of her nose.
Peggy’s eyes, green and sparkling, had a smiling look of glad recognition, but her voice was controlled and chilly as she said, “Hello, Mr. Rawlings. It’s good to see you again.” Those were the words she used, but what I heard in the tone was “You didn’t write like you promised.”
I decided not to return her use of formality. “Hello, Peggy. It’s nice to see you, too.”
Her voice was just slightly warmer when, after a pause, she said, “I think you’ll like today’s pictures.” With an amused smile she added, “No Mary Pickford, though, I’m afraid.”
I could think of nothing else to say, but was saved from embarrassment by a flock of matrons lined up behind me. They pressed me into the theater, where I selected a seat near the center. I ended up spending more than four hours in it.
I paid no attention to the pictures. Instead, I wondered to myself if I was mistaken about what Peggy and I had last year. Was it a romance—or the prelude to a romance? Or by reviewing its highlights over and over, had I magnified it in my thoughts beyond what it had actually been?
Then, as the movie program was repeated for the evening audience, the piano began to tinkle gracefully. Like the first time I saw her there, my gaze remained fixed on the nape of Peggy Shaw’s neck.
After the last strip of celluloid had been run for the night, the house lights came up and the rest of the audience trickled out. I remained immobile in my chair while Peggy closed the cover over the piano keys and put her sheet music away.
She smiled at me when she turned around and saw me waiting for her. I felt from her smile that she knew I would still be there.
I extricated myself from the seat and, ignoring the dull cramps in my legs, walked over to her. She looked more inviting now, her initial coldness gone—or at least not visible.
I asked, “Uh ... Would you care to go for a walk... If you have the time... Tonight?” To my ears, I sounded stilted, and I felt flushed and shaky.
Peggy smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.”
She had a few things to take care of in the theater office, then we were off toward the Boston Common. She seemed excited, and I flattered myself by assuming that it was because of seeing me again. I wondered what dreams she’d had last winter.
“I came to the theater Sunday. I thought you would be there,” I began, then added in a quieter tone, “I was kind of disappointed when you weren’t.”
“This past Sunday?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was in New York for the weekend. Didn’t Helen tell you?”
“Uh... no. Well, I didn’t think to ask. When I didn’t see you there, I guess I just figured you weren’t at the theater anymore.”
Peggy smiled. “I went to Manhattan to march in the suffrage parade.”
It was seldom that I knew anything of the various social movements, and eager to show that I knew something of this one, I piped up with a quip I had once come across, “Suffragette: One who has ceased to be a lady and not yet become a gentleman.” Peggy’s eyes made it immediately clear that I had said something wrong. My body fluids seemed to vaporize under her fiery glare, and I lamely tried to diminish the damage, mumbling, “I read that someplace.”
After letting me stew in her silent reprimand for a few moments, Peggy continued about the big march in New York City, “It was wonderful. Women from all over the country joined together to march down Fifth Avenue. Fifteen thou sand . And John Dewey led a men’s contingent. And the crowd cheered us this year. The New York Times said half a million people watched the parade. It was a great feeling. Invigorating. It felt like being part of history.”
As she talked about the march, I realized that her excitement wasn’t about being with me. She was still bubbling over with residual enthusiasm from the weekend.
“We actually had our own cavalry! Fifty women led the parade on horseback. Inez Milholland was one of them.
Peggy’s eyes, green and sparkling, had a smiling look of glad recognition, but her voice was controlled and chilly as she said, “Hello, Mr. Rawlings. It’s good to see you again.” Those were the words she used, but what I heard in the tone was “You didn’t write like you promised.”
I decided not to return her use of formality. “Hello, Peggy. It’s nice to see you, too.”
Her voice was just slightly warmer when, after a pause, she said, “I think you’ll like today’s pictures.” With an amused smile she added, “No Mary Pickford, though, I’m afraid.”
I could think of nothing else to say, but was saved from embarrassment by a flock of matrons lined up behind me. They pressed me into the theater, where I selected a seat near the center. I ended up spending more than four hours in it.
I paid no attention to the pictures. Instead, I wondered to myself if I was mistaken about what Peggy and I had last year. Was it a romance—or the prelude to a romance? Or by reviewing its highlights over and over, had I magnified it in my thoughts beyond what it had actually been?
Then, as the movie program was repeated for the evening audience, the piano began to tinkle gracefully. Like the first time I saw her there, my gaze remained fixed on the nape of Peggy Shaw’s neck.
After the last strip of celluloid had been run for the night, the house lights came up and the rest of the audience trickled out. I remained immobile in my chair while Peggy closed the cover over the piano keys and put her sheet music away.
She smiled at me when she turned around and saw me waiting for her. I felt from her smile that she knew I would still be there.
I extricated myself from the seat and, ignoring the dull cramps in my legs, walked over to her. She looked more inviting now, her initial coldness gone—or at least not visible.
I asked, “Uh ... Would you care to go for a walk... If you have the time... Tonight?” To my ears, I sounded stilted, and I felt flushed and shaky.
Peggy smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.”
She had a few things to take care of in the theater office, then we were off toward the Boston Common. She seemed excited, and I flattered myself by assuming that it was because of seeing me again. I wondered what dreams she’d had last winter.
“I came to the theater Sunday. I thought you would be there,” I began, then added in a quieter tone, “I was kind of disappointed when you weren’t.”
“This past Sunday?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was in New York for the weekend. Didn’t Helen tell you?”
“Uh... no. Well, I didn’t think to ask. When I didn’t see you there, I guess I just figured you weren’t at the theater anymore.”
Peggy smiled. “I went to Manhattan to march in the suffrage parade.”
It was seldom that I knew anything of the various social movements, and eager to show that I knew something of this one, I piped up with a quip I had once come across, “Suffragette: One who has ceased to be a lady and not yet become a gentleman.” Peggy’s eyes made it immediately clear that I had said something wrong. My body fluids seemed to vaporize under her fiery glare, and I lamely tried to diminish the damage, mumbling, “I read that someplace.”
After letting me stew in her silent reprimand for a few moments, Peggy continued about the big march in New York City, “It was wonderful. Women from all over the country joined together to march down Fifth Avenue. Fifteen thou sand . And John Dewey led a men’s contingent. And the crowd cheered us this year. The New York Times said half a million people watched the parade. It was a great feeling. Invigorating. It felt like being part of history.”
As she talked about the march, I realized that her excitement wasn’t about being with me. She was still bubbling over with residual enthusiasm from the weekend.
“We actually had our own cavalry! Fifty women led the parade on horseback. Inez Milholland was one of them.
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