Augusta Played by Kelly Cherry Page B

housewife and I’ll meet you under the clock in the Biltmore Hotel.”
    She giggled in spite of herself, and put the receiver down in an expansive mood, but when she turned around again, Norman’s 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 walls—all of which, she now noticed, had been dying into darkness for the past half-hour. In the dark room, Norman’s 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 coolie’s 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.
    â€œWho were you talking to?” he asked.
    â€œNobody you know.”
    â€œThat was obvious.”
    â€œHe’s an old friend,” she said.
    â€œNo kidding. How old?”
    â€œThis is ridiculous.” Then she remembered. “Did you see your father today?”
    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, “Yes, I saw him.” He had stepped on a wad of chewing gum, and he leaned over to pick it off with his thumbnail.
    â€œUgh,” Gus said. “Here, use this.” She handed him a sheet of newspaper from the pile she kept for lining Tweetie’s cage.
    â€œI don’t think it’s so goddamn ridiculous,” he said, scraping, “when 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€œOh, brother. You really beat all, Norman. I didn’t 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€œI think you’re splitting hairs.”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œThen just how much do you love me?”
    â€œI love you,” she said, laughing. “Why else would I be about to marry you? For your money?”
    â€œThat’s what my father thinks,” he snapped.
    â€œThen your father’s screwy. But I’m not surprised. Look at his son.”
    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. “It’s just as well,” he said, “that you don’t care about the money. He disowned me.”
    â€œHe what?”
    â€œI warned you he’s a prick.”
    â€œI didn’t know anybody ever actually did that kind of thing anymore. It’s rather feudal, isn’t it?”
    Norman shrugged. “Does it bother you?”
    Gus found herself sitting down on the couch-bed. She hadn’t said to herself, Now I will sit down; it was as if Norman’s news had knocked her down. “It’s not the money,” she said, slowly. “It’s what it means. If he’s disowned you for marrying me, I guess I can assume that your family isn’t going to welcome me with open arms.”
    â€œMy mother will be different.”
    â€œIt’s a rotten way to start.” She was suddenly shy. “It makes me feel funny,” she said. “Ashamed, somehow. As if I’m not good enough.”
    â€œDon’t do a number on yourself, Gus. It’s just