Sunday was an Indian summer day, the sun was strong, my windoen,and I heard voices on the fire escape. Holly and Mag were sprawled there on ablahe cat betweeheir hair, newly washed, hung lankly. They werebusy, Holly varnishioenails, Mag knitting on a sweater. Mag eaking.
"If you ask me, I think youre l-l-lucky. At least theres ohing you say forRusty. Hes an Ameri."
"Bully for him."
"Sugar. Theres a war on."
"And when its over, youve seen the last of me, boy."
"I dohat way. Im p-p-proud of my try. The men in my family weregreat soldiers. Theres a statue of Papadaddy Wildwood sma the ter ofWildwood."
"Freds a soldier," said Holly. "But I doubt if hell ever be a statue. Could be. Theysay the more stupid you are the braver. Hes pretty stupid."
"Freds that boy upstairs? I didnt realize he was a soldier. But he does lookstupid."
"Yearning. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the iaring out: anybodywith their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid. Anyhow, hes adifferent Fred. Freds my brother."
"You call your own f-f-flesh and b-b-blood stupid?"
"If he is he is."
"Well, its poor taste to say so. A boy thats fighting for you and me and all of us."
"What is this: a bond rally?"
"I just want you to know where I stand. I appreciate a joke, but underh Im as-s-serious person. Proud to be an Ameri. Thats why Im sorry about José." Sheput down her knitting needles. "You do thierribly good-looking, dont you?"
Holly said Hmn, and swiped the cats whiskers with her lacquer brush. "If only I couldget used to the idea of m-m-marrying a Brazilian. And being a B-b-brazilian myself.
Its such a yon to cross. Six thousand miles, and not knowing the language -- "
"Go to Berlitz."
"Why oh would they be teag P-p-puese? It isnt as though anyonespoke it. No, my only ce is to try and make José fet politid bee anAmeri. Its such a useless thing for a man to want to be: the p-p-president ofBrazil." She sighed and picked up her knitting. "I must be madly in love. You saw ustogether. Do you think Im madly in love?"
"Well. Does he bite?"
Mag dropped a stitch. "Bite?"
"You. In bed."
"Why, no. Should he?" Then she added, soriously: "But he does laugh."
"Good. Thats the right spirit. I like a man who sees the humor; most of them,theyre all pant and puff."
Mag withdrew her plaint; she accepted the ent as flattery refleg onherself. "Yes. I suppose."
"Okay. He doesnt bite. He laughs. What else?"
Mag ted up her dropped stitd began again, knit, purl, purl.
"I said -- "
"I heard you. And it isnt that I dont want to tell you. But its so difficult toremember. I dont d-d-dwell ohings. The way you seem to. They go out ofmy head like a dream. Im sure thats the n-n-normal attitude."
"It may be normal, darling; but Id rather be natural." Holly paused in the processof reddening the rest of the cats whiskers. "Listen. If you t remember, tryleaving the lights on."
"Please uand me, Holly. Im a very-very-very ventional person."
"Oh, balls. Whats wrong with a det look at a guy you like? Men are beautiful,a lot of them are, José is, and if you dont even want to look at him, well, Id say hesgetting a pretty cold plate of mai."
"L-l-lower your voice."
"You t possibly be in love with him. Now. Does that answer your question?"
"No. Because Im not a cold plate of m-m-mai. Im a warm-hea