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Lily Burke O
MILESTONE BOOK
Comet Press Books New York 1959


LOAN STACK
(, 1 HQ G-
© Copyright 1959 by Lily Burke
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
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S.he was filing catalog cards in the small library
where she worked in the evenings as a volunteer. Hearing
someone approach, she looked up and saw a man standing
and smiling at her.
“May I have Gunther's book called “Inside Africa'?”
“Certainly,” she answered as she got down from her
stool. “But you can't take it out: it is a reference book
only.”
“Yes, I know.”
She went into the stack room for the book. He thanked
her, read for about an hour, then handed her the book,
saying, “My class begins now.” He was only supposed to
place it on a certain table as he left the library, and his
courtesy in bringing it to her made her remember the
incident as she was walking home.
The next Monday he asked for the same book, followed
her to the door of the stack room, making his acceptance
of it seem a little personal to her. She had taken the library
work when her other job had ceased, for she preferred
this way of spending the evenings rather than being alone
1


in her apartment. On her way to work the following Mon-
day, she hoped this reader would again appear. She was
not disappointed, for at the exact time he entered the
reading room. As he came towards her, she looked up and
smiled, and asked “The same book?”
He nodded in affirmation. As they were walking across
the room, she inquired, “Whose class are you taking?”
“I don't know his name. It is the one at 6:30 today.”
“I studied that course under Professor Mitchell. I hope
to take his advanced class next fall.” It seemed strange that
this small weekly incident became important to her: she
would have distinctly missed him if a Monday had gone
by without his appearing. He now invariably detained
her for a few minutes to ask her certain questions about
the course.
Months later, after vacation at her summer place, she
attended the first class session and found him sitting in
the room. With no hesitation whatsoever, she went over
and took the seat next to his, and asked, “How are you?”
He looked up and smiled. “Very well, and yourself?”
She wanted to say, “I’m so glad you decided to take this
class,” but instead, she asked:
“Have you read the assignment for tonight?”
“No, I don't have the book.”
“Would you like to borrow mine?”
“But you will be needing it.”
“I’ve read it, and I think I'll remember it well enough
to follow the lectures.”
“Thanks. In that case, I would like to borrow it. You
know how hard it is to find a copy.” Afterwards they
walked down the stairs together, instead of taking the
elevator. They said good-bye on the sidewalk. He crossed
the street to the uptown entrance of the subway, although
2


she realized they could have walked two blocks down to
another entrance.
During the short distance to her apartment she seriously
wondered whether she really wanted to start this friend-
ship. She was very excited that she had found him there,
and his attitude seemed to start with the premise of an
acquaintanceship established through their casual meet-
ings in the library. To her he seemed very attractive, and
his pleasant and natural response to her advances made
her feel that he liked her.
“But do I wish to go ahead?” she pondered. “Such a
relationship entails real problems. I don't feel like paying
any attention to the foolish talk that his people will dislike
us as much as mine will boycott us. Those who would dis-
like our going together are the type we wouldn't want to
associate with anyway. Why don't I let him decide? His
position would be as equally difficult as mine, and I am
sure he is aware of it.
“But next Wednesday I have promised to lend him the
book. I just could not bring it. How would he take the
excuse, ‘I forgot the book,' or the fact that I never even
mentioned it?” As she felt entirely compelled to choose the
seat next to his again, she also wished to take him the book.
She was greeted with a broad smile the following week,
and she responded, saying:
“I didn't forget the book.” She consciously handed it
to him before sitting down, so that those seated would
see her give it to him. This gesture would show her class-
mates that she knew him well enough to lend him the
valuable book; she felt he would understand and appre-
ciate her willingness to reveal a desire for his friendship.
During the few minutes before class they talked about
the subject matter for the evening.


When they left the building, she managed to show him
that she wanted him to walk with the group down to the
far entrance of the subway, and he especially said good-bye
to her. The next week this same group of students stopped
in for coffee, and were able to find a table for six. On
the sidewalk she detained him for a few minutes to say
good-bye, thus particularly singling him out from the
others.
When he said, “I’ll be seeing you next week,” she felt
that he also was beginning to look forward to the regu-
larity of this event. These incidences took place in the
gloom of night when faces were barely discernible to
passers-by, or happened in class where everyone assumed
a friendly attitude toward each other but which seldom
continued beyond the confines of the building.
After the next session she walked only with him on the
sidewalk. Consequently, when they reached the subway
entrance he asked, “Won't you have a cup of coffee?”
She tried to keep her voice from trembling with ex-
citement as she answered, “Oh, I would like to.”
They went on ahead of the others and he chose a dif-
ferent restaurant. It was large, crowded and well-lighted.
Did everyone especially look at them or was she imagining
it? As an escort he was unusually attentive, moving the
chair for her to sit down, and helping her off with her
coat. These niceties somewhat compensated for her sudden
consciousness of appearing conspicuous, and his completely
relaxed manner certainly helped her. She already knew
that the pleasure of being with him had to override any
embarrassment or criticism of their going together.
The following week when they were leaving the res-
taurant where they had leisurely eaten a snack, she turned
towards him.
4


“There's a movie I'd like to see, would you? It's a
European film in a midtown theatre.”
His startled expression said, “Do you really mean it?”
His voice acquiesced haltingly.
“Yes, I would like to go. Can I phone you?”
“My number is WA 9-73490. Can you remember it.”
By then he was more at ease, and answered, “I’m not
taking any chances of forgetting it.” He wrote it down
and they said good-night.
Would he call or would he not? Actually, she had made
the request. She had not stopped to question the propriety
of her act. He had certainly been surprised that she had
asked to go out with him, though he had not acted dis-
pleased. Should she stay around the apartment in order
to receive his call, or should she try to forget it? His un-
successful attempts to find her at home would give him
plenty of opportunity to become convinced that he really
wanted to take her to the movie. On Thursday the tele-
phone rang. She picked up the receiver.
“This is Philip Benson speaking. My friend Mary and
I would like to take you to that show on Saturday night.
Is Saturday evening O.K. for you?”
“Yes. How nice of you. Shall I meet you at the theatre?”
“If you don't mind.” The time was arranged. She hung
up the receiver. Her first thought was one of relief. “So
he has a girl friend and is not a married man.” Simul-
taneously, she was annoyed at the way her plans had
materialized.
“How stupid of me! Of course if he isn't married, he
has a girl friend. A tall, dark, handsome man, possessing
a house and a good job. Why shouldn't he have, and what
a fool I’ve been not to think of it. Just because he acted
so pleasant to me is no reason for thinking otherwise. And
5


this way of going means he is not willing to go out alone
with me. He prefers that they, as a couple, take me as a
friend.”
With many compunctions she went to the theatre and
had to wait fully twenty minutes in the lobby. When they
came she stood up and went towards them.
He quickly placed both hands on her shoulders for a
moment and explained, “I am sorry we are late.”
She was thrilled that he had touched her, and mo-
mentarily forgot the much younger friend who was stand-
ing behind him. She didn't wish to feel that he was merely
being solicitous to someone older, someone to be respected.
She also wondered if Mary had been surprised at this rather
familiar greeting. He introduced the young lady, and she
asked if they would sit in the balcony where she could
smoke. He sat between them, and occasionally spoke to
both of them. She was constantly trying to detect the extent
of their intimacy and did conclude that theirs was an
acquaintanceship of long standing.
As they left the theatre, he said, “We'll get a taxi and
take you downtown. Would you like a cup of coffee first?”
She disliked this formal way of being taken care of and
answered, “A taxi isn't necessary. The subway takes me
within a block of my apartment.” He must think she would
only wish to travel with them in the privacy of a taxi.
Mary spoke up. “You two have coffee. I can't, as I have
to go to work very early. I live way out in the Bronx."
“It takes her longer to get to work than me, and I
have to come from New Jersey."
“If you haven't time for coffee we won't stop,” Louise
answered. He was walking on the outer side by Mary but
she moved purposefully so that he walked between them.
They put her on the downtown train while they took
6


the uptown. She had a terribly empty, left-out feeling as
she travelled back to her apartment.
Later at class she tried to act just the same to him. She
didn't want him to think that she minded going to the
movie with both of them, but she also wanted him to
know that she was not interested in that sort of a relation-
ship. She had originally asked him to be her escort: surely
that should be as agreeable to him as to her. His bringing
Mary meant that he wished her to know that he already
had a girl friend, but at the same time was quite willing
to have a pleasant friendship with her.
She was surprised and extremely pleased when, a day
later, he came to the library. He asked for certain books
and settled down to a two-hour study. When he put on
his overcoat she went over to him. “If you'll wait a minute,
I can go now,” she said.
For the first time they were walking on the street in
broad daylight, and she wondered if he shared her feeling
of disquietude. Evidently not, for he asked her if she
would have a cup of coffee. She accepted, trying desperately
not to mind if people stared at her. She was quite willing
to forget the usual conventionalities in order to have this
man for her friend, but she did not relish the idea of having
to contend at the same time with another girl friend.
As they left the restaurant, he placed his hand on her
arm, detaining her for a few minutes longer, saying, “The
show has changed at the same theatre. There is a very good
foreign film this week. Will you go with me?” She was
delighted that he had asked her, but she wondered if there
would be a repetition of their previous evening at the
theatre.
“At least I am not going to wait,” she decided. She de-
liberately arrived ten minutes late, and found him sitting
7


alone in the lobby. He came toward her eagerly, grasped
her hand and pressed it very hard for a moment. His whole
manner showed he had been afraid that she wasn't coming.
That was a joyous moment, and for the first time she
was to spend an evening alone with him. They sat shoulder
to shoulder, and through the entire film she was con-
stantly conscious of his nearness. He brought his face very
close to hers whenever he made some remark about the
picture and her imagination depicted this gesture as a
caress. She was sorely tempted to move her leg ever so
slightly so that it would rest against his which protruded
beyond his seat. He went on the subway downtown with
her, but stayed within the gates, explaining that it was
very late. This was a seldom-used exit, and they were en-
tirely alone. She stood close to him, intimating she was
perfectly willing for him to kiss her good-night. He seemed
to comprehend her intentions, but was not able to realize
that such a fantastic thing could take place. Every familiar
step of that short distance to her apartment seemed trans-
formed. She was extremely elated; he had definitely shown
his willingness to start a deep friendship with her.
As they left class the following week, he asked, “Will
you go to a show this Saturday night?”
“I'd love to. There's an amateur opera theatre near
where I live. Would you like to go there?”
“Yes, I would,” he quickly responded.
“I can write for the tickets so that we can be sure of
seats. Do you mind if we don't know what opera they are
playing?”
“No, I'd enjoy any one of them. May I take you to dinner
before the show?”
“Please come to my apartment instead. It's so much
nicer that way.” Later she regretted having turned down
8


his invitation for he never asked her again. Perhaps she
hurt his feelings; he may have concluded that she didn't
wish to sit through a long meal in a restaurant with him.
She had first asked him to take her out, and naturally he
wouldn't consider that there was any difference between
going to a show and having dinner in a restaurant. Un-
consciously, it may have been true that she did not want
this embarrassment and therefore had quickly refused,
but she only admitted to herself that she wanted to be
alone with him.
“As you wish,” he answered. “What's the address?” She
gave him directions as to time and place and they lingered
in conversation many minutes before they said good-night.
“Shall I call you Friday night?”
“I’d like for you to, but it isn't necessary. You'll be at
my place about six on Saturday.”
“Yes, I will.” Many days had to pass before that time,
and she dreamed often of what might happen. Surely
he was as ready as she for that first kiss. Would it mean
as much to her as she wished, and would she satisfy him?
That evening of his first coming to her apartment finally
arrived. The bell rang, and she pressed the buzzer, and
watched his walking up the stairs. She already loved the
erectness of his figure, and the graceful agility of his move-
ments, so unusual for such a large man. When he entered
the apartment, she closed the door behind him. They
were very close together in the small hallway. She raised
her head and looked straight into his eyes, and that ges-
ture asked him to take her in his arms. His kiss was long
and possessive; when it became too intense she drew away
from him; later she wondered why. That night when alone
she felt she could live for a week on the memory of his
kiss. However, she soon realized that it was foolish to be
9


contented with this dream if there were something more
wonderful in the offing.
“Do you mind if I take off my coat?” he asked.
“Of course not. I only planned for us to eat in the
kitchen.”
The dinner was ready, and they took a long time over
the meal which they ate in the intimacy of her small
kitchen. She could hardly believe they were sitting there
alone, looking at each other across the table without the
annoyance of prying eyes. She was very happy to find him
so relaxed in this entirely new situation. He acted as if
they had known each other for a long time.
“You look lovely tonight.”
She was overcome with joy at his compliment and barely
managed to whisper, “It is for you.”
As soon as they rose from the table it was time to leave
for the opera. He helped her on with her coat, but even at
that proximity she was timid about expressing her desire
for another sign of affection. During the music he gradu-
ally moved nearer to her so that their shoulders met, and
they eventually found room for both elbows on the one
arm of the seat. During the final aria, when she shifted her
elbow a little, he found and held her hand; and, while
leaving the theatre, he took her arm to guide her. When
they had walked the few blocks back to her apartment she
asked him to come in for a cup of tea. She was loath to
bring this wonderful evening to a close.
But he responded with, “No, thank you. It's too late. It
will take me nearly two hours to get home at this time of
night.”
“Did you enjoy the opera?”
“I certainly did. It's the kind of thing I need badly. Will
you order seats when the program changes?"
10


“I’ll check on the date with you first.”
“No, don't trouble. Any evening will be all right with
me. Good-bye, now. Will see you at class.” He bent over
her so lovingly that she thought he was going to kiss her
right there on the street. What a blissful evening! Merely
having an escort was a great treat to her, and Philip was
such an understanding, appreciative person. As she walked
the few steps toward home she could hardly recognize
herself.
The opera and dinner at her apartment became a part
of their lives: they went every two weeks when the program
changed. The atmosphere in this small theatre was very
cordial. The audience consisted mostly of people who lived
in the Village and had friends among the singers. They
were a class of music lovers who could not afford Metro-
politan prices, and were never critical of amateur render-
ing of the operas. She had selected this form of entertain-
ment for she knew they would be as graciously treated as
any other couple in the audience. She had not been dis-
appointed. Each time they became more relaxed, they
talked more during the intermissions, and learned more
about each other. She even took special care to show the
people around her that her escort was not merely a profes-
sional or business acquaintance, but a person whom she
knew very well indeed. His manner in the theatre was
totally unconstrained; never once did he appear conscious
that he was an unusual individual in the audience. During
the music he often held her hand, and they did not take
the trouble to applaud along with everyone else.
But gradually she became impatient about seeing him
only in classes and at the opera, yet at the same time she
was fearful of jeopardizing their present, very satisfactory
relationship. She could easily plan an evening in her own
11


apartment, and thus solve her misgivings about his never
returning there with her. She questioned whether he did
not wish to enhance their friendship, or was nervous about
leaving the house alone late at night. Outwardly he had
shown no aversion to visiting, even though he knew she
had lived there for years.
One evening she asked, “Would you mind if I invited
two couples to dinner next time you are here? I would like
you to meet my daughter and her husband.”
“No, not at all. From what you say about them, I think
they must be very interesting.” He appeared casual, almost
unconcerned, making her wonder why she had hesitated
such a long time to bring about this occasion. Evidently he
wanted her children to know that he existed as her friend,
or at least he did not mind their knowing. But as the day
for the dinner grew nearer she became very nervous and
excited and wished she had been content to leave things
as they were. Nevertheless, she was confident that this par-
ticular daughter and her husband would be glad she had
found a man who was congenial to her. They themselves
had so many different types of friends that they wouldn't
mind this unconventional situation even though their own
mother was involved.
The dinner was formal, carefully laid out on the ex-
tended gate-leg table in the living room. The other guests
were Ruth and John, friends who attended the same class
with them. Ruth and her son-in-law, William, did most of
the talking. Philip was very quiet. The evening progressed
so naturally that soon she was merely concerned as to
whether she would have some time alone with him. Would
he stay after the other people left? This was a new situation
for them. There had been the many times she had said
good-bye to him on the street, and the occasions when they
12


had left the apartment together, but never his being there
intending to leave without her.
While her daughter and William were putting on their
coats, Marie turned to Philip, who was standing near her.
“We are having a large party in a few weeks, and hope you
and Mother will come.”
His answer was only, “Thank you.”
But Louise said, “We certainly will come.” For at that
moment she felt sure he would go with her.
“We have to be at work early in the morning,” Ruth
explained, as she and her husband were preparing to leave.
Philip remained seated while Ruth followed Louise to the
back room for her coat, and the two men continued to talk.
She was very much afraid that he would leave with them.
Did he want to remain with her, or did he not wish to in-
trude himself upon them? Also did he not mind their
knowing that he desired to have some time alone with her.
She hoped her face did not reveal a tremendous relief when
they finally went out the door in front of her while Philip
stood behind her.
He immediately took her in his arms when the door
closed and at last she was sure that he intended to stay be-
hind with her. What an advance in their friendship—a
proof that he was willing to accept her along with her chil-
dren. The anxiety she had felt in planning this event had
been worth while and to her utmost enjoyment they settled
down to love making, different from anything that had
happened before. For the first time she knew what a won-
derful lover he could be. He was gentle, though persistent;
he sensed the importance of mutual satisfaction. His ca-
resses finally caused her so say:
“I could enjoy it so much.” She wanted him to know
that even at her age she could experience the utmost pleas-
13


ure in love making. He had understood her, for he replied:
“Not now. It's so hard to get up and leave right afterwards.
Perhaps you could come out to my place?”
“I'd love to.” His expressed hope for the future pleased
her tremendously even though she was left physically un-
satisfied. His asking her to come to his house came as a
total surprise; she could not believe that he cared that
much about her.
II
When she arrived at class on Monday he was already
seated at the long table. She quickly hung up her coat and
sat down next to him. He looked up from his reading, and
seemed rather demure to her when he asked, “How are
you this evening?”
“Fine, and how are you?” She thought, “How common-
place a remark and yet how can he act any differently when
we are not alone. He surely hasn't forgotten our last eve-
ning together.”
As the class straggled in, the general conversation turned
to movies apropos their studies. However she had carefully
brought the name of a book he might be able to use for
reference in the article he was writing. She placed the note
on the table. His hand held hers for an instant as he picked
up the piece of paper. That one unnecessary touch told
her that he also was thinking of their last evening together.
She needn't think that her desires had progressed too far
ahead of his. At the study table they sat far apart, however,
beneath the table their knees were together—not pressed
tightly together, but pleasantly, closely relaxed. Generally
14


he did not contribute to the class discussion but that eve-
ning he twice volunteered information. They left alone
and walked the two blocks to the subway entrance where
he hurriedly said, while descending the steps:
“Good-bye, Louise. I'm late for a meeting.” He said,
“No,” for Saturday night. “I must work on my report for
next week. I will call you.”
She remained standing where he had left her, completely
stunned. Was he angry about something, or was he truly in
a great hurry? Tonight she had really expected more of
him. “Did he regret having asked me to his house? Does
he live in a community where my appearance would cause
much gossip among his neighbors?"
There was no call from him on Tuesday, nor on Wednes-
day by seven o'clock when she had to leave her apartment.
“But, remember, he has no phone,” she tried to comfort
herself. “And he told me how much he hated going to that
restaurant-bar, because he had to stay around and talk to
all his friends.” It was impossible to wait for a whole week
without seeing him; by that time she wouldn't even be able
to remember what had happened between them. After
much deliberation she addressed an envelope to him and
enclosed the short note:
Dear Philip:
Walking home the other night I realized I should
have offered to help you with your research, as I do
help many other people. Also, from what you hur-
riedly said, I may not see you again for a whole
week. I will meet you at the 25th St. library where
you said you would be working at 9 Saturday morn-
ing unless you phone me otherwise.
Yours,
Louise.
15


P.S. You can find the material and I can copy it for
you.
She hesitated about signing it “yours.” She wanted this
one word to mean more than “yours truly,” and she hoped
he would interpret it in the way she intended.
Having mailed the letter, she was able to settle down to
her daily tasks hoping her plans would materialize. Now
she was glad there was no call on Friday. At five minutes
after nine she was at the library, trying to wait confidently
in the lobby on the ground floor. The outer door, then the
inner, opened and closed. Someone entered; she looked up.
“No." Again someone entered, and again “No.” When this
happened four times, she was beginning to fear he wasn't
coming. Then the outer door opened, and when she looked
through the inner glass door, she saw him. As usual he came
very fast, smiling happily. Bending over her, he squeezed
both her hands together very hard. She could not speak for
pure joy.
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Only five minutes. Let's walk up; it's only one flight.”
“I have never been here before, have you?” he asked as
he took her arm going up the stairs.
All she said was, “Yes,” for at a time like this she became
speechless, overcome by the feeling that she really belonged
to him.
He had a list of dates and names of newspapers he
wanted for reference. She wrote up three call cards, and
they sat down at a long library table to wait for the bound
volumes. He hung up his overcoat and came back for hers.
His polite consideration of her in a public place made her
very happy. No one seemed to bother about them while
they were studying together, frequently working on the
16


same large regular newspaper pages, while he explained to
her the detailed material he was trying to find. But later,
when he went with her downtown on the subway, many
people stared at them. She did not care, but she noticed
being singled out from the crowd, and she wondered if he
minded.
While waiting for his train on the platform, he took hold
of her arm and remarked, “I do appreciate your coming
today. You certainly taught me a lot about research.”
“I don't feel like I helped you at all.”
“But you did, and I'm going now to work on the mate-
rial.” It was a crowded spot but she forgot about all the
people milling around them, and was glad that the limited
space made it necessary for him to stand so close to her. As
usual she hated to say good-bye, and stayed with him until
he took an uptown train.
The next Monday evening, as he was walking her home
from class, she wished to plan something that would follow
the intimacy of the previous night when they had been
alone in her apartment. Otherwise he might think that his
love making had displeased her, and especially she wanted
to hold him to his invitation to come to his house. He had
given his report, and was discouraged about it. She con-
soled him, stating that the length of time he had been al-
lowed was totally inadequate for presenting the material
he had compiled.
“There's a class tomorrow night I'm going to start. Do
you want to go?” he asked her. “We only have one more
session here.”
“I’m not sure; in fact, I didn't know about it.”
“But you will join?”
“That makes quite a full schedule for me.”
17


He turned and looked at her, appearing quite annoyed.
“Do you know when I have to get up to be at work by eight
o'clock?”
“Six o'clock?” she queried.
“No, five. I have to travel such a distance.”
She thought, and wished she could have the courage to
say, “How much easier for you if you lived with me on
Twelfth Street.”
They walked another block and he insistingly ques-
tioned, “You will come tomorrow night?”
Her mind was occupied with something more immedi-
ately important to her. She enjoyed being with him in
class, but she was anxious for something more personal
between them.
“I’ll try to. But I was thinking that you should get your
notes in better order. If I typed them for you, couldn't you
work on them better?”
“I certainly could. They would be easier to read, and I
could get them organized. But the article would still have
to be retyped. Would you mind that?”
“You know I wouldn't. But we would have to work on
them together. I couldn't do it alone.” As he said nothing
she anxiously continued, “How about Saturday? Will you
come to my house or shall I come to yours?” With all
propriety she could ask him, as he had previously suggested
her coming to his place, even though he had given an
entirely different reason for wanting her to come then.
“I wish you would come to my place if it wouldn't be
too inconvenient.”
“I’d like to. But . . . .” She hesitated so long that he
asked:
“But what?”
“It's your house, and they are your neighbors. Have you
18


thought of what they might say? I don't mind at all but it
might make a difference to you.”
“No,” he answered very emphatically. “No one would be
thinking anything like that. No, don't you worry about
that.” What did he mean? Was he interpreting her words
to mean something entirely different from what she had
intended? By suggesting what people might suspect in her
coming alone to his house, she had made him believe that
she minded what they might think. In fact, she didn't care,
and she was anxious to let him know she didn't; she was
only afraid that what his neighbors might say to him later
would prevent him from seeing her again. As much as she
wanted to go there, she didn't wish to do anything that
might break up their friendship. Not knowing exactly how
to answer him, she remained quiet, and he changed the
subject by saying:
“Hope I'll see you tomorrow night. "Bye now.” Fearing
that she had brought up something of a dissenting nature
between them, she was happy to hear this more familiar
way of saying good-bye.
Of course she did as he asked and went to the new class.
He was not in the appointed room, so she waited with
friends on a bench in the hall. When he stepped off the
elevator, she said, “There's my friend,” and went to meet
him.
He greeted her with a smile. “So you did come after all.”
They entered the class room; he helped her off with her
coat and hung it up. This little incident was a real acknowl-
edgment to everyone present that they were friends be-
yond the confines of the class; they came and left together,
quite oblivious of everyone else. They turned off Fifth
Avenue, west on Thirteenth Street, which is a long, almost
deserted street at night. She reached for his hand, and they
19


walked with their hands and arms interlocked. Many days
had passed since this intimacy had been possible; she won-
dered if he enjoyed it as much as she. She did not ask him
into the apartment, as he had refused many times. He al-
ways gave the same excuse about early rising. Would he
mention Saturday? She would be forced to if he didn't, be-
cause she wanted so much to be with him that day.
At the corner where they often parted, he said, “I’ll call
and give you directions how to reach my house on Satur-
day.”
“Oh, but you might forget. Can't you tell me now?”
“No, I'll call you tomorrow between four-thirty and
five.” She didn't insist further, but said, “I hope you do,
but you haven't always called when you said you would.”
He walked away, facing her, smiling and saying, “I will
call.”
She had to believe him, though she distinctly felt his
hesitancy about committing himself finally to his promise.
Perhaps he hadn't wanted to subject her to standing on the
sidewalk taking notes from him while people were passing
by. However, she went to the library at nine in the morn-
ing, and kept herself occupied with her work. Only ten
minutes after returning to her apartment, the telephone
rang.
“Oh, is it he?” Yes, it was. He was especially loquacious,
asking her how she had spent the day, telling her that he had
left work early and would appreciate a long night's rest.
Finally he asked, “Have you a pencil and paper?”
“Yes.”
“Here are the directions. Take the A train up to the
New Jersey Bus Terminal at One Hundred and Sixty-
Eighth Street. Take bus Sixty-Three to Glenwood, and get
off at Wendell Place. This ride is about twenty minutes.
20


Continue walking a block as the bus travels. My house is
the first one on the right of the next street. You have the
address, haven't you? Do you think you can find it?”
“Yes. I have written it down very carefully.”
“You must give me time to clean up the place.”
“Don’t worry about that; I won't mind. Shall I come out
in the morning?”
“Yes, we have a lot of work to do.”
“Shall I bring something for lunch?”
“No no; I'll take care of that.” The operator asked for
another coin; they simultaneously said:
“Goodbye, will see you Saturday.”
Then he asked, “You will come, even if I don't call you
again on Friday?”
She did not stay home on Friday night, because it had
snowed steadily for forty-eight hours, and she was afraid he
might call up to say the weather was too rough out in the
country. She dressed leisurely and warmly Saturday morn-
ing, finding and wearing her best lace panties and slip. After
trying on three pairs of earrings, she decided to wear none
at all. She would take her portfolio instead of a pocket
book. It looked professional and would substantiate his
explanation to the other family occupants of his two-party
house that she had come to help him with his writing.
The telephone rang. She was frightened.
“Surely it isn't he. I just won't answer; I could have left
by now.” But at the third ring she automatically picked up
the receiver and said, “Hello.”
“I tried to get you last night, Louise. I don't think you
should come out. The snow is very deep here, and I have
to clear my path and sidewalk. Also I haven't cleaned up
my apartment and I hate for you to see it this way.”
What could she say except, “Oh, I'm so disappointed.
21


her on the telephone than ever before. And now he was
unquestionably telling her she must come.
She laughed. “Are you asking me to come and help you
clean up?”
“Yes, I'll never get around to doing it myself. I even left
everything as it was.”
“All right. But we have tickets for ‘The Barber of
Seville' on Friday. I ordered them for that night as we are
invited to a party at Marie's on Saturday. Do you remem-
ber?” When he did not answer she refrained from telling
him that she would like to go and work at his place during
the day, and return with him to the party. She would tell
him this plan on Friday night at the opera.
“Can you come for dinner before the show?”
“Yes, I'll be there at six-thirty.”
“That's good.” She would liked to have said, “Even
though we have seen each other often during the past
weeks, in all that time I have not had one single kiss.”
When her youngest daughter called her for a dinner
date, she said, “Come have dinner at the apartment. Philip
will be here; we have tickets for a show.”
“Shall I come?” Laura asked.
“Why not? Then you will get to meet him.”
“Are you sure you want me to come if he's going to be
there?” This question gave her ample opportunity to reply,
“You're right. I'd rather be alone with him.”
However, she answered, “Oh no. I want you to meet
him.”
Hanging up the receiver she immediately thought, “Will
he get here before Laura does? Will I lose those precious
moments I've been longing for these many weeks? But if
he doesn't come first, perhaps she'll leave before we do. I
certainly have acted foolishly. Am I really in love with the
23


man? Do I unconsciously keep putting things in the way of
our friendship, or do I now feel sure about everything, and
therefore am anxious to go one step farther by having him
meet and like my youngest daughter?”
She was much more relaxed than she had been when her
other daughter first met Philip. She knew him much better
though the interim had only been three weeks, and she
was certain that he would like Laura. Her daughter came
first.
“I hope you aren't nervous, Mother. I'm sure everything
will be pleasant and easy.”
“No, I'm not; I'm just excited. I always am when I'm
going to see him. As much as I try to control myself, I get
upset for fear something will keep him from coming. This
is all mixed up with being so happy these days.”
“You shouldn't be so intense.”
“Yes, I know. I do wish I could be calmer about it.” The
buzzer rang, and as Louise answered it, Laura thoughtfully
moved to another chair where she wouldn't see him enter
the apartment.
“We have company for dinner tonight,” she said to him.
Perhaps he didn't hear her as the door was still open, or he
wasn't going to allow her words to make an exception to
his way of greeting her there. When she closed the door,
they both forgot everything except their being together.
She vaguely understood that he must have been longing
for this moment as much as she. The embrace was pro-
longed and fervent, and her daughter could place no other
interpretation on the long silence. She kept her hand on
his arm as they went into the front room, as she distinctly
wanted Laura to know the extent of their friendship.
The atmosphere during the meal was even more casual
24


than she had dared to anticipate. Laura's manner was very
light and easy-going, while she told of her experiences as a
social worker in a large hospital, and Philip spoke of his
wife's having been a hospital nurse when she was alive.
Laura had an engagement for the evening, and left while
they were still seated at the table.
Philip immediately said, “I can't understand why such
an attractive girl hasn't married.”
This remark led to a lengthy discussion of the pros and
cons of the man's and woman's part in marriage. She ex-
plained that the older a woman became, the more she
wished for freedom of action in the things of interest she
had acquired during her unmarried years.
“Generally, a man doesn't like to give his wife such
freedom.”
“I don't know why not. He ought to be glad she is that
way.”
“But most men wouldn't agree with you. They might
talk differently, but at the same time, they really would be
jealous of their wives. I'm glad you feel that way about it.”
She arose from the table and deliberately walked across
the room and sat down in his lap. The repeated kisses,
intense kisses, she felt should go on forever. Why did she
extricate herself from his embrace, gather up a pile of
dishes from the table, and take them into the kitchen? He
followed her, but she had ruthlessly interrupted their in-
timacy. If she had only stayed where she was, they might
never have gone to the opera, and might have spent the
entire evening love making. Why did that detestable char-
acteristic of doing always what she should do instead of
what she wanted to do have to crop up at such a crucial
moment? Or, was she afraid that, as she had asked for his
25


show of affection, the situation was not truly indicative of
his feelings? She knew, however, that he enjoyed the kisses
as much as she did.
Walking home from the opera, she asked him if she
could come out to his house the following day and return
with him for the party that night. He said he would call
her before twelve o'clock. After waiting until one-thirty
she left but returned in a couple of hours, knowing he had
plenty of time to call her again if she had missed his first
call. Nothing happened. It proved to her that she had
taken an unnecessary risk by not waiting indefinitely for
his call. Very unhappy, she went to the party alone, feeling
that for some unknown reason he had not wanted to go. It
is true they would have gone to her daughter's home, and
he would have been the escort of the hostess's mother, and
everyone there would have been a stranger to him. Under
such circumstances would he have enjoyed the evening?
Perhaps she should have told him this would be an inter-
racial party, though she always refrained from using this
word in their conversations.
When she was with him she knew that their love was
reciprocal. But when she did not see him for a few days she
always became afraid that she was only an incidental per-
son in his completely filled life. In order to constantly re-
assure herself that he did care for her, she would do such
foolish little things as keeping his Yellow Bus #63 sched-
ule conspicuously standing on her bureau. She loved this
folder; it was so worn and frayed that he must have carried
it in his pocket for months. This dirty little piece of paper
represented a definite future for her.
“He must have had something else he preferred to do,”
she thought. “I must remember that he may be still going
with his former girl friend. Even though I'm with him
26


have some proof that she really cared for him. She was
more than glad to please him, even though their nearness
might be noticeable to those sitting directly behind them.
He hunted for her coat among many others. “This is
yours, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is.” She was surprised and pleased that he recog-
nized it, and he familiarly helped her on with it while she
was talking to a friend of hers. He opened the door for her
to precede him, took her arm as she got on the crowded
elevator and waited for her on the ground floor. They were
intimately contented as they slowly walked toward her
apartment. On the corner of Twelfth Street and Sixth
Avenue he stopped her to look in the window at the plans
of a large apartment house in construction there. She
thought that he, as a carpenter, was primarily interested in
the diagram of the layout of the project.
But he said, “This is where I should apply for an apart-
ment.” She was astounded that he would even suggest the
possibility of his application's being considered.
“It's an impressive layout. I wonder how expensive they
are.”
“One hundred dollars and up,” he answered with assur-
ance. “But I would be better off paying that rent than
keeping up my place in New Jersey.”
When another couple approached the window she took
his arm, led him away, and talked about something entirely
different. Hereafter, when she passed this apartment house
she remembered the incident, and thoroughly blamed
herself for acting disinterested in his applying for a place
there. A totally diverse approach could have enhanced
their friendship. Even though she had cause to believe it
would be impossible for him to rent an apartment there,
even though he himself knew this problem when he sug-
28


gested applying, she should have firmly acquiesced. He
would have been pleased; he would have known that she,
at least, felt he should be allowed to live wherever he
wished.
After walking a half a block she asked, “How about to-
morrow night?”
“It's Wednesday. I'll see you at the writer's group in
Harlem. If I'm too tired to come, I'll call you between five
and five thirty.”
“I hope you can come because they'll be discussing your
story.” Soon they were saying those terribly frustrating
good-byes on the street corner.
In the morning she had a call from her daughter, Marie.
“Can you have supper with the children? It's one of my
teaching nights, and William is away in Detroit.”
“Yes, I'll be there about five thirty. Does that give you
plenty of time?” She had agreed, as she always did, having
acquired this habit over many years. Immediately she re-
membered she would miss his call if he were not planning
to be at the study group. She had often intended to give
him her daughter's number, but she felt that he would
never call her there.
He was not at the writers' session and she had not re-
ceived his call when they would have made plans for the
weekend. Would he think she was avoiding him by not
being at home when he had promised to call? Would a
whole week pass without her seeing him? Was she again
going to become steeped with doubts and fears? He had no
telephone; he would try to get in touch with her a few
times, and then give up, and she would have to wait
patiently until next Tuesday. This situation could have
been avoided if she had only said “no” to her daughter's
request.
29


