Read Online The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards by Kristopher Jansma - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristopher Jansma
Tags: General Fiction
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triumphant pull on her cigarette.
“That’s the last thing I’d want,” I muttered. It was the truth, and the only thing I could think of to say.
She coughed a little, and there was a glimmer of surprise in her eyes, though the boredom had not left them.
“At least I’ll never be married for my money,” I joked.
She did not laugh. “What’s wrong with money?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it. I just don’t have any.”
She was still not laughing. “ My mother married for money. So did her mother. So did Julian’s mother, for that matter. You think any woman who considers money is a gold digger? Because let me tell you. It’s always at least a consideration.”
I thought about my own mother, and the many men she’d hoped, in my lifetime, would carry us up and out of Raleigh. Two or three pilots. The man who’d owned a racetrack, Dan. Or had Dan been the guy with the beautiful boat we never saw? Had she loved either of them? Any of them? I had to admit to myself, I’d always hoped she hadn’t. I liked to believe she loved only my father, the man she’d met in Newark, and that she looked down for him whenever she flew over the Garden State.
“Maybe money could be a part of it,” I conceded. “So long as there’s love, too.”
“‘Love,’” she said, softly, in someone else’s voice. “‘What an idea!’ Now you say, ‘You don’t love him, then?’ and I’ll say, ‘But I won’t hear of any sort of unfaithfulness! Remember that.’ And then you say . . . ”
“What’s happening?” I laughed.
“We’re running lines,” she said, finally smiling. “You’re Eilert Løvberg.”
“Which one is he?” I asked. “The first idiot or the other idiot?”
She tipped her head back and let loose a hard laugh, though I still could not decide if it was really genuine. Then she bent her head down against my shoulder suddenly and snuffed her cigarette out on the cement lip of the fountain. Her hat rubbed against my cheek and I was so startled that I almost missed what she said next.
“You know, Julian asked me to spy on you. Find out what you were writing for this contest tomorrow.”
Julian was nervous about what I had written?
“He said he read your story, while you were in the bathroom or something. The one about the flight attendant’s kid? And that it was so good he started his over. And then he saw you’d started yours over, and so he started his over again. I swear, I love him, but he’s completely in sane sometimes.”
“Well, you can tell him I’ve got nothing,” I said moodily. “Tell him to get a good night’s sleep because both of my stories suck and I can’t write another word.”
Evelyn clicked her tongue twice and suddenly lifted her head up. “Don’t make me adopt you, too, now. In my line of work we call that melodrama ,” she whispered. “All you need is a little inspiration.”
And then she kissed me, and I could feel the wet pulp of tobacco and the crimson of her lips coming off on mine.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled and kissed me again.
And I thought about what Sokol had said: that happiness was making love for as long as you could stand it to the most luminous thing you could find on this rotten corpse of a planet. And, afterward, I thought he might be right. And so she did not go back to Julian’s room that night to report back on my writer’s block. And so, all morning as she slept in my bed, I furiously tapped away at the keys of my computer. Just two pages at first. Truth. And then five. Forget this slant business . And then twelve. Tell all the truth. And then a title. “The Trouble with Ibsen.” And then it was done.
Later that morning, Julian and I turned in our stories at the end of Morrissey’s class without a single word to each other. He looked as though he’d gone ten rounds with a gorilla and decided to wear part of its pelt on his chin as a trophy. There were rings
“That’s the last thing I’d want,” I muttered. It was the truth, and the only thing I could think of to say.
She coughed a little, and there was a glimmer of surprise in her eyes, though the boredom had not left them.
“At least I’ll never be married for my money,” I joked.
She did not laugh. “What’s wrong with money?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it. I just don’t have any.”
She was still not laughing. “ My mother married for money. So did her mother. So did Julian’s mother, for that matter. You think any woman who considers money is a gold digger? Because let me tell you. It’s always at least a consideration.”
I thought about my own mother, and the many men she’d hoped, in my lifetime, would carry us up and out of Raleigh. Two or three pilots. The man who’d owned a racetrack, Dan. Or had Dan been the guy with the beautiful boat we never saw? Had she loved either of them? Any of them? I had to admit to myself, I’d always hoped she hadn’t. I liked to believe she loved only my father, the man she’d met in Newark, and that she looked down for him whenever she flew over the Garden State.
“Maybe money could be a part of it,” I conceded. “So long as there’s love, too.”
“‘Love,’” she said, softly, in someone else’s voice. “‘What an idea!’ Now you say, ‘You don’t love him, then?’ and I’ll say, ‘But I won’t hear of any sort of unfaithfulness! Remember that.’ And then you say . . . ”
“What’s happening?” I laughed.
“We’re running lines,” she said, finally smiling. “You’re Eilert Løvberg.”
“Which one is he?” I asked. “The first idiot or the other idiot?”
She tipped her head back and let loose a hard laugh, though I still could not decide if it was really genuine. Then she bent her head down against my shoulder suddenly and snuffed her cigarette out on the cement lip of the fountain. Her hat rubbed against my cheek and I was so startled that I almost missed what she said next.
“You know, Julian asked me to spy on you. Find out what you were writing for this contest tomorrow.”
Julian was nervous about what I had written?
“He said he read your story, while you were in the bathroom or something. The one about the flight attendant’s kid? And that it was so good he started his over. And then he saw you’d started yours over, and so he started his over again. I swear, I love him, but he’s completely in sane sometimes.”
“Well, you can tell him I’ve got nothing,” I said moodily. “Tell him to get a good night’s sleep because both of my stories suck and I can’t write another word.”
Evelyn clicked her tongue twice and suddenly lifted her head up. “Don’t make me adopt you, too, now. In my line of work we call that melodrama ,” she whispered. “All you need is a little inspiration.”
And then she kissed me, and I could feel the wet pulp of tobacco and the crimson of her lips coming off on mine.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled and kissed me again.
And I thought about what Sokol had said: that happiness was making love for as long as you could stand it to the most luminous thing you could find on this rotten corpse of a planet. And, afterward, I thought he might be right. And so she did not go back to Julian’s room that night to report back on my writer’s block. And so, all morning as she slept in my bed, I furiously tapped away at the keys of my computer. Just two pages at first. Truth. And then five. Forget this slant business . And then twelve. Tell all the truth. And then a title. “The Trouble with Ibsen.” And then it was done.
Later that morning, Julian and I turned in our stories at the end of Morrissey’s class without a single word to each other. He looked as though he’d gone ten rounds with a gorilla and decided to wear part of its pelt on his chin as a trophy. There were rings
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