Acquainted With The Night Part 6

"All right," said Vera, shrugging her shoulders. "But I don't think you're ordinary." She understood perfectly the dynamics of these scenes: in the morning Jean would once more brew her fine coffee, having forgotten everything. Vera had pity for her daughter, as well as tolerance for the sputtering fireworks of midadolescence. Still and all, it was terribly wearing, terribly debilitating. When she finished in the kitchen she sat down at the table, cradled her head in her arms, and closed her eyes. Brauer, Elemi, she murmured.

Suddenly, she didn't know how much time had pa.s.sed, in the deep stillness of the apartment she thought she heard her name from far off. She didn't stir. The next moment someone was shaking her by the shoulder.

"Are you okay, Mrs. Leonard? I'm sorry to wake you."

Baffled, she looked up at the thin, freckled face. Ah, of course, it was Thomas, the boy staying with them for Easter. He was into anarchy and natural foods. "That's all right, Thomas. I'm fine."

Brauer and Elemi had been sailing to Europe, where they planned to go backpacking through France and Italy. They had just returned from a tour of the s.h.i.+p's kitchen and were deciding whether they wanted to play shuffleboard or simply laze in the sun. Meanwhile they stretched out on deck chairs and drank bouillon. The shock of the intrusion made the blood pound behind Vera's eyes.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, but it's so late. You'll get a stiff neck sleeping like that."

She rose and rubbed her eyes with a tight fist. "Where's Freddy?"

"Freddy-uh-he gave me an extra set of keys." He walked quickly away from her to the sink, turned on the water and filled a gla.s.s. "He was taking this girl home. She lived very far out. I don't know how long ..."

Vera could see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he gulped the drink. "That's quite all right, Thomas." She smiled. "I don't mean to pry. Turn out the lights, will you, when you're finished. Good night."

Climbing into bed, she thought to herself, You'd better watch it, Vera, with your Brauer and Elemi.

When the holidays were over and Freddy and Thomas returned to school, Jean acquired a boyfriend, a curly-haired, wildly energetic boy named Donald, who wore thick gla.s.ses too and was reputedly a mathematical genius. They spent long hours in her bedroom discussing intellectual and moral issues with the door open. Vera liked Donald, who often accosted her while waiting for Jean and elaborated complex mathematical theories.

"Mrs. Leonard, did you know that if the fastest rocket s.h.i.+p devised by man were to race the earth in one complete orbit around the sun it would arrive two years later?"

"Is that so?"

She was lost in his fevered explanation of objects hurtling through s.p.a.ce at frenetic rates of speed-he paced rapidly as he spoke, occasionally b.u.mping into furniture-but impressed by his mental stamina. When he left she felt as though a whirlwind had pa.s.sed through the apartment, and she sank down in a chair, murmuring, Brauer, Elemi.

For they were her constant companions. More alone now that Jean had Donald, Vera took to strolling through Central Park. The days were growing longer and balmy. It stayed light till after seven. She would rush from the elevator after work, deliberately not looking around in case Will might be there, and walk the four blocks to the park, to find Brauer and Elemi waiting for her at their favorite entrance, East Sixty-fourth Street, near the zoo. Of course they didn't look at her directly or speak to her-they stayed slightly off to her left-but they knew she was there and didn't mind her walking near them. Sometimes they visited the animals. Brauer would call to the elephants, imitating their heavy stamping and the sullen arching of their trunks, while Elemi laughed and fed them peanuts. Vera watched from a few yards off. Later, if she stopped to buy an ice cream or a soft drink they paused and waited for her. They talked incessantly in soft whispers; what they said was not important, only the glow that enveloped them and that they were generous enough to share.

One evening when Vera came in at dusk, Jean, who was flipping hamburgers expertly, asked with an amused smile, "Come on, tell me, Mom, are you seeing somebody?"

"Of course not," Vera said sharply. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, you're out a lot, you come home all sort of rosy, and, like, your mind is elsewhere. I think it's great. You don't have to keep it a secret from me. We're both women."

"Don't be silly." Vera quickly laid the plates on the table. "There's nothing of the kind. I walked home through the park, that's all."

Late one afternoon at work Will buzzed her on the intercom. "Vera." It sounded like a command.

"Yes?" She should have sounded more confident, she thought immediately. After all, his was the question, hers the answer.

