night before, but she was going visiting and that might not be appropriate. Let me see, she thought, Jacques always seems to flip over my flared skirt. She decided to look feminine, and put on pounds of jewelry.
She had barely finished with her makeup when Jacques rang the doorbell.
"Alice, you're not going to wear that!" he exclaimed.
Anne laughed, embarrassed. She had made the wrong choice. "Will Carl mind terribly if I wear a dress?"
He shrugged. "Not really, I guess."
Anne turned and picked up her purse. She wasn't going to change after all that preparation. She ushered him out the door and then locked it.
"Wait till you see my new car," Jacques told her as they went down the stairs. He was happy this morning, as if he was anxious to see Carl for himself. Anne smiled inwardly, knowing herself to be Jacques' excuse to lunch with Carl.
"What sort of man is he?" she said.
"He's a sort of semi-invalid. Drinks a lot."
They reached his car, a very old Ford, and Jacques proudly opened the door. "Do enter my Royal Model Q," he said.
Anne smiled and slid onto the front seat. Jacques had been elaborate about the inside decorations—there were authentic plastic leopard-skin seat covers from authentic plastic leopards; proudly, at the center of the windshield, he had hung a white Madonna figurine.
"Mary, this is too much!" she laughed.
"Crazy," Jacques agreed. She sat back and waited for him to start the motor.
"You were telling me about Carl," she said when the car was moving.
"Oh, yes," Jacques said absent-mindedly, trying to avoid an Austin that was angling to get his parking spot. "Well, he's gay, you know."
"That's a relief," Anne said, "but what is he doing supporting Esther?"
"He likes to have attractive women around—father complex, maybe." Jacques had successfully avoided the smaller car and now drove down the street, damp and slippery from the water of a recent sanitation truck. They cut through Washington Square and proceeded uptown on Fifth Avenue.
"But then you're sure there's nothing between them," Anne said. She wanted to see the situation clearly.
Jacques laughed slightly. "Carl couldn't do anything if he wanted to. But wait till you see him. He's so attractive."
Now Anne laughed. "You look at him—I'll think of Esther."
She sat deep in the seat and closed her eyes. She wanted never to forget Esther's image—her deep-set eyes and pale, silken skin. It was an image that did not exactly belong in the world. She seemed ageless and sexless and all mind, the pale, wan intellectual. Anne had always found that type irresistible. Perhaps it was her long hands that were so beautiful, the way they held things, each finger sensitive and independent. But no, it was Esther's whole self.
Beth's body was very womanly. Her breasts were full and her thighs round and soft-muscled. But Esther's fines were jagged—with the nose of a Semite and the bearing of a medieval falconer, and yet the ever-present grace and nakedness of youth. Even with clothes Esther was naked. She wore clothes as if they did not matter, as if they were not fastened but merely draped about her in perfect balance, easily slipped off and yet remaining.
Again Anne laughed at herself. She was romanticizing. But it was fun to describe someone in her mind, and to fall in love with that description. Particularly now, when she would have to forget Beth. At all costs she would have to forget Beth.
A small shiver grew within her and she determinedly pushed away fear. Beth was becoming a legend in her life. Beth's scrapbook was in her keeping and she pasted clippings that she sent her—Beth's picture in a local newspaper, Beth's name mentioned in a column. And always Beth's note accompanying them: How are you? I worry. Do write, love, Beth. Anne had not yet written her. She was afraid because of what she wanted to put in the letter, what must go in the letter if she wrote. She did not want to burden Beth with love.
Again she forced herself to
She had barely finished with her makeup when Jacques rang the doorbell.
"Alice, you're not going to wear that!" he exclaimed.
Anne laughed, embarrassed. She had made the wrong choice. "Will Carl mind terribly if I wear a dress?"
He shrugged. "Not really, I guess."
Anne turned and picked up her purse. She wasn't going to change after all that preparation. She ushered him out the door and then locked it.
"Wait till you see my new car," Jacques told her as they went down the stairs. He was happy this morning, as if he was anxious to see Carl for himself. Anne smiled inwardly, knowing herself to be Jacques' excuse to lunch with Carl.
"What sort of man is he?" she said.
"He's a sort of semi-invalid. Drinks a lot."
They reached his car, a very old Ford, and Jacques proudly opened the door. "Do enter my Royal Model Q," he said.
Anne smiled and slid onto the front seat. Jacques had been elaborate about the inside decorations—there were authentic plastic leopard-skin seat covers from authentic plastic leopards; proudly, at the center of the windshield, he had hung a white Madonna figurine.
"Mary, this is too much!" she laughed.
"Crazy," Jacques agreed. She sat back and waited for him to start the motor.
"You were telling me about Carl," she said when the car was moving.
"Oh, yes," Jacques said absent-mindedly, trying to avoid an Austin that was angling to get his parking spot. "Well, he's gay, you know."
"That's a relief," Anne said, "but what is he doing supporting Esther?"
"He likes to have attractive women around—father complex, maybe." Jacques had successfully avoided the smaller car and now drove down the street, damp and slippery from the water of a recent sanitation truck. They cut through Washington Square and proceeded uptown on Fifth Avenue.
"But then you're sure there's nothing between them," Anne said. She wanted to see the situation clearly.
Jacques laughed slightly. "Carl couldn't do anything if he wanted to. But wait till you see him. He's so attractive."
Now Anne laughed. "You look at him—I'll think of Esther."
She sat deep in the seat and closed her eyes. She wanted never to forget Esther's image—her deep-set eyes and pale, silken skin. It was an image that did not exactly belong in the world. She seemed ageless and sexless and all mind, the pale, wan intellectual. Anne had always found that type irresistible. Perhaps it was her long hands that were so beautiful, the way they held things, each finger sensitive and independent. But no, it was Esther's whole self.
Beth's body was very womanly. Her breasts were full and her thighs round and soft-muscled. But Esther's fines were jagged—with the nose of a Semite and the bearing of a medieval falconer, and yet the ever-present grace and nakedness of youth. Even with clothes Esther was naked. She wore clothes as if they did not matter, as if they were not fastened but merely draped about her in perfect balance, easily slipped off and yet remaining.
Again Anne laughed at herself. She was romanticizing. But it was fun to describe someone in her mind, and to fall in love with that description. Particularly now, when she would have to forget Beth. At all costs she would have to forget Beth.
A small shiver grew within her and she determinedly pushed away fear. Beth was becoming a legend in her life. Beth's scrapbook was in her keeping and she pasted clippings that she sent her—Beth's picture in a local newspaper, Beth's name mentioned in a column. And always Beth's note accompanying them: How are you? I worry. Do write, love, Beth. Anne had not yet written her. She was afraid because of what she wanted to put in the letter, what must go in the letter if she wrote. She did not want to burden Beth with love.
Again she forced herself to
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