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Authors: Elizabeth Seifert
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on the stool nearest to the door. There ’ d been an air to that girl, even with her head turned—a sheen to her smooth dark hair, a certain eye-catching sophistication in the red suit, an ah-hem quality to the sheer - stockinged legs crossed at the knees, one foot dangling. The girl was laughing, her head thrown back. Phil gave her a second glance but would have passed her by. Regretfully. “Hey, Red !”
For all his ginger-colored hair, few people called him that. No girl did except—it had to be—it was Min!
“Imagine that, Whit,” he wrote me. “The very first person I saw in St. Louis was Min.” Reading this, my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.
“She ’ s changed incredibly! Even you would have walked past. You simply would not believe a girl could change so much in two months! You know, she was always the jeans - and-plaid-shirt sort—even when she dressed up to leave the mountings, she still looked like a mounting-gir l. But this Min—ha! Slick clothes—that red suit was sump in! Her thong sandals—red thongs and a sole, no more. Her manner! She ain ’ t our little girl no more, pardner. This Min knows the answers and gives ’ em. Maybe we just didn ’ t appreciate her, do you think? Maybe she had this line all the time we were slapping her on the back and letting her climb on her own horse.
“Her manner—and the people she was with — She made me think of those two-actor plays. Voice of The Turtle sort of thing. Min always could take care of herself, so maybe, given the right setting, she ’ d have looked this way out home. But I doubt it . She was with three men, and another girl. Woman. That one was buyer for the book department in one of the big stores, and she ’ d been around. A long way and a long time. The men—one, fortyish, was an editorial writer for Min ’ s paper; one, glamorous, was a test-pilot out at the big aircraft factory; and the third was lily-fingered. His kind lives in the drain of bar sinks and crawls out when the lights go up. Min was different from all of ‘ em, but like ‘ em too. It took some doing to realize she was our girl ...
“The change isn ’ t bad . She ’ s cute as a button in that tricky Dutch bob; I like the way she slants those pretty brown eyes—you would, too. But she still isn ’ t Min.
“Not our Min.
“I had a drink with them, but wouldn ’ t go on to the riverboat jazz session they had in prospect. I was tired, and I reminded Min of my recent indisposition. She agreed that bed would be a good idea, and they left, promising to see me soon, and often.
“Of course it was simplest to agree to that, but I ’ ll have none of it, Whit. I came here to work, and I mean to get at it at once. To work hard. I won ’ t be ruining my lungs in smoky bars, or frittering my money away. Or fooling around with your girl, either.”
That ’ s what he thought. But I knew what happened when those two were together. Sparks would fly. And his assurance did nothing to put my mind at rest.
Phil reached St. Louis on Thursday. He would not go to the Group office until Monday, which gave him a couple of days for exploring the city. His father had lived there for twenty years, had been on the Group Staff and had married a St. Louis girl. Phil knew St. Louis vaguely from childhood memories, and from family talk about it. That talk had centered naturally about the Group and its neighborhood. Phil was going to learn a lot about those things, so he devoted the preliminary days to other spots of interest.
It was March, with spring well advanced. Because, I thought, of his encounter with Min, he sent me a flock of post cards. He didn ’ t need to tell me that he ’ d fallen in love with the old city. His brief messages were notes of rapture.
He waxed lyrical about the cobble stones of the levee, the shadows cast by Eads Bridge, even the smell of the Mississippi River. He went to Shaw ’ s Garden, and burbled about the carpet of rich green myrtle
For all his ginger-colored hair, few people called him that. No girl did except—it had to be—it was Min!
“Imagine that, Whit,” he wrote me. “The very first person I saw in St. Louis was Min.” Reading this, my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.
“She ’ s changed incredibly! Even you would have walked past. You simply would not believe a girl could change so much in two months! You know, she was always the jeans - and-plaid-shirt sort—even when she dressed up to leave the mountings, she still looked like a mounting-gir l. But this Min—ha! Slick clothes—that red suit was sump in! Her thong sandals—red thongs and a sole, no more. Her manner! She ain ’ t our little girl no more, pardner. This Min knows the answers and gives ’ em. Maybe we just didn ’ t appreciate her, do you think? Maybe she had this line all the time we were slapping her on the back and letting her climb on her own horse.
“Her manner—and the people she was with — She made me think of those two-actor plays. Voice of The Turtle sort of thing. Min always could take care of herself, so maybe, given the right setting, she ’ d have looked this way out home. But I doubt it . She was with three men, and another girl. Woman. That one was buyer for the book department in one of the big stores, and she ’ d been around. A long way and a long time. The men—one, fortyish, was an editorial writer for Min ’ s paper; one, glamorous, was a test-pilot out at the big aircraft factory; and the third was lily-fingered. His kind lives in the drain of bar sinks and crawls out when the lights go up. Min was different from all of ‘ em, but like ‘ em too. It took some doing to realize she was our girl ...
“The change isn ’ t bad . She ’ s cute as a button in that tricky Dutch bob; I like the way she slants those pretty brown eyes—you would, too. But she still isn ’ t Min.
“Not our Min.
“I had a drink with them, but wouldn ’ t go on to the riverboat jazz session they had in prospect. I was tired, and I reminded Min of my recent indisposition. She agreed that bed would be a good idea, and they left, promising to see me soon, and often.
“Of course it was simplest to agree to that, but I ’ ll have none of it, Whit. I came here to work, and I mean to get at it at once. To work hard. I won ’ t be ruining my lungs in smoky bars, or frittering my money away. Or fooling around with your girl, either.”
That ’ s what he thought. But I knew what happened when those two were together. Sparks would fly. And his assurance did nothing to put my mind at rest.
Phil reached St. Louis on Thursday. He would not go to the Group office until Monday, which gave him a couple of days for exploring the city. His father had lived there for twenty years, had been on the Group Staff and had married a St. Louis girl. Phil knew St. Louis vaguely from childhood memories, and from family talk about it. That talk had centered naturally about the Group and its neighborhood. Phil was going to learn a lot about those things, so he devoted the preliminary days to other spots of interest.
It was March, with spring well advanced. Because, I thought, of his encounter with Min, he sent me a flock of post cards. He didn ’ t need to tell me that he ’ d fallen in love with the old city. His brief messages were notes of rapture.
He waxed lyrical about the cobble stones of the levee, the shadows cast by Eads Bridge, even the smell of the Mississippi River. He went to Shaw ’ s Garden, and burbled about the carpet of rich green myrtle
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