Read Online Clair De Lune by Jetta Carleton - Free Book Online Page B

Dell chimed in. “Didn’t you, Allie?”
    â€œI wish he’d let me have something I wanted,” said Verna.
    Allen said, “Maybe if you asked him—”
    â€œOh phoo. He doesn’t want anything practical.”
    â€œWell, what’s practical,” said Mae Dell, “about a football team? Would somebody tell me that?”
    â€œIt brings in money,” said Gladys, “so they can raise our salaries.”
    â€œI don’t see what that’s got to do with it. I just don’t understand—”
    â€œGet your things and come on,” said Verna. “We’ll explain it. ’Night, Allen.”
    â€œâ€™Night,” she said and went home unregenerated.

Seven
    I t was terrible!” she said, giggling. “Pick turned purple.”
    The three of them, bundled in sweaters and jackets, sat on the landing. Though official spring was only a day away, there was still a distinct chill in the twilight. Allen wore slacks. In the house it was warm, but outside, a planet as big and bright as a silver dollar hung in the cold blue sky.
    George said, “He’s just mad because you won’t help him be the dean.”
    â€œWonder which one will win,” said Toby, “him or the Phud.”
    â€œProbably neither.” Allen laughed again and bit into an apple.
    â€œI’ll lay my nickel on the Phud.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œPick’s the militia. He’ll go into the army.” Toby always brought things around to talk of impending war.
    â€œI don’t know why he’d do that. If he wants to be the dean, he’d better stick around.”
    â€œHe may not be able to,” Toby said
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œHe’s national guard—they can call them into regular service.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œThe war, for chrissake. Don’t you know there’s a war on?”
    â€œNot here,” she said, spitting a seed.
    â€œSo we’ll go there.” Toby assured her
    â€œWe will not. The president said no son of an American mother—”
    â€œIn a rat’s reticule,” said Toby. “We’ve got a draft, haven’t we?”
    â€œIt’s a peacetime draft.”
    Toby snorted.
    â€œWell, that’s what they call it, don’t they?”
    â€œThis isn’t peacetime,” said Toby.
    â€œWe are not at war!”
    â€œGive us time.”
    â€œOh, shut up and eat your apple.” She slammed into the house, dropped her apple core in the garbage, and came back. “Honestly! You are the most pessimistic! You’d think you wanted a war.”
    â€œLike hell I do,” said Toby.
    â€œThen why are you always talking about it?”
    â€œBecause I’m scared.”
    â€œNonsense. You don’t have to be.”
    â€œLike hell I don’t.”
    â€œYou said that before. Oh dear. I don’t know who to believe.”
    â€œWhom,” said George.
    â€œNot in the vernacular.” She leaned back against the wall and, resorting to poetry as she always did, looked up and said, “‘In the high west there burns a furious star....’”
    â€œWonder what it’s so mad about,” said George. So much for Wallace Stevens. “Want to ride the bike?” They were giving her lessons on George’s old hand-me-down, which he now left in her apartment.
    â€œNot much,” she said. “I fell off three times the other day. My knee’s still sore.”
    â€œHow come you never learned to ride a bike?”
    â€œBikes cost money. We rode plow horses.”
    They leaned back comfortably and listened to the steeple chimes ring twelve times.
    â€œQuarter hours are unresolved,” said George. “They leave you hanging.”
    â€œQuarter hours,” Toby said, “are a warning.”
    â€œHow so?”
    He said solemnly, “Your hour is coming.”
    â€œWell, let’s improve it then.” Allen