I’ll check the schedule. You can meet me there.”
“Yes,” she said quickly then, in case he might change his mind. Maybe it would not be the same as high school. Maybe men and women could be friends here and do things togetherand have long good conversations. When it became clear she had never been to the Orson Welles and had in fact been nowhere in Cambridge except M.I.T., he said he would take her this time, because obviously she must not have her passport in order. He explained at length that he usually had a car but tonight it was in the garage being tuned.
After the movie he said, “Come on, we’ll do the guided-tour bit, the Square, Harvard and environs, walk along the Charles by moonlight, phantom sculling, Georgian brick, etc. You aren’t one of those overdelicate females who can’t walk on their feet, are you? One of those held together with little gold wires and hair lacquer? Good, good, I thought you were put together a little solider. Walking’s good for you—healthy, cheap, what have you.” He gripped her by the elbow, his fingers like clothespins. Propelled her along. She hardly understood half of what he was saying but he would not let her interrupt for questions. The only pause in the swirl of words was when he chuckled at one of his remarks.
She had never walked much except in the development where she had lived with Jim, and there she had felt thwarted. Then she had walked for escape, in search of another world on the next street where there stretched only identical two-story buildings or a ragweed-grown field. Walking was something she could manage even with her short legs. Along the Cambridge bank of the Charles they marched along, on the grass just getting green between the slow-moving smelly river and the cars whizzing past on Memorial Drive. The night was mild and soft, one of the first sweet nights of the spring.
“Boston has a low silhouette—like a European city, like Paris or Florence—except for the ugly towers they’re putting up every chance they get. That Prudential monstrosity was the first.”
“Have you been to Paris?”
“Of course. Though only as a tourist. I’d like to spend a year working there. I meant to do that before now, only I got married too young and that was stupid. Don’t you think you were stupid to get married so young?” This time he did pause for a reply.
“Not stupid. I think I was well trained.”
“But you think it was a mistake, or do you? Or do you think that was just Mr. Wrongo and now you’re looking for Mr. Right to slip it on again?”
“I don’t want to marry again, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t care for marriage.”
“It’s two people trying to wear one shoe at the same time.”
“Or a three-legged race.” The company picnics of her childhood. She had to explain that. He attached a sexual meaning to three-legged.
He took her to the subway station in Central Square, where he went back toward Harvard Square and she went into Boston. He had not touched her except for that bony grip on her elbow. She had enjoyed the evening and in the next week she thought of him as she did her work.
When she did see Tom again it was on a day when he was running more data through the computer. Just before five, he came to her. “If you aren’t doing anything exciting for supper, you ought to come home with me. Yes, come on up and see my etchings. I’ll introduce you to my fifty roommates. Even if there aren’t any etchings, I can show you the worst, the totally worst and biggest nudes in all of Greater Boston, green as grass and ugly as a horse’s back end.”
“Green nudes? Do you mean paintings?”
“I mean throwings. Why, a chimpanzee with a paintbrush would do better. You coming?” When she nodded he guided her out with his fingers gripping her elbow again. “Him and his girl friend Chlorine. He paints her nude. Though she doesn’t look any worse that way than with her clothes on.”
“Is her name really
“Yes,” she said quickly then, in case he might change his mind. Maybe it would not be the same as high school. Maybe men and women could be friends here and do things togetherand have long good conversations. When it became clear she had never been to the Orson Welles and had in fact been nowhere in Cambridge except M.I.T., he said he would take her this time, because obviously she must not have her passport in order. He explained at length that he usually had a car but tonight it was in the garage being tuned.
After the movie he said, “Come on, we’ll do the guided-tour bit, the Square, Harvard and environs, walk along the Charles by moonlight, phantom sculling, Georgian brick, etc. You aren’t one of those overdelicate females who can’t walk on their feet, are you? One of those held together with little gold wires and hair lacquer? Good, good, I thought you were put together a little solider. Walking’s good for you—healthy, cheap, what have you.” He gripped her by the elbow, his fingers like clothespins. Propelled her along. She hardly understood half of what he was saying but he would not let her interrupt for questions. The only pause in the swirl of words was when he chuckled at one of his remarks.
She had never walked much except in the development where she had lived with Jim, and there she had felt thwarted. Then she had walked for escape, in search of another world on the next street where there stretched only identical two-story buildings or a ragweed-grown field. Walking was something she could manage even with her short legs. Along the Cambridge bank of the Charles they marched along, on the grass just getting green between the slow-moving smelly river and the cars whizzing past on Memorial Drive. The night was mild and soft, one of the first sweet nights of the spring.
“Boston has a low silhouette—like a European city, like Paris or Florence—except for the ugly towers they’re putting up every chance they get. That Prudential monstrosity was the first.”
“Have you been to Paris?”
“Of course. Though only as a tourist. I’d like to spend a year working there. I meant to do that before now, only I got married too young and that was stupid. Don’t you think you were stupid to get married so young?” This time he did pause for a reply.
“Not stupid. I think I was well trained.”
“But you think it was a mistake, or do you? Or do you think that was just Mr. Wrongo and now you’re looking for Mr. Right to slip it on again?”
“I don’t want to marry again, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t care for marriage.”
“It’s two people trying to wear one shoe at the same time.”
“Or a three-legged race.” The company picnics of her childhood. She had to explain that. He attached a sexual meaning to three-legged.
He took her to the subway station in Central Square, where he went back toward Harvard Square and she went into Boston. He had not touched her except for that bony grip on her elbow. She had enjoyed the evening and in the next week she thought of him as she did her work.
When she did see Tom again it was on a day when he was running more data through the computer. Just before five, he came to her. “If you aren’t doing anything exciting for supper, you ought to come home with me. Yes, come on up and see my etchings. I’ll introduce you to my fifty roommates. Even if there aren’t any etchings, I can show you the worst, the totally worst and biggest nudes in all of Greater Boston, green as grass and ugly as a horse’s back end.”
“Green nudes? Do you mean paintings?”
“I mean throwings. Why, a chimpanzee with a paintbrush would do better. You coming?” When she nodded he guided her out with his fingers gripping her elbow again. “Him and his girl friend Chlorine. He paints her nude. Though she doesn’t look any worse that way than with her clothes on.”
“Is her name really
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