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Authors: Fletcher Flora
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table lighter. She leaned back and stretched her long, thin legs in front of her. She blew cigarette smoke toward the ceiling in a blue plume and laughed gently.
"Yes," she sighed, "when there's a dance with boys available, I'm afraid stuffy old Dr. Telsa and her stuffy old literature must take a back seat. I'm deeply touched that you remembered me under the circumstances. Tell me, why don't you like to dance?"
"I don't know. I just don't care for it."
"Such a simple reason for such a pretty girl? Oh, no, my dear, I'm sure it must be much more complex than that. Are you sure it's the dancing you don't like?"
Kathy looked up from her position on the floor, and Vera looked down through a gossamer drift of smoke, and though Kathy was young, she was no fool, and she thought that there comes a time when it is necessary to recognize and accept whatever is inside you and whatever is apparent inside someone else.
She said clearly, "I guess not. I guess it's really the boys."
Vera's pink lips, wide and flexible and rather too thin, curved very slightly in the merest trace of a smile. "Shall I tell you something? We can make it a little secret just between the two of us. I don't like boys, either. Or, in my case, perhaps I should say men. Isn't it odd of us?"
She stood up then and walked across the room to a radio-phonograph combination. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, "Shall we have music tonight with our talk? What would you like?"
"Whatever you'd like."
"Chopin? Some of the waltzes?"
Kathy had no feeling at all for Chopin, because appreciation of fine music was one of the things she had never learned from Stella, but she nodded in agreement, and Vera placed a stack of records on the spindle of the phonograph and continued to stand by the machine until the captive sound of a piano under talented fingers was released to lilting freedom in the room. Then she returned to the sofa and sat down again in her previous position. Her voice, against the background of Chopin's music, was as light and lilting as the music itself.
"You have sad eyes, Kathy. That's the first thing I noticed about you when you came into my class. Why are your eyes so sad, Kathy?"
"I didn't know they were."
"They are, Kathy. They're very, very sad. Come and sit beside me and tell me about yourself, and then perhaps I'll understand. You must call me Vera and talk with me as if I were the very best friend you have in the world, because I have a feeling that that's just what I'm going to be."
And so Kathy sat on the sofa beside Vera and told her all about the significant events from the smell of lilies on, how she lived with Stella and loved Stella and how Stella was now dead, but she didn't tell, not quite yet, how Vera was someone who might fill the terrible emptiness that Stella had left or how she loved the touch of Vera's fingers on her hair and face as she talked. Always after that, the music of Chopin meant one thing, and so long as that thing was fresh and beautiful in the way she looked at it, she would listen breathlessly to the music of Chopin, but after the thing withered and grew ugly, she wouldn't listen to the music of Chopin at all, but would go away as quickly as she could, out of hearing, whenever it was played.
Chapter 5
If it was a long way from Kenny Renowski to Angus Brunn, it was also a long way from a sofa to a park bench. The narrow slats of the bench pressed into her flesh, and she stirred, shifting her weight. She hadn't thought of Vera Telsa in such detail for quite some time, and had wished, as a matter of fact, never to think of her in such detail again. It was not always possible, however, to control the direction or the material of one's thoughts. Thinking, after all, was no more than the making of certain connections in the intricate and mysterious system of nerves with which one was equipped, and connections were made without deliberate or conscious effort. Especially, at this moment, the one that sent into
"Yes," she sighed, "when there's a dance with boys available, I'm afraid stuffy old Dr. Telsa and her stuffy old literature must take a back seat. I'm deeply touched that you remembered me under the circumstances. Tell me, why don't you like to dance?"
"I don't know. I just don't care for it."
"Such a simple reason for such a pretty girl? Oh, no, my dear, I'm sure it must be much more complex than that. Are you sure it's the dancing you don't like?"
Kathy looked up from her position on the floor, and Vera looked down through a gossamer drift of smoke, and though Kathy was young, she was no fool, and she thought that there comes a time when it is necessary to recognize and accept whatever is inside you and whatever is apparent inside someone else.
She said clearly, "I guess not. I guess it's really the boys."
Vera's pink lips, wide and flexible and rather too thin, curved very slightly in the merest trace of a smile. "Shall I tell you something? We can make it a little secret just between the two of us. I don't like boys, either. Or, in my case, perhaps I should say men. Isn't it odd of us?"
She stood up then and walked across the room to a radio-phonograph combination. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, "Shall we have music tonight with our talk? What would you like?"
"Whatever you'd like."
"Chopin? Some of the waltzes?"
Kathy had no feeling at all for Chopin, because appreciation of fine music was one of the things she had never learned from Stella, but she nodded in agreement, and Vera placed a stack of records on the spindle of the phonograph and continued to stand by the machine until the captive sound of a piano under talented fingers was released to lilting freedom in the room. Then she returned to the sofa and sat down again in her previous position. Her voice, against the background of Chopin's music, was as light and lilting as the music itself.
"You have sad eyes, Kathy. That's the first thing I noticed about you when you came into my class. Why are your eyes so sad, Kathy?"
"I didn't know they were."
"They are, Kathy. They're very, very sad. Come and sit beside me and tell me about yourself, and then perhaps I'll understand. You must call me Vera and talk with me as if I were the very best friend you have in the world, because I have a feeling that that's just what I'm going to be."
And so Kathy sat on the sofa beside Vera and told her all about the significant events from the smell of lilies on, how she lived with Stella and loved Stella and how Stella was now dead, but she didn't tell, not quite yet, how Vera was someone who might fill the terrible emptiness that Stella had left or how she loved the touch of Vera's fingers on her hair and face as she talked. Always after that, the music of Chopin meant one thing, and so long as that thing was fresh and beautiful in the way she looked at it, she would listen breathlessly to the music of Chopin, but after the thing withered and grew ugly, she wouldn't listen to the music of Chopin at all, but would go away as quickly as she could, out of hearing, whenever it was played.
Chapter 5
If it was a long way from Kenny Renowski to Angus Brunn, it was also a long way from a sofa to a park bench. The narrow slats of the bench pressed into her flesh, and she stirred, shifting her weight. She hadn't thought of Vera Telsa in such detail for quite some time, and had wished, as a matter of fact, never to think of her in such detail again. It was not always possible, however, to control the direction or the material of one's thoughts. Thinking, after all, was no more than the making of certain connections in the intricate and mysterious system of nerves with which one was equipped, and connections were made without deliberate or conscious effort. Especially, at this moment, the one that sent into
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