leave his good wife and sweet children for her, he was sure of that. He felt sorry for Myra, and that made him desire her. Pity gave a gleam to the otherwise ordinary, giving it possibility. And since Harold secretly despisedâvery slightlyâthose he pitied, pity made moral action less essential, a relief in his rigorous life.
He folded his arms and pressed them against the iron railing, ducking his head to smile down at Myra. What sort of a dream? he said. He sounded condescending, and winced, but Myra didnât seem to mind.
âOh, ugly things, ugly things, she said promptly.
âWhat would you do if Virginia was here?
âYou must think Iâm a baby, Myra said. She propped herself on an elbow, holding the blanket so it covered her breasts. She seemed to be naked. She was silent, then said, Oh, she just listens, talks, maybe rubs my neck.
So Virginia was a paid companion who was supposed to pretend to be a friend, even a dependent friend.
âWould it help to hold my hand? Harold said. He unfolded his arms and placed one handâlarge, pink, steadyâon the edge of the mattress. Persuading Myra to get up and dress would be best, but he would prefer this to happen without dissipating the intimacy in the room. He said, Where are your clothes?
Myra jutted her chin toward a tangle of clothing at the bottom of the bed.
âShall I wait in the other room while you get dressed? Then we can go for a walk. He didnât want to leave the room. Again, he heard thunder. Maybe Myra was afraid of thunderstorms.
âJust hand me those things, would you? Myra said, and with some embarrassment Harold grasped the tangle and pulled it toward her. She held up a brassiere. She had become a child, with no sense of propriety. It was alarming but oddly attractive. What a funny garment, she said.
Harold turned to the open suitcase teetering on the chest of drawers and began self-consciously arranging the items inside: socks, pants, books. Heâd been foolish to think he could read so many books. The suitcase had become heavy during those hours of hitchhiking. He said, I donât know why I thought I could read so many books in a week! He sounded phony.
There were scrambling sounds from the bed. Iâm coming down, Myra said. Thereâs no room up here to get dressed.
Immediately he heard her move. Part of herâher buttocks?âbrushed his shoulder. Now he was trapped in the small, dim bedroom with a naked or half-clothed woman behind him. The space between the wall and the bed was so narrow, he couldnât leave without squeezing against Myra.
She took her time. Harold, who rarely tried anything with women, knew he seemed so assured that heâd look foolish if he made a move that wasnât just right. He often envied Artieâs boyishness and suspected that his friendâwith his shrugs and whistles and confusionâhad done more with girls than he had. Now he didnât know whether Myra was flirting, making fun of him, or just getting dressed in her own way.
âMy father says Iâm high-strung, Myra was saying. I love thunder, though. Harold wasnât sure he loved thunder. It seemed to be getting louder.
At last she reached around him and put her hands on his eyes. Okay, turn around! Of course she was wearing the same clothes as before: a gray skirt, a blue sweater, and heavy socks. Her red hair was pretty. As he made up his mind not to take any chances with her, he put his hands on her shoulders, or his hands put themselves on her shoulders. Strands of hair caught under his hands.
âOoh, what are you reading? she said, shaking him off and pushing past him.
âNever mind, he said, and closed the suitcase with The Portrait of a Lady still inside, a scrap of paper marking his place. Scribners had brought it outâpart of their reprint of the New York Editionâand Harold had saved up for it.
âLetâs see if itâs raining, he said. I
He folded his arms and pressed them against the iron railing, ducking his head to smile down at Myra. What sort of a dream? he said. He sounded condescending, and winced, but Myra didnât seem to mind.
âOh, ugly things, ugly things, she said promptly.
âWhat would you do if Virginia was here?
âYou must think Iâm a baby, Myra said. She propped herself on an elbow, holding the blanket so it covered her breasts. She seemed to be naked. She was silent, then said, Oh, she just listens, talks, maybe rubs my neck.
So Virginia was a paid companion who was supposed to pretend to be a friend, even a dependent friend.
âWould it help to hold my hand? Harold said. He unfolded his arms and placed one handâlarge, pink, steadyâon the edge of the mattress. Persuading Myra to get up and dress would be best, but he would prefer this to happen without dissipating the intimacy in the room. He said, Where are your clothes?
Myra jutted her chin toward a tangle of clothing at the bottom of the bed.
âShall I wait in the other room while you get dressed? Then we can go for a walk. He didnât want to leave the room. Again, he heard thunder. Maybe Myra was afraid of thunderstorms.
âJust hand me those things, would you? Myra said, and with some embarrassment Harold grasped the tangle and pulled it toward her. She held up a brassiere. She had become a child, with no sense of propriety. It was alarming but oddly attractive. What a funny garment, she said.
Harold turned to the open suitcase teetering on the chest of drawers and began self-consciously arranging the items inside: socks, pants, books. Heâd been foolish to think he could read so many books. The suitcase had become heavy during those hours of hitchhiking. He said, I donât know why I thought I could read so many books in a week! He sounded phony.
There were scrambling sounds from the bed. Iâm coming down, Myra said. Thereâs no room up here to get dressed.
Immediately he heard her move. Part of herâher buttocks?âbrushed his shoulder. Now he was trapped in the small, dim bedroom with a naked or half-clothed woman behind him. The space between the wall and the bed was so narrow, he couldnât leave without squeezing against Myra.
She took her time. Harold, who rarely tried anything with women, knew he seemed so assured that heâd look foolish if he made a move that wasnât just right. He often envied Artieâs boyishness and suspected that his friendâwith his shrugs and whistles and confusionâhad done more with girls than he had. Now he didnât know whether Myra was flirting, making fun of him, or just getting dressed in her own way.
âMy father says Iâm high-strung, Myra was saying. I love thunder, though. Harold wasnât sure he loved thunder. It seemed to be getting louder.
At last she reached around him and put her hands on his eyes. Okay, turn around! Of course she was wearing the same clothes as before: a gray skirt, a blue sweater, and heavy socks. Her red hair was pretty. As he made up his mind not to take any chances with her, he put his hands on her shoulders, or his hands put themselves on her shoulders. Strands of hair caught under his hands.
âOoh, what are you reading? she said, shaking him off and pushing past him.
âNever mind, he said, and closed the suitcase with The Portrait of a Lady still inside, a scrap of paper marking his place. Scribners had brought it outâpart of their reprint of the New York Editionâand Harold had saved up for it.
âLetâs see if itâs raining, he said. I
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