housewife and Iâll meet you under the clock in the Biltmore Hotel.â
She giggled in spite of herself, and put the receiver down in an expansive mood, but when she turned around again, Normanâs face was white. Not his usual dark cloud-filled countenance-of-anger that she had seen before, but white. As white as the bedspread, the telephone, the curtains, the wallsâall of which, she now noticed, had been dying into darkness for the past half-hour. In the dark room, Normanâs face was spookily white.
12
T HE ROOM had gotten dark while Gus was talking on the phone.
She switched on the closest lamp. It had a perfectly round white porcelain base with raised impressions of leaves. The shade was shaped like a Chinese coolieâs hat. It was a lamp she remembered from childhood, the lamp she had colored by in the living room in Chapel Hill on rainy afternoons. Her parents had bought it shortly after they were married. Now Norman was standing next to it, his face above the central funnel of the volcano-shaped shade, and the bulb threw his features into eerie relief.
âWho were you talking to?â he asked.
âNobody you know.â
âThat was obvious.â
âHeâs an old friend,â she said.
âNo kidding. How old?â
âThis is ridiculous.â Then she remembered. âDid you see your father today?â
It took some of the tension out of his back and shoulders. Gus watched it go, thinking, Good riddance; Norman felt it go, sliding from his body like soap under a shower. He flung himself into a chair, sighed à la Sidney, and said, âYes, I saw him.â He had stepped on a wad of chewing gum, and he leaned over to pick it off with his thumbnail.
âUgh,â Gus said. âHere, use this.â She handed him a sheet of newspaper from the pile she kept for lining Tweetieâs cage.
âI donât think itâs so goddamn ridiculous,â he said, scraping, âwhen I walk into a room and overhear you telling someone you love him more than anyone else. You have to admit, under the circumstances, that that is not exactly a trivial statement.â
âOh, brother. You really beat all, Norman. I didnât say I loved him more than I love anyone else; I said I loved him more than anyone else does. If you had eavesdropped on the entire conversation, you would realize that.â
âI think youâre splitting hairs.â
âI donât.â
âThen just how much do you love me?â
âI love you,â she said, laughing. âWhy else would I be about to marry you? For your money?â
âThatâs what my father thinks,â he snapped.
âThen your fatherâs screwy. But Iâm not surprised. Look at his son.â
Norman was looking at Augusta. He adored her like this, high-spirited, quick. There was a lilt to her chin and nose in profile, like the Minuet in G. Her self-confidence ravished him. âItâs just as well,â he said, âthat you donât care about the money. He disowned me.â
âHe what?â
âI warned you heâs a prick.â
âI didnât know anybody ever actually did that kind of thing anymore. Itâs rather feudal, isnât it?â
Norman shrugged. âDoes it bother you?â
Gus found herself sitting down on the couch-bed. She hadnât said to herself, Now I will sit down; it was as if Normanâs news had knocked her down. âItâs not the money,â she said, slowly. âItâs what it means. If heâs disowned you for marrying me, I guess I can assume that your family isnât going to welcome me with open arms.â
âMy mother will be different.â
âItâs a rotten way to start.â She was suddenly shy. âIt makes me feel funny,â she said. âAshamed, somehow. As if Iâm not good enough.â
âDonât do a number on yourself, Gus. Itâs just
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