A Stranger in This World Read Online Free PDF Page B

bears and the giraffes and the elephants. Do you want to?
    No, I want to do it. I want you to do it.
    We can do it later, don’t you want to go?
    She looked at him, the window, the carpeted floor. OK,
    she finally said, still reluctant. He was just starting to realize how much time she spent in a bad mood.
    He asked, Are those the clothes you want to wear?
    But she didn’t know, too complicated a question, and so he let it drop, wondering if her mother dressed her still: a pink sweatshirt with a big yellow sun on it, blue sweatpants, Keds. Big sunny Judy. They could just stay, Paul knew it, the thought of all that tangible skin, the slippery, solid bulk of her beneath him, a thickness of cloth away from his empty hands, but he was going to be right today.
    Out the back door, then, through the alley as quickly as he could drag her along, the terror of discovery behind every fence. Even on the avenue, he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, magic vision, if he couldn’t see anyone then they couldn’t see him, or sun-bright Judy either, waiting docile and obedient next to him in the bus shelter. He started to breathe again on the bus, the happy couple, Judy looking neat and nearly pretty on the seat beside him; and she was pretty to Paul, despite her size, he could touch her anywhere in memory and she seemed to him so much softer and enclosing than any normal girl could ever be. They rode across town without talking, watching the streets; and Paul felt that she could be anyone, that nothing was really so wrong, that they were different but other couples were different, too. The comfort of her nearness, her side pressed to his; but when they went through the poor part of town, deserted streets bright with advertising, a car on fire down one of the side streets surrounded by a village of flashing police cars, he remembered what a dangerous place the city was; a moment’s worry, memory of things that hadn’t happened yet.
    The zoo was empty, the bears asleep, the giraffes staring thoughtfully as they ate, evaluating the flavor of every eucalyptus leaf. Paul felt the weight of how much he knew: elephant, sycamore, the distance to the stars, how to check the oil in his father’s car, how to pay for things, her blank uncomprehending stare at the ticket booth, not even caring: beyond her. Yet her company was right for this place, she saw the strength of the tiger, ignored the path he had worn in the grass. The sadness of the rhinoceri, lying sideways in the mud like wrecked trucks, the manic intensity of the monkeys’ stare and the bare patches on their skin where they had picked away each other’s fur, all this eluded her; and she ran from cage to cage, laughing, delighted when anything moved. Her hair, glossy and fair as a blond child’s, shined in the scattered sunlight, and her face in happiness was nearly pretty.
    At first Paul liked her company, her cheerfulness, young and strong in the sun, delightful things to see, the promise of ice cream later. Gradually, though, he began to lose heart, there was too much she didn’t see, and the other patrons stared at her when she talked in her overloud voice, Look Paul, look Paulie, elephants! He wanted to flip them all off, wanted to be transported, back to Judy’s room. In his black heart he knew he had betrayed both of them. He wasn’t interested in her, or she in him; what held them together was sex and nothing more. He was angry with her; she should have known.
    Suddenly she whirled to face him, fear and anger on her face. No! she screamed. No, Paulie!
    What?
    I don’t want to, Paulie!
    People were staring, he looked around and saw a straggling band of badly retarded adults staring down into the empty otter pen, the pool where they weren’t, their keepers explaining.
    I don’t want to!
    What?
    Go with them! I don’t want to!
    You don’t have to.
    I want to go! she said. I don’t want to stay here!
    OK, he said, all right. He put it together as he led her toward the