Another Marvelous Thing Read Online Free PDF Page A

architecture ensued.
    Francis spoke a little about his wife, Vera—Billy must meet her—and his two grown sons, Quentin and Aaron. Billy said that Grey, her husband, was sort of a genius but she did not say that Francis must meet him.
    It was a lovely night in early May. Francis walked Billy home. She and Grey lived on two floors of a brownstone into which Billy invited Francis for a drink or cup of tea. He asked for tea and it was several months before he realized that he had chosen it over the drink he really wanted because its preparation might keep him with Billy for a few minutes more. He also realized that one of the reasons he had found her living room so ugly was that it is perfectly normal for the lover to hate his or her beloved’s place of legal and habitual residence.
    Francis did not know that he was embarking on a love affair. He went home and slept peacefully, after making himself a strong, bracing drink. In the morning he remembered Billy’s saying that she had been looking for a certain book, a book he owned. He dispatched it to her at once, and she responded by sending him an article he had mentioned which she happened to have in her files. They met, not entirely by chance, at the Journal office. It was just around lunchtime and so they went around the corner for a sandwich. A week later Francis just happened to be near the business school and he just happened to bump into Billy after her class.
    After several months of meetings and luncheons, Francis became familiar with Billy’s uninspired wardrobe and her array of faded sweatshirts, shapeless turtlenecks, and worn corduroy skirts and frayed boys’ shirts.
    One day he said, looking at her brother’s old sweater and a skirt that might once have been olive green: “You’re the one girl, Billy, whom you dread to hear say: I’m going to slip into something more comfortable.”
    It was clearly provocative, and not at all the sort of thing Francis was used to saying. Billy did not bat an eyelash. She put down her pastrami sandwich, wiped her lips with a paper napkin, and said: “No one my age ever says anything like that. We just take our clothes off.”
    A long while later she revealed that she had said this to hurt him, and he did not think it wise to tell her how effective she had been.
    It was months before he kissed her, and by that time the idea of kissing her had turned into an overwhelming desire he was tired of fending off. Reluctantly he came to the conclusion that he was simply looking for an opportunity.
    One evening, after taking Vera to the airport on another of her trips to San Diego, a terrible restlessness took possession of him. The idea of going to a movie or going home to his empty house made him more restless than ever. It could have been said that he was looking for action, but that phrase was not in his working vocabulary. He drove into Manhattan in an agitated state until it occurred to him that he might very well pay a call on that charming young couple Billy and Grey Delielle. They were doubtless at home—Francis had heard Billy say many times that there was no hell more hellish than the hell of social life. She did not like to go out, and she did not like to entertain, either. It was not very late. Francis could easily just stop by, although just stopping by was not the sort of thing he generally did.
    On the other hand, the Delielles might be ready for bed. They might in fact be in bed—a terrible thought. As he neared their neighborhood he wondered what he would do if in fact they were out. He felt it was possible that he might have a fit.
    He found a parking space directly in front of their brown-stone, bounded up the stairs, and rang the bell.
    Billy answered the door, wearing blue jeans and a pair of tasseled loafers that had seen so many, many better days that they were kept together with a variety of duct and electrical tapes. She did not seem surprised to see him. Rather