there’s a camel’s hair coat …”
“Sounds like money,” Maggie said.
“Looks like money. But I don’t know. I don’t even know where he lives.”
“Maybe he’s a con man,” Maggie suggested.
“I’m thinking a European prince in exile.”
“I say a con man.”
“Or a Hollywood scout?”
“A con man. You’ll be visiting him in jail before you know it.”
Maggie wasn’t playing along, quite.
Ever since Maggie’s wedding, and especially since she’d moved in with her in-laws, conversations about boys had grown complicated—difficult. And it was mostly boys the two girls had always talked about. What else? Certainly not art—a subject Maggie treated with uninterest at best, peevishness at worst. Actually, lots of subjects made her peevish.
Still, there had always been plenty to discuss. For it was of course an inexhaustible subject: the obstinate, proud, uncooperative, thrilling constitution of the male mind. It was the mystery beyond other mysteries: why do boys act the way they do?
“What’s he doing studying art?” Maggie went on.
“What am I doing studying art? I suppose he’s improving his technique.”
“He’s a boy, Bea.”
“I noticed.” There was a pause. “You would too.”
This last remark produced its desired effect, eliciting a bright little giggle from the old Maggie—Maggie Szot—as the distance between them on the telephone line shrank away to nothing. “Hard to miss it, huh?” she said.
“Impossible.” And they both giggled.
Of course conversations couldn’t be the same as before, now that Maggie was a married woman. But often the chief impediment wasn’t so much Maggie’s married state as her misery at living with her in-laws. Maggie seemed to resent Bea’s still being able to look freely at boys, to talk about boys. It was as if Bea, too, was supposed to be married to George, stationed out there at Pearl Harbor. As if Bea, too, were being not merely disloyal but almost unpatriotic in noticing any boy not in uniform.
So it was a little risky, bringing up Ronny Olsson. But if Maggie could be cool and standoffish when Bea spoke of boys, she was also—trapped out there on the West Side with Mrs. Hamm and George’swhiny little brother, Herbie—deeply, desperately bored. And it was this desperately bored Maggie, hungry for any stray glimmer of glamour, who began warming to the topic of Ronny Olsson.
“Why isn’t he in uniform?”
“Maggie, I can’t just ask! Besides, I’ve only just met him.”
“Only just? You make it sound like you’ll be seeing more of him.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I guess so.”
“Well, you’d know,” Maggie said, and repeated the phrase somberly: “You’d know.”
This was a long-standing joke between them: Bea had second sight.
“And he’s tall?” Maggie went on.
“Nearly six feet, I guess. Maybe he looks taller than he is because he’s thin? And because of the cut of his clothes?”
“A tall boy in a camel’s hair coat and a beautiful necktie? I can’t imagine. When was the last time I saw somebody like that? Don’t ask me. Don’t ask.”
“Well I’m in no hurry to introduce you to him …”
This, too, was a long-standing joke: Maggie’s appeal to men was irresistible. It went beyond her bright good looks. As with second sight, the power was—ultimately—mystical.
Maggie giggled. Bea giggled.
“Bea, surely I’m entitled to a little fun.”
“Not at my expense you aren’t.”
“I wish you could see me now,” Maggie said. “I’m sticking out my tongue at you.”
“It’s a scary thought.”
And it was. For Maggie could stick out her tongue much farther than the average person could. It was all but lizard like, the way she could nearly touch the tip of her nose with the tip of her tongue. Maggie was double-jointed—or just weirdly jointed, like a contortionist. Her body was unnervingly loose and elastic.
“It’s a gesture you deserve,” Maggie said.
“Not yet I
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