depth and quality of his intellect.
There was a sweetness to him, a niceness that she could never reconcile with those sudden lapses into dark, bitter rage.
Once—he had been telling her about a short story he had workedon aboard the
Enterprise
—he fell abruptly silent, gazing with fierce, brooding dread at the gray, chill horizon of the Pacific.
“What is it, Linc?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Hunched over like that, he looked so desolate that she risked provoking him. Touching his shoulder, she said, “It’s bad out there, isn’t it?”
He flung off her hand. “Wonderful, just wonderful! Two times through high school and you can read minds. Listen, didn’t I get it across to you? If you want to get your jollies about the war, listen to H. V. Kaltenborn or Gabriel Heatter. Or better yet, go see
Wings of Eagles!”
It was Joshua Fernauld’s latest box-office triumph, a story of “gallantry in the Army Air Corps.”
Tense, stiff-legged, he covered the long stretch of dry sand to where big breakers hurled their final shreds of foam. She watched him standing there with his back to her, hands thrust into his pockets. Why did I push him? she thought desolately. When he returned, his eyes were red. “Buy you a hamburger,” he said quietly.
Those two days they talked about everything—except the war.
On Thursday, around five, she handed Linc her key, and he unlocked the door.
NolaBee sat facing them in the sagging armchair. A cigarette was clamped between her grimly narrowed lips, her thin shoulders held high, her expression robbed of its usual liveliness.
“Mama,” Marylin said, tugging nervously at her long shirt (a relic of her father), whose tails hung over her blue jeans, which she had rolled up above her slim, shapely calves. “Linc brought me home.”
“You,” NolaBee said, jerking her head toward Roy, who was gazing curiously at them, “go on outside.”
“It’s Antarctica,” Roy protested.
“Go!”
Roy grabbed a library book and the sweater that this past Christmas she had inherited from Cousin Doris Fairburn. The door slammed on her and there was only the squeak of NolaBee’s rocking chair.
“Mama . . .” Marylin started, and her voice broke. She coughed. “Perhaps Linc ought to go too.”
NolaBee did not answer until Roy’s footsteps on the outside staircase had faded. “He’ll listen to what I have to say. It concerns him too. Where have you been Wednesday and today?”
Marylin blinked and stepped backward.
“Well? I reckon if I ask a question, I deserve an answer. Somewoman from the attendance office called an hour ago, asking about your absence. I had no answer, but I want one now.”
“She was with me, Mrs. Wace,” Linc said quietly. “Don’t blame her, I talked her into it, explained it was a patriotic duty.”
“Duty. I reckon Marylin’s got her own duty. Maybe she hasn’t explained to you what a struggle it is for us to live here in Beverly Hills, where she can get the best education there is.” NolaBee crossed her arms. “Marylin knows she can’t fool around. She’s not one of these spoiled Beverly Hills girls who has everything on a silver platter.” NolaBee stubbed out her cigarette. “The thing that gets to me is how she could play hooky when she has her rehearsals.”
“The junior play,” Linc said, “is not so crucifyingly important.”
“She’s the star. The others depend on her.
I
depend on her.”
They were talking to one another, yet both were looking at Marylin. Her heart thumped slowly, and her chest ached as if she were being stretched apart by implacably hostile forces.
NolaBee rose from the chair, drawing a breath so that her meager bust showed in her old red pullover. “I reckon you better not come around here anymore, Lieutenant.”
“Mama . . .” Marylin murmured, a wretched sound more like a groan.
Linc reached for her hand, gripping it, pressing his large firm palm against her cold, trembling one. “Mrs. Wace,
There was a sweetness to him, a niceness that she could never reconcile with those sudden lapses into dark, bitter rage.
Once—he had been telling her about a short story he had workedon aboard the
Enterprise
—he fell abruptly silent, gazing with fierce, brooding dread at the gray, chill horizon of the Pacific.
“What is it, Linc?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Hunched over like that, he looked so desolate that she risked provoking him. Touching his shoulder, she said, “It’s bad out there, isn’t it?”
He flung off her hand. “Wonderful, just wonderful! Two times through high school and you can read minds. Listen, didn’t I get it across to you? If you want to get your jollies about the war, listen to H. V. Kaltenborn or Gabriel Heatter. Or better yet, go see
Wings of Eagles!”
It was Joshua Fernauld’s latest box-office triumph, a story of “gallantry in the Army Air Corps.”
Tense, stiff-legged, he covered the long stretch of dry sand to where big breakers hurled their final shreds of foam. She watched him standing there with his back to her, hands thrust into his pockets. Why did I push him? she thought desolately. When he returned, his eyes were red. “Buy you a hamburger,” he said quietly.
Those two days they talked about everything—except the war.
On Thursday, around five, she handed Linc her key, and he unlocked the door.
NolaBee sat facing them in the sagging armchair. A cigarette was clamped between her grimly narrowed lips, her thin shoulders held high, her expression robbed of its usual liveliness.
“Mama,” Marylin said, tugging nervously at her long shirt (a relic of her father), whose tails hung over her blue jeans, which she had rolled up above her slim, shapely calves. “Linc brought me home.”
“You,” NolaBee said, jerking her head toward Roy, who was gazing curiously at them, “go on outside.”
“It’s Antarctica,” Roy protested.
“Go!”
Roy grabbed a library book and the sweater that this past Christmas she had inherited from Cousin Doris Fairburn. The door slammed on her and there was only the squeak of NolaBee’s rocking chair.
“Mama . . .” Marylin started, and her voice broke. She coughed. “Perhaps Linc ought to go too.”
NolaBee did not answer until Roy’s footsteps on the outside staircase had faded. “He’ll listen to what I have to say. It concerns him too. Where have you been Wednesday and today?”
Marylin blinked and stepped backward.
“Well? I reckon if I ask a question, I deserve an answer. Somewoman from the attendance office called an hour ago, asking about your absence. I had no answer, but I want one now.”
“She was with me, Mrs. Wace,” Linc said quietly. “Don’t blame her, I talked her into it, explained it was a patriotic duty.”
“Duty. I reckon Marylin’s got her own duty. Maybe she hasn’t explained to you what a struggle it is for us to live here in Beverly Hills, where she can get the best education there is.” NolaBee crossed her arms. “Marylin knows she can’t fool around. She’s not one of these spoiled Beverly Hills girls who has everything on a silver platter.” NolaBee stubbed out her cigarette. “The thing that gets to me is how she could play hooky when she has her rehearsals.”
“The junior play,” Linc said, “is not so crucifyingly important.”
“She’s the star. The others depend on her.
I
depend on her.”
They were talking to one another, yet both were looking at Marylin. Her heart thumped slowly, and her chest ached as if she were being stretched apart by implacably hostile forces.
NolaBee rose from the chair, drawing a breath so that her meager bust showed in her old red pullover. “I reckon you better not come around here anymore, Lieutenant.”
“Mama . . .” Marylin murmured, a wretched sound more like a groan.
Linc reached for her hand, gripping it, pressing his large firm palm against her cold, trembling one. “Mrs. Wace,
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