"How about a drink tonight? It's warm, we can sit outside at The Blue Door. I haven't seen you in ages."

"Thanks, Will, it's a nice idea. But I'm sorry. I've-" She took a deep breath for courage. "I've got a date."

"You've got a date."

"I'm afraid so."

"I see." He hung up.

In a moment he was in her doorway, glaring. "I'd like to say a few words to you." He shut the door firmly behind him. His s.h.i.+rtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows and his loosened tie hung diagonally across his chest. "It's not like I'm some stranger trying to pick you up on the street, you know. It's not like I'm out to make you and then laugh it off." He was trying with strain to keep his voice down. His thick hair hung crazily over his forehead, and as he spoke, enraged; he wagged a finger at her. She noticed the dark hairs on his hands and felt an odd flicker of desire. He was much larger than she. Vera was afraid. "You know, who I am, Vera. Aren't I good enough to pa.s.s an hour with, G.o.ddammit? I was good enough last year, when you needed a shoulder to cry on. Sure, that was fine. That was all for you, all taking and no giving. But when I ask for something, your company for an hour, that's all, oh no, that's asking too much. And you won't come straight out and say you don't want to; no, you give these phony excuses. You know what you are?" He wagged the hairy finger close to her face and she blinked in terror. "You are one h.e.l.luva selfish, stuck-up b.i.t.c.h."

She didn't know what she could possibly say in reply. But she didn't need to say anything, for as soon as he finished speaking he stalked out of her office and slammed the door loudly behind him. The sound seemed to invade her body and made her shrink in her chair. She folded her arms on her desk and laid her head down. I can't, she thought. She was sorry about Will, but it was impossible, she was too afraid.

The very first time, she remembered, John had whispered, "Are you afraid?" And when she nodded he stroked her cheek and said, "It will be all right. I'll take care of you." She had grown used to him, so that the fear had shrunk very small, to the size of a shriveled pea. But then he died. He promised to take care of her but he broke his promise. She could not do it again with another, who might not take care. Even with John, twenty years, the small fear remained, each time he touched her. Sometimes it was so small, a speck at the bottom of a canyon, that she could pretend it wasn't there. But it always was, and she came to understand that she needed it; she was grateful for it. It was the small fear that held her body together and kept her from flying completely wild and perhaps shattering. She was more afraid of what she might do, how she might be, without her small fear, her amulet, the pea under the mattress.

Vera raised her head. There was still some work to finish before she could leave. Would they wait? They were accustomed to her arriving promptly at five-fifteen. She hurried through her papers, especially careful with the account sheets, though, with Will so angry. It would be disastrous if she messed them up, and Will told Howard, and Howard began watching. There were still the hospital bills, Jean's contact lenses, Freddy's moped. ... At last she was finished and dashed out, not even bothering to wash her face or fix her hair, which had fallen again and hung loose down her back. Let it. It didn't matter, with Brauer and Elemi.

It was nearly five forty-five when she reached the park entrance. They were still there, thank heaven, sitting on a bench in the shade. Elemi preferred the shade. Vera stopped in relief, panting. She had run all the way. When Brauer and Elemi saw her they rose instantly, joining hands, and began their early evening stroll. Of course they had to wait, Vera realized as the slow walking calmed her senses. They are not real, they are mine. They can only do what I make them do. She laughed to herself, thinking of how foolish she had been to worry. They could not go off alone. They would always be there for her, and would do only what she wished and permitted, for they were her own invention.

Brauer was especially gentle towards Elemi this evening. He stroked her hand and picked out the softest, greenest patch of gra.s.s for her to sit on. When she twisted her ankle scrambling up a rock he rubbed it tenderly between his palms to ease the pain. Elemi tossed her head back, her long fair hair streaming out on the breeze, and looked up at Brauer with a gaze full of trust and grat.i.tude. Tears came to Vera's eyes at the sight of them together.

Jean got her first real job, as a junior counselor at a summer camp in Maine. "What are you going to do on your vacation, Mom? Freddy will be working on the Cape, and you'll be all alone." They were drinking coffee together after dinner. Vera lit a cigarette and waved the smoke away from Jean, towards the open window.

"I don't know. Probably stay home and take it easy."

"You really ought to do something, Mom. You never go anywhere. You could visit Uncle Matt on Fire Island. They always ask you. Or take a trip. San Francisco? You've never been out West."

"Maybe. I'll see."

