"Tomorrow. Lunch."
"It just won't work--for him."
"Yeah."
"Is he--terribly--?"
"The works. Head-over-heels."
"Oh, _dear_! Has it been long?"
"Six-seven months."
"Then--it could take him six or seven years to--"
"Some kind of female arithmetic. But probably solid."
"You could call up Hattie and talk to her and find out--"
"I've considered that. What do I ask Hattie? Is Marcia sincere--like
sincere in a Freddie Wakeman character?"
"Marcia?"
"M'm'm'm."
"If it was only Dolores! Or Fern or Pearl!"
"More woman-palaver. And it's Marcia. And she was in college for a
while. She reads books."
"You could ask if she's sweet. You know what to ask, dope."
"I will pull a low-brimmed hat over my eyes, slip a roscoe into my
pocket, print up a few dozen private-eye calling cards, and fare
forth--"
"It would help to know something more about her than Paul's feelings.
Then call me up. How's the work?"
"Oh--a needle in every haystack."
"You ought to have a little fun."
"I'm enjoying every paragraph."
"Why don't you call up Murray's and take some more lessons? Maybe if
you put in enough roadwork and a few more thousand dollars--you could
finally learn to tango."
"Damn your pretty eyes! Why don't you study how to follow?"
Ricky laughed. "No fooling! You work too much. If you don't play some,
you'll burn yourself out in another forty-six years. You've been
getting stale around here."
"Tell me about the birds and the flowers and Popcorn."
Popcorn is one of the cocker pups--all white. Quite a dog. Popcorn had
got into the garbage pit and trapped himself for two hours. There had
been a squall. The wind had blown over the delphiniums. The 2-4-D I'd
sprayed around was already wilting weeds that had defied generations of
her forebears. She was going to dig up and separate the crocuses in the
rock garden. She had decided I wouldn't finish building the water lily
pool for another year and she was planning to use the excavation for
composting. There were two young downy woodpeckers and an oriole at the
bird feeding station that afternoon.
"Don't work too hard," she repeated. "And have some fun."
"I'm weary and I'm bored and I'm lonely." God knew I was lonely, anyhow.
"It's good for you."
"I hope you starve emotionally."
"It is a big bridge party and I am going to sit beside Mr. Teel."
Mr. Teel is an aging squire who lives in the lush Genesee bottom land
and can't keep his hands off. I was laughing. I was also biting back
the desire to tell her to drive to Buffalo and grab the night plane.
"The trouble," I said, "with ladies and Mr. Teel is that they fidget
and flush, squirm and put up with it. Personally, I think they like it."
"Should I scream?"
"Lord, no. Worst possible technique. When you bid six spades and start
playing it and you notice something on your knee of about the weight
of a man's hand, there are three good possibilities. Relax and enjoy
it. This is what I recommend. However, you can also idly lower the tip
of your cigarette and apply it. The third, very good, move is to lean
forward as if staring myopically at the dummy--reach under the table
yourself--and grab back in a way Mr. Teel will never forget."
"You know everything, don't you?"
"Need you ask?"
"Except that we're wasting a lot of money on Long Distance. Are you
sure you're all right?"