wryly.
“My room.”
“Won’t they kick you out if you have a girl in your room?”
“Not if she’s my sister, and not if she’s starving.”
He held a bowl of Campbell’s chicken soup under her nose.
To which she said “Oh.” When she’d drunk it down she burped, like an infant, and fell sound asleep.
It was an odd feeling, having Orelia there. Several times during the night he woke just to look at her. She’d put on one of his undershirts and his bathrobe, and her short, bushy hair surrounded her thin face like a cushion. He’d heard there werewomen who starved themselves for the sake of being thin but she was the first one he’d met. The next morning, when he woke up, she was gone. He didn’t see her again until the last week of school. By then she was rail thin, and there was a cool, distant glint in her eye.
And then a couple of years later they were surprised to find each other again in a youth hostel in Brussels. She was heading for Paris, he for Berlin. They’d spent the night together, two young Americans lonely and far from home, and she’d seemed in need of comforting; but distracted, too, her thinness by now rather frightening, and she’d listened complacently, after they’d made love (John incredulous that her joints bulged conspicuously in arms and legs) to his announcement of his upcoming marriage.
“I’ll never marry,” she’d said with a sigh of relief, as if that were at least one obviously stupid thing she was sure she’d never do.
But then many years later still, he’d heard she’d married. Someone with a profession (John had by then given up law, with the same lightening of spirits with which he was to, subsequently, give up pre-med, psychology and accounting), money and a big stone house.
Sad to say, shameful to say, too, but though quite often happy in his marriage to Leonie—a smooth, upper-middle-class black Vassar woman, and an irresistible Christian to boot—there were many, many times when, even though he had never seen it, his thoughts and his heart drifted toward the big stone house. But they were poor. He, in particular, was poor; Leonie came from money—there were famous singers and musicians in her family tree; there’d be money for her when her people died. They livedpoor, too, on principle. They both taught, both wrote—mainly pamphlets on various social ills—and with the arrival of their children, a girl first, then a boy, their life seemed happy and full. He did not ask why then was he so often in a marijuana and alcohol daze.
But after ten years he found himself, as if after a long sleep (though his life had been crammed with people, ideas, events, as everyone’s is) stumbling up the steps of the big stone house.
Orelia, wearing a long black dress and amber beads that glowed in the shadowy entryway, let him in, introduced him briefly to her own three children who were flying by, and led the way into the mahogany wainscoted lower sitting room.
“And how are you?” he’d enthused, looking furtively about for signs of the husband.
“I think I’m okay,” she said, and then, bluntly, offhandedly, “I’m getting divorced.”
All thought of the bogus survey of salary levels among black Columbia alumni that he was supposed to be conducting fled. All he could think was: I am too poor to offer this woman anything but a casual affair. Which, after a glaringly brief mumble of inquiry and sympathy, he did.
“Atrocious timing,” she’d said, frowning. “My husband has cancer, the children don’t know yet, and I’m terrified.”
And then followed the years of watching her from a distance, joined only by letters, as she struggled to free herself, her children, even her husband. And at last it was done, somehow. The house sold and the money divided, the children prepared for a different lifestyle, her husband once again healthy and prosperous. A new job invented for herself, a new city. With John following her steps almost exactly, but one
“My room.”
“Won’t they kick you out if you have a girl in your room?”
“Not if she’s my sister, and not if she’s starving.”
He held a bowl of Campbell’s chicken soup under her nose.
To which she said “Oh.” When she’d drunk it down she burped, like an infant, and fell sound asleep.
It was an odd feeling, having Orelia there. Several times during the night he woke just to look at her. She’d put on one of his undershirts and his bathrobe, and her short, bushy hair surrounded her thin face like a cushion. He’d heard there werewomen who starved themselves for the sake of being thin but she was the first one he’d met. The next morning, when he woke up, she was gone. He didn’t see her again until the last week of school. By then she was rail thin, and there was a cool, distant glint in her eye.
And then a couple of years later they were surprised to find each other again in a youth hostel in Brussels. She was heading for Paris, he for Berlin. They’d spent the night together, two young Americans lonely and far from home, and she’d seemed in need of comforting; but distracted, too, her thinness by now rather frightening, and she’d listened complacently, after they’d made love (John incredulous that her joints bulged conspicuously in arms and legs) to his announcement of his upcoming marriage.
“I’ll never marry,” she’d said with a sigh of relief, as if that were at least one obviously stupid thing she was sure she’d never do.
But then many years later still, he’d heard she’d married. Someone with a profession (John had by then given up law, with the same lightening of spirits with which he was to, subsequently, give up pre-med, psychology and accounting), money and a big stone house.
Sad to say, shameful to say, too, but though quite often happy in his marriage to Leonie—a smooth, upper-middle-class black Vassar woman, and an irresistible Christian to boot—there were many, many times when, even though he had never seen it, his thoughts and his heart drifted toward the big stone house. But they were poor. He, in particular, was poor; Leonie came from money—there were famous singers and musicians in her family tree; there’d be money for her when her people died. They livedpoor, too, on principle. They both taught, both wrote—mainly pamphlets on various social ills—and with the arrival of their children, a girl first, then a boy, their life seemed happy and full. He did not ask why then was he so often in a marijuana and alcohol daze.
But after ten years he found himself, as if after a long sleep (though his life had been crammed with people, ideas, events, as everyone’s is) stumbling up the steps of the big stone house.
Orelia, wearing a long black dress and amber beads that glowed in the shadowy entryway, let him in, introduced him briefly to her own three children who were flying by, and led the way into the mahogany wainscoted lower sitting room.
“And how are you?” he’d enthused, looking furtively about for signs of the husband.
“I think I’m okay,” she said, and then, bluntly, offhandedly, “I’m getting divorced.”
All thought of the bogus survey of salary levels among black Columbia alumni that he was supposed to be conducting fled. All he could think was: I am too poor to offer this woman anything but a casual affair. Which, after a glaringly brief mumble of inquiry and sympathy, he did.
“Atrocious timing,” she’d said, frowning. “My husband has cancer, the children don’t know yet, and I’m terrified.”
And then followed the years of watching her from a distance, joined only by letters, as she struggled to free herself, her children, even her husband. And at last it was done, somehow. The house sold and the money divided, the children prepared for a different lifestyle, her husband once again healthy and prosperous. A new job invented for herself, a new city. With John following her steps almost exactly, but one
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