would be here this evening, and I'm afraid it's my fault that Junior isn't in bed yet Come on in, and I'll whisk him off to dreamland."
In the middle of the living room floor a small boy, a very small boy with his little finger deeply intruded into his mouth, eyed the newcomers with a critical expression. He was standing a little straddle-legged, and the trap door of his pajama dangled open. Janice caught him up in her arms.
"You just sit down here, and Frank'll be right in. Frank! Frank! Company! Would you like a drink? Of course you would. I'll have Frank make you one while I stuff the by-product into his bed." She fled from the room trailing a wake of friendliness just as Frank came in.
Frank studied Tony Thrine as he performed the ritual of drink-making and strove, simultaneously, to keep up a flow of light, meaningless conversation. This was, of course, the cure that he needed. Once it was done--once this evening was over--he would see Joyce in her true perspective and she would see him. That was why he had insisted she bring Tony. Generation would belong to generation. Age to Age. And this would clearly point up the difference.
He counted on Janice to fall in with his plan--perhaps not knowingly but still to fall in with it. Her maturity would fit together with his, like matched parts of a whole, while Tony and Joyce would naturally go together. And then he would be rid of his obsessive interest in this--this kid.
Tony was a good-looking boy. You had to give him that. His dark hair was unruly, but not untidy. And at first, what seemed an entirely disjointed array of arms and legs and trunk on the divan became, on closer observation, a figure of graceful, feline ease--of total relaxation that could, catlike, instantly spring to action.
Then the most appalling thought struck Frank. He wondered if Tony had--that is, had known Joyce intimately, as a lover. After all, they were the right age for it. Nineteen, Joyce was. How old was Tony? Frank asked him.
"Eighteen," Tony said. "I'm just a year older than Joyce. We have the same birthday."
It was like a stick of dynamite going off in his brain, and Frank almost spilled the brace of highballs he was carrying over to the pair on the couch. Seventeen! Holy cow! And here he had almost ... No. Hadn't thought of it for a second. Not a second. He rattled away furiously to conceal his shock. "You know, you two can get passes to anything you like. Movies. Even the major league ball games. After all, Joy--ce is a full-fledged newspaperwoman now." And then, "Where are you going to college, Tony?" Then, "I wanted to go to Harvard, too, when I was a kid." When I was a kid! Holy jumping Jesus! Look, Ma, I'm spinning.
The pressure had eased a little when Janice came back downstairs. She led the talk into feminine channels: clothes, travel, her trip to Maine on which she would leave tomorrow, how very easy was knitting once you got down to it, the latest rumor from Hollywood. It was amazing how easily Joyce and Janice got together. And yet, Frank thought he detected a certain tightness, as in the feeling-out thrusts of fencers, or the cautious sniffing of two suspicious dogs. But Janice was good. Really good. She could get along with anybody.
Like with Jerry. He remembered the first time Janice had met Jerry. He had always known Jerry--before high school, even. But Janice had never met a Negro socially before, and he could imagine her New England background really getting in the way the first time. But she had fallen right in the groove. Not a word about the tea, even. You expected these upcountry girls from Maine and places like that to be real prudish. But once he and Jerry had explained about it, she'd fallen right in. Once she got it straight that it wasn't even as bad for you as liquor--well, now she was a regular old viper, like anybody else. That was the difference between Janice and other girls ...
Other girls? Hadn't Joyce taken it the same way. But Joyce was only a kid
In the middle of the living room floor a small boy, a very small boy with his little finger deeply intruded into his mouth, eyed the newcomers with a critical expression. He was standing a little straddle-legged, and the trap door of his pajama dangled open. Janice caught him up in her arms.
"You just sit down here, and Frank'll be right in. Frank! Frank! Company! Would you like a drink? Of course you would. I'll have Frank make you one while I stuff the by-product into his bed." She fled from the room trailing a wake of friendliness just as Frank came in.
Frank studied Tony Thrine as he performed the ritual of drink-making and strove, simultaneously, to keep up a flow of light, meaningless conversation. This was, of course, the cure that he needed. Once it was done--once this evening was over--he would see Joyce in her true perspective and she would see him. That was why he had insisted she bring Tony. Generation would belong to generation. Age to Age. And this would clearly point up the difference.
He counted on Janice to fall in with his plan--perhaps not knowingly but still to fall in with it. Her maturity would fit together with his, like matched parts of a whole, while Tony and Joyce would naturally go together. And then he would be rid of his obsessive interest in this--this kid.
Tony was a good-looking boy. You had to give him that. His dark hair was unruly, but not untidy. And at first, what seemed an entirely disjointed array of arms and legs and trunk on the divan became, on closer observation, a figure of graceful, feline ease--of total relaxation that could, catlike, instantly spring to action.
Then the most appalling thought struck Frank. He wondered if Tony had--that is, had known Joyce intimately, as a lover. After all, they were the right age for it. Nineteen, Joyce was. How old was Tony? Frank asked him.
"Eighteen," Tony said. "I'm just a year older than Joyce. We have the same birthday."
It was like a stick of dynamite going off in his brain, and Frank almost spilled the brace of highballs he was carrying over to the pair on the couch. Seventeen! Holy cow! And here he had almost ... No. Hadn't thought of it for a second. Not a second. He rattled away furiously to conceal his shock. "You know, you two can get passes to anything you like. Movies. Even the major league ball games. After all, Joy--ce is a full-fledged newspaperwoman now." And then, "Where are you going to college, Tony?" Then, "I wanted to go to Harvard, too, when I was a kid." When I was a kid! Holy jumping Jesus! Look, Ma, I'm spinning.
The pressure had eased a little when Janice came back downstairs. She led the talk into feminine channels: clothes, travel, her trip to Maine on which she would leave tomorrow, how very easy was knitting once you got down to it, the latest rumor from Hollywood. It was amazing how easily Joyce and Janice got together. And yet, Frank thought he detected a certain tightness, as in the feeling-out thrusts of fencers, or the cautious sniffing of two suspicious dogs. But Janice was good. Really good. She could get along with anybody.
Like with Jerry. He remembered the first time Janice had met Jerry. He had always known Jerry--before high school, even. But Janice had never met a Negro socially before, and he could imagine her New England background really getting in the way the first time. But she had fallen right in the groove. Not a word about the tea, even. You expected these upcountry girls from Maine and places like that to be real prudish. But once he and Jerry had explained about it, she'd fallen right in. Once she got it straight that it wasn't even as bad for you as liquor--well, now she was a regular old viper, like anybody else. That was the difference between Janice and other girls ...
Other girls? Hadn't Joyce taken it the same way. But Joyce was only a kid
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