gee-dee nostrils are flapping .' ' Maybe a box of dead hookers. You kno w those Americans.'
Janet gasped for breath.
'So, Troo, does he want you to be a goody-goody or his slut?' Troo was Janet's nickname, an abbreviation of Truro.
'Helena!'
'Answer my question, which is it?' 'Why — I can' t tell you.'
'Yes, you can.'
Janet knew qui te well what Helena meant, but Helena's question scared her, in both its obvious and indir ect impli cations. 'He wants me to be a nice girl .'
' My, what a satisfying answer that was.' A concrete mixer rumbl ed past. 'So if Ted is Mister American Hotshot, why's he going to school up in Canada? Why aren' t the folks from Yale coming with buggy whips to chase him home?'
'Americans think Canada is sort of glamorou s. Mysterious.' A snor t: 'Kee- riste . You must be joking .'
Janet couldn ' t qui te believe it herself — a city of porridg e, bricks and sensible rain garments — but she had to defend her suitor. 'Well, we do worship the queen, you kno w. And to Americans, royalty's as weird and foreign as communi sm. Communi sm with jewels and missing chins.'
They stopped and were looking at Mexican sombreros and a papier maché cactus inside a travel agency's windo w display. Behind these, a scale model airlin er aimed toward the future. Janet ran down the street. 'Try and catch me, Helena.'
'Troo, slow down.' Helena was sligh tly overweigh t. 'You'd think this was the gee-dee Kentucky Derby.' She puffed her way to the corner where a Don' t Walk signal had stopped Janet in her tracks. 'Come on, Troo — let's cross.'
'But it says don ' t walk.'
'You are such a chickenshit, Troo. Live dangerously and jaywalk. C'mon ! ' Helena was across the street now. 'Yoo hoo ! ' she taunted. 'I'm on the other side of the street, and it 's lovely over here.'
Janet decided to cross the street just as a constable walked around a corner, blew his whistle, called her over to him and gave her a jaywalking ticket. Helena was in stitches. Janet was mor tified — another 1950s word. My permanent record . . . a blemish!
Mr. Truro missed lunch in the Eaton's cafeteria — shepherd's pie, carro ts, rice pudding and Cokes — but instead offered to drive Janet and Helena home. Willi am had become stout with middl e age, and with it
came a sort of handsomeness. Helena was in the fron t seat saying outrageous things to bait him: 'Women are much better than men at hammering out details. I bet you anything women take over the legal
pro fession by 1975.'
'Janet, where'd you hook up with this suff ragette? Soon she'll have you taking over my job at Eaton's.' 'And what would be wrong with that?' Helena demanded.
' My li tt le Janet in a job-job? She'd be ... swamped.' Helena rose to the bait. 'Swamped? Why swamped?' 'The world 's a hard place, Helena,' Willi am said.
'So what?'
'So what? You're young. That's what.' 'Oh, bro ther!'
Janet said, 'You guys are talking abou t me like I'm not even here.' Her father had ears only for Helena.
'You don ' t kno w,' said Willi am. 'Life is boring . People are vengeful. Good things always end. We do so many things and we don ' t kno w why, and if we do find out why, it 's decades later and kno wing why doesn' t matter any more.'
'You want to keep your li tt le Janet in an ivory tower?'
'Yes, I do.' The Impala was at a red ligh t; the quieted engine made this last word of Willi am's sound as if an ogre had belched it out. The moment was charged and needed defusing. 'Helena, turn on the radio,' Janet piped up. 'I feel like hearing Dean Martin.'
Willi am said, 'That wop?' 'Daddy, he's not a wop.'
Willi am accelerated through the newly green ligh t. Invisible hands pulled Janet into the rear seat's foam. Helena asked to be dropp ed off at home, near the corner of Bloor and St. George, so Willi am had to make a detour. Once there, Helena poin ted out the house in which she was renting an upper floor. 'What a dump, eh, Mr. Troo?'