“But I was so sure he'd call some day later if he weren't
at the club. Of course there've been many times he could
have called and not found me at home.”
III
Tuesday finally came. As she was going to be with him,
she dressed very carefully. He would be wearing his cor-
duroy jacket, having come straight from work, but she
knew he liked to claim a well-dressed woman as his friend.
The walk to Fifth Avenue only took a few minutes; she
planned to arrive ahead of time. When she entered the
building, he was standing there alone waiting for the ele-
vator. The rapturous expression on his face as she went
towards him was overpowering. She dropped her gaze as he
took both hands and kissed her. His inarticulate murmur-
ings of minged relief and joy said more than a hundred
“I-love-you’s.” This time her intense emotion was recip-
rocated. The embrace was brief; he must have seen the
person who had entered the building immediately behind
her. The three went up on the elevator.
She started talking, totally ignoring the other man. She
was so elatedly happy that she hardly knew what she was
saying.
“You missed an interesting session last Wednesday. They
discussed your story.”
“I couldn't make it; I was too tired. Remember we were
both out the two previous nights.” She was glad that he
wished the other man to hear this remark. “What did they
say about your story?”
“They liked it. I read aloud both yours and mine. I
30


asked them to interrupt me whenever they wished. I took
notes, and have some very constructive criticism for you.”
By that time they were in the classroom. The chairs were
arranged close together; they did not take the trouble to
move them farther apart.
After class, they had barely left the building when he
turned to her. “I missed you very much this weekend.
Which day are you coming out to my place?”
“Do you prefer Saturday or Sunday?” She wished to be
assured that Mary no longer existed as his girl friend.
His answer, “Either day is all right with me,” confirmed
her hope that he did not have to fit her coming into any
other plans. However, she had to admit that perhaps he
could appear at Mary's apartment without even letting her
know. She had always understood that it was more difficult
for a man to abstain from love making, and she often won-
dered whether the meager show of affection was sufficient
for him during the progressing weeks, and now, months of
their friendship.
Suddenly she heard him saying, “If you and I stay to-
gether we will make a wonderful contribution with the
articles we are writing.”
She replied, “I have always hoped that our friendship
would continue.” He said nothing else personal, but con-
tinued with a rough sketch of his projected pamphlet on
industrial workers in New York City.
“I shall see you Saturday,” she said as they parted.
“I’d like to see you before then. Won't you be at the
library Thursday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“I can't get there before four-thirty. Can we go out to
dinner after I look up a few references?”
“I’d like to.”
31


It was Tuesday. She was to have dinner with him on
Thursday, and go to his home on Saturday. Something
surely had augmented his desire to be with her. While
they waited for class to begin, she had told him about buy-
ing tickets at the Metropolitan Opera House for a per-
formance of English dancers.
When she had bought the tickets several weeks before, it
had taken courage for her to decide that she would enjoy
the evening regardless of the notice they attracted. The
amateur opera house in the Village was a small place, and
in a district of the city where mixed couples are often seen.
The “Met” was quite a different proposition. Her buying
the tickets must have made him understand that she really
cared for him. How could he know that she constantly
lived in thoughts of him; he first came to mind when she
woke in the morning, and he mingled in her dreams at
night. These reflections were now seldom overshadowed
with the doubtful possibilities of a future together. In his
remark about their “staying together” she wanted to be-
lieve that he was expressing much more than his few words
conveyed; he had then made the first verbal commitment
of a future for them.
When he came to the library, she was at the far end,
while the readers were up front. As he did not see her
when he got off the elevator, he went back to find her, and
walked straight up to her and kissed her. She turned her
head slightly so that the kiss landed on her cheek. She was
not sure whether the people up front could see them. After
all it was her place of work, and she was on her job. To-
gether they found the books he wanted, and he sat down
with the other readers while she continued with her as-
signed work.
Promptly at five o'clock, he came over to her and asked,
32


“Isn't it time to go?” In this way he forced her to remind
the others that she had to close the library. Everyone left
on the same elevator but on the street they were the only
couple who turned left.
“Where shall we have dinner?” he asked.
“How about the restaurant on the corner of the next
block uptown? I really don't care much for that place
where we used to stop for a cup of coffee.”
“That's my choice too.”
The streets were very crowded at that hour; everyone
hurrying to get home as quickly as possible after a day's
work. Consequently they walked close together, and he
often took her arm: there could be no question that they
were not accompanying each other. This was their first
dinner together in public, an occasion she had regretfully
refused many weeks ago. He seemed absolutely relaxed;
she blamed herself that she wasn't. Having a private escort
was unusual for her; her disquietude could stem from that
reason alone. She was nervous and over-talkative, trying to
pay no attention whatsoever to their surroundings. After-
wards she really felt uncomfortable during the short walk
on the crowded avenue to his subway station.
“I do appreciate your having dinner with me.”
She quickly and spontaneously answered, “I should be
thanking you. I enjoyed it so much.”
“I will expect you on Saturday whether I call you on
Friday or not.”
“About eleven o'clock?” she questioned.
“Any time you can make it. I shall not leave the house
all day.”
As she walked the remaining block to her apartment,
she was, deep down, comfortingly satisfied; she was abso-
lutely sure she would be spending a whole day alone with
33


him. While she thought of what the day might offer her,
she remembered how little she really knew his personality
or his daily habits. She slept well that night.
She left her apartment a little after nine, although she
could have gone much earlier. His directions were accu-
rate; she had no difficulty at all. The bus driver questioned
the name of the street where she asked him to stop, but
when she insisted he helped her to find the address. The
house was a stuccoed dwelling, white and modern, in dis-
tinct contrast to the surrounding old-fashioned two-storied,
gabled-roofed, wooden houses. The landscape consisted of
rolling hills and many beautiful trees among homes which
were built far apart.
She walked across the uncovered piazza and rang the
bell. The door was not opened for nearly a minute, but
then he stood there smiling. He led her through the lobby
into his sitting-room, then he took her into his arms in
that firm possessive manner which immediately dispelled
all the nervous tensions of her trip. She knew this was one
of the most thrilling moments of her life, a moment she
had been waiting for for many months.
“What a beautiful house, so light and cheerful! What
do you mean about it's not being tidy? I have never seen a
neater place.” He laughed as he helped her to remove her
coat, and she knew he had taken great care to have every-
thing in readiness for her.
“So many trees! It must be beautiful out here in the
spring.” As she sat down on the sofa, he put one knee be-
side her, his arm still resting behind her. He gradually slid
down and sat close to her. She snuggled against him, fitting
each curve of her body into his. He sat so much higher
than she that her head only rested on his shoulder while
his chin slowly stroked the top of her head.
34


“Won't you have a cup of coffee? I walked up to the bus
twice to meet you; then I fell asleep on the sofa.” That ac-
counted for the time she had waited for him to answer the
door bell. She explained that she had made poor connec-
tions with both the subway and the bus.
“Don’t let me forget to give you a more up-to-date sched-
ule.” They had coffee; she refused anything to eat.
“I see you aren't going to let me fatten you up.”
She laughed as she said, “No, you certainly aren't. I ate
a big breakfast before leaving.”
When she arose from the table he took her arm and led
her to the stairs which were part of the combination din-
ing-room and kitchen. “My study is upstairs.”
It was a small room with a large window stretching the
full length of the wall, and the study table was equally as
long.
“Oh, what a pleasant place to work! But I see what you
mean about my helping you to clean up. What a desk!”
He merely smiled down at her, placing both hands on
her shoulders, “Yes, I never get around to destroying any-
thing.”
“The books could be straightened out on the shelves.”
She instinctively began to move some books front. As she
worked he exclaimed, “I don't even know what's behind
them.”
“Why don't you make another set of shelves along this
wall? Then you could also get rid of all those cardboard
boxes.”
“That's what I always plan to do.” They spent some
time looking at his books; she was surprised that he had
such a collection.
“But let's go to work,” she said. He brought a chair from
one of the bedrooms and squeezed it into the space next
35


“You shouldn't work the whole time you are here.”
She put her pencil down and leaned against him. “You
don't really seem to want anything else.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You act as if completely loving each other would alter
our feelings towards each other later.” Many minutes
passed while he slowly rubbed his finger on the inside of
her elbow.
“I would like to discuss this with you. I don't think you
want to get married again, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But you wouldn't consider marrying me.” His remark
was not a question; it was a positive statement.
Promptly and emphatically, she answered, “Yes, I would.
The evening when I first asked you to take me to a movie,
I had already decided I would marry you if you ever asked
me to.” He did not answer; he showed his feeling of doubt
by lifting her from the chair and leading her downstairs.
However his actions contradicted his desires, because he
asked her, “Next Friday night after the show won't you
come back here with me?”
She was temporarily annoyed; it was apparent he needed
more time to think things over. She concluded, “He isn't
ready yet, but I should be glad that he's only making me
wait another week.”
After supper two children from the neighborhood came
in for ice cream and cookies. The younger one ate first and
then played in the living room while waiting for his
brother. There was beautiful music, and they sat in loving
fashion, listening and talking. But from the sudden weight
of his head as he leaned against her, she knew that he had
fallen asleep. Saturday was truly a needful day of rest for
him.
37


“It's getting late; I should be going home.”
“I guess someone in your family will be calling you and
wondering where you are.”
“No one will call. They are quite busy with their own
lives and are never much concerned about me. It's getting
late now for them to be calling me for baby-sitting tonight.
They'll never know I'm here.” She hoped he would
frankly express his desire for her to stay: if he wanted her
for next Friday, why not now?
As he did not answer, she appealed to him, “Please let
me stay!”
His continued silence made her realize it was foolish to
ask again; she must be contented with the pleasant day
they had experienced, and remember his request for the
following weekend.
“I’ll get my coat and take you to the bus,” he said as he
brought hers from the closet. She got ready, and then
opened her pocket book which had been left all day on the
chair where she had originally dropped it. She groped
around for her change purse, but couldn't find it; neither
was it in her coat pockets. Wishing to be absolutely sure,
she dumped all the contents of the pocket book on the
sofa. She hesitated about saying anything. The money
didn't matter, she had bills in a compartment, but what
would she do without her keys. She went into the dining
room and called up the stairs to him; that seemed easier
than waiting for him to come down.
“Philip, my purse isn't in my pocketbook. I hate to say
so, but one of those children must have taken it.”
She knew he would come down looking very worried, so
she continued, “I don't mind about the money or the
purse. There was only some change. But my apartment
keys were in one section. How am I going to get in to-
38


night?” She sat down on her coat, looking extremely for-
lorn.
“You stay here. I'll go get the kids. They took some
cigarettes last week.” These last words had no significance
at that time, but later she had cause to worry about those
cigarettes when she definitely became sure that he never
smoked. He brought the children back with him, and they
utterly denied taking the purse. She tried being pleasant,
she attempted bribing them, but no approach was effective.
In despair, she opened the outside door for them to
leave, then returned to him saying, “Let's forget about it.
Two of my daughters have keys for my apartment, but it
will be very late when I get back to the city.”
He took hold of her, in a positive manner, “I’m very
sorry this happened, but you don't need to go back tonight.
Of course you will stay here.”
She settled down near him, “You don't think I planned
all this so I could stay.”
He laughed and kissed her exposed ear, “Don’t be silly.”
But she continued ruminating upon such a peculiar co-
incidence. “Those children did me a favor, though it will
be embarrassing tomorrow making up some excuse for
needing their keys.” Momentarily she dismissed the prob-
lem because he seemed as contented as she.
About another hour passed before he said, “I’ll go up
and put clean sheets on your bed.”
She went with him and helped him change the large
double bed in the one room. There were twin beds in the
other room; one was piled high with clean clothes, the
other was very untidily made up. He found a blanket and
a comforter, and handed her a towel and a wash cloth be-
fore going downstairs. He did not say good-night, neither
did she. She bathed, washed her stockings and panties,
39


hung them in the bathroom to dry overnight, got into bed
and read the open book on the little table. After a long
time she turned out the light, but she was still awake when
he came upstairs. He went into the other room although
her door was left open. “Aren't you coming in to say good-
night?” His caresses were very affectionate, but she did not
like the finality they seemed to express. As he was leaving
her, she questioned, “You're not going for the night?”
“You only asked me to come say good-night. I have to
take a bath.”
During the splashing of water in the next room, she
pondered, utterly confused. It seemed she would have to
ask him to come to bed with her. Why? He, himself, had
suggested it, this very afternoon, and also many weeks ago
in her own apartment. He must not want this intimate re-
lationship unless they were married, or else he had another
girl friend. Of course, both these contingencies could
easily be true. But, even if they were, she was determined
that this night should not end in this way, and she feared
that he was not willing to take the initiative. She knew
how miserable she would be during the ensuing days if he
would not be with her tonight. When he came out of the
bathroom and went directly into the other room, she
waited a few minutes, then, not hearing a single sound,
she called and asked him to come.
“I’ll soon be there.” But she became terribly impatient
when he did not come after she asked him a second time.
Why was he so hesitant? Was she the first white woman
willing to be his girl friend, and did this situation confront
him with too many conflicting ideas? She had every reason
to know he wanted her, but perhaps he felt she should be
the one to make the final decision. Throwing aside all her
inhibitions she went into the other room and got into bed
40


with him. He was faced away from her, but he immedi-
ately turned and took her in his arms. They said nothing
for a long time. When she was close to him, she wondered
why she could ever have any doubts of his love for her.
Desperately she asked, “Why not? Won't you tell me
why not? There must be someone else.” She would never
suggest that he had a much deeper reason for not wanting
her.
“Yes, there is.” But his passionate grasp of her entirely
negated his words.
“How foolish of me. I should have known. But you have
been so nice to me that I was beginning to think differ-
ently.” But when he gave no response, she asked, “Does
she also want to marry you?”
Quickly and positively he answered, “No.” Greatly re-
lieved and temporarily satisfied with his answer, she did
not force herself to ask why. Even though the conversation
was too intensely problematic, they were both enjoying the
pleasure of bodily contact.
She was surprised when he started talking, “There is
something else worrying me. You will be sacrificing so
much if you married me.”
“I don't think so. I really don't: and I've thought about
it a great deal.”
He continued, “And if we shouldn't get married, I
would never forgive myself for doing this to you.”
She had a sincere and spontaneous answer to these words.
“I don't look upon this as your harming me. You shouldn't
either. You will be giving me a great pleasure.”
He held her even closer. “There's one more thing. If
you would be willing to marry me, I'm sure I'm going to
do so much with my writing that you'll never regret it.”
What more revealing thoughts could she expect from
41


handed her the empty purse. She thanked them effusively,
and they grinned as if they were terminating a very agree-
able incident. When she opened the section for the keys,
she found them there.
“Look! Here are my keys. What a relief! I won't have
any trouble now.”
“I’m glad they brought them back, but they shouldn't
have gotten away with the money.”
“Don’t worry about it. Most parents have this problem
with children at this age. I could tell you some interesting
stories about my own grandchildren.”
He walked with her to the bus, put her on, and followed
along the side to say goodbye once more, when she sat
down next to the window. His whole manner told her he
was glad she spent the night. As she travelled into the city,
she felt calm and unperturbed one minute, while the next
she wondered how much she had to fear from that “some-
one else.” He had said that this other woman did not wish
to marry him; but how could that be true unless she were
separated from her husband without having a divorce.
Also, equally important, was the question of whether he
loved two women, for she was positive he loved her, even
though he had never actually uttered the words. He had
never thanked her explicitly for all her typing; he had
naturally assumed that his attitude towards her conveyed
his thanks; in the same way, he must think that he sincerely
showed his affection for her without having to express it
verbally.
43


They had dinner and went to the opera; they were casual
about holding hands, their relationship had gone beyond
that stage. He asked her to come to his place the next
morning. The events of that evening were a repetition of
many others they had spent together, but how differently
she felt; she was completely secure in her present position.
When she rang his bell the next day, the little boy of the
other apartment opened the door. “Hello, Mr. Benson is
down in the basement.”
She thanked him and went into the living room, took off
her coat, glanced around the place, already feeling that
this house somewhat belonged to her. As she went down
the steps leading from the dining room, he heard and saw
her coming, met her at the foot of the stairs, and barely
kissed her. She was puzzled, but as he glanced over her
shoulder she turned and saw an open door leading out to
the backyard of the house. She understood that he feared
they were not alone. He was sawing lengths of two-by-
fours, making a partition in the basement.
“Don’t let me interrupt you. I'll go upstairs and work on
your papers.”
“I’m through with what I was planning to do this morn-
ing. Don't sit down anywhere here; you'll soil your good
clothes.” He was dressed in carpenter's overalls and work
shirt. “I’ll change before I come up. Why are you so late?”
“I’m sorry.” She had purposely chosen this hour; she
didn't want him to think she was too anxious to see him.
When he joined her upstairs, he continued complaining.
“You remember I told you I had to be at a funeral at
one o'clock. Shall we eat something now?" He opened the
refrigerator and took out a container of milk.
“I brought a pineapple-cheese cake from your favorite
bakery. Will that and coffee be enough before you go?”
“Yes, but I'm wondering what you will have for lunch.”
45


He was examining packages in the freezer compartment.
“Don’t worry. I'll find something.”
“There's fish here in the freezer; I'll take it out. I'm
sorry you came late because I do have to leave in about an
hour.” Having eaten, they sat on the sofa. His arm held
her near to him; it was a very precious hour for both of
them. Then he went to the cleaners to get his black suit.
Later, she followed him upstairs, and sat on the couch in
the little open alcove, talking to him while he wandered
back and forth getting dressed. He kissed her good-bye
very affectionately, and said he would get back as soon as
he could. Of course she had expected that her being there
would be more important to him than his attending the
funeral. A fellow workman had died and he felt obligated
to the widow to see that the union was well represented.
“I’m going to straighten up your study while you're
gone.”
“All right. But don't work too hard.” He turned again
at the head of stairs, and all day she cherished the look he
had given her.
“I won't. I hope you won't be gone long.” She im-
mediately started to work, remembering the experiences
acquired from her former writer-husband that not one
single piece of paper was to be destroyed. There were many
magazines, scattered all over the house. These she as-
sembled and piled in chronological order, though carefully
leaving the opened ones on his little bedside table. She
gathered his notes into neat piles, more or less as she found
them. She wanted to throw away the old newspapers, but
she realized he had kept them for clipping. The letters
were a real problem. She put them in a large folder, sys-
tematically arranged according to date; but she did not
46


include the bills, tax receipts, car papers, etc., which were
all left carelessly opened on top of everything. A few un-
opened advertisements she felt justified in destroying. She
had accomplished a great deal when she finally washed the
glass top of his desk, and neatly replaced everything in
compact piles.
The shelves seemed simple in comparison. She dusted
the books as she tried to find room for all of them. She
noticed the one she had asked him to lend her many weeks
ago; he had said a friend had not returned it. She opened
the fly leaf and read the message,
“To my dear friend Philip, Constance, 1957.” The writ-
ing was somewhat of a revelation, but certainly no shock,
for he had told her there was “someone else.” However,
this was a different person from the Mary who had come
to the movie with them; but the date, 1957, showed they
were both recently, if not currently, a part of his life. It
should be a comfort to know there were two women
friends, not one, neither of whom then would necessarily
be an intimate friend. But she soon learned that such as-
sumption was not the case.
She decided to put away the huge pile of clean clothes
all crumpled from the washing machine. She folded and
assembled the pieces. There were pink and blue percale
sheets, pillow cases and towels to match. There were his
work shirts, socks and handkerchiefs, and underclothes
of separate shorts and shirts. She arranged them carefully
in the numerous drawers which were nearly empty, though
she often hesitated, wondering if he would find things
when he needed them. When she opened the last and bot-
tom drawer of the bureau which she had been using for
his socks and handkerchiefs, she was startled at the sight of
47


women's garments; sweater, slacks and bra. On top was the
bra, neatly folded as a woman would put it away. She
picked up these clothes, held them against her, measuring
them across her bosom and waistline, trying to figure the
comparative size of this other woman. Here was the proof
that he had not fabricated a story to prevent his starting
an intimate relationship with her. However, she tried to
think that the circumstances surrounding these clothes
belonged permanently to the past. He must have known
the garments were there, and he had outwardly shown no
uneasiness when she told him she would tidy up the place
while he was gone. She knew that neither he nor she would
ever mention the clothes. Her great desire, well considered
and planned, was to dissolve the past without any discus-
sions.
Wishing to be downstairs when he returned, she made a
cup of tea and a sandwich, not wanting to take the trouble
to cook anything. She found a current magazine in the un-
opened mail, and read while she ate. Time passed; she
realized he had been obligated to go to the cemetery, in-
stead of leaving after the church ceremonies. Hours later,
she ate again, not knowing when he would come; finally
she went upstairs, undressed, bathed and settled comfor-
tably in bed to read. It was eleven o'clock when she heard
the closing of the front door, and his quick steps on the
stairs. He came towards her eagerly, kissing her many times
on her mouth, face and neck, showing he had sincerely
been longing for her.
“I was nervous all afternoon. I couldn't refuse taking
the trip to the cemetery which was way out in Butler, and
then driving back to New York. The first time anyone left
the group, I said good-bye and took the bus home. You
must stay tomorrow to make up for this.” This was such a
48


sincere and convincing story; everything was dispelled
from her mind except the joy of having him back.
He left the room, but immediately returned.
“This looks like a different house. How could you do so
much? I will never let it get that untidy again.”
She only smiled, very happy to have him so appreciative.
He left, but soon came back. “My bedroom, tool You are
wonderful!”
“I expect to be repaid.”
“You will be in just a few minutes.”
This second night with him was far better than the first.
She was completely contented, knowing from the very be-
ginning that she was going to enjoy herself fully. They
both calmly assumed that this particular pleasure was a
desirable aspect of their friendship.
For the first time, he said, “I love you, sweetness.” Even
though they were in the large double bed she could not go
back to sleep: she slipped gradually from his arms without
waking him, and got into his bed in the other room. As
soon as she heard him stir in the morning, she went back
to him.
Putting one arm under her and drawing her lovingly to
him, he said, “So, you don't like to sleep with me. Did my
snoring keep you awake?”
“No, you weren't snoring. I just haven't slept with any-
one for such a long time that I couldn't fall off to sleep.”
But he still insisted, “You don't like to sleep with me.”
“Well, I'm here now.”
“Yes, and I'll never get up and leave you if I stay a min-
ute longer. I'll have breakfast ready in fifteen minutes.”
With a final kiss, he left her.
The day was one long-stretched-out joyous event. They
worked on the revising of his article; they read the news-
49


papers and listened to the radio. He cooked an interesting
and tasty dinner, and she was beginning to feel she could
really be a part of his life. Naturally, she was disappointed
when he told her:
“I have to dress and go look for the electrician; he came
last week when I wasn't here.”
“I wish you didn't have to go.”
“I need more wiring in the basement. I won't be gone
long,” he assured her. She thoroughly believed him and
went upstairs to talk with him while he was getting ready.
He put on a white shirt, and his best suit and shoes; she
told him how handsome he looked. She never questioned
his dressing so immaculately only to go look for an elec-
trician. Certainly he liked to be well-dressed for his neigh-
bors one day during the week. It was about six o'clock
when he left.
Kissing her good-bye, he said, “I won't be gone long.”
“I don't want to take a bus any later than eight.”
“I’ll be back before then,” he assured her.
Shortly after he had left, the door bell rang. When no
one from the other part of the house answered it, she
opened the front door. A lady asked, “Is Mr. Benson in?”
“No, he isn't.” She had some papers in her hand, so
Louise asked, “Can I help you?”
“I have to write an important letter which should be
typed. He would let me use his typewriter.”
“Well, come on in. I'm sure it'll be all right. I use his
typewriter and will be glad to do it for you.”
“All right, if you say so. But I can type it myself.” They
went upstairs to his study, and Louise helped her with a
detailed letter to the company which insured her car. She
decided this was an opportunity to speak of the car which
50


always stood by the side of the house: she had not wished
to ask him if it were his.
“I wonder if Mr. Benson has his car insured.”
“I guess he has, because he lent it to a friend who drove
it all last winter. Did he get a driver's license?”
“That I don't know.”
“I don't think he has driven a car for years, and he
doesn't like learning all over again.”
“I can easily understand that; he's such a busy man.”
“I must go now; I left the kids alone. Thank you very
much for helping me.”
“Don’t mention it. I hope you get it all straightened
out.”
“Good-bye, and thank Mr. Benson for me.” After she
had left Louise realized that she hadn't asked the lady her
name, but supposed Philip would know who she was.
Her book was very interesting; she did not realize the
passage of time. She was surprised to find that her watch
read seven-thirty. She studied the schedule, checked and
discovered that buses only went to the city every hour on
Sunday nights. She had just missed one, and figured to
herself, “He'll surely be here to put me on the next one.”
When he didn't come, she got her coat and pocket book,
took out her bus fare and started to leave. It was dark and
the streets were unfamiliar; she wasn't sure of finding the
in-going station. Her indecision appalled her; being afraid
of new situations was not characteristic of her. She argued
that she should go, if only to show him he couldn't treat
her so unkindly.
“Why didn't I go at six when he left? Then the day
would have ended with such pleasant memories.” But she
had been expecting him any moment for the past two
51


hours; by now, she hated to take the next hourly bus. Hers
was a half-time library job beginning at one o'clock; she
could easily go to town after he left in the morning. She
went to bed, being quite willing to excuse him as he sel-
dom had a chance to be neighborly . . .
“I'm sore at you,” were her first words, but as soon as
he began caressing her she forgave him. He meant so much
to her that she couldn't waste these valuable moments by
being disagreeable to him. She did manage to say, “I
should have gone home when you left.”
“No, I wanted you to spend the night.”
“But you were gone so long.”
“I didn't find the electrician after all, but I left word for
him to come.” Naturally she was very curious to know
what he had been doing all those hours, but she remained
steadfastly determined never to be petulant or inquisitive
while she was with him. Her doubts and fears about the
future she kept to herself.
“I’m not coming out next weekend.” -
Laughing pleasantly at her, while kissing her, he said,
“Now don't tell me that's because I left you alone this
evening. You already said you were going to your place
next weekend.”
He was partially undressing while he talked to her. She
sat propped up against the pillows. As he left the room, he
said, “Don’t fall asleep till I get back.”
She knew the next hour would be worth all the hours of
waiting. He seemed anxious to be with her, and entirely
contented with her nearness; she felt confident that she
was the only one he intimately loved. Whatever he had
been doing this evening, he had not been making love to
52


some other woman. Again he complained that she had left
him the night before.
“Tonight I'm leaving you, as I have to set the alarm for
the morning. There's no need for you to wake so early.”
But he lingered, and she hoped he would fall asleep and
stay there. She had been lonely for him these many hours;
she did not mind how much sleep she might lose; she knew
it would be all of two weeks before she would again be
here with him. During that time she would not believe
this had happened unless her whole mental and physical
being were permeated with reminiscences of him. How-
ever she did not try to detain him when he finally kissed
her good-night.
When she heard the alarm clock in his room the next
morning she quickly got into bed with him for a few pre-
cious moments before he had to leave. For that short while
he held her so strongly that she thought he would hurt her.
After breakfast, he came to say good-bye, and reset the
alarm at the hour she requested.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at class.”
She was jolted back to a world of reality, and managed
to say, “Yes, you will. Don't work too hard.”
“I won't. "Bye now.”
She had a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. The bus was
crowded, but she found an empty seat; she had to stand
during the long subway ride downtown. By the time she
was back in her own apartment, the weekend was already
fading into a pleasant dream. “But everything did happen,
and I'm going to see him again tomorrow night.”
Above everything else, she kept constantly remembering
what he had said on Sunday morning. “My first wife liked
it that way, too.” Wasn't he thus acknowledging that she
was his second wife?
53


bered that time long ago when the three of them went to
a movie together, and she had detected their intimacy by
a very slight side remark Mary made to him about his
taking care of something at his house. He had pleasantly
answered her question in the affirmative. The incident was
so fleeting that she had never given it another thought
until now. Also did the clothes in the bottom drawer fit
this woman? And were those her cigarettes that had been
upstairs? The handwriting all along the sides of his pages
of notes had worried her because she was never quite sure
it was his. He generally printed his writing, but he could
have used regular script when scribbling notes on the
margins. The formation of the letters was a little too per-
fect, more often attributed to a woman. Was this Mary's
writing?
The thoughts dwelling on these incidents she had defi-
nitely decided to relegate to the past. She would try to live
from day to day in the happiness of present events. He,
only, had the problem of making a decision between the
past and the future. Nevertheless, she had to confess to
herself that if Mary were also the possessor of the clothes,
she was unhappy about her meeting him tonight at class.
Why worry? Why not casually say something to him about
the young lady's being in the back of the room, and not
staying for the class and that she looked like his friend
Mary. Perhaps his answer would relieve her. Could his ex-
uberant spirits on the walk home be attributed to his relief
that she did not question him about the lady waiting in
the back of the room?
She was suddenly brought back to the immediate pres-
ent by his asking, “What time is the show Friday night?”
“Eight-thirty. We won't have to leave the apartment till
eight.”
55


“I'd have to rush if I went out to New Jersey. I'll change
and clean up at your place. I like to relax a while before
starting out again.” She noticed that he didn't ask for per-
mission to come, but took it for granted that she would be
willing. “I’m becoming firmly entrenched in his life; he
already treats me as if I belonged to him.”
Lingering on the sidewalk, she said, “I did enjoy the
weekend at your house.”
“It was the best one I ever had.” This remark told her
that all the pleasant part of it had been theirs, and she
should not allow herself to think otherwise; no pessimism
should overshadow the thought that he did love her very
much.
“I’ll phone you Friday after work.” She knew he
wouldn't; it wasn't necessary. These words were his habit-
ual way of saying good-bye to her. Was he that unsure of
his position with her?
“I’ll expect you anyway.”
The following three days passed calmly because she had
many happy memories of their weekend together. Even
her job was easier. Underneath the mind that was doing
the necessary mental work was a continuous subconscious
feeling of his existence. While travelling on the street she
could totally indulge in thoughts of him, conjuring up
things he had said and which she loved to dwell on.
He did not telephone, but she prepared dinner and
dressed for the evening. Previously she had been nervous
under similar circumstances; tonight she was annoyed that
he was late. He came in apologizing; he had met a friend
who had held him in long conversation. She noticed that
he was not particularly concerned that he had kept her
waiting an hour. Was this his method of procedure now
56


that he knew her so well? Or had he deliberately shortened
the time so that dinner would consume the only hour left
before the show? Perhaps he didn't want there to be time
for a repetition of the love making that had taken place at
his house. She admitted that he had not been at all passion-
ate in his greeting; he had been the first to break away
from her. Did he regret the events of the weekend, and not
want her to take them too seriously? Must she again settle
down to a go-slow policy, letting him always take the
initiative?
He went to the bathroom to dress while she warmed up
the meal. As he sat down in the chair which she now always
associated with him, she said, “The food won't taste very
good; I tried to keep it warm.”
“It tastes good to me.” He nearly always made some ap-
preciative remark about the delicacy of the dishes she pre-
pared for him.
“You are hungry and tired. I know you're glad it's
Friday night.”
“When are you leaving for the country—tomorrow
morning?”
“Early; about nine o'clock. They will pick me up here
in the car. During the winter I accumulate a lot of things
to go out there, so they'll come by for me. Why do you
ask?”
“I was only curious.”
“I hoped you were asking because you wanted me to go
out with you after the show, and return in the morning.”
Why did she say this? Even if she thought that was why he
had asked, it was for him to say so, not her. And when he
made no reply, she knew she had made a foolish mistake.
“Let's give ourselves plenty of time,” he said. When they
ate in the kitchen, as they generally did, she always left
57


everything just as it was when they got up from the table.
Cleaning up later was not a disagreeable chore when he
had been the guest.
They travelled uptown on the subway. She loved the
way he stood close to her, protecting her from the onrush
of people, and he placed his arm around her shoulders as
they went through the crowd at the theatre entrance. He
acted like a regular opera-goer, and apparently was not
disturbed about the unusualness of their situation. She was
proud to have an escort who took such care of her.
At intermission she refused his suggestion that they get
something cool to drink, but she said, “I don't mind if you
leave me.”
She felt relaxed sitting there, and was shy about con-
fronting the many people in the lobby who would look at
them curiously. He stayed with her, and she hoped her
refusal did not hurt his feelings. They talked about the
grandeur of the performance.
On the way home she said, “It's very late. You don't
need to go downtown with me.”
“I don't mind at all.”
“I’ll miss you over the weekend.”
“So will I; but you'll be coming out next week, won't
you?”
“Yes, I will.” She waited with him on the subway plat-
form, hating to say good-bye. When they saw the light of
his advancing train, he leaned over and kissed her, saying,
“Thanks for a wonderful evening. I'll call you Monday
night.” There were tears of mingled joy and fear in her
eyes as she slowly walked the few steps to her apartment.
58


