kitchen, she put on an apron and bustled about, rattling pans and silverware, and talking in spurts. “I think a girl should know how to cook, don’t you?” She let me break the eggs into a bowl—three eggs, which I cracked with a flourish. “Oh, you’re good at it,” she said, and began to beat them with a fork while I sat on the kitchen table and watched her. “Did you know most eggs aren’t baby chickens?” she asked me. She passed so close to me on her way to the stove that, because her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, I couldn’t help leaning forward and kissing her. She turned pink and hurried to the stove. I sat on the kitchen table, swinging my legs and smiling to myself. Suddenly we heard a noise just outside the back door. I leaped off the table and took up a polite position by the sink. Eleanor froze. But no one opened the door; no one appeared.
“Maybe it was a branch falling,” I said.
Eleanor nodded. Then she made a face and looked down at her hands. “I don’t know why we got so nervous. We aren’t doing anything wrong.”
“It’s the way they look at you,” I said.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said. “You know, I think my parents are ashamed of me. But someday I’ll show them. I’ll do something wonderful, and they’ll be amazed.” She went back to the stove.
“When are your parents coming home?” I asked.
“They went to a double feature. They can’t possibly be out before eleven.”
“They might walk out on it,” I said.
“Oh no!” Eleanor said. “Not if they pay for it…”
We ate our scrambled eggs and washed the dishes, and watched the rain from the dining-room windows without turning the light on. We kissed for a while, and then we both grew restless and uncomfortable. Her lips were swollen, and she went into the kitchen, and I heard her running the water; when she returned, her hair was combed and she had put on fresh lipstick. “I don’t like being in the house,” she said, and led me out on the porch. We stood with our arms around each other. The rain was slackening. “Good-bye, rain,” Eleanor said sadly. It was as if we were watching a curtain slowly being lifted from around the house. The trees gleamed wetly near the street lamps.
When I started home, the rain had stopped. Water dripped on the leaves of the trees. Little plumes of mist hung over the wet macadam of the street. I walked very gently in order not to disturb anything.
I didn’t want to run into anybody, and so I went home the back way, through the alley. At the entrance to the alley there was a tall cast-iron pseudo-Victorian lamppost, with an urn-shaped head and panes of frosted glass; the milky light it shed trickled part way down the alley, illuminating a few curiously still garage fronts and, here and there, the wet leaves of the bushes and vines that bordered the back yards and spilled in such profusion over the fences, hiding the ashpits and making the alley so pretty a place in spring. When I was younger, I had climbed on those ashpits, those brick squares nearly smothered under the intricacies of growing things, and I had searched in the debris for old, broken mirrors, discarded scarves with fringes, bits of torn decorated wrapping paper, and such treasures. But now I drifted down the alley, walking absently on the wet asphalt. I was having a sort of daydream where I was lying with my head on Eleanor’s shoulder—which was bare—and I could hear the slow, even sound of her breathing as I began to fall asleep. I was now in the darkest part of the alley, the very center where no light reached, and in my daydream I turned over and kissed Eleanor’s hands, her throat—and then I broke into a sprint down the alley, slipping and sliding on the puddles and wet places. I came out the other end of the alley and stood underneath the lamppost. I was breathing with difficulty.
Across the street from me, two women stood, one on the sidewalk, the other on the front steps of a
“Maybe it was a branch falling,” I said.
Eleanor nodded. Then she made a face and looked down at her hands. “I don’t know why we got so nervous. We aren’t doing anything wrong.”
“It’s the way they look at you,” I said.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said. “You know, I think my parents are ashamed of me. But someday I’ll show them. I’ll do something wonderful, and they’ll be amazed.” She went back to the stove.
“When are your parents coming home?” I asked.
“They went to a double feature. They can’t possibly be out before eleven.”
“They might walk out on it,” I said.
“Oh no!” Eleanor said. “Not if they pay for it…”
We ate our scrambled eggs and washed the dishes, and watched the rain from the dining-room windows without turning the light on. We kissed for a while, and then we both grew restless and uncomfortable. Her lips were swollen, and she went into the kitchen, and I heard her running the water; when she returned, her hair was combed and she had put on fresh lipstick. “I don’t like being in the house,” she said, and led me out on the porch. We stood with our arms around each other. The rain was slackening. “Good-bye, rain,” Eleanor said sadly. It was as if we were watching a curtain slowly being lifted from around the house. The trees gleamed wetly near the street lamps.
When I started home, the rain had stopped. Water dripped on the leaves of the trees. Little plumes of mist hung over the wet macadam of the street. I walked very gently in order not to disturb anything.
I didn’t want to run into anybody, and so I went home the back way, through the alley. At the entrance to the alley there was a tall cast-iron pseudo-Victorian lamppost, with an urn-shaped head and panes of frosted glass; the milky light it shed trickled part way down the alley, illuminating a few curiously still garage fronts and, here and there, the wet leaves of the bushes and vines that bordered the back yards and spilled in such profusion over the fences, hiding the ashpits and making the alley so pretty a place in spring. When I was younger, I had climbed on those ashpits, those brick squares nearly smothered under the intricacies of growing things, and I had searched in the debris for old, broken mirrors, discarded scarves with fringes, bits of torn decorated wrapping paper, and such treasures. But now I drifted down the alley, walking absently on the wet asphalt. I was having a sort of daydream where I was lying with my head on Eleanor’s shoulder—which was bare—and I could hear the slow, even sound of her breathing as I began to fall asleep. I was now in the darkest part of the alley, the very center where no light reached, and in my daydream I turned over and kissed Eleanor’s hands, her throat—and then I broke into a sprint down the alley, slipping and sliding on the puddles and wet places. I came out the other end of the alley and stood underneath the lamppost. I was breathing with difficulty.
Across the street from me, two women stood, one on the sidewalk, the other on the front steps of a
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