The apartment was lonesome with Jean gone, but once Vera was on vacation everything would be different. She had known for weeks what she wanted to do. The last evening after work, rather than leaving them on a park bench while she went dutifully home, she brought them right along with her: out the West Side entrance, down the street, into the lobby, up in the elevator. Brauer and Elemi, as usual, were serene, undisturbed by the change. They had been so many places that new adventures did not intimidate them. Vera's hand trembled as she fit the key in the lock. She was overcome with shyness. Should she speak? Welcome them with some joking remark? She decided definitely not. That would be going too far.

"Well, here we are," she muttered to herself. She kicked off her shoes, turned on the air conditioner, fixed a gin and tonic, and flopped down in an armchair in an ecstasy of relaxation, solitude, and freedom.

Brauer and Elemi pa.s.sed a quiet evening browsing through the books on the shelves, playing Mozart on the stereo, childishly exploring the bedrooms, Jean's, Freddy's, Vera's. As for Vera, it was the most beautiful evening she had spent in years, with nothing to be done, alone and yet not alone. She lay back in her chair listening to the music while they wandered about the apartment hand in hand, and she thought of all the things the three of them would do on her month off. They would go camping in Newfoundland, surfing on the beaches of Hawaii, ambling down the stone streets of Florence in the shadow of the great cathedral, strolling in tranquillity through the rock gardens of Kyoto. It was a summer of endless possibility.

At last Vera decided to go to bed: she was very tired. Brauer and Elemi could settle down anywhere they pleased-there was plenty of room. It was warm out and the air conditioner was not working well; she stripped off all her clothes and went to bed without a nightgown. She smoked a last cigarette as she did the daily crossword puzzle, then turned off the bedside lamp. The dark seemed to make the room warmer and almost fragrant, as if there were flowers not far off. Her body felt light and smooth under the cool sheet. She remembered John and ran her hand over the sheet on his side of the double bed. It was odd how little she dwelt on John. She had thought about him so much when she was sick in the hospital that now there seemed nothing left to think about. She didn't even miss him particularly anymore, though it had been better to sleep with him than alone. She had missed him so much during the months of his dying that now there was no missing left in her. She missed only the feeling of missing him.

Sometimes, from her great distance, she wondered if she had ever loved him. What was love? What did it feel like to love? Could real, flesh-and-blood people walk around forever holding hands, with stars in their eyes, like Brauer and Elemi? Of course not. They had to work, shop, prepare dinner, raise children. Her marriage, she judged, regarding it from her great distance, had been neither very unhappy nor very happy. It had been dull. Naturally there was a first flush of enchantment, but when that paled, it was dull, there was no use pretending otherwise. And even in that first flush of enchantment it had not been as beautiful as Brauer and Elemi. They had never gone places or done exciting things. Vera had had dreams but John was practical, and she was afraid to burden him further with her dreams. She was even a little embarra.s.sed by them, next to his practical ways. Probably she had loved him, she decided. She had always behaved like a loving wife. Perhaps real love was dull.

She was just falling asleep when she sensed that Brauer and Elemi were in the room. Strange, she had not noticed them enter. Brauer had his hands on Elemi's shoulders. He pulled her towards him, clasped her tightly, and kissed her long on the mouth. Vera was surprised, and a trifle amused. Aha, she thought. So they are not such innocents. Elemi's arms closed around Brauer and she began caressing his back. Brauer bent and buried his face in her neck, roughly, and Elemi, her eyes closed, leaned her head back and gasped. Her fingers were taut and clutching at him. Vera's eyes began to pound. No, she thought in panic. Not yet. But they didn't stop. They sank down to the floor, where Brauer helped Elemi pull off her s.h.i.+rt, then put his lips to her breast. Elemi had her small white hand on the inside of his thigh. Vera shut her eyes tight but the vision remained. There was no way to get rid of them. Not yet, she tried to scream, but no sound would come. She felt herself grow inflamed, blood pounding and rus.h.i.+ng to every surface. You want to see it, she whispered angrily. You know you want to see it. Yes, all along she had secretly wondered why, if they were so in love, they never made love. They must have done it behind her back, like naughty children. Why were they showing her now? Why now, she wanted to scream at them. But of course they would not hear. The pounding of her blood was unbearable. Her eyes were hot and every inch of her skin ached as she watched, for now they were intertwined in another long kiss, arms and legs groping, seizing. Vera placed a hand beneath her heart to calm herself, but the warm touch only made the throbbing worse. If it kept on she would soon burst from her skin.