//
The next Monday she did not hear from him, although
she had two telephone calls at the time he would have
tried to reach her. Neither conversation was long; she de-
liberately cut them short without appearing rude. She
would have to be patient. Classes were over for the
summer, but he assured her that he would be seeing her as
usual. He could arrive at the library at four-thirty, or he
could call her apartment while en route home. She never
knew when she may have missed him because of these al-
ternate possibilities.
One afternoon a fellow assistant of hers at the library
had said, “I forgot to tell you that a man was here to see
you last Wednesday. He also came the Wednesday before.
I didn't mention it as I thought it wasn't important.”
She looked up from her work and directly asked him,
“Was he a Negro man?”
“Yes, he was.”
She became very indignant, and angrily asked him,
“Was it up to you to decide if that were important to me?
I'm helping him with his writing.”
“I’m sorry I didn't tell you before,” came his apologetic
anSWer.
This information caused her to remain late at work on
Wednesday, hoping he would come. She was planning to
spend Friday night with one of her sisters, and would not
be home if he called her then. She reasoned that if a person
had never had a telephone, and were not used to that
familiar medium of communication, it would take time
to acquire the habit of using such a convenience. To him,
perhaps, seeing a person is a real satisfaction; telephoning
59


is only a useless substitute. Thus she tried to explain his
many failings to telephone her as he had promised. She sat
down and wrote him a letter, then revised it.
Dear Philip:
I have been gone so much that I may have missed your
phone call, and tomorrow night if you call about the
weekend, I won't be here.
Please call me Saturday around six. Otherwise, I'll
come out early Sunday. We should be able to get the
next installment of your article ready for typing.
I'll bring the first installment; also the cards. I've been
working, also writing for myself. Till I see you, goodbye.
Yours, Louise.
Hope you haven't been working too hard.
She decided that this letter gave him the opportunity to
call and ask her to come out on Saturday night, but, if he
didn't, it left her free to go there Sunday. He expected her,
he had said so; but that was a week ago, and she just
couldn't go without first letting him know. Constantly she
had to keep reminding herself how hard he worked, how
tired he would be at five as he changed from subway to
bus, althought she did wish that he would want to go to
the corner after supper and telephone her.
She left early Sunday morning taking with her his typed
notes—fifteen pages in all—, the box of cards she had
copied for him, his washed shirt and sweater that he had
left at her apartment, and the cover she had made for the
big bed. The trip was quick and easy: with the new sched-
ule she made perfect connections. He was very glad to see
her; his loving embrace held her tightly as she clung to
him, and she blamed herself for having been at all doubt-
ful of his ardent reception.
60


He was fond of lifting her from the floor as if to toss her
to the ceiling. She was a tall woman, weighing a hundred
and thirty-five pounds; he certainly showed his height and
strength in being able to lift her so easily.
“I called you this morning. What time did you leave?”
“About nine. Were you going to tell me not to come?
I'd have come anyway.” His loving manner justified her
making such a bold assertion, and his answer assured her
that everything was all right. However she was not pre-
pared for his saying, “No, but I wanted to let you know
that I have to go to Long Island this afternoon to see some
friends. Each weekend I was supposed to go and I can't put
it off any longer. I hope you won't mind.”
“That's all right. I've planned things to do here. You
won't have to stay too long?”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” They sat down while she
unpacked her handbag, and showed him the typing and
the cards. He did not thank her, and she did not want
him to.
“Can we have a cup of coffee before we go to work?” she
asked, remembering that she had not needed to make this
request on her first visit. He really was becoming accus-
tomed to her, and she was pleased. They soon went upstairs
to his study.
His handwritten notes were terribly confused; cut-backs,
inserts, different series of page numbers. She marvelled at
the perfect copy she produced after hours of labor; she
knew he did not comprehend the time it entailed. His
spelling was good, but often the sentences were too long
and involved. She read the manuscript out loud, and
would sometimes ask for clarification of meaning, but she
never changed even a punctuation mark, much less a word
or phrase, without first getting his approval. During the
61


course of reading, understanding and revising the writing,
sentence by sentence, she never fully grasped the complete
content of the subject matter until she was typing the
manuscript later. Consolidating ideas and deleting extra-
neous matter were problems for their next reading. His
nearness distracted her; it was nearly impossible for her to
concentrate on the work. Unconsciously, she was annoyed
that she couldn't be devoting the time to something more
personal. They had not seen each other for a whole long
week; she sensed his impatience too as they slowly made
progress.
Suddenly he pulled back his chair, stood over her, and
raised her chin for an all-absorbing kiss, as he took the
pencil out of her hand. He lifted her bodily from her seat,
and guided her into the front room. He stripped the un-
made bed of the soiled sheets; she had noticed that he was
occupying this large bed, and that there was but one pil-
low. Together they spread two sheets, and a blanket; he
brought another pillow and put on two clean cases. As she
undressed she realized it was mid-afternoon, all his pre-
vious confusions about their going to bed together must
have disappeared. She was in bed when he returned. Com-
pletely seeing the splendid frame of his strong body was a
new and wonderful experience. They said nothing; their
bodies craved each other intensely.
They did not linger close together very long before he
said, “I can't wait, how do you feel?”
“I’m ready, too.” His passionate caresses were so incon-
ceivably satisfying that she would have liked to prolong
them. However, this time she gave him the first considera-
tion. Afterwards they rested, without talking or sleeping:
he held her closely, still fondling her.
Finally he got up, bathed, dressed, donned a white shirt,
62


and went downstairs, saying, “No more work today.”
She bathed and followed him. He prepared lunch and
she hoped he had decided to stay at home. Friends of his,
man and wife, dropped in on their way from their Long
Island home to a summer place in the Oranges. As both
men were carpenters, housing became the subject of gen-
eral conversation. When a project in the Village was
mentioned Richard asked why so many people preferred to
live in that part of the city. She started to answer, thinking
the question was meant for her, but Philip spoke up im-
mediately, dissertating at great length on the desirable
features of the Village. He wanted his friends to know that
he had become familiar with it through his association
with her, as he often turned to her for confirmation of
his ideas.
When they started to leave, the wife said to Louise, “Get
Philip to bring you when he next comes to see us.”
“Thank you. I certainly will. But I wish you'd drive out
some time to my place in the country. I have many flowers
and shrubs I'd like to give you which might be different
from yours.”
“We would like to do that.” This lady's complexion was
so light that Louise wondered about her. Perhaps they
didn't know whether she was white or not. She naturally
fell into a southern accent when she was with soft-talking
people; already she had acquired a deep sun-tan.
At four o'clock, he said, “The sooner I go, the sooner I
can get back.”
She wanted exceedingly to persuade him to stay. She felt
that she could, but would later regret having kept him
from carrying out his plans. She frequently battled with a
puzzling contradiction; would she better gain his affection
by showing greater dependence upon him, or was it best
63


to allow him to follow freely his own impulses? She knew
he wasn't going away because he didn't enjoy being with
her, and she longingly hoped that her being a white woman
was not a disquieting factor in his feelings toward her. Did
he constantly think of her as being different, and need a
chance to spend not too many consecutive hours with her?
Before leaving he went through the freezer compart-
ment and they decided on chopped beef for a late meal.
She refrained from asking him when she might expect
him. She simply said, “I’ll have dinner ready for you.”
“You eat when you get hungry. Cook mine, too. I can
warm it up.” Therefore she should expect him to be late.
She sewed by hand a new pink rayon binding on one of
his worn blankets; she read, cooked and ate. Hours passed.
She thought, “He could come back if he really wanted to
be with me. But he satisfied himself physically before he
left, so he can forget about me.” However this interpreta-
tion of his failing to return was unkind and unjust; she
must always remember that he had many friends and asso-
ciations. She had only known him a few months, and
couldn't expect him to give up all his past connections
for her.
When he came he offered apologies while he made love
to her. “Other visitors came and wanted to drive me back
to the city. I shouldn't have waited for them. I would have
gotten here sooner by myself.”
She gladly let herself be caressed, but said, “It has been
an awful long time.”
“I’m sorry. Did you make up my bed?”
“No, I thought you would sleep with me.”
“You really don't mind? Where are my pajamas?” This
question startled her. How could he think she would
know? It had been two weeks since she had been in his
64


house, but he treated her as if she belonged there.
“You did a wonderful job on the old blanket.”
“Thanks.”
“I never knew that was possible. Was it worth such
trouble?”
“I didn't mind doing it.”
“And this new cover brightens up the whole room.” He
leaned over the bed to kiss her. “You are so thoughtful. No
one ever treated me as well as you do. No one, not even my
wife.” She could easily have followed these remarks with a
complaint of his leaving her for so many hours. But, as al-
ways, she refused to inject anything unpleasant into their
companionship; she could only influence him through
kindness and consideration.
Getting into bed, he said, “The alarm will wake you in
the morning, and I don't like that.”
“I’ll want to say good-bye anyway.” His chin rested on
the top of her head which was faced away from him, his
arms and hands held her closely and one leg lay on the full
length of her body. They enjoyed as much bodily contact
as possible and were peacefully relaxed in this position.
“You are my sweetness.”
“I am; I hope I always am.” She knew she would be able
to sleep the night through in his arms.
When the alarm rang the next morning, she offered to
get up and make his breakfast.
“No, I wouldn't think of letting you.” He came in to
kiss her a number of times, but she fell asleep the minute
he went downstairs.
Coming back up from the dining room to kiss her good-
bye, he said, “I’ll be at the library this afternoon, or I'll
call you.”
Often he had not fulfilled this promise, so she prepared
65


kissed her good-bye when she was lying in bed, she waited
for him at the library. Actually she was positive he would
come, and dressed as nicely as she could while on the job.
She was thrown into terrible despair when he did not
come. If he hadn't wanted her at his house for the week-
end, he could at least have seen her at work.
Walking home, she thought, “If nothing else happens,
I do have his manuscript which he will want. What is the
reason for his silence?”
The telephone rang about six o'clock, and she was actu-
ally trembling when she picked up the receiver.
But a woman's voice asked, “Are you Mrs. Morgan?”
“Yes, I am.”
“My name is Irene Walker. I'm calling for an interview-
ing job you told Mr. Benson about. I want to find out if
I can qualify. As he didn't know the details, he asked me
to call you direct. I'm a teacher of social science in a Bronx
High School.”
“This is an interviewing project my daughter is doing.
If you have a telephone, I'll ask her to call you for an
appointment. When did Mr. Benson tell you about this
job?”
“Last Saturday night when he took me to a dance.”
She dared one more question, “You’ve known him a
long time?”
“Oh, no. We were at a big dinner lately and happened
to sit at the same table. I have a six-seated car and drove
a crowd home afterwards. That was the first time I met
him.”
“He certainly is a nice person,” she attempted to say in
an off-hand manner.
Irene agreed, gave her telephone number, and Louise
said her daughter would contact her.
She would have sat down and cried, but the conversa-
67


tion had already made her late for a dinner engagement
with friends. In fact, the door buzzer was ringing as she
rose from the telephone. Under such circumstances she
couldn't think uninterruptedly. She was terribly disap-
pointed that it hadn't been his call. She was too dazed to
order her meal, and asked her best friend to take care of
her. She hoped no one would notice how upset she was.
What a desperate situation; he only wanted her help in
his writing, the love making was only of secondary im-
portance to him, while to her it meant so much. She had
to honestly admit he hadn't sought her for a whole week;
and now this episode. Should she forget about him—or
try to forget?
“God, it would be hard! I couldn't bear to lose him,”
she inwardly moaned. It was true that his seeking a new
friend in Irene showed that all the past ones with whom
he had been so intimate were evidently no longer impor-
tant to him. Or he was a person who habitually had many
casual girl friends at the same time, which was a character-
istic not to be drastically condemned.
She reasoned that when Philip had failed to reach her
on the telephone, he had assumed that she had gone on
Friday evening to her country place for the weekend.
Then he had telephoned Irene and made the date for last
Saturday night. It was absolutely ridiculous of her to ex-
pect him to stay around his place alone for two whole days.
Irene had given the impression that this occasion was
only of an incidental nature. How long should she wait
for him to get in touch with her? She must have some
courage; everything couldn't end this way; and she must
keep remembering that he did love her, did want her, did
need her to help him in his writing.
On Tuesday she again stayed till five o'clock at the
68


library without his coming. Each day she became more
frightened; no longer could she dwell on the wonderful
times they had experienced. She felt the necessity of plan-
ning some definite contact very soon before he got into
the habit of doing without her. Her months of associa-
tion with him must have raised his standards in regard to
a woman companion. She considered that Irene fitted cor-
rectly into a new relationship for him. As she was teaching
social science in a high school, she would be a college
graduate, not a working-class woman, and could immedi-
ately help him in his writing. His intense desire to write
had been the means of starting their friendship, and it was
perfectly feasible that Irene could equally help him. She
was sure to be much younger and appeal to his youthful
characteristics; their friendship had started with a dance
engagement. His going out with Irene would be free from
any of the embarrassments of the unusual circumstances
of going with her. Truly she was using every available
means to look as young as possible, and never once had
she detected any difficulties arising from an age differen-
tial. She was used to being older than the men she had
known, and had never attributed that factor as a reason
for her marriage's collapse.
The next day a wonderful opportunity arose at the
library. An editor of a small magazine was complaining
to her of his problem to obtain material for his monthly.
“I've a short story written by a friend of mine which
you might like to read. Its subject matter is appropriate
for your magazine. I know you can't tell without reading
it. Shall I bring it to you?”
“Yes, I would like to read it.”
“I’ll take it to your office one day soon. It might fit
your requirements.”
69


This story was Philip's. She had edited it for the writers'
group they attended in Harlem. It had been accepted for
publication there as soon as they compiled a journal, but
one was free to publish elsewhere. He would be very
pleased to have it printed in a regular monthly magazine.
If Philip failed to get in touch with her for this coming
weekend (and she had determined that he must make the
next move, however difficult it was for her to wait), she
would then write him a little note about his story, asking
for his permission before sending it. This planned inci-
dent was something of future possibility to cling to: if she
were compelled to start all over again with him, she did
hope that past events would be of assistance. All the state-
ments he had made about her not really wishing to marry
him may have been his reasons for not wanting to marry
her. For certainly it was an easier and much kinder way of
representing the difficulties of an intended marriage.
She ruminated, as she had often before. “It’ll take time.
I've been too impatient, and I'm now suffering for that
reason.”
All these considerations became inconsequential by
Wednesday night. She could no longer carry on her daily
tasks with such uncertainty hanging over her. She had
started this friendship through her own initiative; he must
evidently think it proper for her to make the advances
when he failed. Might she not be suffering when it was
totally unnecessary? Why wait any longer to send the
following note?
Dear Philip:
Do you mind if I take your story to the editor of
a magazine which we both know? He said he was short
of material and would be glad to read it.
I have finished typing the section of your manu-
70


script which I brought in; it was difficult as I hadn't
taken enough notes on the correct paging.
Call me if there is any reason why I shouldn't
come out on Saturday to work on the next part.
Yours,
Louise.
She wrote many notes before she decided on this particu-
lar one which had no indication whatsoever of her conflict-
ing thoughts during the many days since she had last been
with him. And somehow, writing it and mailing it, dis-
pelled her anxieties. She had a very slight fear that he
would telephone her not to come. During the following
day she gradually built up the previous contented feeling
about having someone who cared for her.
Her daughter, Marie, left two of her children with
Louise while she took the eldest child to the doctor.
“Did the woman call you about the interviewing job?”
Louise asked her.
“Yes. She's studying for another degree at the same col-
lege where I'm teaching. She met me there last night.”
“What is she like? She seemed very nice over the tele-
phone. Will she qualify?”
“Oh, sure. It's a pity she doesn't live in Glenwood where
the interviewing is to take place. It will cost us an extra
dollar for her carfare each trip even though she uses her
own car.”
“Oh, yes: her tunnel fare. Is she very young?”
“No, she must be older than I: she has been a widow for
seven years. She is a competent person; thanks for finding
her.” Philip's name never entered into this discussion,
though both of them were aware that Irene had been
brought into the picture through him.
71


//I
Not hearing from Philip, she took the nine-thirty bus at
One Hundred and Sixty-Seventh Street. She was trembling
with excitement; she had not seen him, nor spoken to him
for twelve long days. How would he greet her? She had
very little faith in her attraction for him; she always felt
he might decide she was too old for him. She was entirely
familiar with the streets which immediately preceded her
bus stop, and the final walk of a block and a half did not
even appear to exist. First the cement walk to the house,
then the porch, then the door bell and the opened door.
She dropped her pocket book and package when he took
her in his arms, so that she could cling to him as strongly as
he held her. Instantly his overwhelming possessive grasp
of her dispelled all her fears. He took off her coat, and
while he was hanging it in the closet, she gazed out of the
window at the beautiful spring greenness, trying desper-
ately to gain control of herself. When he again held her
against him, she completely gave way to her emotions and
began to cry.
“What is the matter? Please don't.” He kissed her franti-
cally. “I’m so glad you're here!”
“Don’t pay any attention to me. I often cry for pure joy.
I've missed you terribly.”
“So have I. I never could get you on the telephone.
What have you been doing since I last saw you?”
“When you didn't come to the writers' club, I wasn't
able to tell you about the tickets for Friday's opera. Not
hearing from you at all, I went out to my place for the
weekend. Then I worried during the week for fear you
had come to the library after I had left. But let's forget
72


about everything now.” All the time she was talking he was
gently trying to soothe her.
“I got your note. You didn't have to ask me about my
story.”
“I thought I should.”
“You know it was all right to send it.”
She had planned to speak about Irene, and was deter-
mined to carry out her decision. She nearly wavered, for it
seemed so cruel and unnecessary to spoil such a happy re-
union. It would be much simpler not to mention the in-
cident, because the moment she was with him all misgiv-
ings disappeared. How could he be so glad to see her if
there were anything amiss between them?
“Your friend called me about the interviewing job. I
gave her Marie's phone number, and she has already quali-
fied. Since I hadn't heard from you in such a long time, I
asked her when you had spoken to her. She told me you
took her to a dance on Saturday night. I know I shouldn't
mind, for, not hearing from you, I went out to the country.
But I wanted you to know that I really think you are a
regular Don Juan.” She realized that her words were very
stilted, and badly presented, and to him they must have
sounded like a prepared speech.
He did not answer. She was sitting with her head on his
shoulder and could not see his face, therefore she couldn't
tell how these words had affected him. Many hours later
when they were outside, and the neighbor across the street
came over to talk to them, he said to Louise, “She's head
of the club that had the dance on Saturday night. She
asked me to bring a partner.”
“Yes, Irene said you met her a short while ago at a
dinner.” She wanted it understood that she knew this
friendship had developed very recently. However, his
73


she didn't hesitate about going out. She found an old
bench in the backyard, which was a large, completely
wooded, secluded spot. He soon joined her, and as they
walked around he asked her the names of the trees, which
ones he should cut down, which he should leave. A man
came to find out something about his car, and she followed
them to the front of the house, picked up a trowel, and be-
gan digging out the dandelion plants in the lawn. He sat
on the porch steps watching her.
“I’m glad you know which are the weeds.”
“Yes, they always grow better than anything else, and
will ruin your lawn.”
The neighbor across the street came to speak to him; he
nodded to her, and said, “Good morning,” when Philip
introduced her. She was embarrassed. She felt that everyone
was curious about her, even though they were pleasant.
But as long as he seemed glad to have her outside working
with him, she was willing to stay and act as naturally as she
possibly could. She supposed that it was not unusual for a
lady friend to be there—she remembered the sweater and
slacks in the bureau drawer upstairs—and she appreciated
their friendliness toward her, even though her being there
might seem strange to them.
“The two maples I planted here have died. I wonder
why.”
“They are too big to transplant unless you cut them
back and plant them twice as deep as they were before.
Let's try to make a small oak tree grow here.”
They found a two-year-old perfectly formed oak in the
backyard. Under her directions he dug straight down the
full length of the spade on all four sides of the tree, bring.
ing up such a huge chunk of earth that none of the roots
were exposed to the air.
“Isn't that too heavy to carry?” She noticed how the
75


muscles of his arms protruded as he lifted the great mass of
dirt and tree. He had to walk carefully to balance himself
under the weight, and she again marvelled at his strong,
compact frame. He had already prepared the spot by pull-
ing out the dead maple and digging much deeper. When
he dropped the oak off the spade, the hole was entirely
filled.
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “That little tree will
never know it has been moved. I'll get some water to settle
the roots.” She went around the house to the back base-
ment door. Later they found some plants of privet hedge
which had grown in the next vacant lot where trimmings
had been thrown away. There were only six plants, but
they could be the start of a hedge along the front of the
lawn. They also dug up a clump of daffodil bulbs which
she had seen blooming there in the early spring. He was
fascinated watching her breaking them apart from the
original mass, and planting them separately about every
six inches in a trench he made along the side of the porch.
“We're doing all this work for someone we don't even
know ... I'm planning to sell this place. It's neither in the
city nor the country.”
Hesitating only a moment, she replied, “The ideal way
is to have an apartment in the city, and a real country
place like mine. You should see how isolated it is, and very
crude in many respects.”
“I hope to spend some time there this summer.”
“Yes, you really must.”
“I have to renew my driver's license, and get a new
battery for the car. The man who borrowed it wore out
the battery.”
She remembered what the lady who came one night to
do her typing had said about his not having a license be-
76


cause he had not driven a car for many years. She had defi-
nitely implied that he did not relish the idea of learning
all over again.
“Summer is coming, and I hope you'll soon do it.” She
got up from where she was sitting with him in the back-
yard, saying, “I must go in and wash my hands. The dirt
seems so uncomfortable the minute I stop working.”
“I’ll be right in. I want to stake the plants to keep the
children from tramping on them. They play here freely
when they're not in school. I'll ask a neighbor to water
them this week.”
“Won't you let me cook lunch?”
“Sure, if you want to. There's some fish I took out of the
freezer. Will I have time to take a bath?”
“Yes, fish takes a long time.” She went into the house
wondering if she possibly could be the same woman who
had been so horribly despondent for the last two weeks.
She again swore to herself she would never doubt his affec-
tion for her. One does have to combat the philosophy of
acquiring pleasure from being miserable; that phase had
never existed in this present situation, though she had
often been guilty of such foolishness in the past.
“Before I become too contented I'd better find out if
he's going to stay here this evening.” While they were sit-
ting on the sofa after lunch, she asked in an off-hand man-
ner, “Do you have to go to town today?”
“Yes, to a meeting at four o'clock. I'll only be gone an
hour.”
Laughingly she replied, “Don’t lie to me like that. You
know it takes nearly an hour for you to get there. I'll give
you four hours for the whole trip.”
“I won't be gone that long.”
As he made no motion to leave, she said, “I remember
77


many weeks ago you referred to your first wife. Would you
mind telling me about your second wife?” There was such
a long pause that she regretted having said anything; she
waited patiently, sincerely hoping he would answer.
“As to a first, second or third wife, I hope it won't be
long before I'll be married again.”
As she was sitting enfolded in his arms, she asked natu-
rally, “Are you proposing to me?” Again his complete and
tantalizing silence; she was too timid to push the matter
any further. This peculiar sentence remained for much
future contemplation. He certainly dismissed the whole
past in one swooping statement, while he refused to com-
mit himself to a future.
Her daughter, Marie, had asked her one day why she
wanted to marry Philip. “Why aren't you contented with
such a pleasant companionship? I can't see why you want
to get married; I never could see any reason for marriage
except to have children.”
“It's all very well for you to talk like that. You are hap-
pily married with four children, while I have to look for-
ward to a lonely old age. I'd think my children should be
glad if I were to marry again. They would be relieved of
any responsibility for me.”
“What a foolish and unnecessary reason for wishing to
get married.”
“Well, that's really one reason, but not the main one.
I'm in love with him, and want to live with him; and I
don't think he wants to have an affair with a woman he
loves and respects without marrying her. There are cer-
tainly many unsolved problems in our relationship, but
one thing I do know—if he asks me to marry him, I shall.”
She wondered if there had been a selfish motive in her
78


daughter's trying to dissuade her from marrying Philip.
Her mother's having a Negro friend would not worry her
or her husband, but if that person became her step-father,
then the situation might appear quite different to her. But
at this time in her life, she resolved to follow her own
inclinations.
When Philip left she settled down to the dismaying pos-
sibility of his returning at eleven o'clock or even later. Her
only encouragement was the way he had dressed. He wore
a sport shirt and a corduroy jacket; therefore he must be
attending an outdoor meeting. He had ironed a shirt to
wear, and she had asked him, “Can I iron and mend these
other shirts while you're gone?”
“Why not. I'd appreciate it.”
There was much coming and going from the other occu-
pants of the house, but she had learned to pay no attention
to the door bell. If it were meant for Philip, the person
knocked at his living room door afterwards. He, himself,
walked in at eight o'clock.
“Oh, I'm glad you came back so soon.”
“I told you I would,” he said, leaning over to kiss her.
“Have you eaten supper?” His greeting was almost me-
thodical, as if he had experienced this identical situation
with her for many years.
“No, I waited for you.”
“Just sit right there, and I'll make something simple. I
picked up a half-gallon of ice cream. Hope you like rasp-
berry.”
“It's one of my favorites. But what a quantity!”
“I always keep it in the freezer,” he said, opening the
refrigerator.
“And don't the children of the neighborhood know it.”
79


She thought he would comment on the neat pile of shirts
on the sofa; she had purposely kept them downstairs. Per-
haps he didn't like to be beholden to her for such thought-
fulness; maybe he felt that mending his clothes was a
gesture bordering on too complete domesticity. Truly, as
she sewed on buttons, mended necks and elbows of the
shirts, she felt drawn very close to him. Inwardly, she pic-
tured herself an indulging wife.
Later, as they were going upstairs, she said, “The bath-
room is yours. I bathed this afternoon.”
“Shall we change the bed? Those are the same sheets we
used the last time you were here.”
“Oh, no, let's don't bother; they're clean enough.”
They talked a long while. He told her about the tre-
mendous crowd at the outdoor meeting on One Hundred
and Twenty-Fifth Street. “A good cause brings people out
by the thousands.”
“What were the speeches about?”
“Equal school opportunities for everyone.”
The love making was perfect. There had become es-
tablished between them a certain pattern of his slow, long-
drawn-out tendernesses, and her passionate acknowledge-
ment of pleasure, so that the final fulfillment of desire
came to them simultaneously. Even the fading off period
was more prolonged, and the complete relaxation was of a
deeper profundity. They slept the night through together.
His least movement woke her. She liked to watch for his
first recognition of her being there. His smile came before
his bodily acknowledgement of her. He got up after one
hurried kiss, but came back to get into bed with her.
“How nice that it is Sunday morning and you are here.
But you won't object if I write up a few notes first on what
80


we were discussing last night. I can use the material in my
next article.”
“As long as we have time left to revise the typing I
brought. Have you any more pages ready for me?”
“No, I haven't. My job has seemed harder than usual
this week. You have to get used to these first warm days of
summer.”
“I remember how it was when I was working.”
“Aren't you doing any writing of your own? You
shouldn't let my work keep you from doing your own. I
thought you were planning to write a novel.”
“I am, but it isn't going very well.” Their conversation
dwindled off into silence; she was surprised to learn that
he had something on his mind more important than talk-
ing. Early morning love making was a new experience for
them. However, the idea of using the stored-up energy of
a good night's sleep in such a way was certainly agreeable
to her. His being completely rested did add to the fervor
of his embraces, and she had no reason to worry about his
needing sleep. They had the whole day ahead in which
they would be together, and the marvelous feeling of be-
longing to him would be with her constantly through the
daily activities. Finally he asked her what she would like
for breakfast.
“You decide. Anything will taste good to me.” Immedi-
ately after breakfast he went upstairs for a couple of books
and paper and pencil. He shoved everything out of his
way on the kitchen table, and started reading and writing.
She cleared away the dishes, found a current magazine,
and settled comfortably in the other room which was only
separated by a large opened doorway.
He was absolutely oblivious of her, or, at least, he gave
81


every appearance of being totally removed from her. She
watched the intensity of his concentration on his work. In
retrospect, she could easily obliterate twenty-five years
from her life, and be right back with her writer-husband.
After an hour of dead silence, she went to him, raised his
head, and he kissed her absent-mindedly.
“I’ll only be a little while longer. Then we'll work to-
gether on your notes.” But she knew there would be an-
other session of waiting; she didn't mind, it was a pleasure
to watch him. She strongly hoped he would accomplish
what he desired with his writing. During her married life
she had experienced the difficulties surrounding the pub-
lishing world. But Philip had access to a wide group of
magazines and papers unknown to her, and his writing was
of a higher caliber than one generally found in these peri-
odicals. He seemed only concerned with his ability to
write, and she did not know to what extent his work had
been published. Was she wrong to encourage him in this
way? But, after all, she had not started the idea; he was
well ensconced in this desire when she met him.
While he was working she prepared a chicken dinner,
and after eating, they spent many hours revising her typing
of his notes. It was raining; she felt secure in his being
completely settled down for the entire day. He seemed to
have become so used to her; she forgot everything but the
joy of having him there.
After supper, he said “Let's take the radio upstairs where
we can really relax.”
“May I wear your bathrobe?”
“Should I have turned on the heat? It's so damp and
chilly.”
“No, I'll be warm enough in bed.” After reading and
music, he turned to her. He kissed her, and asked:
82


“You won't care if I go sleep alone? I'm tired. When I
wake later, I'll come in to you.” She agreed, even though
she preferred him to stay. During the night she was barely
conscious of his crawling in under the covers and stretch-
ing one arm over her back and shoulder.
After breakfast he told her, “We are shifting to another
project this week, and I won't be working today.”
“I must go away. Two of my grandchildren always come
to my place for lunch; they like it better than lunching at
school.” He came and stood by her at the window: she
leaned against him, dreading to leave.
“Stay a little longer.” He led her over to the sofa, and
sat her down, and put his arm around her.
“I wish I were five years younger.” This seemed the
opportune moment to dispense with this hidden anxiety
of hers.
“Why do you feel that way about it?”
“I would have five years more of happiness ahead of me.
But that isn't what worries me.” She couldn't make herself
say, “I hate being older than you,” but he knew what she
meant.
“You shouldn't worry about it. I want you to know that
I don't feel that way about it at all,” he declared most
convincingly.
“You are always so sweet to me.”
He took hold of both hands separately, and held them
very tight, and tried to say something further. She didn't
question or encourage him; his few words had comforted
her, and she feared he might say something which did not
include her in his future plans. She knew his age quite
accurately: he told her the story of his being refused en-
listment in the First World War because he was too young.
Again she started to leave.
83


“I really must go. Now you have a room in town, I'll see
you oftener.”
“Shall I call you early in the morning when I'd be sure
of reaching you? What time do you get up?”
“A quarter to eight. I listen to the eight o'clock news
while eating breakfast.”
“So, could I call you a little earlier, not to interrupt you,
or find you in the bathroom?” She knew he had to be at
work at eight.
“Sure. I'd love hearing from you the first thing in the
morning.”
“I’ll be at the library this afternoon or I'll call you.”
Why did his last remark have to be these oft-repeated
words which seldom came true? She must, if possible, plan
something specific.
“You can't call me for I'll leave the apartment at one
and not return till ten-thirty. I'm going from work to
dinner at Marie's; she asked me to take care of the chil-
dren while she teaches. William is in Denver. Why don't
you come to the library and go there with me? You'd get
to know the children.”
There was no enthusiasm in his voice when he re-
sponded, “I’ll go with you to dinner, if I come to the
library.” She knew from the way he spoke, that he would
do neither. If she hadn't told him her plans, he might have
come to the library, and then she could have manipulated
his visit to see the children. Did he think she was only
asking him there because the adults were away? When any
members of her family were brought into the conversation,
she could instantly detect his estrangement. As long as they
were alone together everything ran smoothly. But the out-
side world did exist, and he would have to accept her
along with her family. Perhaps she had failed to let him
84


know that she would willingly adopt his friends, though
she had tried to convince him of this every time the op-
portunity had arisen. Particularly, he had asked her to go
to the Harlem Club; she had gone, and had enjoyed know-
ing his friends there.
He did not prepare to leave the house with her. As they
kissed good-bye, she again said, “It has been a wonderful
weekend.” He thoroughly agreed. “I’ve never had a lovelier
one.”
He was still holding her: he had a completely free day
ahead of him, and wanted her to share it with him. But
finally she tore herself away from him. Outside, she walked
over to the little tree they had planted, examined it and
the hedge plants. She knew he was watching her from the
window, and was thinking about that mornings planting
activities. While she was traveling home, she was more
peaceful than she had ever been since she had known him.
He had been very loving and considerate during those two
days. He had stayed with her the whole time except for the
afternoon meeting, and he had talked to her frankly about
many of his past experiences. What particular incident had
changed his attitude towards her? Perhaps her working
outside had shown him she didn't wish to sneak in and
out of his house, hoping the neighbors wouldn't see her;
instead she openly was quite willing to appear as his friend.
Or was he gradually becoming more willing to have them
in love with each other? She remembered his calling her
“sweetness” many times, even asking, “Why are we such
sweetness to each other?”
Her answer had been, “Because we love each other so
much.”
When the telephone rang about eight o'clock on Tues-
day night, she was not surprised to hear his voice, “This is
85


