Other Men's Daughters Read Online Free PDF Page A

student, Macbeth -reader, ice-cream eater, hat-wearer).
    Two days later, he looked across Mass Avenue and, seeing no Miss Ryder, felt sick. “So,” he thought, “ disappointment .”
    But its roots were shallow, there was oblivion in the walk home. “I should do the lawn.” Davison couldn’t play today, maybe Fischer was in town, maybe they could have supper.
    He walked toward nothing, so walked slowly, vacating himself to heat, looks in windows, the customers in ZumZum’s, the pleasant half-image of breakfast—bacon rolls, the small, fruity tear-segments of the orange juice, the first inroad on the Times , the sweet shock of the obituaries—round the bend, the grocer, the wine shop, the Brattle Theater—a Marx Brothers Festival, neither camp, amusement nor nostalgia for him—the grilled fretwork of the Loeb Theater.
    And there she was.
    Ahead of him, walking slowly, golden head bent, long, dark, bare legs out of scarlet mini-skirt, an odd slowness in the spreadfoot, springy, unusual gait; awkward and athletic both. Dr. Merriwether doubled his pace, came abreast and touched her elbow. “Miss Ryder.”
    â€œYou.”
    â€œHi.” And into her deep, unsmiling relief—his happiness—another “Hi.”
    â€œI’m so glad to see you. I was trying to find your house. I couldn’t remember how to get to it.”
    â€œYou were doing pretty well.”
    They walked by the Graduate Center, down Ash, past Acacia, into Acorn Street, up to his house across from the Japanese urns and the gingkos of his millionaire neighbors, around his little oval lawn, up the squeaky, red steps and in through the door where Miss Ryder said, “I like you so much. I feel so foolish, but I like you so much.”
    Not looking at her. “I like you too, Miss Ryder. And I am ten times as foolish, without the license you have.” Meaning neither young—though inexperienced—nor free—though freed by intellect, will, abandonment.
    Miss Ryder twirled from sun parlor to dusk parlor, dining room, kitchen, stairwell, touching chairs, old mirrors, oil lamps (feebly bulbed, pathetic conversion). Ill at ease, he remembered the modern innocent’s “thing to do,” went into the kitchen and made drinks, Dubonnet, lemon juice, soda, ice; new combination—awful—for new combination.
    Miss Ryder was glad to hold a cold glass. Her hand was very soft—he did not then know the hours and hours of care that went into every inch of her body—touching it was sharp delight.
    He sipped, sat in the least menacing of the chairs, and said that much as he would like it, no relationship was possible for them, every relationship between heterosexual man and woman could only progress and what progress was possible for them? None at all. Their feelings were of course natural. As far as biologic and even psychic structures went, the feelings made perfect sense, but against even the reordered social structures of this affluent, long-living west—people living a life doubled over the social structures which supported the old half-lives—the young girl and middle-aged man being one of the most familiar bond-pairs of the new age, even so, even so …
    â€œDear … Doctor, whatever. I love to hear you speak. But it is, isn’t it, just you and me here. Isn’t it?”
    â€œI hope so.”
    â€œI mean, I know we represent male and female, young and less-young and all, but it’s just you and me. Now. Here.”
    â€œYes, Miss Ryder. But to understand something helps overcome it. There really should be no chance for us.”
    â€œChance? For what?”
    Headshake.
    â€œLet me stay.”
    â€œStay?” He could feel Davison in his voice. Was dull interrogation the easiest form of evasion?
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOk. We’ll play the radio, maybe have supper, I’ll wish I were twenty-one and you can wish what you