We ate lunch at the cafeteria in the park. Afterwards, avoiding the zoo (Holly saidshe couldnt bear to see anything in a cage), we giggled, ran, sang along the pathstoward the old wooden boathouse, now gone. Leaves floated on the lake; on theshore, a park-man was fanning a bonfire of them, and the smoke, rising like Indiansignals, was the only smudge on the quivering air. Aprils have never meant much tome, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring; which is how I felt sitting withHolly on the railings of the boathouse porch. I thought of the future, and spoke ofthe past. Because Holly wanted to know about my childhood. She talked of her own,too; but it was elusive, nameless, placeless, an impressionistic recital, though theimpression received was contrary to what one expected, for she gave an almostvoluptuous account of swimming and summer, Christmas trees, pretty cousins andparties: in short, happy in a way that she was not, and never, certainly, thebackground of a child who had run away.
Passing a Woolworths, she gripped my arm: "Lets steal something," she said,pulling me into the store, where at once there seemed a pressure of eyes, as thoughwe were already under suspicion. "Come on. Dont be chicken." She scouted acounter piled with paper pumpkins and Halloween masks. The saleslady wasoccupied with a group of nuns who were trying on masks. Holly picked up a maskand slipped it over her face; she chose another and put it on mine; then she took myhand and we walked away. It was as simple as that. Outside, we ran a few blocks, Ithink to make it more dramatic; but also because, as Id discovered, successful theftexhilarates. I wondered if shed often stolen. "I used to," she said. "I mean I had to.
I have a memory of spending many hither and yonning days with Holly; and itstrue, we did at odd moments see a great deal of each other; but on the whole, thememory is false. Because toward the end of the month I found a job: what is thereto add? The less the better, except to say it was necessary and lasted from nine tofive. Which made our hours, Hollys and mine, extremely different. Unless it wasThursday, her Sing Sing day, or unless shed gone horseback riding in the park, asshe did occasionally, Holly was hardly up when I came home. Sometimes, stoppingthere, I shared her wake-up coffee while she dressed for the evening. She wasforever on her way out, not always with Rusty Trawler, but usually, and usually, too,they were joined by Mag Wildwood and the handsome Brazilian, whose name wasJosé Ybarra-Jaegar: his mother was German. As a quartet, they struck an unmusicalnote, primarily the fault of Ybarra-Jaegar, who seemed as out of place in theircompany as a violin in a jazz band. He was intelligent, he was presentable, heappeared to have a serious link with his work, which was obscurely governmental,vaguely important, and took him to Washington several days a week. How, then,could he survive night after night in La Rue, El Morocco, listening to the Wildwoodch-ch-chatter and staring into Rustys raw baby-buttocks face? Perhaps, like most ofus in a foreign country, he was incapable of placing people, selecting a frame fortheir picture, as he would at home; therefore all Americans had to be judged in apretty equal light, and on this basis his companions appeared to be tolerableexamples of local color and national character. That would explain much; Hollysdetermination explains the rest.
Or, I asked, wasnt it true that shed been out on her own since she was fourteen?
" -- and you know, shes quite a successful model: isnt that fantastic! But a goodthing," she said, hobbling out of the bathroom as she adjusted a garter. "It ought tokeep her out of my hair most of the day. And there shouldnt be too much trouble onthe man front. Shes engaged. Nice guy, too. Though theres a tiny difference inheight: Id say a foot, her favor. Where the hell -- " She was on her knees pokingunder the bed. After shed found what she was looking for, a pair of lizard shoes, shehad to search for a blouse, a belt, and it was a subject to ponder, how, from suchwreckage, she evolved the eventual effect: pampered, calmly immaculate, as thoughshed been attended by Cleopatras maids. She said, "Listen," and cupped her handunder my chin, "Im glad about the story. Really I am."
because if youre going to have a roommate, and she isnt a dyke, then the next bestthing is a perfect fool, which Mag was, because then you can dump the lease onthem and send them out for the laundry.
She rubbed her nose. "Thats true. The other isnt. But really, darling, you made sucha tragedy out of your childhood I didnt feel I should compete."
If I wanted anything. But I still do it every now and then, sort of to keep my handin." We wore the masks all the way home.
She hopped off the railing. "Anyway, it reminds me: I ought to send Fred somepeanut butter." The rest of the afternoon we were east and west worming out ofreluctant grocers cans of peanut butter, a wartime scarcity; dark came before wedrounded up a half-dozen jars, the last at a delicatessen on Third Avenue. It was nearthe antique shop with the palace of a bird cage in its window, so I took her there tosee it, and she enjoyed the point, its fantasy: "But still, its a cage."
One could see that Holly had a laundry problem; the room was strewn, like a girlsgymnasium.
That Monday in October, 1943. A beautiful day with the buoyancy of a bird. Tostart, we had Manhattans at Joe Bells; and, when he heard of my good luck,champagne cocktails on the house. Later, we wandered toward Fifth Avenue, wherethere was a parade. The flags in the wind, the thump of military bands and militaryfeet, seemed to have nothing to do with war, but to be, rather, a fanfare arranged inmy personal honor.
