who’s talking!”
While he got out the sherry, Christine and Reginald came into the living-room and sat down. Christine said she’d been thinking about the conversation they’d had the last time she’d seen him. He’d told a story then of a woman who’d poisoned her niece for insurance. What she wanted to know now was when did such people start their careers? Did
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