Philip Benson calling. How are you this evening?”
“Fine, and yourself?”
“Never felt better. Did you have any trouble getting in
yesterday morning?”
“No, I had a seat on both bus and subway. When did
you come in?”
“Not till late afternoon; that's why I didn't come to the
library.”
“Where are you now?"
“In Brooklyn.”
“Why don't you come over for a while?” There was
quite a long wait; she feared his reply. To date, he had
never spent the evening without previous arrangements.
“I’ll be there at nine,” came his emphatic and positive
reply.
She hung up the receiver, actually singing for joy—an
old familiar song—“I have a wonderful feeling everything's
going my way.” She could hardly believe she would be
seeing him again in an hour, that they were not going out
anywhere, that he was spending the evening alone with
her.
As usual she had taken off her street clothes, and was
wearing her house robe. “I won't trouble to dress,” she
thought. “But, perhaps, I should. He might think I'm ex-
pecting an intimate evening. If so, the suggestion should
come from him.” She bathed, and dressed carefully and
simply, putting on earrings, and a little perfume, and
wearing a new pair of bedroom slippers she had recently
bought to replace her old shabby ones.
“I mustn't get too excited. Something might happen to
detain him.” It was impossible to read. She worked on
some hand sewing, leaving the clock in the other room to
keep from continually checking the time. When the buzzer
86


rang, she jumped nervously, rose quickly, and found him
at her apartment door.
“There was no light in the entrance, and I wasn't sure
which was your bell. I didn't want to take any chance of
ringing someone else's, so I came right up.” Instinctively
she knew he would prefer to come in without attracting
any attention whatsoever. His greeting, while very loving,
told her that she should not expect anything more familiar
for the evening. This idea did not disconcert her; she no
longer felt the need of trying to advance their relationship;
everything was progressing so perfectly. He made himself
comfortable among the pillows on the couch instead of
choosing an easy chair. She snuggled beside him with her
head on his shoulder. They talked of many things, mainly
current events. She was constantly astounded at his analyti-
cal interpretation of every day happenings, of his knowl-
edge of the importance of those events in the life of a
working man. She realized that his intelligence far out-
rated hers—she had had an academic college education—
especially in the field of American history. In his compan-
ionship with her, Philip was looking for more than a casual
love affair. The responsibility would be great; she won-
dered if she would be capable of shouldering it. Experi-
ences with men in the past should have taught her that a
permanent relationship must be founded on mutual in-
terests. She was glad she could sincerely help him with his
writing.
“Let's have a cup of tea. I'll heat the water.”
He followed her into the kitchen, still talking.
“I don't have any cake tonight. I didn't know you were
coming. Will bread, butter and jelly be all right?”
He merely nodded his head and smiled, sitting down in
his usual chair, and continuing with the discussion. The
87


present situation of an election in Harlem showed how the
people there were really fighting for their rights. When
she asked him to explain the intricacies of the daily events,
she was inquiring about a subject of vital importance to
him. He continued his dissertation after they had eaten
and returned to the living room.
He stayed two hours: it was a quiet, restful time of such
deep understanding. They made no further plans; it ap-
peared conclusive that such evenings would become habit-
ual. For many days her thoughts of him were completely
characterized by a feeling of eventual fulfillment of what
she so ardently desired. Even when days, a whole week
passed without hearing from him, she did not grow dis-
couraged. This time she hoped to have the strength to
wait patiently until he again called her. He had tele-
phoned her of his own volition; he had come to spend the
evening with her, and she naturally expected him to come
again.
However, something disagreeable must have happened
after he had left her apartment alone. If that were true, he
certainly would never mention it to her, even if it did have
an influencing effect upon his coming to see her. The
house was a regular tenement-type building of five stories
with four apartments on each floor, and all the tenants
were Italian except herself. Originally she had moved
there with her three daughters just after her divorce, be-
cause the rent was very low. From there, her children had
gone through city schools and colleges, and two of them
had married. Now her grandchildren frequented the place,
and she couldn't even imagine living anywhere else. She
often wondered whether he perceived the impossibility of
uprooting her from these familiar surroundings. Many of
the occupants of the house had also become grandparents
88


while living there, and she had a pleasant passing word
with her neighbors in the halls or on the street. During the
winter she seldom met anyone coming or going, but in the
summer many people in the house congregated on the
steps of the building. She feared it wouldn't be very long
before they would be gossiping about her. With daylight-
saving time it was still light when she and Philip would
leave together in the evening. Everyone had recently spo-
ken to her as usual and she keenly hoped nothing unpleas-
ant would happen.
Two years previously, a Negro girl, a friend of her
daughter's, had lived with her until she got married. Her
boy friend frequented the house continually. They had
been treated cordially by people in the house, and no cri-
ticism was made until she left. Then the landlady asked
Louise not to have another Negro girl as a room mate.
“I didn't say anything to you, Mrs. Morgan, but a num-
ber of the tenants objected. I explained that the young
lady was only staying until she could find an apartment.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mario. But you know they have no
grounds for complaint.”
This friend had been a woman; a man would give a
double reason for comment; for even though he were a
white man, neighbors would be curious about her going
out with him. He may not have had any trouble in the
house. She reviewed the whole evening, trying to remem-
ber if anything untoward had happened. It was true she
hadn't asked him when he would be back: she felt that his
appearing, so soon after spending the weekend with her,
was his acknowledgment of a greater surety in their friend-
ship. It might have been a great mistake to show no desire
for love making; he might have considered that she wished
to go back to a more formal basis. Constantly she feared
89


that he might think the difficulties involved in their re-
lationship were too discouraging. Perhaps some neighbor
of his had made some disparaging remark regarding her
being at his place over the weekend.
What other reasons could there be for these long periods
of silence. In every way he had declared his love for her,
and she had expressed her total willingness to accept his
love. Assuredly they had never discussed the practicalities
surrounding marriage; but after knowing her for six
months, he must understand that her daily demands were
very simple. For instance, early in their friendship she
tabooed taxis for two reasons: added expense was a con-
sideration, but her main idea was to let him know she was
perfectly willing to travel with him on buses and subways.
Such methods had always been her means of transporta-
tion. Why alter her habits when she was with him? How-
ever, when she preferred to eat in her apartment rather
than go to restaurants, he should only think that she wished
to be alone with him, even though dining at home was
cheaper. Many weeks ago she had told him she had a small
but permanent income; but as to his finances, she never
questioned him.
//II
When the weekend drew nearer, she did not write him
a note. She knew he would expect to find one when he
went out to New Jersey. She could picture his mulling
through that week's accumulation of mail, hunting for her
familiar handwriting. He would then understand that he
should have telephoned her during the week if he wanted
her to come. However, if he were as unsure of her as she
90


often was of him, he would be very downcast when there
was no word from her.
She brought from the country some privet hedge plants
dug from around and under her own hedge. If she didn't
hear from him on Monday she would go out to his place
and plant them along the same row where they had started
a hedge together. It would be an unusual way of showing
him she could not easily be brushed off.
On Monday night at eight-thirty he called. How thank-
ful she was that she had patiently waited.
“This is Philip Benson calling. I tried getting you twice
this evening and found your line busy. Did you enjoy the
holidays in the country? I didn't call you because I knew
you would be leaving.”
“William is away, so my daughter and I went alone,
taking along six children. We only stayed one night.
It's still hard to keep warm out there during the nights. I
would have come out to your house if you had called me
during the week.”
He didn't answer this remark, but said, “I have a tele-
phone here in Brooklyn. Take the number down, so you
can reach me.” It was apparent that he expected her to
call him, not the usual reverse order.
“Your tenants also have a phone in New Jersey. I did
think of trying to get you there.”
“Why didn't you come out anyway? I don't know what
their number is. Sometimes they've told me that I was
wanted on the telephone, but I never went. But if you call,
tell them who it is, and I'll come to the phone.” Why
wouldn't he generally go to the telephone when he re-
ceived a call? It was comforting to hear that she would be a
privileged person in this respect.
“I brought some more privet hedge plants from the
91


country, but they will keep for the weekend. How are the
things we transplanted?” she asked him.
“They are all as green as when we put them in. It has
rained quite a lot.”
“Where are you now?”
“In Brooklyn.”
“Why don't you come over? It isn't very late.”
“I was planning to come tomorrow evening. I could get
there much earlier and spend a long time.”
“All right. That's fine. Remember we have tickets for
“Rigoletto' for Friday.”
“This coming Friday?"
“Yes.”
“Isn't that the plot about the jester?”
“Yes; I'll have to read it again before we go. Did you
get the car ready?” She knew that her mentioning the car
would indicate she wanted him to take her out to her place
in the country.
“Everything is O. K. except the insurance which I hope
to get this week if I have a day off from work. I don't think
we should travel without, do you?” She noticed that he
didn't mention renewing his driver's license. Had the lady
who came to use his typewriter been correct in her state-
ment that he had not been driving for a long time?
“No, I agree. There are so many accidents these days.”
“What did they say about my story?”
“They liked the content, but wanted you to rewrite it
entirely. What do you think?”
“It isn't worth it. I'd rather spend my time on something
more constructive.”
“I think you're right.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at eight. It's been such a long
time. Good-bye now, and be good.” The intimacy in the
expression of those last two words overcame her with ex-
92


When Philip came the next evening she immediately
told him about Anna's call: otherwise she might forget.
Also she wanted to see if he objected to her letting Anna
know that he frequented her apartment. She was relieved
that he acted amicably to the prospect of an interview, and
never questioned her about making the telephone appoint-
ment for him. They both forgot all about the incident.
She had dressed in an old but becoming black cotton
dress with white striped collar and cuffs which strikingly
set off her most flattering sun tan; she certainly looked
more youthful than usual. Her careful dressing had been
well worth while.
“You look lovely tonight.” Holding her passionately
and kissing her many times, he exclaimed emotionally, “I
never can remember how lovely you are.”
She already knew this was to be an unforgettable eve-
ning. As she was talking his whole face stroked her face
and neck, and both his hands held her tightly. She disen-
tangled herself to fetch the notes she had compiled for him
at a small exclusive library uptown. Sedately she sat down
to show the pages and explain the deletions she had made.
But he insisted upon holding her again, pulling her down
on his lap, leaning over and kissing her so long that she
ceased to object. She succeeded in struggling out of his
grasp to say, “You can't do this to me without knowing
what it will lead to.”
“Well, do we have to wait till this weekend?”
“Of course not.” But she remembered that always be-
fore tonight he had limited the degree of love making in
her apartment. Even with her consent he hesitated, not
completely sure of privacy except in his own house. She
was in no hurry, being absolutely confident of the outcome.
She did not think it was possible to enjoy herself more
94


than ever before, but she did. Somehow, being fully
dressed and in her own living room, added to the joy of
succumbing completely to this tremendous and infrequent
pleasure of being loved. Afterwards, as he was gathering
up all his clothes to take them to the bathroom, the tele-
phone rang.
As she said, “Hello,” she hoped her voice sounded com-
posed. It was Anna. Louise kept up a running conversation
with her. Philip needed time to be ready to take the re-
ceiver. When she felt a quick kiss on her ear, she said to
Anna . . . .
“Philip is here, would you like to speak to him?”
“Certainly; I won't be long.”
Philip took the receiver from her and said, “Hello, how
are you? It is good to hear your familiar voice again.”
Louise thought, “If he had said that to me in that pleas-
ant manner of his, I would have felt he was expressing real
affection, and yet he's now only making a polite remark to
a casual friend. Perhaps I do overestimate his feeling for
me.” She listened further to the one-sided conversation,
and noticed that it did not culminate in a definite appoint-
ment, though he expressed willingness to help. She did
not know whether the person to be interviewed was a man
or a woman and therefore was glad when the conversation
ended in a desultory manner.
He lingered for another hour; his calm and loving
manner stored up deep comforting thoughts for any future
misgivings. She concluded that he had entirely made up
his mind that night that he wanted her. All his inhibitions
about a sexual life together seemed to have disappeared
during those two weeks of separation, while she had defi-
nitely decided to be contented with an affair even though
it did not end in marriage. Perhaps one's daily existence
95


would be less hectic and there would be fewer emotional
upheavals if one could be unmindful of the regular con-
ventionalities. Early in their friendship she had excitedly
looked forward to announcing to her relatives and friends
that she was getting married again, but this desire had been
supplanted exclusively by the successive events in the
actual love affair. Subsequently he had convinced her that
nothing would be able to destroy his feelings for her, and
she had become assured that she could trust him to plan
their future together.
Having lunch with her eldest daughter, Joan, a few
weeks previously, Louise had told her she was dating a
friend.
Her daughter had pleasantly responded, “I know how
much you must enjoy going out again. How long have
you known him?”
“Nearly a year; but we've only been going out together
lately. It's wonderful to have someone interested in me
again.” Louise and this daughter had been most intimate
friends all during Joan's first marriage and the six-year
interval between her divorce and second marriage. During
that period Louise had become very devoted to her four
grandsons; she was constantly taking care of them in the
evenings after her job. Her daughter worked also, but
between them they managed to look after the children.
Joan's concealed dislike of being dependent upon her
mother had perhaps been one of the major reasons for
her remarrying. Unfortunately, she had chosen a man who
was entirely incompatible with Louise; he firmly believed
in the superiority of men, and definitely disliked a woman
who showed too much capability. Consequently, the rela-
tionship between mother and daughter was immediately
curtailed to such an extent that they seldom saw each other
96


during the winter months. Joan gave up her job and was
able to take care of her children without her mother's
assistance. Louise had grieved over these circumstances
which had robbed her of almost daily contact with her
grandsons. The family had moved to Brooklyn, and she
only saw the boys when they stopped at her apartment on
their way to music lessons in the Village.
During the summer Joan took her family to the country,
while her husband Horace remained working in the city.
He would go out for weekends only. Her daughter, Marie,
also brought her children to the country for the summer.
During those months Louise spent as much time as pos-
sible with her grandchildren.
Louise had never parted from any of the original acreage
which had been bought during the first years of her mar-
riage. There were a number of buildings on the place, and
over the years each member of the family had been accom-
modated. Marie and her husband had converted a large
barn, originally built of hand-hewn beams, into a dwelling.
The big house was understood to belong to Joan and her
family, and they occupied it during the summer months;
while Laura had a small newly-built combination garage
and dwelling. Farther down the road, but still on the same
property, her former husband lived with his new wife and
their two sons.
When Joan married a second time, Louise moved out
of the large house which she had been occupying with her
daughter and the children. She stayed in a small, poorly-
built, and rundown shack which could be made livable
for the warm months of the year. Leaving the house where
she had spent all the happy years of her marriage had been
an emotional wrench; and even to this day, in the early
spring and late fall, she always stayed alone at the big
97


house on weekends, away from the city. Perhaps it was a
morbid pleasure to reminisce alone over those joyous
years, but she was now hoping this new friendship with
Philip would completely dispel the thoughts of the past.
She turned to Joan and said, “Philip has a car, and I
hope we'll be going out to the country over the weekends.”
“You mean he will stay up at your shack?”
“Yes, why not?”
“You're the head of the whole community, and don't
you think there are certain proprieties you should adhere
to?”
“Yes, to a certain extent. But I'm old enough for it to
be relatively unimportant what I do.”
“That may be your attitude, Mother, but I wouldn't
want Horace to get sore and make all of us come back to
the city. He doesn't care whether we are out there or not.
It's really more convenient for him if we stay in town. I
did hope everything would be peaceful this summer. Why
couldn't you go to town for weekends instead of having
him out there?”
“Are you implying I shouldn't have him come out there
unless I'm married to him?”
“Yes.”
What a strange coincidence. Had this conversation been
a very deceitful way of making Joan agree to her marriage
with Philip? When they started talking she had no such
intention, but during the development of pros and cons
she realized that she was forcing her daughter to take a
certain position.
When, some day in the future, Joan might be opposed
to this marriage, Louise could say to her, “But you wished
me to marry Philip many months ago.”
“I didn't know he was a Negro then.”
98


Her reply would be, “I’m the one who's marrying him,
and that makes no difference to me whatsoever.”
“But think how you will be harming your children and
grandchildren.”
“Sincerely, I don't think I'd be harming anybody. I've
made up my mind that at my age I'm entitled to do what
I wish. Perhaps this is extremely selfish, but for months
I've only been concerned over a happy future for me and
Philip,” Louise would say.
“Mother, have you really considered how your brother
and sisters will treat you?”
“Of course I have thought about it a great deal. As you
know my brother means more to me than anyone in my
immediate family. He met Philip at my apartment. After-
wards I asked him if it would make any difference to him
if I should marry Philip. His answer was, “Of course it
wouldn't, but I don't envy your position having to make
such a momentous decision.' He further said, ‘Think
about it carefully, and if you ever want to discuss it with
me, please do not hesitate.' I never mentioned it to him
again, but he has treated me the same as always.”
“How about your sisters?” Joan still would insist.
“I can't tell how each one will act. Just my getting
married again is going to give them all a jolt. I believe I'll
lose only one, because I have meant very little to her for
years. The other three won't be pleased about it, but I
think each one will finally come around to accepting the
situation. If they don't, I feel that what I'm going to gain
will more than make up for what I lose.”
“Getting back to your plans for the summer, Mother.”
“Don’t worry about it. I'll manage things in such a way
that your vacation and the boys' won't be ruined,” said
Louise.
99


Thus she was making her daughter's happiness of para-
mount importance—in complete disregard of the selfish
intentions she had been expressing. However, she could
run the risk of having Philip out in the country without
Joan's suspecting his presence. The houses were so far
apart that the thick foliage of the trees, and the curves in
the road, completely hid one from the other. If the chil-
dren, riding up and down the road on their bicycles,
noticed a parked car at her garage they would never men-
tion it to their mother; they had quickly learned not to
court any trouble from their stepfather.
//III
She prepared a dinner for Friday night that could be
cooked for an indefinite length of time. She did not expect
him to be prompt.
“I hope I'm not late.” Philip greeted her apologetically.
“Yes, you are; but the longer this dinner cooks the better
it will be.”
As he took off his coat he asked, “How much time do
we have? I had forgotten whether the show begins at eight
or eight-thirty.”
“It begins at eight, but we still have plenty of time.” She
picked up from the chair the package he had dropped,
thinking of how much trouble it had been to keep up with
this clean shirt all day long. Handing it to him she asked,
“Are you going to New Jersey tonight or in the morning?”
“Neither; I may not even get out on Sunday.” At one
time such a remark would have thrown her into panic,
but she had become accustomed to knowing that things
100


sometimes turned out better than he depicted.
“Oh, I'm so disappointed. Don't you remember that I
said I could come out this weekend? And I've the plants
to set in the ground.” What was he planning to do? Every-
thing had been so wonderful between them just a few
evenings ago.
“You can go out anyway. I'll give you the keys to the
house.”
“All right; but I won't enjoy it by myself. I would cer-
tainly have gone to my place if I had known you weren't
going to New Jersey.” She was no longer afraid of the
consequences of expressing her complaint honestly.
“I think I can make it for Saturday night. If I don't, I'll
surely be out Sunday morning and we don't have to come
back until Monday.” Well, expressing her disappointment
so candidly had had the desired effect, and she was deter-
mined not to be upset. He was tired, and they should have
eaten before she brought up any controversial subjects.
Hadn't she already steeled herself for a cooling-off period
to his latest advances? If he hadn't had this opera date, she
supposed there would have been the usual long absence.
As they walked the few blocks to the performance, he
told her how constant his work was on a rush contract,
and that he had to work on Saturday. Also, at one o'clock,
he had an appointment with Richard to meet a man who
wanted a house built. This interview would be of uncer-
tain length, and he wouldn't know just when he could get
there.
All she thought was, “He has already said he will be out
on Saturday instead of Sunday.”
His extreme tiredness was very apparent. During one of
the scenes she felt the weight of his shoulder leaning
against hers, and looked up to find him asleep. At inter-
101


mission she encouraged him to go outside for a little air.
“Shall I bring you something refreshing to drink?”
“No, thanks. I don't really want anything.” He was only
gone a few minutes and when he returned he told her he
had placed his house with a real estate agent in New York,
and thought he would have no trouble in selling it.
“What price have you put on it?”
“Twenty thousand. That is cheap the way things are
now.”
“Are you going to carry the mortgage if you don't get
cash?”
“No, the buyer will have to borrow from a bank. I'd
rather sacrifice a few hundred dollars now than have the
trouble and uncertainty of collections on a mortgage.”
“Are you selling the furniture with the house?”
“That's one thing I wanted to ask you. Do you think I
should?” This was a difficult question to answer in an off-
hand manner. The very idea of his asking her made her
feel he was figuring on her wishes for the future. She was
compelled to glean such notions from what he said, for he
never actually spoke of any future together.
“Yes, I would.” Was he also thinking that she had
furniture in her apartment in New York, and in her shack
in the country?
“I’ll be glad to get rid of the responsibility of the place.
I can pay a hundred dollars rent for a New York apart-
ment, and be as well off financially as owning and renting
the place in New Jersey.” He had made this remark so
many times that perhaps he hoped she would say it wasn't
necessary for him to rent a place in New York City. His
asking her about selling the furniture might be leading to
a discussion of the possibility of his living on Twelfth
102


Street with her, although he would never speak of it unless
they were married.
This was a strategic opportunity to reveal a problem
uppermost in her mind, but it still took great courage to
say, “Marie tells me of a continual turnover of apartments
in the district they live in. That community is becoming
quite interracial. There is a new building next to theirs
where a number of Negroes, as well as a mixed couple, are
living.”
He did not say anything; she hadn't expected him to.
Although she hated terribly to bring up such a subject she
did feel the dire necessity of letting him know they could
live in a neighborhood close to where she now lived. If
her apartment on Twelfth Street were not feasible, she
hoped to stay near the music school which her grandsons
attended. She sadly realized that she could never get any
closer to him if he refused to talk of all the conflicting
ideas she had brought to his mind.
As they were walking home, she took his arm when a
car suddenly swerved round the corner. But he held her
hand instead, and kept hold of it until they reached her
block.
Standing on the sidewalk at her corner, he said, “I’ll
give you the keys to the house. There isn't any food. Will
you buy some?” and he opened the bill section of his
wallet.
“You don't need to give me any money.”
“Why not? Get what we need for the weekend. You look
around and figure it out.”
It was a new experience to take money from a friend,
also the keys for his house. As money matters had never
been discussed between them, it would be insulting to
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Philip to make any issue about taking it. He had certainly
said it was to be spent for their meals together.
“I nearly forgot to ask you where I can find the trowel
and spade.”
“The trowel is on the table with the tools in the base-
ment; the spade is in the room partition with the lumber.
Why don't you wait and let me help you plant them?”
“If I put them in tomorrow we can water them twice
before leaving. That will give them a better chance to get
rooted. It won't be as good a job as the last time when we
dug up the plants right there. It was much cooler then,
too.” She started to move away from him, not minding to
say good-night.
“I’ll come as soon as I can. What time do you plan to
leave in the morning?”
“If you aren't going to be there, I won't have any reason
for hurrying. I'll leave about ten o'clock.” He came back
close to her again, and looked at her in a way that gave her
such intense satisfaction. “I’ll try to call you between eight
and ten.”
“So long. I'll see you tomorrow. I'm glad you don't have
to go all the way out to New Jersey tonight.” She paid not
the slightest attention to his habitual remark of calling
her, not even trying to analyze any more his reason for
saying it always. However, she did consider how many
hundreds of times women had anxiously awaited the ful-
fillment of his promise.
“Thank goodness,” she thought, “no expected call is
contingent upon my tomorrow's plans.”
The next day she caught the ten-thirty bus, and was at
his house before eleven, relieved to find that the other
occupants were not there. She deposited her package of
plants in the cool basement, planning to set them out after
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“You are tired.”
“I am. The man did not show up though we waited two
hours. I promised Richard that I would go back to his
home tomorrow.” But such an explanation did not take
care of all the many hours he had been away.
“Oh, how horrible! Do you really have to go? Isn't it all
the way out on Long Island?”
“Well, I'd like to know what it's all about. This may be
something very good. Richard and I would work together,
and be our own bosses. The whole thing depends upon
what kind of a house the man expects to get for the money
he's willing to pay. But I'll call in the morning to be sure
of the appointment this time.”
What a weekend! And she could have spent the days
outside at her own place where Marie and William were
having old friends whom she had been sorry to miss. She
made coffee and he ate cake as well. Did her being there
mean enough to him to compensate for her disappoint-
ment of spending two days practically alone? But he was
now with her, and she should think of nothing else but
the immediate pleasure of being with him.
“I’m going up to take a bath. I was afraid to get in the
tub for fear you would come just at that moment. I knew
you didn't have your keys.”
When she came out of the bathroom he was lying down,
stretched out across the bed. She sat down by him, saying,
“You really are very tired tonight.”
“Oh, no.” He quickly sat up as if he understood she was
inferring he was too exhausted to sleep with her. “I was
only resting while waiting for you to get through in the
bathroom.”
She took up the book she was reading. “I notice you
106


were writing a review of this. You made some good criti-
cisms. I hope it was published.”
“No, I never continued any further than what is written
on those notes.”
“You were doing too much at the time?”
“I was.”
“What a pity. I wonder if there were any constructive
reviews published.”
“May have been, though I didn't see any.”
It was not long before he came back to her and took her
in his arms, comforting her for his long absence. When he
held her so endearingly, she could easily feel completely
sure of him, and simply said, “You may be gone all day,
but at least I have you at night.”
He lovingly acknowledged her remark without saying
anything. Later during the intensity of his love making he
murmured questioningly, “I hope this will always belong
to me.”
“Oh, I do hope it will.” He was justified in making this
fervent request, as she previously, under similar circum-
stances, had anxiously asked if he belonged solely to her.
Even though she faltered over thoroughly believing his
affirmative answer, it had helped her to endure patiently
the unpleasant situations which seemed to be constantly
occurring.
As usual on Sunday morning he cooked an appetizing
breakfast. While they were lingering over the meal, he
said,
“I could see your plants when I came in last night. You
filled out the complete row. They look so nice and fresh.”
“I didn't plant them until sundown, and I watered
them a lot. We'll water them again this evening. Then
107


they should grow all right.” When she began stacking the
dishes, he said,
“I’m going down to start the washing machine.”
“How about towels and pillow cases and your pajamas?”
“All right; if you want to collect them, I'll use the
machine twice. I'll go phone about that appointment; I
won't be gone but a few minutes.” He kissed her, for he
never failed to, either coming or going.
While washing the dishes she smelt a burning odor, and
opened the door leading to the basement. Smoke came in,
and she hurried down to pull the plug of the washing
machine. What a nuisance. Perhaps something was broken.
The tub was full of the second wash which he had left in
a soap solution. There was a scrubbing board; evidently
the tenant did not use the electric washer. She wrung out
the clothes from the machine when she found that the
water was clear, and hung them on lines strung around
the basement. She was washing the second batch, hoping
to finish before he arrived, when she heard his steps on
the stairs.
“What happened? I could smell the machine when I
walked in the front door.”
“I don't know; I'm terribly ignorant about electrical
things. I was afraid that you had overloaded the machine
because of my suggesting to do other clothes.”
“No, I didn't put in any more than usual. Don't worry
about it; it hasn't been serviced for a long time. But why
are you washing those things?” She was quite intimidated
at the sharp way he spoke to her.
“Please let me get them out of the way. It'll only take a
few minutes. You go on back upstairs.” He obediently
left. When she finished, she found him sitting on the sofa
108


reading the newspaper. She sat down, pulling his arm up
and around her shoulder, and asked,
“What's the verdict?”
“The man and his wife will be at Richard's between one
and two. I should leave here at twelve.” She was bitterly
disappointed.
“Oh, I'm so sorry. All the hours we were going to spend
on your notes will be gone.”
“I hope to be back so that we can work on them this
evening.”
“I’ve taken the chicken out of the freezer. I'll fry it
about six o'clock.”
“No, wait till I get back.” Then she felt unsure about
the time of his return, but she tried to eliminate anything
doubtful of their spending the evening together. The
morning passed too quickly. She did not suggest helping
him with his notes, because she knew he should completely
relax during those few hours. They read the papers, con-
sulting each other on items of mutual interest. They had
sandwiches and coffee and fruit juice.
She had to control herself to keep from crying when he
said good-bye. He appeared both guilty and despondent at
leaving her, but he assured her he would be back to spend
the evening. She stood at the window watching him. A
little boy ran up to him, and Philip picked him up and
tossed him up into the air. She could see the child laughing
as he returned safely to the upstretched arms. She gazed
after him until he disappeared around a far corner.
She went upstairs to work on the typewriter. At inter-
vals she drank a cup of tea, and finally fixed herself a
sandwich. At seven she replaced the chicken in the freezer,
brought up the dry clothes from the basement, folded
109


them neatly, and put them away in their respective
drawers. She opened the bottom drawer of the bureau and
looked at the woman's clothes there. She almost felt con-
trition now about what had happened to the wearer of
those garments, judging she had been the cause of bringing
great unhappiness to someone. If that woman had experi-
enced the same difficulties she was having with Philip, she
most likely had given him up in despair. Here she was,
spending a weekend practically alone, but somewhat con-
tented at being in his house taking care of his things.
At eleven she suddenly realized that perhaps he wasn't
coming back at all. He had his room in Brooklyn, and he
had gone all the way out on Long Island. She read for
another hour. She knew he had no keys, and wouldn't like
disturbing her if he found the house dark; so she left the
light on in the hall, hoping he would be able to wake her.
However at two she turned out all the lights, and tried to
sleep. She ruminated over the following words which she
was planning to say to him:
“They did ask you to bring me along when you next
went to see them. Did you think I would refuse or did you
not want me to go? Please tell me honestly. I have been
here alone for hours, and I could have been enjoying my-
self with you and your friends.”
He might say, “I thought you wouldn't want to go; if
you had wanted to, you would have asked me.”
And this was to have been her answer: “But couldn't
you have given me the privilege of accepting or refusing
your invitation. I think you actually wanted to go alone;
you didn't wish to take me along as your friend. When
we are out on the street together you don't seem to mind
at all. Won't you tell me why you don't want to take me
to your friend's home?” This kind of question she had
110


planned never to ask him; she only conjured them up
when he so appallingly disappointed her. The next morn-
ing she contemplated writing him a note, feeling it was
important to leave some communication. He had given
her four dollars; she took two of them, put them on the
little table by her bed, and wrote on the piece of an old
envelope,
“You didn't eat here this weekend. I have the keys.”
It was drizzling; the lawn and new plants looked re-
freshed. Would she ever see them again? She expected he
would put off calling her for days, not knowing how she
would react to his leaving her there alone. She wouldn't
wish him to apologize for not coming back, but . . .
“Don't you think I deserve an explanation. Were you
afraid I would start raving at you, as has happened to you
in similar past experiences? Therefore you weren't plan-
ning to call me for many days, giving me time to cool off
from any intended upbraiding? I've seldom mentioned
your periodic neglect of me. But sometimes I think you're
a very irresponsible man. Under utmost pressure, you can
do things punctually: you attended class regularly, and are
faithful to your job; but you certainly do delay action
when difficulties are involved.”
These words, though they contained a great deal of
truth, were never spoken. He called her on Tuesday night,
when she had not approached him on Monday. For the
first time he did not use those formal words, “This is
Philip Benson calling.” He had finally drifted into a more
personal manner. He gave no introduction whatsoever,
for to her “Hello,” he posed the familiar question:
“How are you tonight, Louise?”
“I’m all right.” All the negative things she had planned
to say were immediately dispelled at the sound of his voice.
111


