The Lone Pilgrim Read Online Free PDF Page A

Jane feel like a hothouse orchid—pretty, expensive, and not long for this world. Cordy’s lavish coo of joy at the sight of two filets mignons, whose virtues in terms of cost and waste Jane found herself explaining, made her feel that what transpired between them did not resemble normal life to Cordy. Steam-table food, empty apartments, and family fights were normal to him, not lavender soap, being adored, and having his coffee brought to him in a big French cup.
    One night he as much as stated his case. They stayed almost entirely at Jane’s apartment, since Cordy’s was not a fit place in which to conduct anything resembling a romance. He had had one bed pillow. The thought that Jane might someday sleep beside him had prompted him to go to a cut-rate bedding store and buy another, whose lumpy filling he could not identify. He admitted, however, what any sensible person will admit: that barring allergies, a good night’s rest is aided greatly by European goose down.
    Cordy had had his dinner. He repaired to the couch, commandeered all the needlepoint cushions, pulled Jane near, and, with his nose pressed against her fragrant neck, announced that she was too rich for his blood.
    â€œI live on my salary,” said Jane.
    â€œI think I ought to go to a detoxification clinic,” said Cordy. A shiver ran through Jane. Was living well a kind of poison?
    â€œYou live in a needlessly horrible way,” she said.
    â€œI live simply,” said Cordy. “It’s very dangerous to become used to luxury.”
    â€œYou seem to enjoy things,” Jane said. “For example, my things. You don’t mind drinking good coffee and getting wrapped up in a quilt to take a nap. You have a mania for deprivation. Besides, you don’t notice any million-dollar cameras with zoom lenses around here, do you?”
    â€œI don’t use my camera,” Cordy said.
    â€œThat’s because you’re too cheap to buy film. It doesn’t matter whether or not you use it. You own it.”
    â€œThat’s not the point,” said Cordy. “The point is that things give you a false sense of life. If you have a nice house, you begin to think that life is nice.”
    Jane said: “Isn’t it?”
    â€œNot for long,” said Cordy.
    Shortly after this interchange, Jane met Cordy’s mother. Mrs. Spaacks offered her son an electric frying pan. She discovered that she had two. If Cordy did not want one, she intended to sell it to a secondhand shop. Cordy and Jane drove two hours to the Salt Harbor house to get this implement, which Jane suspected Cordy would never use.
    The house containing this extra frying pan was built on prime land overlooking the water. The setting into which it intruded was spectacular. The house itself was rather ugly and was furnished in that stiff, unsittable wicker that leaves deep red grooves in the flesh. It occurred to Jane that she had now seen two of the Spaackses’ domestic settings and had yet to spot any surface on which a human being might comfortably rest.
    Cordy found his mother sitting in a wrought-iron chair, doing a Double-Crostic in the weak sunlight. She was wearing a suit that held her body like a straitjacket, and when she stood, she had the sort of carriage taught to girls who know that they will never in their lives have to bend over to pick up so much as a pin.
    She did not kiss her son. She merely lifted her head toward him, as if to warm up the air near his cheek. She gave Jane the benefit of a look, shook her hand, and turned to Cordy, whom she then led away, leaving Jane alone to ponder the landscape. Cordy was back shortly, carrying the electric frying pan. Soon he and Jane were in the car, on their way to Furnail, half an hour’s drive away, so Jane could see where Cordy had spent his childhood.
    The house in Furnall was huge and cold. Everything was covered with slipcovers.
    â€œIt’s being sold,” Cordy