She was still hugging the cat. "Poor slob," she said, tig his head, "poor slobwithout a s a little inve, his not having a name. But I havent anyright to give him one: hell have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sortof took up by the river one day, we dont belong to each other: hes an indepe,and so am I. I dont want to own anything until I know Ive found the place whereme and things belong together. Im not quite sure where that is just yet. But I knowwhat its like." She smiled, ahe cat drop to the floor. "Its like Tiffanys," shesaid. "Not that I give a hoot about jewelry. Diamonds, yes. But its tacky to weardiamonds before youre forty; and even thats risky. They only lht on thereally old girls. Maria Ouspenskaya. Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: It wait. But thats not why Im mad about Tiffanys. Listen. You know those dayswhen youve got the mean reds?"
"Same as the blues?"
"No," she said slowly. "No, the blues are because yetting fat or maybe itsbeen raining too long. Youre sad, thats all. But the mean reds are horrible. Youreafraid and you sweat like hell, but you dont know what youre afraid of. Exceptsomething bad is going to happen, only you dont know what it is. Youve had thatfeeling?"
"Quite often. Some people call it angst."
"All right. Angst. But what do you do about it?"
"Well, a drink helps."
"Ive tried that. Ive tried aspirin, too. Rusty thinks I should smoke marijuana, andI did for a while, but it only makes me giggle. What Ive found does the most good isjust to get into a taxi and go to Tiffanys. It calms me dht away, thequietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, notwith those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligatorwallets. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffanys, then Id buysome furniture and give the cat a name. Ive thought maybe after the war, Fred andI -- " She pushed up her dark glasses, and her eyes, the differing colors of them, thegrays and wisps of blue and green, had taken on a far-seeing sharpness. "I went toMexice. Its wonderful try for raising horses. I saw one plaear the sea.
Freds good with horses."
Rusty Trawler came carrying a martini; he ha over without looking at me.
"Im hungry," he announced, and his voice, retarded as the rest of him, produced anunnerving brat-whihat seemed to blame Holly. "Its seven-thirty, and Im hungry.
You know what the doctor said."
"Yes, Rusty. I know what the doctor said."
"Well, then break it up. Lets go."
"I want you to behave, Rusty." She spoke softly, but there was a goverhreatof punishment iohat caused an odd flush of pleasure, of gratitude, to pinkhis face.
"You dont love me," he plained, as though they were alone."Nobody loves naughtiness."
Obviously shed said what he wao hear; it appeared to both excite and relaxhim. Still he tinued, as though it were a ritual: "Do you love me?"
She patted him. "Tend to your chores, Rusty. And when Im ready, well go eatwherever you want."
"atown?"
"But that doesnt mea and sour spareribs. You know what the doctor said."
As he returo his duties with a satisfied waddle, I could remindihat she hadnt answered his question. "Do you love him?"
"I told you: you make yourself love anybody. Besides, he had a stinkingchildhood."
"If it was so stinking, why does he g to it?"
"Use your head. t you s