“But what happened?”
“I’m terribly sorry. But I wouldn't have gotten home
until long after midnight and I had to be at work at eight.
I just came over here to my room in Brooklyn. You know
all the travelling I would have to do.”
“I know. But I was so disappointed. Try to figure out
what a lonely weekend I spent.”
“I’m really sorry. I'll make it up to you. I just couldn't
get away until it was very late. What did you do?” She
thought how that little note and the two dollars would
puzzle him and convey how much he could hurt her.
“I put the chicken back in the freezer. Will it be all
right that way?”
“Yes. Of course it will.”
“And I brought up the clothes out of the basement. I
didn't leave till the nine o'clock bus. Why don't you come
over?” Surely he would be willing to please her momen-
tarily.
“I haven't anything to wear but my work clothes. I
ended up on Sunday with my good suit which I have worn
during all the rain of the last two days. I just took it to the
cleaners. Can I come by tomorrow night and pick up that
book I asked you to get?”
“Sure, but that sounds as though you're not going to
stay.”
“No, I can't. I've two meetings tomorrow night, the real
estate group and the co-op later on in the evening. Will
you be free Thursday night?”
“Yes, and you be sure to save it for me. I want to tell
you about an offer from a friend of mine at the library. He
wants to finance you for a couple of months this fall so
that you could finish the article you're writing.”
“That isn't necessary.”
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“But don't you think it is worth considering?”
“I don't have to. I'll explain it to you when I see you.
Be good, now, I'll see you tomorrow.”
The next morning Louise called Joan, “Is George com-
ing to lunch on his way back from the dentist?” The
grandsons continued to go to the dentist very near to her
apartment. She was planning to spend the day with her
brother, and would leave sandwiches for the two children
who came every day, and were not surprised when they
found the apartment unlocked and no one there. If there
were any probability of a grandchild's coming, she did not
fasten the door: she left a note explaining her absence,
and instructions for their having something to eat.
Joan answered, “Wait till I turn off the washing ma-
chine. I want to talk to you.” There was a foreboding tone
in her voice, but Louise tried to ignore it.
Speaking pleasantly, when her daughter returned to the
telephone, she asked, “How are the children? You must
be very busy with all the activities of the last days of
school.”
“Yes, and also getting ready to go to the country. That's
what I want to talk to you about. I'm so anxious to have
a peaceful summer. Of course I don't know anything about
your life with your boy friend, but please don't bring him
out to stay in the country.”
“You asked this once before, and I told you I wouldn't
have him out over the weekend when Horace is there.”
She was impelled to suggest that Joan herself would not
assume such an attitude.
“This is a selfish demand, but I really wouldn't consider
moving out if there were the possibility of anything dis-
agreeable happening this summer.” Louise was flabber-
gasted: it was difficult to imagine that her daughter had
113


recently become so dictatorial that she could make this
fantastic request of her mother.
She answered frantically, “Why, Joan, that sounds like
real blackmail. You know how much it means to me to
have the children out there in the summer time. I wish
you wouldn't discuss this further. It gets me so upset, and
brings back such awful things to my mind. We've been
getting along so well lately. Are you actually saying it's
all right to have him stay out there if I'm married to him,
but that otherwise you have the right to object?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“But there's no need to get into a terrible argument
about this. I wish I had never mentioned him to you, if
it's only going to cause such trouble.”
There was never any moment during this conversation
when she could have said, “If you really knew entirely
what you're objecting to.” As she hung up the receiver
her greatest annoyance stemmed from not being com-
pletely outspoken with her daughter. If Joan could de-
liberately demand that she forego the pleasure of having
Philip out in the country during the summer, she did not
feel any moral obligation to tell her daughter that he was
not a white man. Her merely giving this information
would intimate the possibility of an objection; by never
mentioning this fact she was definitely establishing the
idea that this condition should make no difference, either
to her daughter or to herself. Conscientiously, she knew
that through her associations with Philip during the past
months many conventional prejudices that she may have
inherently possessed had disappeared. But Joan, who once
had the same liberal viewpoint as her two sisters, had been
greatly influenced to the contrary during her present
marriage.
Again came the thought, “Will Joan remember this
114


conversation? Am I using the same underhanded tactics
as she? What will she think when she finds out the com-
plete story?”
IX
Philip arrived promptly at Marie's house the next eve-
ning. Louise had called him to tell him that she would be
there instead of at her own apartment. He was dressed in
his best suit, and looked very trim and handsome. At last,
after all these months, he had come to this particular
address where she had tried so often to bring him.
“My, what a beautiful place!” he exclaimed. The front
door opened directly onto the outside steps, so they did
not greet each other as usual. When he removed his rain-
coat he kissed her; this would be still another familiar
spot now characterized by a happy memory of him. She
took his arm and led him to the far end of the living room.
“Let me show you the house. They took down a parti-
tion here, making the kitchen a part of the whole room.
They wanted to be with their guests while cooking and
serving a meal, so they moved up all the equipment from
the basement floor.”
“Did William make all these cabinets and shelves?”
“Yes, isn't it perfect? It took some figuring with such a
small space.”
“I did the same work in my kitchen, you remember; but
I used formica tops instead of wood.”
“That's best when you have tenants. But doesn't the
wood look better when the kitchen is part of the living
room?” She showed him the second floor, and the three
children's rooms on the top floor.
115


surrounding his second marriage. She expected, some day,
to learn that this had been a somber event in his life.
“I bought material for covers for the twin beds. You
liked the other cover; it helped to make the upstairs much
brighter. I never mentioned this when you said you wanted
to sell the place and move into New York.”
“You are right. Don't make them now.” Such definite,
almost commanding words whenever the subject implied
a possible future together always filled her with an uncer-
tain feeling. But the “now” at the end of the sentence was
significant, and she clung to what that word might signify.
She wanted to ask him how things had developed in regard
to the building of a house with Richard, but as he did not
mention it she supposed the prospect had fallen through.
She always hesitated about being too inquisitive of his
financial circumstances, at the same time questioning
whether he interpreted this characteristic as total indif-
ference to his affairs.
On the following night she determined not to have any
intimate love making; she was convinced that thus he
would be more anxious to spend the weekend with her.
What was the advantage of having a man in love with you
if he didn't care about spending much time with you?
They had spent very few hours together last weekend; she
hoped that program would not be repeated. She would
do her utmost to plan differently.
As soon as he entered the apartment she could detect his
tiredness; he was loving but not passionate. She even sus-
pected that he would not have objected to her sitting in
an armchair away from him, but nevertheless she took her
usual place among the pillows. She encouraged him to talk
of the two meetings he had attended the previous evening.
She did wish he would dispense with some of his unneces-
117


sary activities and spend more time in restful study. He
constantly fumbled the ring on her finger, but he never
once kissed her. She was glad that he knew he would be
most welcome without the usual diversion of love making.
“Would you like a cup of tea and perhaps a cheese
sandwich?”
“Yes. I ran short of money today and wish you'd lend
me some. I underestimated what I needed, and left my
bank book in New Jersey. I only collected one dollar for
that book. Should it have been one-fifty?”
“No, the second edition came out at a dollar.” She got
her purse which had a small roll of bills, but he refused
anything over a dollar, saying he could get more in the
morning. He was hungry; she concluded that he hadn't
eaten supper. She had bought choice pastries, and he en-
joyed sandwiches and many cups of tea.
“You remember Richard and his wife?”
“Certainly.” Well did she remember the incident of his
failing to take her when he went to see them.
“They want to come to your place to get the plants you
offered her.”
“I’m glad of that. I'll give them a map of the route.
You'd come with them, wouldn't you?”
“Of course.” Was this his way of acknowledging that he
didn't intend to get his car ready for their travelling back
and forth?
“Are you planning to go to New Jersey for the week-
end?” she asked him. “One of my grandsons is playing in
a concert on Friday night, and I promised him I'd go.
Marie's family is driving out at three that afternoon, so I
think I won't go at all.”
“I hadn't planned to go, but I might change my mind.
I wouldn't have gone there last week if you hadn't been
there.” How difficult; still no real progress toward his
118


needing her. He seemed downcast, but complacent and
completely relaxed.
“I hope you'll decide to go. I did want to get more of
your notes to type.”
“You don't realize how tired I get on the job.”
“Oh, please don't say that. I really do. I thought you
could rest better on Saturday, and we'd work on your notes
on Sunday.” She desperately asked, “Don't you want to
spend that time with me? If you have other appointments,
I'll go to the country.”
His totally uncompromising answer was, “When are
you going to the concert?”
“Eight o'clock.”
“I’ll call you at seven about the weekend. As to my
writing, I'm going to work on a job steadily for the next
four months, and then quit. During the winter I'll write.
You know I've had many things published over the years;
reviews and short articles in newspapers and periodicals.”
“That's wonderful. You never told me before. And I'm
so glad I'll be able to help you.” She cuddled closer to him,
and he said, “I’ll appreciate it. But what time is it? I think
I must be going.”
Before he had a chance, she said, “You’ll call me at
seven.” At the door, when he was kissing her good-night,
she asked,
“You do love me?”
“You know I do.” His way of holding her should have
left no doubt in her mind. But the next evening at seven-
thirty he called to say, “I’m not planning to go to New
Jersey tomorrow. I'll bring the keys over to you early in
the morning so you can go out.”
“But I don't want to go if you aren't going.” Was he
with total aplomb dismissing her entirely from his week-
end activities, or was he sincere in saying,
119


“I just don't want to get involved with all the problems
out there: I've been working very hard this week.”
Later how thoroughly she regretted that she had not
placidly followed along with his suggestion of bringing
the keys to her. It was stupid not to have agreed. He had
come last week when she was there, even though he had
originally said it would be impossible.
“Then I'll spend the morning working. Could we go to
a movie later on in the day? Then on Sunday, if you feel
rested, we can go to your place.” She still persisted that it
was natural for her to think he would wish to be with her.
As she knew nothing of the possible demands made upon
him by some other friend she could not estimate the com-
parable reaction to conflicting requests.
“Oh, sure. When will be most convenient to you?”
“I’d like to see a foreign film.”
“There's a theater for French and British films on Forty-
Second Street. I'll call you between twelve and one to-
morrow. Be sweet, now.” These arrangements were so
much better than going out and waiting all day for him.
She happily worked all Saturday morning; she did not
go downstairs to get her mail for fear he would call at just
that moment. It was unbelievable that she wouldn't hear
from him, but she didn't. Regretfully she wished she had
taken the keys when he asked her to. By Sunday she could
stand the suspense no longer and picked up the receiver
to call the Brooklyn number he had given her. There was
no answer. So he was not tired, not resting on a Sunday
morning, but simply doing something he preferred rather
than being with her. She went back to her translating for
a few more hours, then decided he might have gone to
New Jersey, expecting her to come there. This was a slim
chance, but she clung to it. She forgave him for not calling
120


was the chance she was taking, for it was easier to be in
action than to sit and brood at home. The trip seemed
immeasurably long. Her keyed-up excitement had some-
what subsided by the time she arrived.
She rang the doorbell. The man in the other apartment
let her in. She said, “Hello,” and thanked him. She didn't
like this particular situation of running after a man, and
she tried to act as nonchalant as possible.
She didn't knock on Philip's door; she merely let her-
self in, feeling sure he was upstairs. She was surprised to
see a vase of red roses on the living room table; not a
florist's bouquet but a bunch picked from a garden. There
were many dirty dishes on the table containing scraps of
uneaten food: as she passed the cabinet she noticed a large
piece of cooked meat in the frying pan. She dropped her
bag, and hurried upstairs. He was not there. She stood and
trembled, gazing blankly at that beautiful quilt of theirs.
She stayed upstairs long enough to see that the bed was
carefully made up with two pillows as she had left it on
Monday morning. His old trousers and sport shirt and
two pairs of shoes were in her room, the nearest spot to
where his good clothes hung in the closet. The iron was
standing on its heel in the alcove where he had hurriedly
left it. She felt she was right in concluding he had not
slept there the previous night; he had only come out today.
She went back downstairs, dreading to examine the
dishes on that table which she liked to consider was hers.
Yes, there was no use trying to deceive herself. Two com-
plete places were set with many dishes, and had been used,
and the meal had been a sumptuous one. She left, and
walked as far as a bus bench. She sat down to decide what
to do. Had he been there when she telephoned and con-
cluded that it was she, and left to avoid her; or had they
122


previously finished their meal and gone to a movie? If she
returned she wouldn't be too embarrassed when they
walked in and found her sitting there. It would be so
unusual to the other woman to find a white woman there
that she could most easily explain that she had come, as
was actually true, to help Philip with his writing. Ten
minutes must have elapsed before she went back and
found that there was no one to answer the door. She had
approached the house from the opposite direction, so there
was the agonizing possibility that someone had seen her
coming and would not let her in.
She returned and waited calmly for the in-going bus.
She found the last vacant seat far in the back, sat down
and cried bitterly. She was incapable of reasoning: she was
deeply jealous of that other woman's sitting and eating in
her place, and having all those hours with him—hours
which would have been hers if she had only accepted his
proffered keys. In the future she would always do what he
asked of her. She did not blame him; he had figured that,
since she did not come out in the morning, she wasn't to
be expected.
Perhaps his guest was the lady from across the street; it
would be natural for her to bring roses from her garden.
He had told Louise about receiving a letter from her, say-
ing she was returning from the Virgin Islands where she
had been doing social work. She was a divorced woman
with two children. It could also be possible that he had
brought Mary out from the city for the day. But her grief
was justifiable, for no matter what solution she might use
for solace, the truth remained that they could have spent
the day together.
She was outwardly composed when she reached her
apartment. She settled down to constructive work, and
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waited patiently for the next communication from him.
After all, if she had followed her own common-sense views,
and never left her apartment, what suffering she could
have saved herself. She longingly hoped that his tenant
would not tell him that she had been there; he might be
wholly annoyed with her, and never get in touch with her
again. Through all her misgivings she still had faith in his
love for her, and would do her best to keep it. She would
certainly in the future require from him her privilege of
seeing people who might totally disapprove of their rela-
tionship, therefore she also should not deny him any
pleasure of association with past acquaintances. In fact,
should she not be relieved that she would not be respon-
sible for all the pleasures he might desire? However, she
hoped that she would ascertain from him what this occa-
sion had been.
As soon as he got home from work on Monday she called
him.
“This is Louise.”
“How are you?”
“Not so good. I didn't have a very nice weekend.”
“I called you twice on Saturday and found the line busy.
Did you go out to the country?”
“No, I stayed right here and worked both days. You
must not know how to dial my number; I don't remember
having a single call on Saturday.” If the line were busy
how could he ask her if she had gone to the country. What
she should have said, but did not wish to, was, “You are
an absolute liar.”
He gave no further explanation, assuming that his
statement of finding her line busy was sufficient excuse for
breaking their appointment. But he must have known
that she knew better.
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He further committed himself by saying, “I missed you
very much.” Again, thinking of his kitchen, she wanted to
refute this statement.
Instead she said, “I’m calling you about Anna. She got
in touch with me again about that projected interview. I
placed the time tentatively for tomorrow night, but she
will call me to confirm the date.” Louise was afraid she
might never hear from him again; accordingly she planned
this contact having no personal nature.
“Tomorrow will be O. K. with me. Any night this week
except Wednesday. Shall I come to your apartment?”
“Yes, she seemed to think that would be the simplest
way. The woman writer you are to interview has a car and
will drive down. She said it shouldn't take more than a
half hour.”
“Will it be all right if I come over at eight?”
“Sure.”
“See you then. Be sweet now.” But she wanted to be
really sure that he would come.
“Oh, another thing . . . about a carpenter for my shack
in the country. My son-in-law is even having a hard time
making the man complete the odds and ends at the barn.
He thinks he'll never get around to doing anything for
me this summer. You mentioned coming out with Richard
some week when you weren't on a job in the city.”
“Yes, I'd like to. First I’ll have to see what has to be
done, and then get in touch with him. Perhaps I might not
need him. We'll talk about it tomorrow night.”
“All right. Good-bye now.” That was the extent of the
conversation with no mention of how he had spent the
weekend. She had doubly assured herself she would be
seeing him tomorrow, and was willing to leave everything
in abeyance till then. He had acted as usual, just as under-
125


standing, as kind, even as loving. But uppermost in her
mind was that dining room table revealing that two people
had eaten a meal in his house.
By the time of his arrival the next day the episode of
that horrible trip had lost its most drastic memories. After
all, most important was the fact that she was seeing him
again; judging from the telephone conversation, his atti-
tude toward her was no different. She always opened the
door a few inches to watch his coming up the stairs. He
walked very erect, and very lightly for such a large man.
When he reached the landing, she opened the door com-
pletely to receive that big familiar smile; she barely closed
it, before he was holding her tightly. She immediately
ceased to think of anything; his embrace surmounted all
perplexities. He kept hold of her as they walked into the
living room.
“I missed you over the weekend. I went out to New
Jersey on Saturday, spent the night, but came back early
Sunday.” Was this statement true? He wouldn't have told
her this if he had known she had been there Sunday; and
it was unlike him to go away and leave a table full of dirty
dishes. He must have made this remark to excuse himself
from not coming to the telephone when she had called.
Otherwise he would say he went out on Sunday, and had
a neighbor in for dinner. She sincerely hoped it was untrue
that he had gone out on Saturday. She hadn't been able to
account for his two pairs of shoes in what she called “her
room.” She had instinctively concluded that he had not
spent the night, for she had never known him to make up
a bed. Everything was as tidy as when she left last Monday
morning. If he had spent the night there Saturday, deep
shadows of his having been with “someone else” loomed
126


up—someone who would make the bed as neatly as she
had made it.
“I didn't call you Sunday as I thought you had gone to
the country.”
“Yes, you passed me up for two weekends.”
“Not two, only one.” That was the strategic moment to
inquire what he had done during those two days; but she
did not ask. Nothing valuable was to be gained from find-
ing out what had happened. She released herself from his
arms, and went into the bedroom saying, “I have some-
thing for you.”
She came back with a book and some typewritten pages.
“I thought you'd like to go over this article with me. I
translated it from the French and should have taken it in.
But I saved it; I knew you'd be interested. As I read it, will
you help me with the passages that aren't entirely clear.
Do you mind?”
“Of course not. I appreciate your saving it for me.”
She was most content when working with him, sitting
very close together, his arm around her, his hand toying
with her free hand, asking each other questions, formu-
lating ideas and criticisms of the article. When she stopped
to turn the first page, necessarily having to take her hand
from him, he kissed her on her neck under her ear.
“It was good of you to keep this for me to read. It
certainly helps to clarify the events of the past week.” They
read through the complete manuscript without an inter-
ruption other than remarks about the content.
“Anna is not coming?”
“No, I didn't confirm the date with her in time to get in
touch with the other woman. It's too complicated a deal
with four people involved. She has your phone number,
127


and you'll have to work out an appointment together.”
He drew her close to him, taking the papers from her,
saying, “About the job at your house. I would like to come
out and see what it's all about.”
“There isn't much to do. It's a roof job, and is too dan-
gerous for the young boys. Two years ago my nephew and
I shingled the outside of the cabin. That's comparatively
simple, although we did finally have to erect a scaffolding
about twenty feet high.” She hesitated not an instance to
add, “There's plenty of sleeping space for both of you to
come out and stay.”
“I hope it won't be necessary for Richard to come.”
“So do I. When you need a helper there'll be plenty of
boys anxious to take on.”
“And they're often better than another man. I'm get-
ting the car ready. Do you take route 17 the whole way?”
“Yes, except the last eight miles. I’m used to making a
very accurate map, but I hope we can go out together. If
you're too busy this summer, it would be wonderful to go
in September which is a perfect month.”
“But if I have a few days off between jobs, I'll get out.”
Again it came to mind that he wouldn't want to start out
in his car with her accompanying him from his house.
“That will be fine.” But to herself she pondered, “I
really do not understand this man. One minute he un-
knowingly gives the impression he doesn't want to be out
there alone with me, the next he distinctly asserts he would
like to do the job without Richard's help. Perhaps his
adjustment problems are far greater than mine.”
“Let's have a cup of tea.”
When she took the quart container of milk out of the
refrigerator, he said, “I prefer milk,” knowing he could be
assured of her acceptance of his preferences.
128


“It's better for you.” How could she introduce any
doubting questions into such a harmonious atmosphere?
When they finished eating, he took her arm, consciously
leading her into the other room. When he was entirely
consumed with making love to her, he kept repeating,
“You mean so much to me.”
Here was her opportunity. “I’m not going to let anyone
take you away from me.”
“I love you, sweetness.”
“No one, no one, is going to take you away from me.”
She clung to him as passionately as he was holding her.
“You look so pretty lying there.” But the same idea
persisted, and almost hysterically she reiterated, “No one,
no one.”
While he was dressing, and she was lying in bed indulg-
ing in that extreme joy of watching him, she said, “The
people in the house whom I have known such a long time
act no differently since they have seen us going out to-
gether.”
No answer from him. His manner made her wonder if
something disagreeable had happened when he was leav-
ing the apartment alone, something he didn't wish to
communicate to her.
Finally she said, “That's nice, isn't it?”
“It certainly is.” She disliked saying such things, disliked
acknowledging that such precarious things ever entered
her mind, and only mentioned this after much delibera-
tion. Surely it was as important to him as to her if he could
casually frequent her apartment.
“How do you stand for the rest of the week?”
“Laura is having dinner with me tomorrow evening,
and I have to baby-sit for Marie on Friday.”
“So you are free on Thursday?”
129


“Yes, I'll find something interesting we can study like
the article tonight.” She turned on the lights as they
wandered into the sitting room.
“I’ll bring over my notes to work on. I have them with
me in Brooklyn. Did I tell you my tenants are leaving next
Friday?”
“No, you didn't.”
“I’m going to be very careful about the next people I
get.” As he brought up the subject of New Jersey, she said,
“When I remember how I was left here all alone last week
because I didn't take your keys, I'm saying now that I want
to come out next Sunday. Will you be there?”
“I plan to be. The people have been paying rent by the
week, for they weren't sure when they were leaving. So, I'd
better go out. But I want to begin organizing myself in
Brooklyn.”
“My younger sister wrote me to meet her at my brother's
on Saturday. This get-together happens only once a year
so I couldn't refuse. She wants me to drive back with her
to New Jersey, and spend the weekend. I could leave Sun-
day morning, change at Washington Bridge, and arrive in
early afternoon at your house.”
“Any time you can get there. The sooner the better for
me.”
“It will be the last week I'm free. I've promised everyone
I'll go out to the country during their vacations.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll come in sometimes. And you said you'd come out.”
“When is our next opera?”
“Not for over three weeks. I hope you'll be out before
then.”
They were sitting together on the couch. He always held
her endearingly after they had been making love. He con-
130


tinued to want her as close to him as possible. His yearning
thoroughly convinced her of his devotion.
He again said, “You mean so much to me.”
“There are many ways of meaning a lot to each other.
What we have just had is important.”
“But not the most important. All the other things we
have together mean more to me.”
“Perhaps so, but we have to enjoy both.”
“You are right.” His firm grasp strengthened her un-
believably. They sat very quiet for a few minutes. She
longed to know his innermost thoughts.
“But I must go. Time passes so fast when I'm with you.”
“We'll be together on Thursday. You needn't phone.
Just come when you like. I'd be glad to make supper for
you.”
“No, I feel better if I sleep for an hour after work. I'll
be over around eight.”
She followed him to the door for a final kiss, and when
he left she dropped down in the first chair, exhausted with
happiness. Could he be two men? If he were, she was per-
fectly contented with the one she had, and willingly would
forget about the other one. She would never ask him what
had happened last week; the future was what really
mattered.
At exactly eight on Thursday the telephone rang. There
was no formal greeting; by now there was a mutual under-
standing that she would recognize his voice. It comforted
her that he had at last dropped that formality.
“How are you this evening?”
“Fine, and yourself?”
“I called to tell you I can't come over.”
“Oh, why not?” She had constantly been looking for-
ward to spending another perfect evening with him. She
131


was generally so lonely at night. Reading, sewing, listening
to the radio, all had some satisfactory diversion, but during
the happy years of her life she had always been surrounded
with people.
“I wrenched my back at work yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry. Is it very bad?”
“I haven't seen a doctor, because I've been afraid to
travel to Manhattan where he has his office.”
“Does it hurt you when you're perfectly still?”
“No, not at all. But as soon as I move, the pain comes
back again. It's at the very end of my spine.”
“Did you hurt yourself when you stooped over sud-
denly?"
“Exactly. How did you know? I wasn't lifting anything
heavy. I just leaned over to hammer in a nail.”
“Yes, but you did it too quickly, and without bending
your knees enough. Once I hurt myself that way while I
was picking up my shoes from the floor. I was flat on my
back completely strapped with adhesive tape for a whole
week. Even now, when I lift anything too heavy, or type
steadily for too many hours, the pain slightly comes back
on my left side.”
“That does sound like the same thing. I felt so weak all
day that I thought I might have to go to the hospital. But
you encourage me that it isn't too much to worry about.”
“Not as long as you can be up and around. I do hope you
will be all right tomorrow.”
“Oh, by the way, I forgot to give you that dollar I
borrowed the other night.” She didn't care about the dollar
but was glad he remembered it.
“Forget about it. But did you get the two dollars I left
on the little table at your house?”
132


“Yes, I did. You know you didn't have to leave it. And
the note, what did it mean?”
“I wanted you to know that I was sore at you for not
coming back that night.”
“I don't understand that.”
“What did you say? You don't understand that I was
hurt when you didn't come back.”
“I did explain it to you later.”
“Yes, you did, and I forgave you. But at the time I wrote
that note, I was very unhappy about it.” It seemed so diffi-
cult to make him know how much she really cared.
“I know. I'm sorry. Be sweet now.” And the way he said
these particular words always pacified her.
“Do take care of yourself. If you don't feel much better
tomorrow, try to see a doctor.”
At noon, the next day, it seemed perfectly natural and
right that she should call him. When a man's voice an-
swered the telephone, she had to be sure, so she asked, “Is
this Philip?”
“Yes.”
“How are you?” She was not telling him who she was;
she wanted to test his recognition of her voice.
“Oh, Louise. I'm much better.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Good of you to call.”
“I was anxious to know how you were. You really had
me worried yesterday. The mere mention of a hospital
frightens me.”
“It was as you said: the third day I would be better. And
I am.”
“Can you walk around without pain?”
“Nearly. I'm going out now for a few errands to see how
I make out.”
133


“Are you planning to go back to work on Monday?” She
felt that an answer to that question would be the most ac-
curate way of ascertaining how he was.
“I certainly hope to. I also want to go to New Jersey on
Sunday. Will you be coming out?” Did he want to know
in order to be with her or avoid her? And wouldn't he have
to go out on Saturday, or at least arrive there before her
on Sunday, to clean up the telling evidence of that dining
room table?
“Yes, I'll be at my sister's on Saturday night, but can
come to your place about noon Sunday. Is that all right?”
“Sure, we'll work it out together.” So, it wasn't entirely
all right, it had to be worked out later. She wished she
weren't critical of his every word; but circumstances had
forced her into this inquisitive position.
“Will you feel like coming over tonight?” she asked.
“I’ll see when I get going. If I can't make it, I'll call you
anyway. What time are you leaving tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll leave about nine. It takes so long to get to my
brother's on Staten Island.”
“If I don't get in touch with you tonight I'll call before
nine in the morning, and we'll make plans for Sunday.
Thanks for calling.”
“You knew I'd be anxious about you.”
“You can hardly realize how much I appreciate your
calling.” He said these words with intense emotion.
“I wanted to,” she responded as lovingly as she could.
“Thanks again. "Bye, now.”
He had been overcome with her thoughtfulness. She was
beginning to understand what a lonely man he was in the
midst of all his friends. He had once said that if anything
drastic happened to him, no one would know or even care.
At that time, this remark told her that he evidently hadn't
134


beginning to take these requests seriously, as he had been
very reliable about calling her lately.
“At my sister's house. It's a New Jersey number. Do you
want to take it down?” She gave the number and he
repeated it.
“But you don't sound as if you should be going any-
where tomorrow. If you can't get out, I'd like to come over
and see you. What is the address there?”
He gave it to her, although she already had it. She had
learned, when working in an office, the technique of ex-
tracting an address from an operator when you only knew
the telephone number. Truthfully, she now felt more
comfortable as he had willingly given it to her.
“I’m going to the doctor's across the street this morning.”
“Did you come into Manhattan yesterday?”
“No, I only walked around here for an hour. I felt so
unsure of my feet that I rented a cane.”
“You did too much. Rest is the only thing. If you can't
get over to your place tomorrow, couldn't I go and collect
the rent?”
“I'm afraid not. I sent a friend of mine over to look at
the place, and when he got there they wouldn't let him in,
although I had phoned just an hour before.”
“That sounds bad. Perhaps they had to leave, and he
wouldn't think of looking to see if their car was in the
yard.”
“No, he wouldn't think of that. It was raining too. He
had to turn around and come back to the city.”
“That's a shame.”
“I hope I'll be able to go out tomorrow.”
“If you rest all day. Let's leave it at that. If you don't
call me Sunday morning at that number, I'll come over to
your place.”
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Immediately she realized that this method was rather
risky, as he might be hesitant about calling her there. As
sincere and honest as this whole conversation appeared to
be, she was conscious of making it difficult for him to re-
fuse seeing her on Sunday. Only a week had elapsed since
someone else had been spending the hours with him out
there. Actually that appalling trip to his house seemed far
away, for she had been in communication with him con-
stantly during the week, and he hadn't once failed to
follow through on his promises.
“All right: that's good.”
“What busses can I take other than the 278 which only
runs once an hour on Sunday?”
“You can take the 280 or the 286 also on the city side of
the bridge and get off at the monument. You walk out by
the Union Market. Do you remember how that is?”
“Oh, yes, I can easily find the way from the monument.”
It was on that particular bus bench that she had sat last
Sunday contemplating her dilemma. “Hope to see you to-
morrow, but do take care.”
“I will, "bye now.”
She did not think he had injured himself badly; he had
only slightly strained a muscle. As she had experienced
the exact accident she knew it was only a matter of time
before he would be completely cured. Perhaps she could
persuade him to stay in New Jersey for a few days. This
would not be selfish of her, as she would market and cook,
they would work on his notes, and he would be assured
of perfect rest. School was closing for the summer, and
Marie was taking her children out this week. No one
would be coming to her apartment for lunch. She had al-
ready announced she wouldn't be on her job much longer.
Was it hazardous to be looking forward to spending a few
137


days alone with him? How much they would both enjoy
such a vacation!
X
She went to her brother's seabeach cottage and her
youngest sister joined her there. They all three spent a
pleasant day together. His wife served a simple lunch, al-
though she did not eat with them.
While driving back to her sister's home, Louise said, “I
won't be able to stay all day tomorrow. I've a dinner date
in the city.”
“That's a pity because I've a wonderful pork roast, and
Walter will be there, too. Do you have to leave that soon?”
“My friend said he would call me by eleven if we could
have dinner together on Monday instead of tomorrow.”
“Who is this friend? Does he really mean that much to
you?”
Louise had never failed to spend the entire weekend
when visiting this sister. Generally, she stayed through
Sunday night, taking the early commuters' train to the city.
“I’m sorry, but I can't go back on my promise.”
“I wish you would. How long have you known him?”
“I’ve known him for quite a while, but we've only been
dating lately.”
“What's his name?” Why such a question, though names
do often indicate a great deal?
“Philip Benson.”
“What does he do?”
“He makes his living as a carpenter, but also delves in
real estate, and writing. You know how much I like car-
pentry, and of course I'm interested in writing.”
138


“You sound so mysterious about something. Are you
really taking this man seriously?”
“More or less. You can't ever tell how things will turn
out.”
“I can't imagine your wanting to marry again.”
“I don't know why not. But that possibility is a long
way off.”
Not hearing from Philip, she took the eleven-thirty bus
to Washington Bridge, crossed to the New York side, then
took another bus back across the bridge to Glenwood.
Briskly she walked the many blocks to his house, excited
at the thought of seeing him instantly. She noticed that his
car at the side front had been moved a few feet closer to
the house. When she rang the bell, the lady of the other
apartment answered.
“Isn't Mr. Benson in?”
“No, I don't think so.”
“I’m expecting him.” She tried to open his living room
door, but found it locked.
“Will you please let me go through the kitchen to his
apartment?”
“Certainly.”
“Was he here yesterday?” This was a foolish question,
but her thoughts became addled when she saw that the car
had been moved.
“He may have been, but I didn't see him.”
“He tells me that you are moving.” She wanted this
woman to know that Philip was a friend whom she knew
very well, that she was justified in coming to his home
without his being there.
“Yes, we need a bigger apartment than this, and the
place we are getting is nearer to my husband's job.”
139


