sit cross-legged and compose haikus. Very beatnik.”
“Sounds fine. What are hi-cooz?”
“Little Japanese poems. But let’s get out of here before Leonard cracks his whip again.”
The Silversteins lived upstairs in six rooms of a three-story garden apartment complex built just after the war. On permanent display, the place was immaculately clean. Except Amy’s room.
Stacks of books and magazines. Articles ripped from newspapers. A bulletin board crowded with notes and memos. The bed sloppily made. Sheets hanging down beyond the mattress.
“Here we are!” Amy announced, walking in. “Welcome to the city dump.”
Guy studied a pile of books. The Prophet, Catch-22, Mein Kampf, The Catcher in the Rye …
“Interesting collection.” He tried sounding knowledgeable while tapping a copy of Tropic of Cancer.
Raising an instructive finger in the air, Amy postulated, “Only if we listen to what the others have to say can we best make up our own minds as to how to run our lives!”
Guy wasn’t sure what she meant, but he was impressed. “You’re a generally interesting person, Amy.”
Amy smiled fondly at her guest. “I have a feeling you are too.”
“Thanks.” Guy clicked his teeth. “And not only that … I’m a Democrat!”
“I won’t tell a soul… . Now then, would you like some tea?”
Guy slanted his eyes with his fingers and bowed, a humble Oriental.
“I’m glad no one’s home yet. My mother’d drive us crazy.”
Guy studied the tall girl, trying to figure her out.
“How bout Lapsang Souchong?” she asked.
Guy was stumped. “He some famous Chinese Communist?”
Amy didn’t answer.
“I know!” Guy hit his head. “It’s a breed of dog!”
“Not quite. It’s the name of a tea.”
“Oh. You mean there are others besides Lipton?”
“Hundreds. And warmed pumpkin bread with kumquat marmalade?”
Guy winced. “Whatever you say.”
“I’ll be right back. Why don’t you read a few books while I’m gone?”
As guy thumbed rapidly through Das Kapital , none of it making sense, he heard the front door open. A woman’s voice called out, “Yoo-hoo!”
“In the kitchen!” yelled Amy.
There followed a series of jumbled words. Both parties raised voices until someone said, “I’ll see for myself!”
Insistent footsteps approached and a handsome brunette lady entered the room.
“Oh!” The lady stopped short, releasing a breath of air. “Excuse me. Amy said she was entertaining a man in her room.”
Guy looked around for possible candidates. “Who’d you think I was?”
“Well”—she grinned—”you’re obviously a very young man.”
“True, “Guy confessed.
“I never know what to expect from Amy.”
“I guess that makes two of us.”
“I’m Evelyn Silverstein. Amy’s mother.”
“Hello, Mrs. Silverstein. Guy Fowler.”
Evelyn slowly surveyed the room. “Can you believe this sty? You could eat off my living room floor, it’s so clean. I’m forever hoping Amy might entertain her friends in there. But no, she drags them into this den of bacteria. Want some sage advice, young man?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t have children. Raise puppies. You won’t be disappointed.”
Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Guy nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
Balancing a crowded tray, Amy now joined the party. “How was the beauty parlor, Evelyn?”
“News under the dryer practically singed my hair. Jeanne Wright’s pregnant again and Martha Ames is having an affair with her dry cleaner. Lucky stiff, she’s had all her curtains cleaned free.” Evelyn fingered her hair. “But just look at this comb-out. Barton’s losing his touch. You know how much that fruit gets to make me think I look like the youngest mother on the block?”
“How do you know he’s a fruit?” Amy said wearily.
“Don’t go liberal on me, dear. All hairdressers are. Same as men ballerinas and Jesuit priests. Save the propaganda for your readers.”
“It’s not
“Sounds fine. What are hi-cooz?”
“Little Japanese poems. But let’s get out of here before Leonard cracks his whip again.”
The Silversteins lived upstairs in six rooms of a three-story garden apartment complex built just after the war. On permanent display, the place was immaculately clean. Except Amy’s room.
Stacks of books and magazines. Articles ripped from newspapers. A bulletin board crowded with notes and memos. The bed sloppily made. Sheets hanging down beyond the mattress.
“Here we are!” Amy announced, walking in. “Welcome to the city dump.”
Guy studied a pile of books. The Prophet, Catch-22, Mein Kampf, The Catcher in the Rye …
“Interesting collection.” He tried sounding knowledgeable while tapping a copy of Tropic of Cancer.
Raising an instructive finger in the air, Amy postulated, “Only if we listen to what the others have to say can we best make up our own minds as to how to run our lives!”
Guy wasn’t sure what she meant, but he was impressed. “You’re a generally interesting person, Amy.”
Amy smiled fondly at her guest. “I have a feeling you are too.”
“Thanks.” Guy clicked his teeth. “And not only that … I’m a Democrat!”
“I won’t tell a soul… . Now then, would you like some tea?”
Guy slanted his eyes with his fingers and bowed, a humble Oriental.
“I’m glad no one’s home yet. My mother’d drive us crazy.”
Guy studied the tall girl, trying to figure her out.
“How bout Lapsang Souchong?” she asked.
Guy was stumped. “He some famous Chinese Communist?”
Amy didn’t answer.
“I know!” Guy hit his head. “It’s a breed of dog!”
“Not quite. It’s the name of a tea.”
“Oh. You mean there are others besides Lipton?”
“Hundreds. And warmed pumpkin bread with kumquat marmalade?”
Guy winced. “Whatever you say.”
“I’ll be right back. Why don’t you read a few books while I’m gone?”
As guy thumbed rapidly through Das Kapital , none of it making sense, he heard the front door open. A woman’s voice called out, “Yoo-hoo!”
“In the kitchen!” yelled Amy.
There followed a series of jumbled words. Both parties raised voices until someone said, “I’ll see for myself!”
Insistent footsteps approached and a handsome brunette lady entered the room.
“Oh!” The lady stopped short, releasing a breath of air. “Excuse me. Amy said she was entertaining a man in her room.”
Guy looked around for possible candidates. “Who’d you think I was?”
“Well”—she grinned—”you’re obviously a very young man.”
“True, “Guy confessed.
“I never know what to expect from Amy.”
“I guess that makes two of us.”
“I’m Evelyn Silverstein. Amy’s mother.”
“Hello, Mrs. Silverstein. Guy Fowler.”
Evelyn slowly surveyed the room. “Can you believe this sty? You could eat off my living room floor, it’s so clean. I’m forever hoping Amy might entertain her friends in there. But no, she drags them into this den of bacteria. Want some sage advice, young man?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t have children. Raise puppies. You won’t be disappointed.”
Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Guy nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
Balancing a crowded tray, Amy now joined the party. “How was the beauty parlor, Evelyn?”
“News under the dryer practically singed my hair. Jeanne Wright’s pregnant again and Martha Ames is having an affair with her dry cleaner. Lucky stiff, she’s had all her curtains cleaned free.” Evelyn fingered her hair. “But just look at this comb-out. Barton’s losing his touch. You know how much that fruit gets to make me think I look like the youngest mother on the block?”
“How do you know he’s a fruit?” Amy said wearily.
“Don’t go liberal on me, dear. All hairdressers are. Same as men ballerinas and Jesuit priests. Save the propaganda for your readers.”
“It’s not
Similar Books