'You're the arty type, Helena. It suits
Janet gasped for breath.
'So, Troo, does he want you to be a goody-goody or his slut?' Troo was Janet's nickname, an abbreviation of Truro.
'Helena!'
'Answer my question, which is it?' 'Why — I can' t tell you.'
'Yes, you can.'
Janet knew qui te well what Helena meant, but Helena's question scared her, in both its obvious and indir ect impli cations. 'He wants me to be a nice girl .'
' My, what a satisfying answer that was.' A concrete mixer rumbl ed past. 'So if Ted is Mister American Hotshot, why's he going to school up in Canada? Why aren' t the folks from Yale coming with buggy whips to chase him home?'
'Americans think Canada is sort of glamorou s. Mysterious.' A snor t: 'Kee- riste . You must be joking .'
Janet couldn ' t qui te believe it herself — a city of porridg e, bricks and sensible rain garments — but she had to defend her suitor. 'Well, we do worship the queen, you kno w. And to Americans, royalty's as weird and foreign as communi sm. Communi sm with jewels and missing chins.'
They stopped and were looking at Mexican sombreros and a papier maché cactus inside a travel agency's windo w display. Behind these, a scale model airlin er aimed toward the future. Janet ran down the street. 'Try and catch me, Helena.'
'Troo, slow down.' Helena was sligh tly overweigh t. 'You'd think this was the gee-dee Kentucky Derby.' She puffed her way to the corner where a Don' t Walk signal had stopped Janet in her tracks. 'Come on, Troo — let's cross.'
'But it says don ' t walk.'
'You are such a chickenshit, Troo. Live dangerously and jaywalk. C'mon ! ' Helena was across the street now. 'Yoo hoo ! ' she taunted. 'I'm on the other side of the street, and it 's lovely over here.'
Janet decided to cross the street just as a constable walked around a corner, blew his whistle, called her over to him and gave her a jaywalking ticket. Helena was in stitches. Janet was mor tified — another 1950s word. My permanent record . . . a blemish!
Mr. Truro missed lunch in the Eaton's cafeteria — shepherd's pie, carro ts, rice pudding and Cokes — but instead offered to drive Janet and Helena home. Willi am had become stout with middl e age, and with it
came a sort of handsomeness. Helena was in the fron t seat saying outrageous things to bait him: 'Women are much better than men at hammering out details. I bet you anything women take over the legal
pro fession by 1975.'
'Janet, where'd you hook up with this suff ragette? Soon she'll have you taking over my job at Eaton's.' 'And what would be wrong with that?' Helena demanded.
' My li tt le Janet in a job-job? She'd be ... swamped.' Helena rose to the bait. 'Swamped? Why swamped?' 'The world 's a hard place, Helena,' Willi am said.
'So what?'
'So what? You're young. That's what.' 'Oh, bro ther!'
Janet said, 'You guys are talking abou t me like I'm not even here.' Her father had ears only for Helena.
'You don ' t kno w,' said Willi am. 'Life is boring . People are vengeful. Good things always end. We do so many things and we don ' t kno w why, and if we do find out why, it 's decades later and kno wing why doesn' t matter any more.'
'You want to keep your li tt le Janet in an ivory tower?'
'Yes, I do.' The Impala was at a red ligh t; the quieted engine made this last word of Willi am's sound as if an ogre had belched it out. The moment was charged and needed defusing. 'Helena, turn on the radio,' Janet piped up. 'I feel like hearing Dean Martin.'
Willi am said, 'That wop?' 'Daddy, he's not a wop.'
Willi am accelerated through the newly green ligh t. Invisible hands pulled Janet into the rear seat's foam. Helena asked to be dropp ed off at home, near the corner of Bloor and St. George, so Willi am had to make a detour. Once there, Helena poin ted out the house in which she was renting an upper floor. 'What a dump, eh, Mr. Troo?'
'You're the arty type, Helena. It suits
Similar Books