“That's the night of the real estate board.”
“So?”
“I don't like to inconvenience you, but would you come
out Tuesday night?” Naturally, she was overjoyed at his
request.
“The way things have turned out these last weeks, I
concluded there's some reason why you don't want me to
go there.”
“That's foolish. You've already done so much for me.”
What was the matter? He still did not regard their relation-
ship as a mutual giving and taking; he still had the attitude
that she was always doing him a favor, therefore he could
not realize how bitterly disappointing he could be. Her
not wishing to pry into his personal affairs he must have
interpreted as indifference. Often on the telephone he had
told her he would explain something when he saw her;
she would not question him further. She left it to him to
take the initiative to divulge what he had meant. He must
have concluded that his problems were unimportant to
her.
“You know how much I want to come.” If he were mis-
representing the circumstances, she was going to remain
simply truthful.
“I’ll be there at six o'clock.”
“I’ll go earlier to avoid the traffic. I'll take a loaf of
bread; everything else is out there.”
“Then I'll see you tomorrow night. Be sweet, now.” And
he really sounded so loving. Logically, she should contem-
plate the possibility of her going and his not showing up.
Nevertheless, she was perfectly confident that he meant
what he said, but then she decided to call him back. She
had to let him know that she often doubted these telephone
144


promises; that she had some fear he might be deceiving
her.
“I’ve decided I'm not going tomorrow night.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you know the way it turned out yesterday and
the week before. You said you did not feel well enough to
go out. I must tell you I called you late last night. I
couldn't sleep thinking you might have gone to the hos-
pital or might be staying in New Jersey. There was no
answer on your phone.”
“I was here. I must have been asleep.” There was com-
plete silence from her. Possibly this was true; he was a
heavy sleeper and she didn't let the telephone ring but
twice. She had quickly concluded he wasn't there, because
he had told her the telephone was on a little table close
to his bedside.
“Somehow I can't help but feel that you don't want me
out there.”
“I don't know why you should feel that way about it,
Louise.” His tone of voice was truly despondent. “Don’t
you want to come?”
“Of course I do.”
“So you are coming?” How anxious he was to draw this
happy conclusion. “Go before the heavy traffic. Someone
will be there to let you in. I'll be there at six.” His voice
sounded relieved.
“You are sure?”
“Unless I get sick on the job, I'll be there.” She believed
him thoroughly. Perhaps she had gained from expressing
her lack of confidence in his promises.
One of her grandsons was being graduated from gram-
mar school. He had asked her to the exercises and to lunch
145


afterwards. She was thrilled at the invitation; the circum-
stances surrounding that household were gradually becom-
ing pleasanter. She hoped so many people would be there
that her daughter would not again speak of Philip; surely
Joan would not persist in bringing up the subject. She had
twice emphatically expressed her views on the subject.
The graduation and the lunch were pleasant. Everyone
said good-bye to her, adding, “Will be seeing you on Friday
for the whole summer.”
At the last minute her daughter handed her a package
which she had carelessly dropped on the sofa.
“What is this?”
“Oh, it's only a loaf of bread.”
“Won't you take a couple of cans of grease to make your
soap? I'm trying to clean out the refrigerator.”
“I’m not going back to the apartment or I would.”
“Oh, that's all right.” The loaf of bread, and ‘the not
going back to the apartment' must have put some ideas
into her daughter's head, but neither one of them said
anything further.
She took the A train in Brooklyn and stayed on all the
way to the 167th Street bus terminal. As it was four o'clock
there were only a few people waiting in the lines. The par-
ticular bus which went all the way to his house carried pas-
sengers who preponderantly were Negroes, but she no
longer paid any attention to this characteristic. She ceased
to wonder if people looked at her questioningly.
The little two-year-old girl was playing in the open
doorway, and her mother said, “How are you?”
“It's a beautiful day, isn't it?” She was turning the knob
of his living room door while she spoke and finding it
locked, she said, “I’ll have to trouble you to let me in the
other way. Mr. Benson did hurt himself quite badly. That's
146


why he hasn't been out. I expect him this evening.”
Her own dirty dishes were still on the table; that aspect
itself had a most calming effect. She took two packages of
frozen vegetables out of the freezer, made herself a cup of
tea, and began straightening up the place most carefully.
She instinctively wanted him to benefit from her innate
tidiness; he must be growing tired of always doing these
little things for himself. Surprisingly enough, she found
herself totally engrossed in a magazine article when he
opened the door. She jumped up and went towards him
eagerly; and his whole attitude portrayed great happiness
and relief at finding her there. He did not hold her very
long; she knew why. He was dressed in his work clothes,
and he was hot, tired and dirty.
“Are you hungry?”
“Starved. Haven't had anything but a cup of coffee since
breakfast.”
“I won't take long. You should eat more on your job.”
“It's way out at the end of the Canarsie line where there
are no restaurants. Will I have time for a bath?”
“Sure.” She went to him for another kiss before he
started up the stairs.
“The lady whom your daughter wants me to interview
is across the street. I saw her drive in just now. I'll go over
and get her after we eat.” This was not the lady of the
dance engagement many months ago. Marie was looking
further for people to help in her project.
They sat on the sofa, barely talking, her head on his
shoulder, and his arms tightly holding her. Gradually she
dismissed all the pressures which had been hanging over
her.
“It is relaxing out here, if the trip weren't so trying,”
was the way he expressed his complete satisfaction.
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After a while he asked, “Shall I get my neighbor to
come over or should we go there?"
“Do just as you think best.”
“If we go, we need only stay as long as we like.”
She had finally convinced him that she wanted to know
his friends; she was only slightly hesitant when she said,
“All right. Let's go over there. I'll take my bag as it has a
note book and pencil.”
As many times as she had stood gazing out the window,
both upstairs and down, she had never succeeded picturing
herself crossing the street with him, and mounting the
steps to the porch of the opposite house. However, now that
this occasion had arrived, she felt unperturbed, almost to
the point of being unconcerned. He acted as if this visit
were a common occurrence. She already clearly understood
how respected he was in his neighborhood. The intonation
of the voice when someone spoke to him carried an
expression of deference.
He called out some name as they stepped on the porch,
and a woman opened the door, saying, “If you're looking
for Mrs. Johnson, she's up on the top floor. Just go on up.”
She smiled very pleasantly at Louise. The house be-
longed to Mrs. Johnson; she had rented it while she had
been away in the Virgin Islands. Not wishing to turn out
her tenants, she was temporarily living up in the attic.
“I wouldn't go up without letting her know,” Philip
answered.
“She has a lot of people visiting. It's all right to go up.”
After mounting one flight of stairs, he knocked at the
door leading into the second flight, and opened it at the
same time.
“Hello, come on up,” a woman's voice called.
Philip answered, “You don't know who it is.”
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stopping by to make a possible appointment. If they
thought she was staying the night at Philip's, she could
never detect from their manner that they suspected any
infringement of propriety. Also it seemed strange to her
that Philip did not seem concerned about what they might
think of their relationship.
“I think she'll be sorry she turned down the job after
she's had time to think it over.”
“Perhaps so. She was entertaining a lot of people, and
wasn't in a mood to take anything seriously. She certainly
is an attractive woman.”
“I entirely forgot to ask her about her children the other
day.”
He was reminiscing, and she quickly followed through
with the remark, “When she had just come back home?”
“Yes.” This question was all she wished to ask, but could
these few words substantiate the idea that this lady had
been his visitor on her fateful trip to his house? The whole
series of events could well fit into this assumption, and she
intuitively felt there was no reason to be sadly concerned
about Philip's friendship with this particular person.
They stopped to see how the plants of the new hedge
were growing, and she showed him the top of four new
leaves which had grown out of the little oak tree they had
transplanted.
“I’ll get the keys for the car; I want to see if it's running.”
She watched him through the venetian blinds, wander-
ing around. Evidently he didn't know where the keys were.
She went in and took them out of the china closet, and
handed them to him. They both got into the front seat of
the car. The battery immediately ignited; she even thought
he was considering driving.
“I wish I had my driver's license. I've been so busy
150


lately that I let the permit run out. Now I'll have to begin
all over again.”
“That's a shame.” She remembered the lady's telling her
of his inhibitions about getting a driver's license. He surely
would have found time to pass the test, if he hadn't been
nervous about driving again.
“But I'm glad the car's in running order again.”
“So am I. It will be so much easier to get to the country
by car than by train. I wish you'd let me pay for the
insurance.”
He never answered, and such silence made her uncom-
fortable. They sat on the front steps for a while, then
he said, “Let's take the radio upstairs.”
“I opened all the windows so it would be cooler.”
She took a bath, and was in bed reading when he came
up with the radio. He kissed her, while he was starting a
music program.
“Because of your back, I guess there won't be any loving
tonight.”
He didn't say anything, but he was smiling as he left the
room, thus giving her some satisfaction as to what might
happen. She was propped up with pillows and acted as
though she were completely absorbed in her book. She
pretended not to be aware of his returning and stretching
himself out the full length of the bed. How long could she
read? She turned the page, but she would have been non-
plussed if he had asked her its contents. Finally he took
hold of her arm, turned her towards him, and laid down
her book on the side table.
She said, “Wait a minute.” She sat up and put out the
light, and shut off the radio. “Don't you want a pillow?”
“No, I'm comfortable this way.” She shoved both pil-
lows away and lay down beside him. He put his arm under
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her, drawing her close to him. With one question from her,
he started talking about how much she meant to him.
“But you couldn't be as happy as I am at this moment.”
“You make me much happier,” he whispered. Slowly
he became more tender, more loving. She was afraid to
give way to a passionate acknowledgment of his caresses,
not knowing whether he dared risk hurting his strained
back. She instantly knew when he had made his decision
in her favor; then the togetherness of their love making
became all important to her. Their actual loving and being
loved were never characterized by any conflicting thoughts;
during this nearness to him she always felt he belonged
solely to her.
“I'd better sleep on that side next to the radio; then I
can turn off the alarm before it wakes you.” She moved
over to the other side and arranged the pillows. Physically
exhausted, he fell asleep in a few minutes, but she mulled
over the events which had occurred since they were last
there together. While she dozed off her last thoughts were
of sitting among his friends in that small crowded attic
room. His willingness to take her along when he visited
his neighbors was something she had been craving for
months. The way he had serenely introduced her to these
people was most gratifying.
He woke without the alarm, groaned despairingly at
having to arise so early, kissed her briefly, even abruptly,
for which she could scarcely blame him. When he came
back after eating breakfast, he lingered lovingly. He raised
her from the pillow, possessively holding her and kissing
her. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’ll be in town in exactly two weeks. Have you marked
that date on your calendar?”
“Yes, I won't forget; you know I won't.” He suddenly
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started to leave. She sensed that he did not wish to go
through with the regular formality of saying good-bye. But
at the door he turned back.
“Smith didn't bring me the rent. He works on a night
shift, and is generally here when I leave in the morning.”
“Shall I ask him for it? That would save you a trip out
here before they move.”
“No, you don't need to worry. I'll phone them from
New York.” He kissed her once more. When she heard
the front door close, she got out of bed and watched him
walking away so brisk and erect, with a paper under his
arm. Could she conceive of a life without him? No, she
couldn't even imagine how she was going to exist without
seeing him for two whole weeks. She sincerely hoped he
too would be constantly thinking of her.
She always prepared her own meals without going into
the joint kitchen. There was an electric hot plate and she
took water from the bathroom. She was eating breakfast
when there was a knock on the door near to where she was
sitting at the dining room table.
“Come in.”
“Is Mr. Benson here?”
“No, he's already gone to town. If you want to give him
the rent, he said you could give it to me.”
“Did he say that?” He should be convinced; hadn't her
staying there all night proved her intimacy with Mr.
Benson?
“Certainly. I'll give you a receipt.”
“All right. He uses any little scrap of paper.” He gave
her twenty-five dollars and she made a receipt on the back
of an envelope in a discarded pile of mail on the bottom
of the stairs.
“That pays for this last week. We're moving Saturday.”
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“Thank you. I guess you'll be seeing Mr. Benson before
you leave. He'll be out Friday or Saturday.”
She was genuinely pleased to get the money, and save
Philip another trip from the city. Wanting to be sure of a
seat on bus and subway, she did not leave until nine
o'clock. On the way to her apartment, she bought a quart
of milk and a loaf of bread, relieved that the children were
in the country and would not be coming for lunch. She
was thoroughly exhausted and desired to be alone. A night
spent with him was relaxing, though physically tiring. She
dumped herself down on the bed and slept for a solid hour,
thinking, as she dozed off, how he would be compelled to
spend the entire day working hard.
That evening she telephoned him at five. He was there,
having quit work at four-thirty. “I called you right away
to let you know you wouldn't have to call your tenant. Mr.
Smith came in this morning and gave me the rent.”
“That's fine. You realize you saved me a trip out there.”
“How was your back today? I was worried about your
taking that extra trip, and still not getting the money.”
“The trip was well worth while. Wasn't it to you?”
She merely said, “Yes,” but in such a loving tone that
he called her “sweetness,” the first endearing term he had
used over the telephone.
“Will you be able to come over on Thursday evening?”
she asked. She didn't want to say explicitly that she wished
to give him the twenty-five dollars. It would be her last
evening in town; she assumed he would naturally wish to
spend it with her, regardless of any money transaction.
When he had said good-bye to her the other morning, he
had dropped on the table by the side of the bed the dollar
bill he had borrowed weeks before.
“I’ve a number of things I must do, so I'll be late, but
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I'll call you and let you know when I'm coming. She re-
membered that fifty dollar check made out to the tele-
phone company with the stub designated as “Deposit on
phone.” He had left the check book lying open on his
living room table and this revelation caused her to ponder
over the extent of his real estate activities. Why would he
make such an expenditure if he were not expecting material
gain? Such a large deposit generally was only required for
a business telephone installation. She simply wished to
consider that most of his activities were of a non-personal
nature. She often contemplated the idea of his planning
to substitute for his physical labor another and less tiring
method of making a living. She hoped she had influenced
him to consider the possibility of an easier existence.
“Do be sure to come.”
Her youngest daughter, Laura, would be at her apart-
ment sometime during the evening, and Louise had re-
marked to her, “That's fine. Philip will be here, and
you've only seen him once.”
“I’ll be in the country nearly every weekend this sum-
mer. Won't I be seeing him there?”
“That's a moot question. Of course I haven't told Philip
about what Joan said. I'd never speak to him of anything
like that. Instead I've been trying my best to get him to
come.”
“Well, Mother, you can count on me to help you if any-
thing disagreeable should happen. I can't forget the time
when Horace ordered William's friend off the back porch
when he came to get some water.”
“Yes; although I wasn't out there at the time, I fully
remember the incident. But these circumstances are differ-
ent. We naturally won't go near the big house. I know I
can depend on you but let's hope it won't be necessary.”
155


Later in the day Laura called to say she was driving out
early with a friend, and would not be having dinner with
Louise.
“I’ll be seeing you there.”
“Yes, you will.”
She dressed carefully. She had told Philip to come when
he could and that he need not call her beforehand. He
neither called nor came. At least, she was pleased he had
not thought it important to collect his twenty-five dollars.
He would call her tomorrow night, and would hear the
operator say, “That number has been temporarily dis-
continued. There is no forwarding number.” Would he
have any regrets that he had not come to see her on the
last night she was to be in town?
XI
The day had finally come for leaving New York for the
summer. She had delayed this event as long as possible.
Other years she had left a month earlier, glad to escape
from the city heat. However this year Philip had kept her
in town. She wanted to see him as often as the opportunity
arose; also she was somewhat afraid of losing him when
conveniences and proximities were removed. Her tele-
phone meant communication with him: whenever it rang
her first thought was of him, even though at some particu-
lar time of day it would have been impossible for him to
have been calling. She hated to telephone the operator and
tell her temporarily to discontinue her service. In the
country she could walk to her sister's house on the prop-
erty, and from there she could call him, but it was ex-
156


tremely inconvenient for him to reach her. If he called
her between four and six she would, most likely, be down
at the lake watching over the children, and would hear a
real hefty yell of “Louise, phone!” But any other time of
day, a call for her necessitated someone's going up the road
quite a distance to her little cabin. She herself had no
method of conveyance, though there were plenty of
bicycles and cars on the place.
On Tuesday, while sitting on the lake shore, Joan came
over and dumped her baby into Louise's lap, saying, “I’m
going up to Muriel's house; Horace is calling me at six.
He waits till the long distance calls are reduced. You don't
mind holding him, do you? I must take Russell; his father
always wants to speak to him.”
Strangely enough, it had not occurred to Louise how
simple it was to speak to Philip. When her daughter re-
turned and took the baby, she changed from her swimming
suit, and went towards her sister's house. She just couldn't
call Philip unless she were alone; for if her conversation
were the least bit stilted, he would be liable to misunder-
stand. Her sister was on the tennis court; many of the
children were playing croquet, so she hopefully went into
the house which was always wide open during the summer
months. Someone was watching television in the other
room, but that did not worry her. Her voice shook so
badly when she gave the number that the operator asked
her to repeat it. The telephone rang twice, and then the
receiver was picked up.
“Benson.” This surname sounded very businesslike.
“How are you?”
“Oh, Louise, where are you?" What joyful excitement
in his voice.
“In New Jersey.”
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initials and Philip's telephone number. How wonderful
that he was not so far away after all; perhaps she could
connive to speak to him often. Her impatience at being
in the country immediately subsided. What did she really
care if everyone eventually discovered she had a definite
interest in town?
Actually it was a whole week before she called him
again, as it was too difficult to find a time when he would
be there, and she would be alone in the room with the
telephone. She did not mind someone seeing her telephon-
ing, but she would not be able to assume that intimate
attitude so familiar to him.
To his reply, “Benson,” she made the usual query,
“How are you?”
“Oh, Louise. How good of you to call. How is it in the
country?”
“Much cooler than where you are, and the swimming is
nice. I am nearly as dark as you now.”
“I’d like to see you. You'll be coming in for the opera?”
It would be so restful to go with him as a light “colored”
person than as a white woman; could such interpretation
be possible?
“Yes, on Thursday, as I've a number of things to do. I'll
spend the day with my brother on Staten Island. Are you
free on that night?”
“I can come over later. I've a friend in the hospital I
should go and see.”
“When are the visiting hours?”
“Between seven and eight. I can be at your place at
nine.”
“Good. You won't be hearing from me again before that
time. My phone in the city is disconnected, you know.”
“Yes, I found that out. What have you been doing?”
159


“Trying to hang venetian blinds.”
“That shouldn't be hard.”
“The window frame work is not finished, and it's hard
to hang them inside the frame.”
“Wish I could do it for you.”
“So do I.”
“Thanks a million for calling. The sound of your voice
cheers me very much. "Bye, now; be sweet.”
“I’ll see you Thursday, and please try to keep the week-
end open.”
There were very few trains from this out-of-the-way
place in New Jersey. Over the years the train service had
gradually become less adequate as highways had increased.
She chose the only regular commuter train which left the
little lakeside village at six-forty in the morning, taking
New York business men to work promptly at nine. Her
nephew and one of her grandsons had a summer job
beginning at seven-thirty, and were willing to take her to
the train a half hour earlier, assuring her they would be
paid for that extra half-hour. She was excited at the pros-
pect of seeing Philip that very evening, and needed the
train trip to adjust from one environment to another,
from a situation of being in great demand for many diverse
reasons to one of being entirely alone in her apartment.
This transition proved to her how much she wanted
Philip.
She was the oldest of a family of seven, and had been
trained from childhood to tackle duties as soon as they
presented themselves. Punctiliousness was engrained in
her character, enhanced by the hope of having time for the
things she herself wished to do. An analogous situation
was inherent in her married life. There were three daugh-
ters, not far apart, and she had no help with any of the
160


household duties; instead there had been the added work
of typing all her husband's manuscripts. During the sea-
sons spent in the country she had learned all the tasks
associated with carpentry, such as plastering, painting,
calcimining and “doing over” antique furniture. Garden-
ing, both vegetables and flowers, was one of her favorite
activities. Later in life, she had taught her grandchildren,
as well as many others, how to swim, play tennis and
croquet. Naturally she did not pursue some of these
strenuous sports now, but she was still a part of them in
her guidance of the younger children. Any moment some-
one in the community might appear at her cabin for a
tool, a paint brush, or merely her advice about fixing some-
thing. She realized that this background led to effective
congeniality with Philip. He was a man of many physical
abilities; she could detect his appreciation when she thor-
oughly understood and reacted to the problems connected
with his job. Also she was perfectly aware of much that was
involved in the writing world, and could carefully follow
his ambitions in that field.
Arriving at Twelfth Street, she rang the bell of her next
door neighbor and was invited in for a cup of coffee.
“How well you look, Mrs. Morgan.”
“Being in the country is good for anyone.” This neigh-
bor was a real friend; they constantly exchanged household
pleasures and difficulties.
“The gas man came this very morning, and I took him
into your apartment to read the meters.” Louise sat down
by the table, marveling at the extreme cleanliness of her
neighbor's kitchen.
“Thank you very much. I should get a much smaller
bill as I haven't been here. If you hadn't let him in I would
have had the same bill as last time.”
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“Shall I give you your key?”
“I'd like to have it. My brother is selling his place in
Staten Island and moving to Florida. He wants to leave
some things in my apartment. I promised him a key.”
“You're going to miss him. He never fails to come see
you one day during the week.” She left the room but soon
came back with the key.
“Yes, terribly. He and his wife have already asked me to
visit them, but that doesn't take the place of having them
here.”
“I’m sorry. I know how you must feel.”
“Thanks. I can't stay any longer; I'm on my way out
there to spend the day. I'll be seeing you later.” As she
opened the door to leave, she turned and asked, “Do the
people across the hall have a telephone?”
“Yes, but I never like to use it. That's why I appreciate
so much using yours.” Her neighbor was a typical short,
stout, Italian woman who always had a protective motherly
attitude towards Louise although there was only a slight
difference in their ages. She had been most kind to Louise's
former roommate.
“You know I cut mine off for the summer. But I must
say good-bye now. Thanks for everything.”
While travelling to Staten Island, she counted the hours
before she would be seeing Philip. He had almost become
a dream instead of a real personality during the past full
weeks. She had not spoken to him since Tuesday. He could
not communicate with her, but she had no fear whatsoever
that he would not come to her apartment that evening.
She even wished that the hours of expectation would move
slowly. She was surprised when he arrived hours ahead
of time.
“How lovely you look! Country life does agree with
162


you.” Kissing her many times, he held her away from him,
then close to him. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Do you really like my sun tan?”
“It's most becoming. It makes you look wonderful!”
He kissed her again to emphasize his enthusiasm.
“I take a long swim every day which is good for one's
figure.”
“You don't need to worry about your figure.”
“You would say that.” She left him for a minute, saying,
“Let me get the rent I collected.”
“Thanks for getting this. It was so good of you to call
me when I can't call you.”
“You know I've missed you too. It was real hard to ad-
just to a program without you. Has it been very hot
working?”
“Yes, but I don't mind it. We're not entirely closed in
like so many working people. And I've cross ventilation in
my room at night.” The bell rang.
“This is Laura. She said she would come by for a while.
No, don't trouble to put on your coat. It's too hot.” She
went to open the door.
“How are you, Mother? Many happy returns of the day.”
Laura handed her a small package. “How are you, Philip?”
“Fine, and yourself?”
“I’m all right for this hot weather.” Louise opened the
package, although she was reluctant to do so. She knew
Philip would be embarrassed that he had not given her
anything. It contained a bottle of perfume.
She thanked Laura. “It was nice of you to remember.
I want to plan your birthday present with you later.” She
went to the kitchen and returned with a tray of ice tea and
pineapple cheese cake.
“This is Philip's favorite pastry from Sutters.”
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Turning to him she asked, “When is your birthday?"
“The fourteenth of this month.”
“That's mine too,” said Laura. Louise was aware of this
coincidence and thought it would be pleasant to refer to
it when they were both there.
Philip said, “You're the first person I know who has the
same birthday as mine.”
“The same here. When are you coming out to visit us in
the country?”
“Not during the summer months. I work so hard that I
never feel like going anywhere for the weekend.”
Louise spoke up. “He’s coming out there in the fall
when his work slackens. If the carpenter doesn't fix my
cabin this summer, we're going to work on it in September,
though I still hope the man will do the roof as he con-
tracted. We can find plenty of odd jobs around the place.”
“I’m taking my vacation during the two middle weeks
of August. Can you come out during that time?” Louise
could tell that her daughter was especially anxious to
convey to Philip that he would be most welcome.
“I have friends who want to drive out to get some plants
your mother promised them. We might be coming while
you're there.”
“I hope you can.”
“How's your job working out for the summer?” Louise
asked.
“It's much easier than during the very cold winter
months. There aren't nearly as many ward patients. I do
like my new apartment. When I'm at home in the after-
noons the children on my floor have the habit of using my
bathroom while their fathers are asleep. I'm certainly
learning Spanish the simplest way; everyone I meet in the
halls expects me to answer when they address me in
164


erty, and this the large shingled house with many white
doors and windows. I still think of it as a barn. It's Marie's
house. I may be there, but if I'm not they will direct you
up the road to my little cabin.”
“That's very plain.” He folded the sheet and put it in
his pocket. He didn't say, “We'll be sure to come.” She
was left with the feeling that he had not absolutely de-
cided, but she was at a loss to know what further incentive
she could offer. Later, dwelling on why he didn't come,
she remembered giving him directions to stop at Marie's
house. This precaution had seemed most important at the
time. But should she have directed him to her cabin where
he would be completely confident of his reception? Of
course, Louise knew he would be cordially received at the
barn, but Philip might not be so sure of his position.
“Let's turn out the lights so we can open the curtains
all the way. It'll be much cooler.”
“How good to be with you again. You seem far away
when you leave the city.”
“It won't be for many weeks; if it weren't for missing
you, I'd be contented out there.”
He held her tightly, caressing her more and more, until
he asked, “Is it too hot for loving?”
“No, not for me. But it's much cooler in the other
room.”
He followed her, pulling off his shirt as he walked.
There was enough light in her apartment, coming in from
all the surrounding windows, to see one's way around
when her lamps were all turned off.
“Laura looked beautiful tonight, didn't she?” she asked
him.
“Not so lovely as her mother.”
She never completely undressed as he did, because his
166


gradually disrobing her was a pleasurable entree to their
love making. It had been two weeks since they were to-
gether, and it seemed as though they were having the
extreme pleasure of finding each other for the first time.
As he caressed her, he said, “Don’t be in any hurry. We've
got plenty of time.”
“I won't.”
“Isn't it nicer to be slow?”
“Do you enjoy waiting as much as I do?”
“I don't know. But it's best when we come at the same
time.” He was muttering with the pleasure of it, and it
was not long before he fell asleep, leaving her arm and leg
in a very cramped position. Moving might wake him; she
would let him rest as long as she could. Keeping
still was to her advantage also, because he would not
linger when he woke up. Finally she became so uncom-
fortable that she was forced to change her position.
He stirred, woke, kissed her, and complained, “I must
be going.”
“I wish you didn't have to.”
While dressing, he asked her when he should come for
their opera date the following night.
“You’ll come for supper, won't you?”
“Yes, about six-thirty.”
“I’ll have something cold.” She watched his every move-
ment. Intimate memories of him were now scarcer, and
therefore more precious. It was never too hard to say
good-bye when she was positive she would be seeing him
the next day.
He came promptly at six-thirty. She had prepared a cold
supper of tuna fish salad, hard-boiled eggs, lettuce, toma-
toes and cucumbers, all arranged on one large platter.
There was cold milk and pastry for dessert. On the table
167


was his favorite monthly; she watched him pick it up,
glance quickly at the cover, open it, look for their favorite
author, and start reading. She did not interrupt him; she
was pleased that he appeared very much at home; that he
had reacted quickly to her thoughtfulness of having the
magazine on hand.
She placed the food from the refrigerator on to the
table, and called him. Receiving no response, she slowly
went into the other room, where he was standing reading,
absolutely oblivious of his surroundings. She watched the
intentness of those broad shoulders before she took his
arm. He bent over, and kissed her; he dropped the book,
saying, “I’m sorry.”
“That's all right, but aren't you hungry?”
“Yes, I am.”
“It's only a cold meal.”
“Isn't that best for this kind of weather?” As he sat
down in his usual seat between the table and the stove, he
asked, “What did you do today?”
“Some odd-and-end shopping for people in the country.
I’m used to going barefooted most of the time out there,
and these cement pavements certainly are hard on your
feet in the summer. I rested this afternoon. Were you able
to get a rest before coming here?”
“Yes, I feel fine. This food tastes good.”
“I hoped you'd like it.”
“I gave the place in New Jersey to a broker friend of
mine, and left the key with the neighbor across the street.
He has already taken two prospects to see the house.”
“He'll sell it to get his commission.”
“I don't know; there aren't many people who can afford
that price. Borrowing from a bank is always difficult for
us, and is becoming more so lately.”
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Not knowing how to answer these remarks, she said, “I
know you are relieved to have someone handle all these
things for you.”
“He'll push the situation while I wouldn't.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee to finish off?”
“No, thanks. Should we be going along? I hate to rush.”
“Yes, have you had time to read the plot?”
“No, the book you gave me is in New Jersey.”
“I’ll take my book. It will go in this larger bag. First, I
want to give you something. Please don't mind, because
I planned this quite a while ago.” She handed him a small
box as she pulled his arm around her; he wouldn't be
angry with her if he were holding her as he opened it.
“It's beautiful!” She enjoyed his great enthusiasm over
her small gift—a tie.
“Do you like the color? Red is my favorite, and I hoped
it would be yours.”
“It is, and it feels like pure silk.” He kissed her. “Would
you believe what I told you, if I said this is the second
birthday present I've received in my whole life?” She had
to believe him, though such a situation seemed incompre-
hensible. He must have meant in his later life. He was a
member of a large family, and she could not conceive of
the absence of regular birthday festivities, though pecuni-
ary conditions could have caused lack of exchange of gifts.
They left the box on the bureau and hurried away barely
arriving in time to get their seats before the doors opened
for the general public.
“We must come earlier next time,” he said, as they
settled comfortably in this familiar place. She was assured,
though perhaps wrongly, that he never minded being con-
spicuous in this large audience. When he wanted a pro-
gram for her he casually asked people to let him pass, and
169


appeared totally composed at troubling them to move.
“I got your letter the day after you phoned me. It had
been put in the wrong box. You said the carpenter was
going to start on your house. Did he?”
“No, he's working for a contractor who always starts
another job as soon as he finishes one. He won't get around
to my work till the slack winter months.”
“I’m starting a new job for five weeks. I'd like to come
out after that. We shouldn't let it be too late in the fall.”
“You're right. But there's plenty of wood to keep warm
in the evenings and early mornings. I've a great big old
iron stove in the cabin. But if it gets too late in the season,
all the kids will have gone back to school and it'll be hard
to find a helper.”
“I do really think I'm going to be free in five weeks.”
“I hope so.” She did not explicitly tell him she figured
on having the roof fixed before he came, because she felt
he was using the carpentry as an excuse to come. He now
knew the details of the communal set-up well enough to
realize that his appearance would be a revolutionary event
unless he had some specific reason for coming. She had
given him the map; he would decide when to appear with
some of his friends. But it would be difficult to explain
his staying alone with her at the cabin, even though he was
supposedly her carpenter. However, he seemed to have
decided upon this method as the most feasible, and she
shouldn't question him as to its validity. Distinctly he felt
relieved to place his coming on a non-personal basis.
He read the plot while they were waiting for the per-
formance to begin. “You said it was a super-comedy, and
it certainly is. I'll enjoy something light for a change.”
“But I bet it won't be one of your favorites.” Before the
first scene was over, he was holding her hand, and he gently
170


fondled it intermittently during the evening. She was
happy, but not entirely, meditating about the morrow.
During the walk back to her apartment she asked him his
plans for the next day.
“I have to do a lot of running around in the morning,
but I will come over as soon as I can.”
“Are you planning to go to New Jersey?”
“No, I don't think so.”
“Shall I fix supper for you?” By that method she could
be sure of his coming, though she had never yet seen him
for three consecutive days and should not be surprised at
whatever happened.
“I’d like that. But don't go to much trouble.”
“Another cold meal will be all right?”
“Of course. If I'm not there by six you call me, and I'll
let you know when I'm coming.” Later she understood
that was a foolish arrangement as she would leave her
apartment to telephone, and he might arrive at that exact
In Oment.
“I’ll be there after four o'clock, and you can come with-
out my calling you.” She was wary about the prospects of
all the things he had to do; Saturday was a much-needed
holiday for a regular working man. They stood on the
street corner talking for quite a while, and his last words
were, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She was confident he would;
the whole evening had been perfect. She would hopefully
dream of being with him again the next day, because she
had asked him to keep the weekend open for her.
Next day, she visited her father-in-law. She still thought
of him in that category, marketed for a nice supper, called
Philip from the drugstore about three, thinking he might
be in his room. There was no answer. She returned to the
apartment, made chicken salad and a green salad, and
171


settled down to read. When he did not arrive by six o'clock,
she followed his instructions, stepped across the hall to
call him from her neighbor's telephone. He was not in.
She naturally concluded he was on his way to her apart-
ment, and she should patiently await his arrival. Perhaps
she should have gone to the country that morning, and
saved herself the disappointment of not seeing him again.
She did not go to a movie for fear she would miss him; by
nine it was useless to expect him.
The superintendent's door had been open when they
left the apartment the previous evening. She was talking
to Philip, as they wandered through the hall. However
she vaguely remembered the door slamming shut. Had
there been more to this incident than she was aware of,
something of a hostile nature that he perceived, something
that would make him hesitant about coming back?
She set the alarm for eight in the morning, knowing
that he arose at that time on Sunday. Sleeping was not
easy; she could not find any reading that would engross
her attention: she could not help thinking he might be in
New Jersey. How could he become surfeited with her
during the course of two wonderful evenings, when he
had not seen her for a long time? But that unexplained
table set for two had been a reality; however desperately
she tried to dismiss it from her mind, the memory would
become very clear when he failed to keep his promises.
The next morning she dressed quickly and went for the
Sunday newspaper, and had difficulty in finding a public
telephone booth available. She was trembling with anxiety
when she dialed his number in Brooklyn. When there was
no answer, she was bitterly disappointed; he could not
have left so early in the morning; he must have spent the
night in New Jersey after telling her he was not going
172


there. He might have stepped out for a newspaper, so she
called him again at eleven, then at three. She sat in the
sun in Washington Square for a couple of hours, and called
him again at six. Would he come to her apartment without
communicating with her? Most unlikely, but there was a
slight possibility he might, so after trying unsuccessfully
to reach him at eight, she went back to her apartment and
waited.
Why had she turned off her telephone? That ingrained
habit of economizing whenever possible should have been
surplanted by the far more important consideration of his
communication with her. He knew she was not leaving
the city until Monday. She refrained from calling him at
eleven; his failing to answer would only confirm her
miserable suspicions.
XII
“How did you enjoy the trip to New York, Mother?”
Joan asked when they were sitting at the lake the next
afternoon.
“I had a wonderful time. We went to the opera Friday
night. Laura came in for a little while on Thursday when
Philip was there.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“No, I don't think you would. Basically he's a very
liberal-minded person.”
“What do you mean? Does Laura like him?”
“Yes, very much. She feels the same way about people as
you used to before you married Horace. For instance, she
has moved into an apartment because the rent is very low.
173


It's an old building and all the tenants are Puerto Ricans.
She's very happy there; the neighbors are friendly to her.”
“I wouldn't mind living under those conditions.”
“I think you would, judging from the many incidences
you've told me about the children and the Puerto Ricans
in their school. You always seem to have an unkindly
approach to the problem, one of assuming that colored
people are inferior. I'm glad to see that you haven't made
the children feel the same way. They remain totally un-
prejudiced in their attitude toward any of their fellow
students.”
“Oh, Mother, you love to theorize and have no practical
approach to the every-day problems of the public schools.”
“I’m sorry if you misunderstand me. I know there are
trying situations, and I'm only suggesting how to make it
easier for you,” answered Louise conclusively. “Are we
planning to have a campfire supper down here this eve-
ning?”
“Yes. Everyone is joining in. Do you mind taking the
baby while I go to receive Horace's call?”
“No, not at all.”
He was a beautiful child—a year old, blond, blue-eyed,
and very much like his mother who was fortunate in hav-
ing six extremely handsome sons.
When Joan returned and took the baby, Louise said,
“I promised Philip I would call him today. I'll be back
later.”
Of course she had not promised him, but felt there was
no harm in declaring something that she would have most
willingly done. She was no longer nervous about making
this call, as the routine had become habitual. However,
she still refrained from making a collect call, and would
rely on the operator to reverse the charges if he so desired.
174


“That's a shame. Are you planning to drive out with
Richard and his wife?”
“I haven't spoken to him lately. I can call him tonight.”
“You said they liked to plan things far ahead of time.”
“I’ll call him. I was now writing you a letter.”
“Please mail it.” She almost wished she hadn't called
him. It would be wonderful to possess a letter from him,
something tangible that she could cherish and read many
times.
“But I've talked to you and explained everything.”
“Please send it anyhow. Won't you?”
“Good-bye, now; take care.” She hesitated, hoping to
hear that endearing term, but he ended by saying, “Good-
bye.”
After such a conversation she was completely at ease
again, willing to forgive him. Each day she expected his
letter. She had received a Christmas card from him last
year, but this would be the first letter. He had always
shown such appreciation of the few notes she had written
him. When days passed without receiving it, she sat down
at the typewriter and wrote to him:
Dear Philip:
I have watched daily for your letter. Did you
not mail it even though you said you would? My
brother has sold his house and has to leave on the
first of September. I just received a letter from
him asking me to come in this weekend. I'm
reinstating my telephone, as I've rented the
apartment to a friend of Laura's for the month of
August. I'll leave here early Friday and spend the
day on Staten Island, and would like to see you in
the evening: will call you, or you call me around
six when I'm sure to be back at the apartment.
176


