Moreover, she stopped calling me Fred. June, July, all through the warm months shehibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had come and gone. Herhair darkened, she put on weight. She became rather careless about her clothes:used to rush round to the delicatessen wearing a rain-slicker and nothingunderneath. José moved into the apartment, his name replacing Mag Wildwoods onthe mailbox. Still, Holly was a good deal alone, for José stayed in Washington threedays a week. During his absences she entertained no one and seldom left theapartment -- except on Thursdays, when she made her weekly trip to Ossining.

It was a telegram from Tulip, Texas: Received notice young Fred killed in actionoverseas stop your husband and children join in the sorrow of our mutual loss stopletter follows love Doc. Holly never mentioned her brother again: except once.

Which is not to imply that she had lost interest in life; far from it, she seemedmore content, altogether happier than Id ever seen her. A keen sudden un-Holly-likeenthusiasm for homemaking resulted in several un-Holly-like purchases: at a Parke-Bernet auction she acquired a stag-at-bay hunting tapestry and, from the WilliamRandolph Hearst estate, a gloomy pair of Gothic "easy" chairs; she bought thecomplete Modern Library, shelves of clas９９ｌiｂ•nｅｔsical records, innumerable. MetropolitanMuseum reproductions (including a statue of a Chinese cat that her own cat hatedand hissed at and ultimately broke), a Waring mixer and a pressure cooker and alibrary of cook books. She spent whole hausfrau afternoons slopping about in thesweatbox of her midget kitchen: "José says Im better than the Colony. Really, whowould have dreamed I had such a great natural talent? A month ago I couldntscramble eggs." And still couldnt, for that matter. Simple dishes, steak, a propersalad, were beyond her. Instead, she fed José, and occasionally myself, outré soups(brandied black terrapin poured into avocado shells) Nero-ish novelties (roastedpheasant stuffed with pomegranates and persimmons) and other dubious innovations(chicken and saffron rice served with a chocolate sauce: "An East Indian classic, mydear.") Wartime sugar and cream rationing restricted her imagination when it cameto sweets -- nevertheless, she once managed something called Tobacco Tapioca:best not describe it.

he said.

Which is fine by me: what could be prettier than a quite coony baby with brightgreen beautiful eyes? I wish, please dont laugh -- but I wish Id been a virgin forhim, for José. Not that Ive warmed the multitudes some people say: I dont blamethe九九藏书 bastards for saying it, Ive always thrown out such a jazzy line. Really, though, Itoted up the other night, and Ive only had eleven lovers -- not counting anythingthat happened before I was thirteen because, after all, that just doesnt count.

"Oh, that." He grinned rather scornfully. "They do us a grand favor, Rusty andMag. We laugh over it: how they think they break our hearts when all the time wewant them to run away. I assure you, we were laughing when the sadness came."

Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: Id rather havecancer than a dishonest heart. Which isnt being pious. Just practical. Cancer maycool you, but the others sure to. Oh, screw it, cookie -- hand me my guitar, and Illsing you a fada in the most perfect Portuguese."

Not un peu bit. Im delighted. I want to have at least nine. Im sure some of themwill be rather dark -- José has a touch of le nègre, I suppose you guessed that?

Those final weeks, spanning end of summer and the beginning of another autumn,are blurred in memory, perhaps because our understanding of each other hadreached that sweet depth where two people communicate more often in silence thanin words: an affectionate quietness replaces the tensions, the unrelaxed chatter andchasing about that produce a friendsh九九藏书网ips more showy, more, in the surface sense,dramatic moments. Frequently, when he was out of town (Id developed hostileattitudes toward him, and seldom used his name) we spent entire evenings togetherduring which we exchanged less than a hundred words; once, we walked all the wayto Chinatown, ate a chow-mein supper, bought some paper lanterns and stole a boxof joss sticks, then moseyed across the Brooklyn Bridge, and on the bridge, as wewatched seaward-moving ships pass between the cliffs of burning skyline, she said:"Years from now, years and years, one of those ships will bring me back, me and mynine Brazilian brats. Because yes, they must see this, these lights, the river -- I loveNew York, even though it isnt mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a streetor a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it." And Isaid: "Do shut up," for I felt infuriatingly left out -- a tugboat in drydock while she,glittery voyager of secure destination, steamed down the harbor with whistleswhistling and confetti in the air. So the days, the last days, blow about in memory,hazy, autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other Ive lived.

Eleven. Does that make me a whore? Look at Mag Wildwood. Or Honey Tucker. OrRose Ellen Ward. Theyve had the old clap-yo-hands so many藏书网 times it amounts toapplause. Of course I havent anything against whores. Except this: some of themmay have an honest tongue but they all have dishonest hearts. I mean, you cantbang the guy and cash his checks and at least not try to believe you love him. Inever have. Even Benny Shacklett and all those rodents. I sort of hypnotized myselfinto thinking their sheer rattiness had a certain allure. Actually, except for Doc, if youwant to count Doc, José is my first non-rat romance. Oh, hes not my idea of theabsolute finito. He tells little lies and he worries what people think and he takesabout fifty baths a day: men ought to smell somewhat. Hes too prim, too cautious tobe my guy ideal; he always turns his back to get undressed and he makes too muchnoise when he eats and I dont like to see him run because theres something funnylookingabout him when he runs. If I were free to choose from everybody alive, justsnap my fingers and say come here you, I wouldnt pick José. Nehru, hes nearer themark. Wendell Wilkie. Id settle for Garbo any day. Why not? A person ought to beable to marry men or women or -- listen, if you came to me and said you wanted tohitch up with Man o War, Id respect your feeling. No, Im serious. Love should beallowed. Im all for it. Now that Ive got a pretty good idea what it is. Because I dolo9９ｌib•neｔve José -- Id stop smoking if he asked me to. Hes friendly, he can laugh me out ofthe mean reds, only I dont have them much any more, except sometimes, and eventhen theyre not so hideola that I gulp Seconal or have to haul myself to Tiffanys: Itake his suit to the cleaner, or stuff some mushrooms, and I feel fine, just great.

Nor describe her attempts to master Portuguese, an ordeal as tedious to me as itwas to her, for whenever I visited her an album of Linguaphone records neverceased rotating on the phonograph. Now, too, she rarely spoke a sentence that didnot begin, "After were married -- " or "When we move to Rio -- " Yet José had neversuggested marriage. She admitted it. "But, after all, he knows Im preggers. Well, Iam, darling. Six weeks gone. I dont see why that should surprise you. It didnt me.

His eyes searched the litter on the floor; he picked up a ball of yellow paper. "This,"

Another thing, Ive thrown away my horoscopes. I must have spent a dollar on everygoddamn star in the goddamn planetarium. Its a bore, but the answer, is goodthings only happen to you if youre good. Good? Honest is more what I mean. Notlaw-type honest -- Id rob a grave, Id steal two-bits off a dead mans eyes if Ithought it would contribute to the days enjoyment -- but unto-thyself-type honest.