Furious at herself, she snarled, If you want to see it so badly then take a good look. They were completely naked now. Vera cried out in fright-Brauer was so strong and hard, Elemi so white and frail. His fingers disappeared between her legs; Vera's spine jerked in a spasm of terror. Elemi seemed nearly faint in her abandon. In the park so pretty and childlike, now she had her legs spread apart, with her arms clinging around Brauer's neck and her open lips reaching for his. Then he was on top of her. Vera stiffened. Don't hurt Elemi, she whispered. Don't. Don't hurt. He began to push. She could see Elemi's face very clearly, the tight tendons of her arched neck, the trembling bluish-white of her eyelids, her mouth open as if in shock. Sweat glistened on Elemi's forehead. Brauer kept pus.h.i.+ng, merciless, rhythmic. Elemi's face was so strained and twisted, Vera could not tell if it was misery or joy. Her own body began moving up and down in rhythm with Brauer's pus.h.i.+ng and she could not stop it. No, not yet, she cried, but she was powerless to stop herself or them. They had escaped her. She had escaped herself.

On and on Brauer pushed-would he never stop? Vera ached to know what Elemi was feeling, poor Elemi, straining with him, pounding up and down on the floor so hard her frail body made a soft thudding sound. Was that wild face twisted in misery or joy? Somewhere within her she remembered that Elemi could feel only what she wished her to feel, yet Vera was powerless, caught in their unstoppable rhythm, for she could not choose between misery or joy. Brauer kept pus.h.i.+ng, and Elemi's face kept the terrible riddle, till Vera herself finally erupted from the inside out, shattering the air around her.

When it was finished she leaned back weakly and wiped her streaming brow with the back of her hand, amazed to have survived. Her body was utterly limp and exhausted, but when she focused her eyes she saw that they, the dream, strained on. Still he pushed without respite and still she thudded beneath him. They would never stop.

OVER THE HILL.

I'M NOT SORRY. I couldn't help it, the way she was acting with Pat. My mother, who is a draftsman (or draftsperson) in an architect's office, and Pat, who is an art teacher, somehow got the idea that they could make a lot of money on the side doing bartending at fancy parties. So they're taking a short course, one night a week. They both need the money. Pat is divorced also, and has two children to support.

Pat came over after supper with a shopping bag full of equipment, shakers and strainers and stirrers that she said she had picked up wholesale on the Bowery. "I felt like a bag lady," she said, "carrying this around all afternoon." My mother had stopped off at the liquor store on her way home from work. She lined up bottles on the table till our kitchen looked like a saloon. Then they put on their gla.s.ses and opened their notebooks, and practiced making these weird concoctions, Sloe Gin Fizzes, Sidecars, Sombreros, Margaritas, Harvey's Wallbangers, etc.

I was sitting and watching them, but not really paying attention at first. What I couldn't get out of my mind for some reason were those pregnant women I saw on the street yesterday. I swear, practically every woman on the street was pregnant-every age, race, religion, and creed. Some were already pus.h.i.+ng strollers with babies. There was one blond girl in a long floaty Indian dress and hanging earrings. I thought she looked something like my mother might have looked years ago, and she was holding hands with this neat-looking guy with a red beard and a yellow checked s.h.i.+rt. I wondered if he was the one who made her pregnant. I even tried to imagine them, but as usual I was unsuccessful. If I ever get pregnant I plan to stay indoors the entire time, not only because of the way I would look, which is reason enough, but more because a pregnant person is living evidence that she actually did that with a man. Even though my mother claims everyone does it, everyone doesn't have to go around advertising it.

I went into my mother's room late last night when she came home from her date with James Wertheim, her new boyfriend who is a lawyer. I wasn't exactly waiting up, I was going over my social studies for the midterm. I am too old to have a babysitter-I am a babysitter myself-but I do like to know she is there when I go to sleep. I mentioned about seeing all the pregnant women and she said, "Oh yes, that's nothing unusual. They hibernate in winter, then they come out in spring." Obviously she didn't get my point, which is that it is unusual to see them all in one day. Anyhow, from pregnancy we drifted on to the subject of abortion. My mother's opinion was that under certain circ.u.mstances abortion might be a good idea. "Try to understand, Jodie. What if it happened to you? I don't mean right now." She laughed a sort of awkward laugh. "But when you were, oh, eighteen or nineteen and going to college or something, and unprepared for it." She stopped in the middle of getting undressed and sat down on her bed. It was kind of funny but nice, her sitting there in her bra and panty hose in the middle of the night, talking so earnestly about this topic.

