worship him, just because heâs your husband. Youâll think heâs a reflection on your character, so heâll have to be perfect.â
Gus laughed. She was meant to be a star, no question about itâhearing herself talked about by other people always intoxicated her. Her face shone and her eyes kindled. The phenomenon was delicate but definite. âYouâre being nasty again,â she said, pleased.
âIâm owed, Gussie, owed, owed, owed.â
âI donât see whyââ
âBecause I love you.â
âThatâs notââ
âYou owe me like I owe Elaine.â
Secretly, Gus thought that Elaine did look like the type who was always collecting on old debts. Elaine had a complexion that must have glowed with a freshly scrubbed look, once, and now looked raw, and the doeâs feet of her eyeliner ran into the crowâs feet at the corners of her eyes. Altogether, she wore the righteous look of someone whoâs been prevailed upon to lend her heart against her better judgment. Gus used to see her in the grocery store on Tate Street in Greensboro, or at parties. Elaine stayed away from the school itself. âHow is she?â Gus asked.
âElaine is fine. Iâm miserable.â
âWhy are you miserable?â
âWhy shouldnât I be miserable? I spend half my waking hours trying to make everyone else happy.â
It was true; an odd occupation for a man. âHow is the new record coming along?â she asked. He was doing the Beethoven Eighth. You couldnât be too miserable, Gus thought, while you were recording the Beethoven Eighth. She said as much.
âYou arenât giving up the flute, are you?â he asked, as if the possibility had just struck him. âChrist, thatâs unthinkable!â
âDonât be ridiculous,â she said. But it was something that had been bothering her.
âIâve been meaning to tell you,â he said. âIâll get my manager to take you on whenever youâre ready. You donât have to worry about that.â
âThatâs nice of you, Richard.â
âYou didnât think I wouldnât come through, did you? I know whatâs expected of meââ
âRichard!â
âDonât sound so shocked, Gussie. Things always work this way. Almost always, anyhow. Itâs not so terrible. Life isnât so terrible. Even marriage isnât so terrible.â
âIâm glad to hear Elaine is fine,â she said, primly.
âElaine is fine,â he said. âBeethoven is fine. Iâm fine. But Iâll tell you what gets me down. The kids complain all the time. Itâs a case of nonstop wheedling. They fight a lot. Are you pregnant?â
âOf course not. Should I be?â
âIf I were you,â he said, âI would want to be.â
âThatâs your problem. If you werenât so good-looking, Iâd think you were queer.â
âFlattery will get you nowhere,â he said.
âOh, gee, Richard, I really do like youââ
âI know,â he said. He sounded very blue. âEverybody does.â
Just then Gus heard Norman downstairs; he had his own keys now. The door downstairs banged, he took the steps two at a time. But now was not the moment to hang up on Richard. She did owe him something.
âThatâs not what I mean,â she said, earnestly. âI care about you more than everybody else.â The second door had not made a sound, and now Norman was staring at her from across the room.
âThatâs probably true,â Richard said, heavy-hearted. âNobody else cares even that much.â
âNow youâre being stupid. Iâm not going to listen to this.â It would have to be Elaine who did. She had Norman to think of.
âYouâre right,â he said. âIâll call you later. Sometime. Someday. In ten years. Come disguised as a
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