I feel so selfish being out here while you are
working during such hot weather. I tried to get
you on the phone yesterday, and will try again
tonight, but in case I don't reach you, I'm writing
this note. Please plan differently on Saturday
from last time, as it's difficult for me to get into
the city, and seeing you is the main reason why I
come, believe me or not.
As ever,
Louise
P. S. The carpenter never got in touch with me
at all.
She mailed this letter, undecided whether or not she
was foolish; she felt that perhaps she should wait for his
letter. However, he would be very pleased to hear from
her, and why shouldn't she give him that pleasure.
On Tuesday there was no answer when she called him
at the usual time of six o'clock; it was well she had mailed
the note. An hour later her sister came from the house
while Louise was sitting on Marie's lawn with the children.
When she saw that Muriel was taking the car from the
garage, she realized that she would have another chance
to reach Philip.
“I’m going with a couple of the boys to a movie. Would
you like to come along?”
“No, thanks. I seldom go to a movie even in the city,
and out here I can't imagine sitting in a theater. May I use
the telephone? I'll pull the door closed when I leave.”
The pleasant relationship between these two women was
never understandable to any visitor not knowing the com-
plete family background. The situation could best be ex-
plained by a certain incident which happened when her
daughter Marie was asked by one of her guests,
177


“Why is your mother so friendly to your father's wife?”
“She is her sister.”
“I didn't know that. It is unusual, you must admit.”
“Yes, I never take the trouble to explain it to my guests,
but I naturally thought you already knew.”
“No, even though your mother is a great friend of mine,
she doesn't talk about the past.”
The house was completely unoccupied. Paul, Muriel's
husband, was teaching for the summer. There was not the
slightest possibility of any unforeseen intrusion. Would
he be there now? She asked the operator to make a collect
call; therefore her name would be announced to him for
acceptance of the call.
He spoke first. “How are you, Louise? Thanks for call-
ing.”
“I didn't get your letter.”
“I didn't mail it.”
“Why not?”
“I never finished it after I talked to you.”
“I did ask you to send it. Was there anything in it I
wouldn't want to read?”
“No, how could there be? I'll tell you what was in it
when I next see you. When are you coming to town?”
“On Thursday.”
“Good.”
“Will you be free that evening?”
“It seems there was something I had to do then. I can't
call you, can I?”
“Yes, I wrote today to have the phone turned on, as I
have rented the apartment for the month of August. Have
you many plans for the weekend?”
“No, none at all.” That was a gratifying statement to
hear; his answer was both quick and positive.
178


planned. Are you going out this week?”
“No, the hot weather has made it hard to work. I'm
staying here and resting.”
“Then I'll be seeing you. Please do me a favor. Call
operator and insist upon their turning on my phone. Tell
them I wrote a few days ago, and that it should have been
on by now.”
“All right, Mother. I'll make it an emergency.”
“Thanks a lot. I want to come over and see your sculp-
ture while I'm in town.”
“Do come. I've finally fixed my apartment the way I had
planned to have it.”
At five o'clock she could hear the dial signal and not a
tantalizing dead silence. She immediately called him,
knowing most likely that it was too early. Later when she
got a busy signal on his telephone she was relieved; she
would soon be talking to him. But when the busy signal
was persistent, she concluded he had taken the receiver
off the hook in order to rest. At seven he answered. She
would not dwell on the fact that he could have called her,
but the idea did make her uneasy.
Her first words were, “Who is this speaking?”
“This is Philip Benson.” There was consternation in his
voice, followed by relief, when he discovered it was she.
Were there constant demands over his telephone, and her
voice only signified something easy for him to cope with?
“Oh, Louise, how are you? How did you find your
brother?” So he had received her letter.
“I haven't seen him yet; I am planning to spend the day
with him tomorrow.”
“When did you get in?”
“Not till one o'clock. I didn't like to ask anyone to put
me on that early morning train.”
180


“And I've missed you. Good-bye, now, and be good.”
She no longer lingered, not thinking of any other means
of appealing to him. Should she attribute his lack of en-
thusiasm to the debilitating effects of his job? That expla-
nation was the one he had honestly presented to her.
However she did resent the fact that his meetings were of
such importance, while it was perfectly justifiable to
forego evenings with her. Would she ever honestly admit
to herself that his being with her was not always of para-
mount importance to him? She thoroughly blamed herself
for having left the city and consequently breaking the
continuity of their companionship. Had he not then intui-
tively concluded that her being with her family was of
far greater importance to her than occasional evenings
spent with him? Should she return to her original plan of
never asking him to do anything? Would she then run
the risk of losing him altogether?
It had seemed correct tactics to let him know that the
boys had fixed the small lower roof of her house, but that
she had left the big roof for him. If he still had qualms
about appearing in such a large family grouping, she must
constantly let him know that she sincerely desired him to
come. She hoped he wouldn't think she was only interested
in his mending her roof; surely he comprehended that she
was merely using that job as an excuse to bring him to the
country.
The next day when she returned from Staten Island, it
was six-thirty before she was able to call him. She won-
dered distractedly what had happened, but remembered
all the excuses he had given her. She dared not think of a
weekend without him, and tried disconsolately to concen-
trate on something of a physical nature. She rummaged
through her drawerful of materials, and picked a large
184


ness, remembering that Marie and William had not asked
him to dinner at their house, when ordinarily an invitation
should have followed the dinner together with them at
her apartment. Even though he was very fond of her, he
normally preferred an easier course, one which ended by
being very detrimental to her wishes. If having to share
him with someone else were necessary, she was determined
to fight for her portion. She had, years ago, divorced her
husband because she had eventually become tired of shar-
ing him with her younger sister. Of course, that situation
had been entirely different; she had been compelled to
contend with the gradual development of an unsolvable
problem involving three people, and the ultimate solution
had been for her to give way. If there had been no chil-
dren, she might have acted differently, selfishly clinging
to her rights. But they were reaching an age of under-
standing and a divorce was the only method of retaining
the children's respect for their father.
Those past events concerned her no longer, but should
she not have gained some beneficial experiences to help
her in her current dilemma? While starting her friendship
with Philip, she had soon learned that she had competi-
tion; but the relationship had slowly developed under
these circumstances. No matter how discouraged she often
became, she continued to believe she would eventually
establish something permanent between them.
However, it would be difficult to telephone him from
the country on Tuesday, because Paul, her sister's hus-
band, would be in the house having returned from his
summer's teaching job. Louise had succeeded in planning
privacy for her calls to Philip, but now she had the possible
presence of still another person to cope with. Since she
had appeared, frequently and regularly, all during the sum-
187


mer to use the telephone, Louise must have established in
her sister's mind the fact that she was interested in someone
in the city. All the items on her part of the telephone bill
were for the same number. Now, Paul, her former hus-
band, would consider it peculiar for her to have occasion
to make a long distance call: it would astound him to know
that she had found someone to occupy her attention, and
he would innately resent the idea.
These details were unimportant to her except from the
standpoint of Philip's acceptance in the community. It was
true he could spend days there without actually meeting
Paul, but at the same time there was the constant possi-
bility of their meeting at the lake or at Marie's house. This
daughter's “barn” was directly across the road from her
father's house; in fact, both families used the same well
for their water supply. They were very near the lake, and
the tennis court, and the center of outdoor activities.
Louise seldom saw Paul, and had learned to dismiss him
entirely from her mind even at that proximity. She knew
that if Philip appeared on the scene everyone would be
outwardly polite to him, but there might be fearful reper-
cussions of resentment from Paul and his wife.
She recalled an incident the previous summer when a
guest of hers in the country became sick and she had gone
down the road to her sister's to telephone for a doctor.
Her sister had asked, “Are your guests Negroes?”
“No.”
“If they were, I would question whether this doctor
would want you to take her to him for treatment.”
She had said nothing, but was really ashamed that she
had been cowed into silence.
Longing deeply to speak to Philip, she decided to make
the attempt and luckily found no one in the lower part of
188


count people in this house among my very best friends. If
prejudices are involved, you should consider the fact that
my friend speaks perfect English without an accent; also
that his ancestors have been Americans for generations.”
These remarks, portraying characteristics which were in
complete contrast to many people in the house, had not
been necessary. When she left her landlady, she wished to
believe that the visit would have been as pleasant even if
Mrs. Mario knew that she was going out with Philip.
The earliest possible time that he could be home from
work was four-thirty. She called him then, at twenty-
minute intervals, and only let the telephone ring twice;
if he were trying to get her, she did not want his line to be
busy.
A week ago he had confirmed that their opera tickets
were for August the first. Her many unsuccessful attempts
to talk to him during the week had prevented his knowing
that she would also be occupying her apartment along with
her tenant. He would hesitate to call if there were any
possibility of hearing a stranger's voice instead of hers.
Firmly convinced that he would have communicated with
her if he knew she were there, she once more dialed his
number. She was startled when the receiver was picked
up, and she could barely manage to say, “Hello, how are
you?”
“Oh, Louise, where are you? Don't we have tickets for
tonight?”
“Yes, have you been trying to get me on the phone?”
“I didn't call you because I wasn't sure you'd be there.”
“I’m sorry I didn't have a chance to let you know. The
lady isn't here and won't be back till after midnight. I
didn't prepare any dinner because she has taken over the
kitchen.”
191


would be their only time of intimacy during the entire
evening.
She had chosen a place where the atmosphere was very
quiet and casual, where no one paid any attention to any-
one else. As they sat down at a table, and the waiter handed
them a menu, she said, “Please order the meal, then I
won't have to get out my glasses.”
“Do you want to start with a drink?”
“No, I don't need anything to make me feel any
happier.”
He laughed appreciatively, saying, “I agree with you.”
She manipulated the conversation so that he did all the
talking: he spoke of his job, his meetings, his place in New
Jersey, his writing. He must have been fully aware that
she never touched on his personal life, never asked how he
was spending the weekends without her.
“But how has it been in the country?”
“Wonderful. Plenty of rain to keep the gardens and the
lake fresh. I'm looking forward to your coming out.”
“Yes, after this job is over.”
“Why couldn't you go out on the train with me tomor-
row morning? I spent the day with my brother, and there's
nothing to keep me in town.” She was most doubtful of
his answer, but was assured that this was the propitious
moment to ask him. If he were committed for the weekend,
his answer would be a projected telephone call.
“When would we go?” So, he would consider it, or was
he only stalling for time to ponder her momentous re-
quest?
“There's a ten o'clock train. Would that be too early?”
“I’ll call you before nine.”
“Can't you be more definite? Somehow I'd rather you'd
say no right now, than having me look forward to some-
thing that might never happen.”
193


He placed both his strong, large hands on the table,
practically clenching the cloth. Slowly and most seriously
he asked, “Are you sure you want me to come?”
“Of course I am. Don't you want to?”
Again there was a long pause. “Won't everyone be out
there?”
“Yes, but what difference will that make? They are all
used to lots of company and take everything in a very
off-hand manner. If we think you shouldn't stay at my
shack, there's a small house that William and the boys
built for extra guests.”
He did not answer. She perceived she was asking too
much of him, too unexpectedly, so she said, “We've all
evening to think about it. Isn't it getting late?”
He arose and went over to move her chair, and kept hold
of her elbow while they were leaving the restaurant. He
always took her arm at each street crossing, and at times
when they wanted to pass a slow-moving couple. They
stopped often to look at all sorts of interesting things in
the varied window displays; they found their seats without
any difficulty.
“It's nicer to be on time,” he said as he helped her take
off her jacket.
“I forgot to bring the book.”
“Don't you know the plot?”
“It’s “Die Fledermaus.’ I’m not very familiar with it, but
I can give you a brief outline.” Even though the lights had
not yet been turned out, she put her hand in his while she
was talking. On the way home she said nothing, hoping that
absolute silence would cause him to speak of the morrow.
But he talked of the opera, comparing it with others they
had seen.
“These evenings have meant so much to me.”
194


“We'll go again when the fall season opens, won't we?”
“Certainly.”
When they arrived at her apartment house, she asked,
“Won't you come in?”
“No, I’d better not.”
“Jeannette won't be here yet if you're worrying about
her.” Instead he took her arm and led her along the street
to the corner.
“About tomorrow. If you're here at nine o'clock that
will give us plenty of time. Wear sport clothes; that's all
you'll need.” This way of speaking would unquestionably
conclude that he was going. But he did not respond. She
would never fathom the intricacies of his thoughts in re-
gard to his appearing in the country.
Once when Marie had asked her how she had enjoyed
the trip to the city, she had also questioned, “How's
Philip?”
“Fine,” Louise had answered. “But I don't think he'll
come out, though I again asked him.”
“I think you are expecting too much of him.”
“How do you mean?”
“He barely knows anyone here. I can see that he
wouldn't want to come.”
“You may be right. But wouldn't he enjoy it if he once
got here? I wish I could persuade him to come.”
“Good-bye now, and thanks for a wonderful evening.
I'll call you at eight,” were Philip's parting words.
“Good-bye, but I do hope I'll see you tomorrow.” She
had made her request as genuinely as possible, and could
find no other grounds for insistence.
“I’ll call you at eight.” He repeated these words, as he
was slowly backing away from her and smiling at her.
195


Instinctively she felt she had failed but had gained a
greater understanding by inviting him. Promptly at eight
the next morning the telephone rang.
“Hello.” It was possible the call might be for Jeannette.
“How are you, Louise?”
“All right, and you're going with me?”
“No, I'm afraid not. I already had an appointment for
today and wasn't able to change it.” She realized that his
mind had been made up last night; he couldn't have
reached anyone so early in the morning.
“When are you coming back to town?”
“I don't know,” she said despondingly.
“What's the matter?”
“I’m disappointed; I really am,” and he must have
understood that she could hardly refrain from crying.
“I’m sorry. Won't I be seeing you again soon?”
“I don't know. Why don't you try to come out with
Richard and his wife?”
“I’ll call him and see if we can plan it. "Bye, now, and be
good.”
She returned to the country that very morning with the
full intention of dismissing him from her mind until she
heard from him. There were plenty of extremely engross-
ing things to occupy her attention. Two of her grand-
children had asked for algebra lessons prior to their
beginning this subject in the fall. This class she added to
the regular hours of French with three of the children.
Laura was coming for her two weeks' vacation, and she
expected to spend many pleasurable hours with her. She
admitted that she had failed completely in her efforts to
have Philip come to the country, and had decided to make
no further attempts. Not knowing anything of the possible
involvement with some other woman, she could only hope
196


it was fraught with as many problems as their own rela-
tionship. Every time she remembered his last words, “Be
good, now” the tears would come into her eyes, and she
would try desperately to strengthen herself with the
thought that “I know he does love me.”
When she was most despairing, she wondered if this
affair would materialize in the same way as the last one
she had experienced. It had been many years since she had
built up a friendship with a neighbor who owned a cot-
tage adjacent to hers in the country. When his wife was in
Europe one summer, he had asked Louise to drive out
with him from the city, as he lived around the corner from
her apartment on Twelfth Street. They had known each
other casually for years; his wife and children would often
come to swim in the lake during hot summer afternoons.
Each weekend they travelled back and forth to the city,
and then one day he asked her to have dinner with him.
Afterwards they went to a Broadway show. Such engage-
ments became frequent, and before she was entirely aware
of the situation, she was hearing from him, in one way or
another, almost every day. He was tall and handsome; so
alert and vigorous that he appeared much younger than
his years. His whole manner, in public as well as when
they were alone, was very much the same as Philip's. When
she was with Philip her mind would often revert to the
similar circumstances with her former friend rather than
to reminiscences of her husband. Paul was not a tall man;
he was no taller than Louise; she often thought this con-
dition irked him during their married life.
Her relationship with her neighbor abruptly ceased
when his wife returned from Europe, but was renewed the
following summer when she was in California. He was a
reserve officer of World War I, and was recalled to duty in
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World War II. He even became so engrossed in his friend-
ship with Louise that he invited her to spend the day
sightseeing with him through the naval yards of Phila-
delphia. By then, he had admitted the impossibilities
surrounding his married life, and had even declared “I
love you, but I can do nothing about it.” That visit
through the navy yards had evidently shown the people
with whom he worked that he was not fully committed to
his wife; for it was nearly a year later, when she was begin-
ning to look forward to another pleasant summer with
him, that she received his wedding invitation. He had
married his secretary. Louise had given him the courage
to break with his wife, even though she had not been the
one to benefit from that change. Though this incident
hurt her pride, she did not suffer as intensely as when her
own marriage dissolved. She was determined now to do
everything possible to prevent a repetition of such
tragedies.
How proud she would be if she could introduce Philip,
so tall, large and good-looking, so easily approachable and
so personable. By now, she was thoroughly convinced that
she wished to bring him to the country as her friend.
XIV
During the day the thought of a possible telephone con-
versation with Philip always dominated her activities. She
would try once more to speak to him, as the difficulties
involved would be inconsequential if she were successful
in finding him there. The call went through without delay,
and she soon heard his voice.
“Louise, how are you?”
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“Pretty good; are you planning to come out?”
“Yes. I'm glad you called. I was going to write you. I
saw Richard and Fanny on Sunday and they want to drive
out to your place.”
“That's wonderfull Do you still have the directions?”
“Yes. I was writing to say we would be out on Saturday
if that would be all right with you.”
“Sure. I'm always here, when I don't come into town.”
She was not whole-heartedly enthusiastic over their com-
ing; it was not easy to shift instantly into this unexpected
situation.
He must have detected that there was something wrong
about the way she was acting, for his next words were, “I
was sorry to miss going back with you on Saturday.” So-
that insistent invitation of hers had produced the desired
effect.
“Yes, so was I. Are you really coming this time?”
“Yes, don't you worry.”
“I made this a collect call. When will you get here on
Saturday?”
“About noon. Don't fix anything. We'll bring a lunch.”
“Take down this phone number; you can call if you
have any trouble finding the place.”
“Thanks. "Bye now, and be good.”
She left the house quickly, hoping she would meet no
one until she could reach the lake shore which looked
deserted. She sat down and cried, releasing all the pent-up
emotions of the past weeks. The sound of his voice alone
always intensely affected her. Could it really be true that
he was coming? It would take a while to adjust to the
actual fact that he would be here on Saturday. She had
Laura to thank for this event's finally taking place. She
had suggested the real reason for her past failures, her
199


the large house. Her daughter, Joan, had asked if she
would like it, as she had a similar piece.
“I'd love to have one piece of good furniture to look at.”
“You certainly do have a lot of junky pieces, but since
the children painted them all the same color, this room
really looks nice.”
“I'm glad you think so. I've become so accustomed to it
that I don't mind it any longer.”
This was the daughter who lived in the house with all
the beautiful antiques which Louise had acquired and
refinished through the years. When she would stop in the
afternoon to wait for her daughter and the children to go
swimming, she generally sat on the lawn. She was not yet
able to consider casually that house and its contents as
belonging to someone other than herself. However, this
summer she had taken utmost pains to reestablish her
former pleasant relationship with Joan. Indicative of their
present companionship was an incident which happened
when they were having supper over the outside fireplace.
Joan turned to her mother, saying, “It’s a good time to
use the phone because Daddy and Muriel have gone to an
early movie.”
“Thanks a lot for letting me know. I'll get something to
eat when I come back.” This had been one of those times
when she had happily found Philip there answering his
telephone.
When she returned and sat down on the grass by Joan,
she said, “It was good of you to tell me. It's much more
satisfying to talk when the others are not around.”
“Yes, Mother, I understand that.” She thus had an ink-
ling of a confidential adjustment arising between them,
and wished this achievement would be fraught with no
further difficulties.
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But what would happen when Philip and his friends
arrived? Joan seldom left her own house over the weekend
when her husband was there. During those days she pre-
pared complicated, even luxurious meals, and often had to
edit and proof-read the little magazine which they jointly
published. The children were more restricted from their
usual sport activities by their stepfather who strongly be-
lieved in making them work during their vacations. There-
fore the occupants of the upper house seldom met or
mingled with the weekend guests at Marie's house. If
Philip and his friends stopped at the first house, Marie
would direct them up to Louise's cabin.
Saturday finally came. Should she wear her usual sum-
mer costume of slacks and sleeveless blouse, or dress con-
ventionally? She decided on the former. Examining herself
in the looking glass, she ruled out any cosmetics except a
little lipstick. Her face was more youthful than he had
ever seen it, and her smile would add greatly to her appear-
ance.
He wouldn't be able to say, “How lovely you are,” but
she would know he was thinking it.
She had only met these friends once at his house on a
Sunday morning when Fanny had asked Philip to bring
her to their home on Long Island. She wondered then
whether they suspected the intimacy of her relationship
with him, whether his words and actions, so familiar to
them, had shown them that she was spending the weekend
with him. How formal should she be now that they were
coming to her house? Merely having Philip there would
be enough joy; she would not need anything else.
It was eleven o'clock; they should be here at any mo-
ment. Her house was always very cool as it was situated on
the hillside, surrounded by many large trees. However,
202


it was a hot day, and they would have been travelling for
nearly two hours on cement highways, and would appreci-
ate something cool as soon as they arrived. She did not
have any drinks to offer, but had prepared a large pitcher
of iced tea with lemons, the beverage she always made as
her contribution to the outdoor picnics.
She sat on the porch and waited. She no longer noticed
the cars which passed within thirty feet of her front door;
long since she had ceased to recognize the owners of indi-
vidual cars, except those of her immediate neighbors.
There were some reckless young drivers who whizzed past
her house, but generally the cars slowed down for the steep
curve, especially as the road bed was rocky and often
treacherous. Eventually she noticed a car ascending the
hill at a slow pace, gradually creeping closer to her side
of the road. Yes, it drew up onto the thick vegetation in
front of her, barely leaving room for a passing car.
She quickly went down the many steps to the road.
“Hello. I hope you didn't have much trouble finding the
way.” She looked toward the driver's seat where Richard
would be sitting, although she expected that all three
would be in the front. Philip was there, on the outside.
He jumped out quickly, took the few steps to reach her,
strongly grasped both arms, and would have kissed her
if she had given him the least encouragement. She was
afraid to look him straight in the face; her glance would
reveal too much.
Instead she went forward to greet her other guests after
a brief, “How are you?”
To Richard she said, “Was my map clear enough?”
“I did the driving and Philip did the directing.”
“And?” Composed at last, she looked directly at Philip.
“We had no trouble at all,” he said, smiling affection-
203


ately at her. He gave her the impression that he was totally
at ease, expressing himself freely before his own friends.
Taking Fanny's hand as she was getting out of the car,
Louise asked, “Don't you think it's pretty country out
here, or is it too wild for you?”
“I like it, but I wouldn't want to live here for the year
round.”
“You're right. It's only nice in the summer.”
“Shall I leave the car here?” asked Richard.
“It would be better to put it at the garage entrance, if
you can give that building such a fancy name. Cars often
come fast around this bad curve.” Philip took things out
of the car under Fanny's direction, and they followed her
up the steps.
“It's a cute little house,” said Fanny.
“Yes, as long as these two carpenters don't start examin-
ing it with too critical eyes. They'll find many things
wrong with this place.”
“The white windows look nice on the shingling.”
“Thanks. I painted both windows and trim of the whole
cabin, and my young nephew and I shingled the place two
summers ago.”
As they went into the house, she said, “I’ve something
refreshing to drink. I'll get it from the basement.”
“Can't I get it for you?” asked Philip as he followed her,
realizing the opportunity of being alone with her for a
few minutes.
“I like this place, Louise. It really appeals to me.”
“I’m so glad. Mind your head: this basement has a pecu-
liar entrance.” She went down two cement steps on the
front of the house, opened a large solid wooden door
which swung inside over three railroad-tie steps leading
to a dirt floor.
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“I guess you men are ready to eat, aren't you?" asked
Fanny.
“Sure, aren't you?” Louise took the radio, typewriter,
and all papers and books off the large circular table in the
center of the room, and brought plates, cups and saucers
from the open shelves of the kitchen section. She uncov-
ered an iced cake she had made in Marie's oven the day
before.
“My, that looks good!”
“I wanted to show Philip I could make a cake even in
the wilds of New Jersey.”
He came over at mention of his name, took hold of her
arm, saying, “You don't generally make them that big.”
“No, and most often I cheat by buying you pastries at
Sutters nearby.”
It was a nourishing meal with delicious and varied sand-
wiches, fruit, coffee and cake. Under Philip's guidance the
conversation soon turned to events in the current crisis
in the Middle East. Louise said little, only proffering a
leading question now and then. She again marvelled at his
interpretation of the world situation, and his wide knowl-
edge of conditions in the countries they were discussing.
She was happy to discover that he naturally surmised that
his friends, as well as she, would be in complete accord
with the ideas he was expressing. They lingered a long
time at the table: the total relaxation was most comforting
to her.
“What needs fixing on the house, Louise?” asked Philip.
“Lots of things which aren't apparent at first glance,
because the whole place looks so worn-out.”
“Won't you show us?”
“Sure. The roof leaks in a few places, depending on
which way the wind is blowing. I'll take you upstairs. Be
206


careful. These steps are a work of genius, and are too
close together.”
Richard followed them, laughingly declaring, “I see
what you mean. They were built for a small child.”
“If you examine them carefully you'll see the builder
was economizing on lumber. You can take two steps at a
time, but even then they are very tricky.”
Turning to Philip, she took his arm and pointed to the
ceiling, “As you can see, a number of the underboards
have to be removed, and I want that done before the
rafters start rotting.”
“Yes, you're right. There don't seem to be too many.”
“And I'd like to tear off all the old rubberoid roofing,
even on the good part, and get rid of that excessive weight
before putting on modern composition shingling.”
He looked down at her appreciatively. “You certainly
know a lot about carpentry.”
“I’ve actually done a lot in the past. I like it more than
any work, though now I've descended into the category
of a helper. This could be a nice big spare room, if the
floor were better supported. I'm afraid of having too much
furniture up here.” A chair and table and twin beds were
all it contained.
“How's the front porch? You said the boys did the little
back roof.”
They started downstairs. Louise was last, and when she
had slowly descended the peculiar steps, she found Philip
alone.
“Richard and Fanny decided to go for a walk up the
road.”
She stepped on the porch, and called, “There's a lovely
lake on the left, and my neighbors are perfectly willing
for you to walk in off the road and look at it.”
207


he would know when they were approaching. Here was
an opportunity wherein she had every reason to believe
she would receive some definite commitment from him.
He came over to kiss her as she was still lying on the bed;
this kiss, immediately after making love, was such a perfect
way of saying thank-you; she appreciated it most and
remembered it longest. He started to say something when
they heard approaching voices. She arose immediately and
stepped out on the porch to greet them, not minding if
her countenance glowed with intense satisfaction.
“It's beautiful country, isn't it?”
“Yes, that lake is perfect,” said Fanny.
“You’ll have to drive down and see mine. Its shore line
isn't as beautiful, but it's more convenient for swimming.”
“We should be thinking about driving back. We have
to go all the way out on Long Island,” said Richard.
“We mustn't forget the plants I wanted to give you. I'll
get the shovel and a basket.” She couldn't go to her
daughter's house where it was possible to dig up numerous
perennials, both flowers and shrubs. She didn't feel equal
to facing the situation of taking her friends there. It would
be difficult at best, and, although her daughter and the
boys would be polite, Horace, if he put in an appearance,
would be disagreeable. Even when she was entirely alone,
she carefully avoided him over the weekends. As an alter-
native, she began digging up her own plants which had
been nurtured in strategically planned spots.
“Are you sure you aren't robbing yourself?” asked
Fanny.
“Oh, no. I can always replace these with plants from the
old house. It's good for them to be moved a number of
times. I'm sure you know that; Philip has told me you
have such beautiful gardens.” Giving away these plants
209


had been an idea of major importance for many weeks,
and nothing should stand in the way of fulfilling this par-
ticular promise. The privet hedge she had planted at
Philip's had been obtained before Joan's family had come
for the summer.
While she and Fanny were wrapping each plant sepa-
rately in newspapers, and placing them in an old half-
bushel basket, Louise asked, “Why don't you stay over till
tomorrow? There really are three rooms in this little shack,
and I've plenty of food.”
“Thanks for asking us, but we've company coming to
dinner tomorrow.”
“What a pity. You know you are most welcome.”
“Perhaps we can come out again. It's so peaceful here.”
“Do come prepared to spend the weekend.” She turned
to Philip who had come to offer his assistance. Should she
ask him to stay? Her expression showed her wish, and the
look on his face caused her to remark confidently, “Wil-
liam has to drive in tomorrow afternoon, as he needs the
car in town next week.”
“I’ll stay and go in with him,” said Philip in a very
matter-of-fact tone.
Turning to Richard, he explained, “I want to figure out
what material is needed for this house.”
She was not prepared for such a marvelous turn of
events, and hoped she did not show astonishment at his
decision. She had to say something immediately, and made
the trite remark, “That's fine.” Being very conscious of a
noticeable pause, she quickly asked, “Wouldn't you like
to see how my daughter and her husband have fixed up the
Old barn?”
Philip picked up the heavy basket and took it out to the
car. The four of them got in and drove past the big house
210


where Joan lived, but when they reached Laura's little
place, Louise said,
“Let's stop and see if we can give my daughter a lift
down the road. She generally goes swimming at this time:
please wait a minute.” She stepped out of the car. As she
approached the house, she called, “Laura.”
“Yes, Mother,” her daughter answered from the front
window.
“Won't you drive down with us?”
“I’ll be right there.”
She neared the car, and as they both got in, Laura spoke.
“Philip, how are you?”
“Well, and yourself? These are my friends, Fanny and
Richard.” To them he said, “Meet Laura.”
She smiled at them. “Do you like it here?”
“Yes, very much,” said Fanny; and Richard added, “We
sure do.”
“They have a place in South Orange but it's not real
country like this. These men are interested in seeing the
renovations on the barn,” said Louise.
When they stepped out of the car, Laura went ahead
with Philip, and entered the house with him. Louise fully
understood that this daughter would gladly do her utmost
to see that everything passed off pleasantly. No one was
there, however, and they roamed around at will, examining
the huge room, the fireplace and balcony which led into
upper bedrooms on either side of the building.
“It's tremendous,” said Richard. “I like the way they
have kept the lines of the original building. The rooms at
either end would make a large apartment in the city.”
Laura and Philip had disappeared.
“I think they've gone down to the lake where everyone
gathers in the afternoon. Shall we go down?”
211


to be a tacit agreement that her entering the scene would
not interrupt the conversation. Casually and most will-
ingly these children of hers were accepting Philip into
their midst.
When there ultimately was a pause, Philip turned to
her. “Did Fanny and Richard leave?”
“Yes, they were worried about the long drive home. He
said he'd see you on the job Monday.”
“He’s right about that.”
Marie turned to her mother. “Won't you have supper
with us? We're roasting hamburgers and marshmallows
down here.” There was no noticeable comprehension that
Philip hadn't returned to the city with his friends.
“Thanks. We'll be glad to. What can we do to help?”
Noticing the open fireplace, Philip jumped up saying,
“I’ll lay the fire.”
“You don't need to,” said William. “The children
always do that. Come up to the house and have a drink.”
Philip moved questioningly towards Louise.
“I have to change. You go ahead. I always wait until all
the children get out of the water. They're not allowed in
unless an adult is around.”
“They're having such a good time: how will you ever
get them out?”
“I’ll manage somehow, and I don't want a drink.” He
left her there. As she sat facing the children she heard
people approaching from behind, and recognized the
voices of Muriel and Paul. She wondered if Philip had
had time to reach the path leading to the barn, or whether
he had met them before the walk separated into two parts.
As she was the only adult left at the beach, would they
realize he had stayed behind to talk to her? However, she
need not worry, as she felt there was no reason for their
213


called to their departing figures. “We are showing pictures
early.”
“O. K. We'll be over.”
The food tasted especially good cooked over the open
fire. The whole atmosphere was completely relaxed;
Louise was quietly grateful for everything. Toasting
marshmallows was a never-ending task; for even the adults
were willing to eat them as long as the children would
toast them.
Finally Marie asked, “Who's going to put out the fire?”
John immediately started hunting for something that
would contain water. “I will. It's my turn.”
As they all leisurely wandered up to the house, there was
no question in Louise's mind that Philip was not enjoying
every moment of this family gathering. He acted as natur-
ally as if he had been a participant many times previously.
He hadn't spoken to her during the entire meal, but he
came over and walked with her up to the house. They
spread around all over the large room as William used
one of the walls for the screen to show the pictures. No
one seemed to notice when Muriel and Paul joined the
group, for all the lights had been extinguished. People
occasionally asked questions; however, William's informal,
rambling commentary was sufficient explanation.
Laura left with her father and Muriel immediately
after the pictures, though she usually waited to walk up
the road with Louise. Leaving her behind with Philip,
the only other guest, might be cause for speculation, but
momentarily William and Philip were deeply concerned
with examining the projector, while Louise remained
seated on the couch.
William said, “Have a drink before you leave.”
At this request, Philip walked over and joined Louise:
216