I told her that in my opinion abortion is basically murder. I don't see how you can get around that. "Anyhow," I said, "it couldn't happen to me."

My mother crossed her legs in the lotus position and smiled. She is rather small and has a youthful figure for her age, as you would need to have to get in that position. (She is thirty-four, over the hill, despite her appearance.) "What do you mean, it couldn't happen to you?" she said. "It could happen to anyone."

I suppose she ought to know, since it happened to her in her senior year of college. Sometimes she says I am the most important person in the world to her. Usually it's after she's gotten disgusted with some man she thought was great but then didn't call her, or who turned out on closer inspection to be not so great. My father has pretty much dropped out of our family group. He used to write me from New Mexico but I haven't had a letter in several months, not even for my birthday last Monday, although I understand the mail is very slow these days.

"It couldn't happen to me," I repeated. "It just wouldn't."

She tossed her head back and laughed in this special way she has-she sort of shakes her hair, which is short and naturally curly, and her big hoop earrings shake too. (We had our ears pierced together just a year ago for my twelfth birthday-she was scared to death, I had to hold her hand.) Then she patted my head like I was a baby that had made an extremely amusing statement, and said I better get to sleep since I had two midterms the next day. She even wanted to come and tuck me in but I reminded her I was a little old for that.

Well, to return to tonight, there they are, she and Pat, having themselves a fine time fooling around with their shakers and gla.s.ses like kids playing tea party, the way my mother used to do with me.

"I can't drink all this garbage," my mother announced. "No one drinks this stuff anymore. I'm going to make myself a nice martini and sip along as we work."

"I'll sample," said Pat. "I've always had an experimenting nature."

"Why do you have to practice making all those drinks if no one drinks them anymore?" I asked.

"We have to do what the teacher says," my mother answers. She and Pat find this remark highly droll. They are old friends from high school and laugh at everything the other says as though they are a TV comedy team. It's true that Pat is a lot of fun to have around, as my mother says, but I get the impression she doesn't quite realize she is over the hill. She's very tall and has long auburn hair and wears fancy pants suits and silk s.h.i.+rts and scarves. She chain-smokes and laughs a lot and talks constantly, and she seems to bring out a silly streak in people around her. My mother is basically a more quiet type, and wears jeans with turtleneck sweaters and junk jewelry and clunky Frye boots. (She paid eighty-five dollars for those boots, incidentally, and bought me a fake pair for only thirty-two.) "Now, do you serve this straight up or on the rocks?" Pat asks, holding up this shaker full of some yellowish stuff. Straight up means with no ice.

"Wait, I'll have to check my notes." In the midst of their giggling they had to keep putting on their gla.s.ses to check things in their notebooks. My mother wet the tip of her finger to turn the pages, which is another sign of age.

"On the rocks, it says. Wait, hold it, that's much too many rocks, Pat. Get some of those rocks out."

"I don't think there're too many."

"Come on," my mother says, "off with those rocks."

"I beg your pardon," Pat says, laughing. She is poking around at the ice cubes in the shaker with a long spoon, trying to get a few out. "You can't have too many rocks. I distinctly remember him saying that, Barbara."

"Like the Big Rock Candy Mountain," my mother says. "'Oh, the buzzing of the bees in the cigarette trees,'" she starts to sing.

"'Get a piece of the Rock,'" Pat sings.

"'Rock of ages, cleft for thee. Let me hide-'" But my mother has to stop singing, as they are both collapsing with laughter and Pat's rocks are melting all over the kitchen table. At this point I opened my math book and tried to do some homework, though there was not much room left. Besides being wet, the table was cluttered with pink and yellow and grayish concoctions in different-shaped gla.s.ses. I forgot to mention that they were both helping themselves to everything in sight. They said they had to, to see if they were coming out right.

"Do you have to be so noisy?" I said. "I'm trying to concentrate."

"Oh, Jodie is disapproving again. Do you feel left out, Jodie?" my mother said. "Wait, I'm going to make you something you can drink. Something spectacular, just for you."

