Read Online Lion House,The by Marjorie Lee - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marjorie Lee
Ads: Link
pleaded. "Call him as soon as I've gone...?"
The sun fell on her hair the way it had before. I put my hand out and touched it. She stepped away from me, flushing. "Will you call him?" she asked quickly.
"I don't know. If I do, I'll let you know. But anyway, I'm glad you came." I moved towards her to kiss her goodbye; and, as she had on the night of anagrams, she stiffened and pecked me back like a bird. "You sure kiss funny," I commented. "You certainly kiss funnier than anyone I've ever known!"
She stepped away again and looked me in the eye. "That's the second time you've done that," she said.
"Done what?"
"Thought it was funny. The other time you didn't say it; but you laughed."
"Well, it is funny."
"You —" She hesitated. "You sort of—puzzle me."
"You puzzle me," I retorted.
She lowered her eyes and dug her foot deeper into the snow. Then she looked up again. "Will you ask him to come back?"
"Probably."
She turned and went to the car. On her way she stopped. "Do it now, will you? Right now?"
I sighed; and then I nodded.
The stiffness went out of her and she grinned. "Good!" she called. "And I'm sorry about that kiss," she added over her shoulder. "Next time I'll bring my violin!"
I called him. He was home within an hour. "I need you," he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the next few months we saw the Brownes with the regularity of a metronome. While Marc usually left our Bacchanalian revelries for bed at reasonable hours, there were times when Frannie, Brad, and I hung on until dawn. What this routine did to Brad's chances of retention by Maclntyre was something none of us dared dwell upon.
There was one Saturday when we all piled into Marc's station wagon at nine in the morning and drove off for a spree in New York. After a mostly liquid lunch at "21" we did the art world. Fifty-Seventh Street had already begun spewing its treasures about the city and the walking distance between galleries was enough to wear our pumps down to sneakers.
Frannie looked marvelous. In black suede spike heels, a narrow gray skirt and matching cashmere sweater, she was an ad out of Seventeen. Slung casually over her shoulders was a nutria coat which seemed to embarrass her inordinately. "I've only got it," she explained carefully, "because my mother made me nag it out of Marc the year we were married. She said even a shop girl wouldn't be caught dead without a fur coat and that it was essential to teach husbands that wives don't Live Naked Like Fish!"
"It's stunning," I told her; and she, borrowing the punchline of the joke about the Negress in Bergdorf's, said, "It’s stunning all right —but do you think it makes me look Jewish?"
"I'm willing it to Marian Deitz," she added. "She needs Wordly Goods to substitute for Lack of Love. Not that nutria would do it. Marian would need wall-to-wall mink; and even then she'd say it wasn't laid right."
"Will it to me," I kidded.
"Do you lack love, Jo?" she asked, suddenly serious.
It was fun looking at contemporary pictures with Frannie and Marc. Marc had the combination of a good eye and a knowledge of history. He could spot a phony a mile away and was able to point out derivatives of earlier schools which failed because too little had been added.
What Frannie's pronouncements missed in soundness, they made up for in originality. "Pure art's gone," she intoned. "It gave up its own identity when it started playing Trilby to psychiatry. There aren't any painting painters anymore. They're all just a bunch of Free Associators stretched out on canvas couches... And" she finished proudly, "that's absolutely mine. I've never read it anywhere!"
"We believe you," Marc said.
Steeped to the ears in culture, we knocked off at four for drinks at the Weylin Bar. Cy Walter was there. He remembered Frannie from other times and played all the things she asked for. There was one she requested twice; and, in a low voice which carried feeling rather than tone, she sang it for us. There were four lines
The sun fell on her hair the way it had before. I put my hand out and touched it. She stepped away from me, flushing. "Will you call him?" she asked quickly.
"I don't know. If I do, I'll let you know. But anyway, I'm glad you came." I moved towards her to kiss her goodbye; and, as she had on the night of anagrams, she stiffened and pecked me back like a bird. "You sure kiss funny," I commented. "You certainly kiss funnier than anyone I've ever known!"
She stepped away again and looked me in the eye. "That's the second time you've done that," she said.
"Done what?"
"Thought it was funny. The other time you didn't say it; but you laughed."
"Well, it is funny."
"You —" She hesitated. "You sort of—puzzle me."
"You puzzle me," I retorted.
She lowered her eyes and dug her foot deeper into the snow. Then she looked up again. "Will you ask him to come back?"
"Probably."
She turned and went to the car. On her way she stopped. "Do it now, will you? Right now?"
I sighed; and then I nodded.
The stiffness went out of her and she grinned. "Good!" she called. "And I'm sorry about that kiss," she added over her shoulder. "Next time I'll bring my violin!"
I called him. He was home within an hour. "I need you," he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the next few months we saw the Brownes with the regularity of a metronome. While Marc usually left our Bacchanalian revelries for bed at reasonable hours, there were times when Frannie, Brad, and I hung on until dawn. What this routine did to Brad's chances of retention by Maclntyre was something none of us dared dwell upon.
There was one Saturday when we all piled into Marc's station wagon at nine in the morning and drove off for a spree in New York. After a mostly liquid lunch at "21" we did the art world. Fifty-Seventh Street had already begun spewing its treasures about the city and the walking distance between galleries was enough to wear our pumps down to sneakers.
Frannie looked marvelous. In black suede spike heels, a narrow gray skirt and matching cashmere sweater, she was an ad out of Seventeen. Slung casually over her shoulders was a nutria coat which seemed to embarrass her inordinately. "I've only got it," she explained carefully, "because my mother made me nag it out of Marc the year we were married. She said even a shop girl wouldn't be caught dead without a fur coat and that it was essential to teach husbands that wives don't Live Naked Like Fish!"
"It's stunning," I told her; and she, borrowing the punchline of the joke about the Negress in Bergdorf's, said, "It’s stunning all right —but do you think it makes me look Jewish?"
"I'm willing it to Marian Deitz," she added. "She needs Wordly Goods to substitute for Lack of Love. Not that nutria would do it. Marian would need wall-to-wall mink; and even then she'd say it wasn't laid right."
"Will it to me," I kidded.
"Do you lack love, Jo?" she asked, suddenly serious.
It was fun looking at contemporary pictures with Frannie and Marc. Marc had the combination of a good eye and a knowledge of history. He could spot a phony a mile away and was able to point out derivatives of earlier schools which failed because too little had been added.
What Frannie's pronouncements missed in soundness, they made up for in originality. "Pure art's gone," she intoned. "It gave up its own identity when it started playing Trilby to psychiatry. There aren't any painting painters anymore. They're all just a bunch of Free Associators stretched out on canvas couches... And" she finished proudly, "that's absolutely mine. I've never read it anywhere!"
"We believe you," Marc said.
Steeped to the ears in culture, we knocked off at four for drinks at the Weylin Bar. Cy Walter was there. He remembered Frannie from other times and played all the things she asked for. There was one she requested twice; and, in a low voice which carried feeling rather than tone, she sang it for us. There were four lines
Similar Books