She waited. “If you can't answer, then I must be right.
Please, can't you say something?”
They had arrived at her little cabin. She preceded him
up the steps, sat down on the porch landing, leaving room
for him, feeling that if she turned on the light and entered
the house she might never have an answer. He stood two
steps below her.
“I don't want to say the wrong thing. So much has hap-
pened today. Please let me think about it.” He helped her
to arise as he kissed her in a very conclusive manner. She
understood his dilema; she was used to giving way to the
other person.
As lightly as she could, she said, “Look. We went away
in such a hurry that I didn't lock the door.”
“Does it matter?”
“No; except during the winter months. Hunters are
liable to break in then.”
As they entered the room, and she turned on all the
lights, she said, “I’ll make a cup of coffee.”
“Don’t trouble for me.”
“A glass of milk, then?”
“Is it down in the icebox?”
“Yes, here's a flashlight.”
When he came back with the milk, she was pulling down
the blinds. “You see I did succeed in making all my blinds
work. You can appreciate my problems if you examine
them closely.”
He laughed and came over to her, putting his arm
around her, and holding her closely. She was relieved that
he was again relaxed. They drank and munched on sweet
crackers. Why was she embarrassed at bringing up the
subject of going to bed? True, he had never slept the night
at her apartment; she had always stayed at his house. This
219


huge room, so brightly lighted, had never been associated
with anything of a personal nature; she generally con-
sidered it as belonging to the grandchildren and all their
activities.
“I’ll show you about the water situation by cleaning my
teeth first.”
“I don't have a tooth brush or a razor.”
“I’ll get you both.” She found them for him.
“I forgot to tell you the toilet is in the garage.”
“In this vast outside do I have to know where the toilet
is?”
She laughed aloud. “No, of course you don't, as long as
you protect my front lawn. As it is, I've a hard enough
time making the grass grow. I'll make up the children's
couch in the little room. It's large enough for me.”
“You don't have to. Isn't this bed big enough?” For an
answer she leaned over and kissed the top of his head as
he was still seated at the table. While he was washing and
cleaning his teeth she sat down on the edge of the bed,
slipped all the straps off her shoulders, put on the night-
gown which was under the pillow, stood up, and her
clothes fell to the floor.
“That's too quick for me,” he said, as she got into bed.
She sat up and talked to him in this big room where all
personal details took place. In his house they had used two
rooms, and it had not appeared so much like living to-
gether.
“We were a large bunch of girls brought up very strictly
by English parents. Discreetness was of major importance
to them.”
“So you weren't southerners even though you were born
in Virginia.”
“No, we had no slave background.”
220


“I could tell that.”
“I vaguely remember having Negro servants when we
were very young: but there were so many of us girls that
we soon took over all the housekeeping.”
He turned off the lights, opened the front door to let in
a full current of air, got into bed, and took her into his
arms, “At last,” he whispered hoarsely.
“It's hard to believe we are here alone together.”
“My sweetness.” A total calmness pervaded her every
thought. It was foolish to dwell on any problems between
them. They had had their passionate pleasure in the after-
noon. Tonight they were completely content to be lying
in each other's arms while he lovingly caressed her. They
talked of the happenings down the road. He fell asleep
first. Slowly and carefully, she moved away from him, and
settled comfortably on the outer edge of the bed, knowing
that his nearness would keep her constantly perusing the
day's events.
She was awakened by the first birds singing at dawn,
but many moments passed before she was fully cognizant
that he was lying next to her. She gazed at him minutely,
realizing that, more than ever before, there was a chance
of belonging to him, of being with him continuously,
and going everywhere with him. True, he was dark-
skinned; he could not be considered a sallow-complex-
ioned white man. He had curly hair, and a nose with wide
nostrils, large deep black eyes, a high forehead, a well-
formed mouth without heavy lips. He was a handsome
man, asleep or awake.
She slipped out of bed without waking him, dressed,
put a kettle of water on the stove, and went to the base-
ment to fill the bucket from the spring. When she re-
turned, he was dressed. He came and took the heavy
221


“I’m so happy to hear you say that.”
“I know you sympathize, but you can't possibly under-
stand.” He said this with such vehemence that she dared
not refute it.
“But that's true also to a certain extent with me when
I'm with you. Can't you see it would be?”
“That's what I'm saying. I don't want you to be up
against it too.”
“I completely forget, because I love to be with you so
much.” She raised her face close up to his; he kissed her,
but automatically. His glum countenance told her that he
would not say anything more. In replying, he would eluci-
date all the social difficulties that would arise for her. He
would speak of the disagreeable occurrences in his every-
day life which would then also be shifted upon her. There
had always been a mutual understanding of never discuss-
ing these foreboding conditions. When she was with him,
she insisted upon assuming the attitude that they did not
exist, hoping thereby to convince him that she really
would not be so terribly burdened with such problems, if
he would only be willing for them to share them together.
“How about a second breakfast cup of coffee?” He
jumped up, grasped both her hands to lift her from the
grass.
“I’d like it.” He was gratefully thanking her for being
kind enough to drop any further discussion. When they
entered the house, he took something from the pocket of
his coat hanging on the wall.
“I forgot that I brought you some late magazines. I
thought you might not get them out here.”
“How thoughtful of you. I'm starved for them. Reading
becomes very essential: it's only on occasion that the daily
226


newspaper gets into my hands after being read by the
whole community. One of the main reasons why I put in
electricity was to have the news over the radio.”
“I'd miss a newspaper.”
“I should have it mailed direct to me. But you know my
real life is in the city. Nine months in the year I seldom
think of anything out here.”
“As I say, I have no real interest in anything in Glen-
wood.”
“Yes, but those I care about go back to the city when
I do.”
While they were drinking their coffee, he said, “I
mustn't forget to figure out the material for this house.”
“You’ll need the six-foot ruler. I’ll write down the in-
formation.”
They went upstairs to calculate how many boards would
be needed for the roof; also into the basement to figure
on extra porch supports; and into the little back room to
plan for the siding and a floor. Outside, she asked for his
estimate on the number of bundles of wood shingles
needed to cover the back room like the rest of the house.
“I should seal in the walls of these two rooms.”
“I like it this way. The pictures are so interesting.”
“But they won't last very long; they are only tacked on.
I won't worry about the walls now; it's best to fix the
essentials first.” She had carefully written all the figures.
Watching him in action, discovering how efficient he was
in all the details of his trade, was a great delight to her.
“You don't seem to mind this one bit.”
“I began to make things with hammer and nails when
I was about six years old under my father's direction, and
I've always liked that work better than any other.” He
227


how much she missed him. “You seem so far away and lost
to me.”
He fondled her most lovingly, saying, “I’m often think-
ing of you.”
They were in no hurry to reach a climax of love making;
both appreciated their complete isolation, and their lack
of any conflicting pressures.
“Why did I ever reach the place where this could give
me so much pleasure? I'll be unhappy again when you
leave.”
“And I'll miss you very much. I do dream of you,” he
told her.
“I wonder if it's the same dream I have.”
“What's yours?”
“That we're together like this.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“That he came to you like this?”
“Yes.”
“And when did you wake up?”
“When he left me. It was nearly as good as reality.”
“Sweetness. Please take a long time; I want to give you
as good a time as I can.”
“You're always so wonderful to me.”
“You mean so much to me.”
They had no idea how much time had passed when he
said, “I’ll have to find out when William's going back to
the city.”
“He’s going alone, so he may not leave till after dinner
tonight. There'll be plenty of time if we wait until this
afternoon. However, if we walk down now, we'll get a
luncheon invitation. Would you rather do that or stay
here?”
229


to performing all the tasks of daily existence just when
and how she wished. Would living with him soon tend to
lose its glamour, and the added duties become burden-
some? Moreover, would he always care for her as he now
did? Would she add sufficient pleasure to his life to keep
him satisfied with her? Above all, if she were married to
him would she cease worrying about the time he would
spend away from her?
She rose, slipped out the back door, and sat down on the
large apple tree log in the side yard. The slight bang of the
shutting screen door must have awakened him, for she
heard his steps on the grass. He stood behind her and put
his hands on her shoulders, and she raised her head so that
he could kiss her.
“Did you sleep?”
“I certainly did, and I feel fine. Should we go down to
the barn now?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“You know why.”
“Why?” he asked with real concern in his voice. Imme-
diately he had fallen into a sudden reserve which took
him away from their intimate closeness. She could effec-
tively bring him back to her.
“Here we are alone together.”
“Yes, I know.” He was distinctly relieved to hear her
forthright and meaningful answer. “I wish I could stay
longer, but I have to complete the job we're now on.”
“How much longer does it last?”
“Two or three weeks, depending upon how many apart-
ments the contract covers. We never know.”
“You'll come out again?”
“Yes.”
231


“This next weekend?”
“I'd like to come when I can stay and work on the
house. I've begun to like this place.” She merely rubbed
her shoulder closer against him in happy acknowledgment
of his words.
“I’d like you to come for a weekend's rest. We could
figure out the train and meet you at the station. It isn't a
bad trip.” When he didn't agree, she knew he was thinking
of the easy journey by private car, and how unpleasant it
might be by train. In all the years she had travelled the
route to her little village, not once could she remember
having seen a Negro on the train. However, she wondered
if this reason made him hesitate, or did he not want to see
her again so soon. If he couldn't reply to this simple in-
vitation, how could she expect him to make any statement
more compromising?
“What do you think?”
“I’ll have to see.” Such a foreboding, noncommittal
statement. She made the motion to leave, and they started
down the road, hand in hand. She became very nervous
when they approached Joan's house and moved away from
him to the other auto rut in the road. Her caution was
unnecessary as no one was outside.
“The boys must have finished their work and gone down
the road. They always leave as soon as they can get away.”
There was no answer when she called to Laura at her little
house.
“We'll see her down at the barn.” Marie's car was the
only one parked there; Joan's was farther down the road
in front of her father's house.
Louise said, “I’m glad they don't have company.” Did
his relaxed manner really portray his inner feelings? She
wished it were possible for him to imbibe the social atmos-
232


phere of this family when no one was around to disagree
with their gracious manner toward everybody. There
seemed to be a slight flicker of embarrassment when they
walked into the huge balcony-room and found the family
having afternoon tea. This feeling was quickly dispelled
when William jumped up to meet them.
“Will you have a drink? I know Louise will take tea.”
“Thanks. When are you going back to the city?”
“About eight. I hope to avoid the Sunday traffic by
going late. Are you going in with me?”
“Yes, I planned to.”
Marie broke into the conversation, “Have supper with
us. We sort of expected you down to dinner.”
As she looked directly at Philip, he answered, “We were
busy looking over the house.”
William asked, “Are there many problems?”
“Yes, but I like working when I'm not under pressure.”
“So do I. Come, look at the little house I made for extra
guests.” The two men left through the open door.
“Mother, you look simply wonderful!” said Laura.
“Thanks, dear. I feel that way. But did your father say
anything about Philip's being here?”
“No, don't worry. Nobody's going to say anything about
it.”
“Joan and the boys will join us for supper after she puts
Horace on the train,” said Marie, wishing to state the
exact circumstances.
“Joan! Well, I don't know. But, of course, the boys will
act all right.”
“She won't even know that Philip is your friend, if that's
what's worrying you. As to the way she will treat him, she's
an entirely different person after she has put Horace on
the train.”
233


With consternation still in her voice, Louise asked,
“Shall we go for a swim?”
“Yes,” and Marie called to the children upstairs, “Come
put on your bathing suits.”
Louise left alone, changed at the bathhouse, swam down
to the dam, and stayed with one of the boys who was fish-
ing off the spillway. She didn't want to be around when
Joan came back from the station. It would be so much
easier if her daughter concluded Philip was a friend of
William's. Their looking over the little house would be a
wonderful way of increasing friendliness. In just that short
length of time Philip would realize that William's manner
was truly sincere, not the snobbishness of a patronizing
host. Any unkind opinion which he might have harbored
from William's neglecting to invite them to dinner would
disappear. She brought Philip back to the barn today be-
cause she was sure of his being cordially received. But she
was not prepared for the predicament of his meeting Joan.
Wandering reluctantly up the path Louise saw Joan
sitting in a deck chair by the slate-covered picnic tables.
Philip was standing, leaning against a tree, talking to her.
Louise stopped: neither of them had seen her. It was
possible to retrace her steps, go along the edge of the lake,
then through the woods, entering the house from the other
side. She hesitated; such cautious action would be cow-
ardly. The two seemed to be in complete accord. His back
was towards her; she would be approaching her daughter's
face. Surely there was something she could say in an off-
hand manner as she passed them on the way to the kitchen.
Though her heart was thumping violently, she decided to
go ahead. She relied on Philip's understanding her actions,
whatever she said.
When his back was still towards her, and she was within
234


twenty feet of Joan, she said, “I’m going in to help Marie
with supper.”
“Are we having it out here?”
“Yes, you don't need to come in.”
She continued walking, and soon reached the steps
leading to the porch. Going into the kitchen, she dropped
down on the first available chair. She looked at her daugh-
ters and sighed, “You were right.”
“Yes, we told you not to worry.”
“I can hardly believe it.”
“You should know what a social man he is,” said Laura.
“It has taken me all summer to get him out here. To
think that I was most afraid of this particular incident.
Look how she is enjoying herself talking to him.”
“And you can rest assured she will never speak of him
to Horace.”
“I hope not. But I must go out there. Let me carry
something.” She picked up the large basket filled with
utensils and glasses. “I don't want him to think we're talk-
ing about them.”
She knew he would come forward to take the basket;
no introductory remark would be needed.
“Let me take that.”
“Thanks. I'll go back for something more.”
“Why don't you sit down and let me help?” It was per-
fectly natural for her to smile at his making that polite
remark, also it was most usual for her to comply.
“All right. Marie will tell you what she needs.” She sat
down next to Joan, asking, “Where are the boys?”
“Playing tennis or swimming. They'll be here as soon as
they get hungry. Who is this man? He introduced himself
by saying, ‘You must be Marie's sister?’”
235


“Yes, he's a friend of theirs. He seems to be very nice,
doesn't he?”
“Yes, he does. But there they come.” Everyone was
carrying something. William had the biggest load—a large
watermelon. The children gathered round the laden tables.
Both families had taught them, at a very early age, to take
care of themselves at mealtime; when they ate outside
there was a total lack of formality. Edward, who had the
ferocious appetite of a fast-growing boy, would make way
with four frankfurters unnoticed. The huge watermelon
would disappear very quickly. This fruit was a favorite
dessert, and the children loved the contest of trying to spit
the seeds the farthest.
George, age fifteen, had left his bow and arrows leaning
against a tree. “Nobody touches these,” he had cried.
Individual property ownership was pleasantly estab-
lished in this large group of boys. After they had eaten,
Philip stepped up to him, when the game had started
again. “May I try one?” he asked.
“Sure. Our target is the post on this side of the tennis
court. You have to stand over there.” He pointed to a
marked spot on the grass.
Philip took the bow from George. “How strong is the
string?”
“You can't break it.”
“All right. This is new to me. I'll replace the arrow if
I lose one.”
“Don't mind that.” Philip put the complete strength of
his muscle into action, and the arrow went beyond the
length of the court, right over the top of the target post.
George looked at him admiringly, “My, that was some
shot!”
“But I missed the target. It was my first try.”
236


With her words, “It's all right,” he gave her a parting
kiss, quick but expressive.
“You’ll be back?”
“Yes, I will.”
“The time will pass quickly.”
As the car pulled out, she hurried through the lilacs,
and across the road to the wooded trail which led to her
cabin. It was impossible to carry on a desultory conversa-
tion with Joan and the boys as they all walked up the road
together, and she wouldn't be sure of saying the correct
thing about Philip if his name came into the discussion.
The others would understand her abrupt departure. Alone
she could indulge in the pure joy of recalling what had
happened, and would definitely conclude that he would
return the next weekend.
She would not think of the former times when he had
failed to fulfill his promises. His acceptability in this in-
timate family gathering should have made him feel less
hesitant of becoming a part of it. But to probe deeper into
his feelings—had he reached the conclusion that he wished
to become a part of it? A vast difference exists between
relief at being accepted and a true desire to take advantage
of this acceptance. There could not be permanent happi-
ness in their relationship if it were only based on an
acceptance of him in her environment. His affirmed and
exclusive affection for her was the most important factor;
the social aspect could only be an aid to enhancing his
unquestioned devotion.
She had warned him of the prejudices of her son-in-law,
Horace. Always, she had explicitly emphasized the fact
that Joan and her sons did not agree with him. Only on the
surface did they conform, merely to keep peace in their
daily activities. Had not Joan's attitude toward Philip
238


today proved to him the truthfulness of her depiction of
her daughter? He really liked Joan, and the feeling seemed
to be reciprocal. The attractive personality of the man had
overridden any possible prejudices. Looking backward,
she realized how much she must have progressed lately
towards accepting correct ideas of the treatment of all
people. She must always remember Joan had been brought
up in the same atmosphere as her two liberal-minded
sisters.
The next day, as she neared the lake, she noticed that
Joan and Marie were sitting engaged in conversation,
while they minded the children. Laura had gone back to
her job in the city.
She overheard Marie saying, “Yes, we've known him
for some time.”
“Is he connected with William in his work?”
“No, he isn't. He's only a friend.”
This was the propitious moment for her to reveal her
friendship with Philip. What was to be gained now by
further deception? Joan had certainly shown that she liked
him; she was presently asking her sister about him.
She spoke up, “He’s really a friend of mine.”
“Of yours!” Joan looked up with great surprise.
“Yes. You sound as if it were astonishing for me to have
a friend.”
“No, Mother. I didn't mean it that way. But I am
puzzled.”
“I have known him for a long time through my library
job.”
“He doesn't seem like a writer.”
“No, he's a carpenter. But he does write magazine
articles and I help him edit them.”
Would Joan realize she was describing the man whom
239


she had talked about months ago? She would have difficulty
in grasping the fact that he was supposed to be her ‘boy
friend." She decided not to say anything more; she would
relieve her daughter of the necessity of answering.
Pausing a few seconds, she added, “I’m going to get
ready for a swim.” As she left she noticed that neither of
her daughters continued their conversation. Marie must
have agreed that it would take time for Joan to assimilate
this information, and present discussion would have no
value.
Later, during the week Louise asked Marie if William
had called her from the city.
“No, he never calls during the week unless his plans
have changed.”
“Then he'll be out Friday night? Will Laura come with
him?”
“I suppose so: she generally does, though I didn't hear
her plans for this weekend.”
“Horace isn't coming out,” said Joan. “He’s visiting a
friend in the Adirondacks.”
“That'll make it easier for you,” Louise put in. Now
she had every reason to hope Philip would come. She felt
confident that Joan would again be pleasant to him. No
one had spoken of the probability of his returning; it was
best to conclude that circumstances would develop affably.
Moreover, he would be spending most of the time at her
little cabin, and would seldom see the other members of
the community.
On Friday, Marie asked Louise to stay down the road
and have supper with her and the children. She gladly
accepted.
“When is Daddy coming?”
240


“There's plenty of cold milk in the ice box.” She tried
to get away from him.
He kept hold of her. “I don't want anything. We stopped
to eat on the way out. William thought everyone would
be in bed.”
“Did Laura come out with you?”
“No, she was going to the shore for the weekend.” She
wanted to know what had happened on the trip and, point-
blank, asked him,
“Do you like William?”
“I certainly do. He's really sincere.”
“His wife and children are the same way.” Those few
words were sufficient to convey what she wanted to know,
and his very presence corroborated his statement.
“It's very late. We should close the door and open a
couple more windows.”
“Why take the trouble?”
She had to think of a quick answer; she didn't want to
say that a neighbor might drive by and see them sitting
there, or later see them getting ready for bed.
“We'll turn out most of the lights instead.”
Then he understood her and said, “Oh, I'll close the
door till we get in bed.”
“That's right.”
“I brought toothbrush and razor this time.”
“You didn't need to trouble.”
“And this for you.”
He handed her a small box from his pocket. He had
never given her anything; she kissed him before opening
the package which contained a pair of ear-rings.
“Oh, how beautiful! How sweet of you!”
He was tremendously pleased that she liked them, and
said, “I never gave you a birthday present.”
243


“I know, but we've started a certain project which I'd
like to help him finish.”
“I thought you said you weren't working.” He gave her
his familiar, good-natured smile, picked up the axe, and
turned to wave his hand at them as he followed George.
Joan looked up at her mother expecting to say some-
thing.
“Please don't say anything. Everything will be all right.
Horace isn't out this weekend.” As Louise spoke these
words, she looked pleadingly at Joan.
“I wasn't going to say anything to upset you,” was her
daughter's answer. Some minutes elapsed before she
added, “He seems to be a man everyone can like.”
“I’m awfully sorry I misunderstood you. I concluded
you were going to say something else. You're right about
him. There's a reason why I got to like him so much.”
“Yes, I can see that, but I must go. Good-bye.” She
picked up the small jar of rice from the porch floor. “You’ll
be down for supper?”
“I suppose we will.”
What a great relief. The better side of Joan had won
over her recently acquired prejudices; Philip, unaided,
had brought about a happy solution to a foreboding prob-
lem. Joan would continue to be pleasant to him when
they were with people who were his friends. How far she
would go with this attitude would still remain prob-
lematic. In the city she never saw her daughter in her
complete family gathering; her engagements were only
luncheon appointments. She seldom saw Horace during
the whole winter season. Joan rarely came to her apart-
ment; she was tied down to a life with very small children.
The summer season would soon be over; she could return
247


“I tried often to get you on this phone after you were
in the country.”
“I’ve only been here off and on all summer.” He gave
this information so unconcernedly, and yet remained com-
pletely unrevealing when she tried to glean any further
facts about his summer. Naturally enough, his city habits
had not been discussed when he was with her in the
country, and she was wholly unprepared to discover any
mystery about where he was living.
“Been staying in New Jersey?”
“No, just in and out. Since I saw you, I took off time and
went for a short trip south. I've just gotten back.” This
information did satisfactorily explain her failure to hear
from him since he was in the country, and he may have
tried to reach her lately.
“You went to see your relatives?”
“Yes, my brother and his wife, and my married sisters
in Wilmington.”
“How are they?"
“Pretty well. Everyone was glad to see me. I hadn't been
down for a long time.”
“They must have been.” It was easy to talk to him about
events which did not involve her. But he wasn't a casual
acquaintance, though the conversation sounded as if he
Were.
“I think I'll take a trip to Florida next month to see my
friends there.” She remembered his saying these exact
words in the spring, and how happy she had been when
he entirely dismissed the idea. “And I know he won't go
this time,” she thought.
“I hope you don't go. I'm so glad to hear your voice
again. I thought you'd come out there once more.”
“I had no way of getting there.”
249


Promptly at six, the next day, the telephone rang.
Fortunately she was alone and could completely respond.
George had left for his music lesson after a brief half hour
with her.
“How are you, Louise?”
“Very well, and how are you?”
“Well, just so-so. I can't really complain but I'm very
tired. How did you make out?”
“They've not organized a seminar yet. The prospects
looked discouraging. They're too busy getting the regular
classes going. Did you figure out one?”
“No, not yet. I'm sorry about the other.”
“So am I; and I offered to help get one started. Where
are you now?”
“Broadway-Nassau subway platform.”
That was only ten minutes away from her; the oppor-
tunity of seeing him was very feasible. She could picture
his standing in the telephone booth. He was tired; he was
dressed in his working clothes. He would distinctly avoid
seeing her under such conditions; he was careful how he
looked and dressed when he was with her. However, she
loved to think of him in his basement, dressed in old
khaki pants all covered with paint. He had then warned
her against sitting down anywhere for fear of soiling her
suit, but she had gone to him, intending that he embrace
her as usual. He must have been pleased that it made no
difference to her how he looked.
“Why don't you come over?”
“I’m too tired; I must get some sleep.”
“I do wish you would.” When there was no answer to
this plea, she continued, “You're on your way to New
Jersey? But there isn't much chance to rest with that big
family around. Do you still have your own refrigerator
252


“Can I come over?”
“I wish you would.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.” Her bravado attitude then
failed her, and there was a pleading tone in her voice,
when she asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I will. "Bye now.”
He was coming. How did she look tonight? Tired or
rested? How should she dress? What would he say? How
would he act? The very fact that he was coming showed
that everything should be as it was formerly. She must
gain something from his having gone; had he not in-
stantly called her upon his return? The thought of Mary
completely disappeared.
When the buzzer sounded, her heart started thumping
violently. With tears in her eyes she watched his coming
up the stairs. She could see the top of his head because
he kept close to the banister even when making the turn
on the landing; she gloated on the sturdy swing of his
free arm, the eagerness of his stride. She opened the door
fully, then closed it. When he took her in his arms, her
mind became totally blank, though she seemed to hear his
murmurings: endearing monosyllables. He finally picked
her up and carried her into the living room; she still clung
to him while he kissed her many times. She waited; he
had to be the first to speak.
“I’ve missed you.”
“So have I, but you didn't have to go and leave me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?"
“I had to find out something.” He paused, but she re-
fused to assist him. “It’s a long story.”
“But you have to tell me.”
257


“I can't do without you.”
“You don't really mean that. From what you've just told
me, I can't believe it.”
“I wouldn't be here if I didn't.” The statement could
be true. She had momentarily learned her real position in
his life. He need not even have come tonight. She was so
worn out emotionally that she started to cry. He became
frantic with his caresses.
“I love you, sweetness, don't you know I love you?”
Hours later, when she was alone, and physically relaxed
and comforted, she tried to think rationally. Something
had to be done. In helping herself she would also be help-
ing Mary who should have her freedom from both these
men who promised her nothing. Perhaps she should move
to some part of the Village new to both her and Philip.
Truthfully she couldn't conceive of Philip staying with her
on Twelfth Street; therefore, how could she expect him to
consider such a plan? Here, whenever they left the build-
ing together, she was nervous about meeting people in the
hallway, and he must have intuitively felt that her familiar
composure changed when they left the privacy of the apart-
ment. If she moved to an entirely different section where
she would be a total stranger, she would build up new
contacts with neighbors and storekeepers. These people
would become acquainted with her as a friend of Philip's,
and would accept or reject her in that role. Under those
circumstances it would be much easier than trying to fit
him into her present environment. Laura and Marie and
her family would come to see her wherever she lived. If
she moved nearby, her grandsons would stop in occasion-
ally, and she could still have regular lunches with Joan and
the small children. The next time she was with him she
would broach this subject.
260


pleasure to spending the day working with him. She
would not find out if the tell-tale garments of the other
woman were still in that bottom drawer: either their
absence or their presence would involve her in per-
sonalities.
She stopped to look at the hedge they had planted.
Although she was in no way superstitious the thought came
to mind, “If only our love could grow so well.” She rang
the bell; he came immediately.
“Hello. How are you?”
She preceded him into his sitting room. While he was
taking her coat to the closet, she inquisitively glanced
around, trying to surmise the extent of their privacy. She
held herself aloof from him: she did not approach him.
“What's this?”
He went to her, literally grabbed both her arms, and
demandingly kissed her. He then held her away from him.
“What are you up to?”
She gave in completely. She couldn't refuse him any-
thing, and she did so want to be loved.
“I’ve come to work.”
“I know, but I'm so glad to see you.” He sat her down
on the sofa, holding her closely. She was slow to respond;
she was altogether wrapped up in the memories of this
room; she could not quickly appreciate being there again.
“It's been a long time since I was here. The place seems
tidy.”
“I try to keep them from using these two rooms. They
don't need them. But they do use one of the bedrooms
upstairs.”
“I thought they would. I'm glad the children don't mess
up this nice furniture. I should make covers for these
chairs.”
264


They didn't work very long before she said, “I'm afraid
we're too tired to do any more.”
“And aren't you going to let me thank you?” In this
very room, months before, there had not existed the
question of thanking her; his demand then had been
coupled with the desire to satisfy himself.
Even though she was deeply relieved when he held her
closely, she said, “Not this time.”
He insisted, but she remained firm in her determination
not to slip back easily into the past intimacies connected
with this house. However, she had to present some ex-
planation.
“It just seems different out here.”
“Are you saying you won't come again?”
“No, of course I'll come if you want me to.”
“I do want you to. We accomplished so much today.”
“Let's gather up the material I'm taking.”
They put the sheets in a large envelope. She literally
dragged her feet down the stairs, realizing fully what she
was voluntarily sacrificing.
“Must you be going so soon? Won't you have supper
with me?”
She didn't trust herself to stay until the evening. “If
you'll let me go right afterwards.”
He walked with her to the bus, and they waited for it
standing close together. She wished he would say some-
thing about their next meeting. When she sighted the bus
coming around the corner, she could no longer remain
quiet; she wanted some comforting prospect to cling to.
“You'll be working on your notes and not coming to
town this week?”
“Yes, but I'll be coming in one day. I'll call you. Thanks
for coming out.”
266


He put twenty-seven cents in her hand, as he helped her
on the bus. He walked along the side to say good-bye. Her
parting smile must have been rather sad, for she felt very
disconsolate. She was afraid to dwell on what he might be
thinking. Did he really know how much she loved him,
or would he conclude that she was more unattainable than
ever? She had been to his house many times, and had
always willingly made love there. She hoped her changed
attitude would make him realize she wanted something
more definite. Confused and disheartened, she had again
left herself stranded on a would-be telephone call.
Marie called to say her friends were not leaving for an-
other month. They hadn't yet told their landlord, nor
publicized the fact among their friends. They would co-
operate with her so she could manage to rent the apartment
when they left.
“How much rent are they paying?” Louise asked.
“Unbelievably little. It won't amount to much more
than you are paying there, as the increase would only be
ten or fifteen per cent. Renting situations around here have
remained quite decent. You haven't said for a long time
that you were thinking of moving.”
“No, but I'm really serious about it this time. I'll talk
to you about it.”
“All right. I'll keep this in mind.”
The whole week went by without her hearing from him;
the suspense was almost unbearable. If he were working
on his article, he would be unavoidably reminded of her,
but had she endangered the likelihood of his calling her.
Meanwhile she plugged away at her own writing during
her free hours. She almost wished he were still in Florida
so that the telephone would have no significance.
Laura always had dinner with her once a week which
267


was a pleasurable break in the regular routine. They sel-
dom spoke of Philip. Her daughter instinctively surmised
that Louise didn't wish to talk about him.
On Monday, shortly after she had eaten supper, the tele-
phone rang. “Oh, it's only one of the children,” she
thought. “But it might be he.”
“Hello, Louise, how are you?”
“All right—and yourself?”
“Never felt better. I'm able to work again.”
“On your notes?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I'm so glad.” The ardent way she said this must
have made him feel her devoted concern. “Are you in
town?” Here she was again dropping back into the old
habit of making the approach.
“Yes, are you free this evening?”
“I’m staying here and working. Can't you come down?”
“I was going to ask if I could. I'll be there in a half-hour.
I brought some papers I want to discuss with you.”
How could he be so casual about something so utterly
important? And he spoke as if it were a daily habit of his.
His manner portended nothing of a hazardous nature; she
only must coddle such thoughts. Would he be loving or
would he have assumed that stand-offish attitude she had
inculcated into their last meeting? She dressed meticu-
lously, changing many times before she finally decided
what to wear. Lately she had not worried about being older
than he; this original problem she had forgotten; it had
been disregarded for more important considerations.
Ecstatically she received his greeting; he showed more
affection than she could ever have dreamed of. She could
continue to have that joyous feeling of his never wanting
to cease holding her. Perhaps he was right in his prolonged
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absences, perhaps he feared bringing their relationship to
a saturation point. But along with such ideas would always
creep in the memory of his faithfulness to Mary. Tonight
would she speak of her again? He had had weeks to dwell
on their previous conversation regarding her. Had those
words in any way altered his reaction to the situation
concerning the three of them?
“You look lovely tonight.”
“Your being here does that to me. It isn't always true.”
“That I can't argue. But I do forget when I don't see
you.
“I don't ask you to forget.”
He laughed and took her in his arms again. “You are
my sweetness.”
But she did not remain long in his embrace; undoubt-
edly there would be perfect love making for that evening,
but he had given another reason for coming.
“You brought along some of your work. Would you
read it to me?”
“You read it to me.”
They settled down together on the couch. That wonder-
ful feeling of being so close to him both mentally and
physically. Surely such joy would continue. After two
pages she interrupted her reading.
“This is very good. You really know your subject mat-
ter.”
“I should, after all that research.”
“And it's comprehensive without being too weighty.
You've proved your points statistically, and at the same
time have made it easy to read.”
“Thanks. But I wanted you to criticize it.”
“Let me read it through first. Then we can go over it in
detail.”
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project, 'way up town. Their apartment will be vacant in
a month, and they're willing to cooperate in every way so
that I can rent it.”
“That sounds good, but there are always a lot of diffi-
culties which come up.”
“You know more about it than I do. But do you like the
idea?”
“I do. I hope it works out.”
But there was something on her mind of greater impor-
tance than moving.
“Have you been writing?”
“Yes, you'll be proud of me. I'm going right along. This
article has been hanging around so long that I'd like to
finish it and start on something else I've planned.”
“What's that?”
“With a little more research I can use the same material
and write about conditions over the whole country.”
“That would be interesting. If you could work from
state to state you'd end up having a book. Wouldn't that
be wonderful!”
“It certainly would.”
They went upstairs to his study, and she showed him the
typewritten pages she had brought.
“I hope you won't think I've made too many changes.
When you read it aloud it still sounds like you're talking.”
“Let me read it.” In his eagerness to see it, he nearly
snatched it from her hand.
She watched him closely; she could tell he was pleased.
The changes were not too apparent; they didn't alter the
meaning or the style. He would never know how hard she
had striven to attain these results.
“You've made this read so well. How did you do it?”
Smiling at him, she shrugged her shoulders, intimating
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“If you'd stay at my apartment while you're working
during the week.” She drew away from him, raised herself
enough to lean on her elbow, and steadfastly gazed down
at him.
“Yes, I would.” She kissed him fervently, sincerely be-
lieving him.
“And you'd help me fix up the new apartment?”
“Sure, I’d like to.”
“I must get ready to leave.”
“Stay a little longer.”
“Someone might be coming upstairs, and I left all my
clothes in the bathroom.”
While he was dressing, she dreamily murmured as if she
were talking to herself, “What plans we were making.”
He came over and sat on the edge of the bed, and began
toying with her hand. She could tell from the look on his
face that he was attempting something momentous. Never-
theless, she could hardly believe he uttered the words,
“Weren't we planning to get married?”
“Were We?”
“I was.”
He raised her up and held her against him and she asked,
“Could we go down to your sisters in Wilmington?”
“Would you do that?”
“I’d always planned for us to do it that way.”
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