"I don't like that stuff. It smells bitter."

"This won't be bitter." She put her gla.s.ses on again and flipped around in her notebook, then she poured a little bit of some really pretty green stuff over a shaker of ice, added cream and sugar and a few other things, put a big silver shaker on top, and began to shake it up.

"Remember, he said to shake very vigorously, Barbara," said Pat.

My mother shook harder. She looked like she was doing some kind of tribal dance, jiggling that thing up and down, and her whole body and her hoop earrings jiggling along with it.

"Watch out for your rocks, they could fall out," Pat said. "Did you remember to put in Frothee?"

"What's Frothee?" I asked.

"Frothee," my mother told me, still dancing around, "is this wonderful milky-white substance that spurts out of a little plastic container. On the table there, see? It's a magic fluid that makes everything it gets into creamy and yummy." Pat is again going into fits of laughter.

"I don't see what's so hilarious about Frothee," I said.

"Oh, you will," said Pat. "You will."

Finally my mother finished shaking and poured this beautiful thick light-green drink with a nice creamy top into a c.o.c.ktail gla.s.s. "Here, try this. It's called a Gra.s.shopper. But take small sips."

"Will it be bitter?"

She sipped it herself and smiled and twinkled her eyes at me over the rim of the gla.s.s. "Why don't you risk it?" she said.

It smelled light and minty, so I tried it. It was fantastic, like mint ice cream, not bitter at all. I must say, about my mother, that when she makes an effort she can really do things well.

"Is it good?"

"Not too bad." I drank some more. It felt smooth going down, like a malted with a little sting.

"Now, Jodie," said Pat, "for our next act I am going to demonstrate the wonders of Frothee, on the rocks." She studied something in her notebook for a couple of minutes, then filled her shaker with rocks, poured from a couple of bottles, and held up the little plastic container. "I squeeze the container gently," she said in this funny accent, like a foreign magician, "I squirt in three or four drops, and abracadabra! Whoos.h.!.+" She began to shake the mixture very vigorously. Since she is so tall the whole kitchen seemed to shake with her.

I didn't want to interrupt her performance to tell her that when she squeezed the white stuff out it reminded me of those spitters I had been pa.s.sing all day. Spitters are mostly old men with baggy pants and dangling shoelaces, but on occasion you will see boys in tight jeans and leather jackets doing it (who will probably grow up to be old men with baggy pants and dangling shoelaces). What they do is, they sort of jerk their heads back and make this choppy gurgling noise in their throats like a car engine trying to start in cold weather, then flip their heads forward and shoot the stuff sideways out of the corner of their mouths, if they have any decency left aiming it off the curb. If you are watching closely you can see the gob shoot out and land in the street, where it makes a splatter and then lies there in a sunburst pattern till a car or bus comes along and rides over it. Naturally this is not the most pleasant thing to see, especially first thing in the morning on the way to two midterms, and I had the good fortune to run into quite a few, both going and coming. What bothers me most about the spitters is that they have no self-control whatsoever. It is also called expectorating. My mother and I have this routine that began last year when we saw a funny sign about it in a bus terminal. Since then whenever we see a person doing it one of us whispers, Don't Expectorate if You Expect to Rate, and the other one answers, Don't Expect to Rate if You Expectorate. I realize it is extremely corny but for some reason it makes us crack up.

Anyhow, Pat was doing this flamenco-type dance as she shook the drink, and my mother was clicking her fingers and providing background music. It did come out very frothy, I must admit. I think it was a Brandy Alexander. Needless to say, they went into ecstasies over the way it looked. When they calmed down I asked my mother if she would make me another Gra.s.shopper, but she said no, one was quite enough.

"But I don't feel anything."

"Absolutely not. You're still a child. Do you want to get drunk?"

"You're the ones who are drunk. I really believe you two are drunk."

"Oh, Jodie, come on. I haven't even had the equivalent of two drinks. When have you ever seen me drunk? That child is so strict with me," she said to Pat.

"Well, you're both acting so silly," I said.

"What is wrong with having a little fun?"

So I shut my mouth and went back to the math homework.

Pat took off her gla.s.ses and laid them on the table, then leaned back in her chair and blew out a long puff of smoke at the ceiling. She suddenly seemed very tired, and she waved her arm in a tired way over the table, full of half-empty gla.s.ses. "What are we going to do with all of this? It's a pity to waste all our efforts."