oughta come down sometime and see me there, you and Tony too, and I’ll treat you to free manicures. You’re on your own for the haircut, though. They cost too much for me.”
“How much?” asked Jack’s mother.
“Six bits. And then in a place like that you gotta tip, and if you left a dime you might be thought a piker. So it’d cost you a buck or the better part of it.”
Jack screamed, “A buck? For a haircut? “
“That wouldn’t seem anything if you had a lot of dough.” Bernice giggled smugly and plucked the sodden teabag from the cup and deposited it in the saucer. She was wearing the brightest nail polish ever seen on earth, and her lipstick matched it, and she was all powdered and rouged, or whatever.
That Tony remained silent was not unusual, but at the moment he was subtly communicating his impatience to Jack, so the latter said, “Well, see you later, Bernice. Staying for supper?”
“If they’ll have me.”
Her mother said, “Go awn.”
Jack had Bernice’s old room. It was nicer than the one he had always shared with Tony, but Tony wanted to stay in that one, being fixed in his ways, so Jack had been happy to move into the larger, deeper-closeted room, with the better view, among the features of which was a perspective on the private quarters of Mary Catherine Lutz, on the second floor across the alleyway. With his one-dollar drugstore binoculars Jack had more than once seen Mary Catherine in her slip. He had certainly never bragged about this to Tony, who had gone out with her on occasion.
When he and Tony reached the second floor now, Jack said, “I guess you want me to write that letter, huh?”
“If you don’t mind,” said Tony. He followed Jack into the latter’s room.
Jack’s desk had formerly been Bernice’s vanity table. You could take the mirror off it, unscrewing the whole thing frame and all, and he had done that. Though the ivory-colored legs might not seem professionally desklike, the glass top made a nice smooth writing surface.
Jack sat down at the desk, and Tony took the edge of the bed nearby. Jack found a ring notebook in the lefthand drawer and turned to the first clean page and tore it out. He picked up the stub of a pencil.
Tony grimaced.
“What’s the matter?”
Tony asked, “Don’t you think it’d be nice if you opened the rings and took it out, so the holes wouldn’t be all torn?”
“I wasn’t going to send this piece of paper,” Jack explained. “This is just a worksheet. When we get the letter just the way we want it, then we should copy it on a nice piece of writing paper. You wouldn’t want these lines and holes in the one you send.”
Tony was somewhat embarrassed by his erroneous assumption. He said brusquely, “Oh. Well, how do you think we should begin? ‘Dear Eva’ might be kinda fresh—? Can you say ‘dear’ to someone you don’t know very well?”
“That’s a good question,” said Jack. “But it’s my impression that people in business begin a letter that way to a total stranger. We could ask Bernice. She’d know…. O.K., so we’ll have whatever goes at the beginning. Then what do you want to say?” Jack was hoping to be elegant. To write to a girl was a kind of aristocratic thing to do, as opposed to the plebeian conversation-by-voice: it gave one the opportunity to employ all the otherwise unusable words that one acquired through reading. “What’s she like?”
“Huh?”
“You know, her personal traits of character, like hobbies or extracurricular interests.”
Tony shrugged. “Gosh, I don’t know. She’s just a high-school kid.”
“She would have liked that movie this afternoon, probably,” said Jack. “That was real girl stuff.” He had yet to put down a word. He looked up at the ceiling. “How about, ‘Dear Eva, Do you enjoy the cinema? Speaking for myself, I do.’ “ He looked at Tony and saw him shaking his head. Jack squinted. “It would be better if I knew just what you want this
“How much?” asked Jack’s mother.
“Six bits. And then in a place like that you gotta tip, and if you left a dime you might be thought a piker. So it’d cost you a buck or the better part of it.”
Jack screamed, “A buck? For a haircut? “
“That wouldn’t seem anything if you had a lot of dough.” Bernice giggled smugly and plucked the sodden teabag from the cup and deposited it in the saucer. She was wearing the brightest nail polish ever seen on earth, and her lipstick matched it, and she was all powdered and rouged, or whatever.
That Tony remained silent was not unusual, but at the moment he was subtly communicating his impatience to Jack, so the latter said, “Well, see you later, Bernice. Staying for supper?”
“If they’ll have me.”
Her mother said, “Go awn.”
Jack had Bernice’s old room. It was nicer than the one he had always shared with Tony, but Tony wanted to stay in that one, being fixed in his ways, so Jack had been happy to move into the larger, deeper-closeted room, with the better view, among the features of which was a perspective on the private quarters of Mary Catherine Lutz, on the second floor across the alleyway. With his one-dollar drugstore binoculars Jack had more than once seen Mary Catherine in her slip. He had certainly never bragged about this to Tony, who had gone out with her on occasion.
When he and Tony reached the second floor now, Jack said, “I guess you want me to write that letter, huh?”
“If you don’t mind,” said Tony. He followed Jack into the latter’s room.
Jack’s desk had formerly been Bernice’s vanity table. You could take the mirror off it, unscrewing the whole thing frame and all, and he had done that. Though the ivory-colored legs might not seem professionally desklike, the glass top made a nice smooth writing surface.
Jack sat down at the desk, and Tony took the edge of the bed nearby. Jack found a ring notebook in the lefthand drawer and turned to the first clean page and tore it out. He picked up the stub of a pencil.
Tony grimaced.
“What’s the matter?”
Tony asked, “Don’t you think it’d be nice if you opened the rings and took it out, so the holes wouldn’t be all torn?”
“I wasn’t going to send this piece of paper,” Jack explained. “This is just a worksheet. When we get the letter just the way we want it, then we should copy it on a nice piece of writing paper. You wouldn’t want these lines and holes in the one you send.”
Tony was somewhat embarrassed by his erroneous assumption. He said brusquely, “Oh. Well, how do you think we should begin? ‘Dear Eva’ might be kinda fresh—? Can you say ‘dear’ to someone you don’t know very well?”
“That’s a good question,” said Jack. “But it’s my impression that people in business begin a letter that way to a total stranger. We could ask Bernice. She’d know…. O.K., so we’ll have whatever goes at the beginning. Then what do you want to say?” Jack was hoping to be elegant. To write to a girl was a kind of aristocratic thing to do, as opposed to the plebeian conversation-by-voice: it gave one the opportunity to employ all the otherwise unusable words that one acquired through reading. “What’s she like?”
“Huh?”
“You know, her personal traits of character, like hobbies or extracurricular interests.”
Tony shrugged. “Gosh, I don’t know. She’s just a high-school kid.”
“She would have liked that movie this afternoon, probably,” said Jack. “That was real girl stuff.” He had yet to put down a word. He looked up at the ceiling. “How about, ‘Dear Eva, Do you enjoy the cinema? Speaking for myself, I do.’ “ He looked at Tony and saw him shaking his head. Jack squinted. “It would be better if I knew just what you want this
Similar Books
