that she will be sure to get it; Boss doesn’t mind. All right, I’ll skip the rest of that; we know what she thinks of Protestants. Or ex-Protestants. I wonder what she would think if she heard us chanting ‘Om Mani Padme—’”
“Kark her drawers.”
“Oh, Joe!” She skipped, including the self-invitation. “‘Angela is going to have another baby. The Visitor is sore at her but I gave the Visitor a piece of my mind and I guess that learned her not to mistreat decent people. I can’t see why they can’t just leave us alone. What’s wrong with having a baby?’ Which of your sisters is Angela, Joe?”
“Third one. Visitor’s·right. Mama’s wrong. Don’t read all, Tits. Just read and tell.”
“Yes, dear. Nothing more, really, just gossip about neighbors, remarks about the weather. The actual news is that your mother’s stomach is better and Angela is pregnant. Give me a moment to shower this red and black off—Boss liked the combo, by the way—and I’ll be ready to be painted or to pose or whatever. You can flash a pizza for me while I get clean and I’ll gnaw it between times. And, dear? I shouldn’t pose later than midnight and I’d be awfully pleased if you would get up when I do tomorrow—rather early, I’m afraid. But you can go back to bed.”
“So?”
“For Boss, dearest. To cheer him up.” She explained her idea of full-paint costume alternated with erotic styles.
He shrugged. “Glad to. Why gee-string? Silly. Old man dying, let him look. Can’t hurt.”
“Because, dear. Boss prides himself on being ‘modern’ and ‘keeping up with the times.’ But the truth is he formed his ideas so long ago that nakedness wasn’t just uncommon, it was a sin. He thinks I’m a nice girl from so far back in the cornstalks that I’ve never been touched by changes. As long as I wear a minimum-gee—and paint and shoes—I’m dressed, not naked. By his ‘modem’ standards, I mean. A nice girl pretending to be naughty to amuse him. Which he likes.”
He shook his head. “No roz.”
“Oh, but you do, dear. Symbolism, as you have explained to me about art. But it has to be Boss’s symbols. Nudity doesn’t mean a thing to our generation. But it does to Boss. If I leave off that scrap of nylon, then by his symbols I’m not just a sweet girl, naughty-but-nice; I’m a whore.”
“Whores okay. Angela one.”
(A clumsy one, she said under her breath.) “Sure they are. But not to Boss. The hard part is to guess what his symbols are. I’m twenty-eight and he’s over ninety and I can’t possibly roz his mind. If I push it too far, he might be angry—even very angry; he might fire me. Then what would we do? We’d have to give up this lovely studio.”
Still in Lotus, she looked around. Yes, lovely. Aside from the Gadabout parked near the door and the bed in the corner all the rest was the colorul clutter of an artist’s studio, always changing and always the same. The steel grid over the high north windows made a pretty pattern—and was so strong that she never worried. She felt warm and safe and happy here.
“Eunice my darling—”
She was startled. Joe used short-talk so habitually that she was always surprised when he chose to shift idiom, even though he could use formal English as well as she could—well, almost, she corrected . . . but he was quite grammatical for a man who had had only a high school practical curriculum. “Yes, dearest?”
“I roz it perfectly. Wasn’t sure you did. Just testing, Beautiful. Not ninety myself but any artist understands figleaf symbol. Could happen you crowd Mr. Smith’s symbols too hard, don’ know. But we’ll do it. Figleaf so that his mind can lie to itself—‘No, no, mustn’t touch; Mama spank’—then I paint you like sex crime looking for spot marked ‘X.’ ”
“Oh, good!”
“But never worry about job. Sure, this pad is righteous, good north light, I like it. But we lose it, who cares? Broke don’t scare
“Kark her drawers.”
“Oh, Joe!” She skipped, including the self-invitation. “‘Angela is going to have another baby. The Visitor is sore at her but I gave the Visitor a piece of my mind and I guess that learned her not to mistreat decent people. I can’t see why they can’t just leave us alone. What’s wrong with having a baby?’ Which of your sisters is Angela, Joe?”
“Third one. Visitor’s·right. Mama’s wrong. Don’t read all, Tits. Just read and tell.”
“Yes, dear. Nothing more, really, just gossip about neighbors, remarks about the weather. The actual news is that your mother’s stomach is better and Angela is pregnant. Give me a moment to shower this red and black off—Boss liked the combo, by the way—and I’ll be ready to be painted or to pose or whatever. You can flash a pizza for me while I get clean and I’ll gnaw it between times. And, dear? I shouldn’t pose later than midnight and I’d be awfully pleased if you would get up when I do tomorrow—rather early, I’m afraid. But you can go back to bed.”
“So?”
“For Boss, dearest. To cheer him up.” She explained her idea of full-paint costume alternated with erotic styles.
He shrugged. “Glad to. Why gee-string? Silly. Old man dying, let him look. Can’t hurt.”
“Because, dear. Boss prides himself on being ‘modern’ and ‘keeping up with the times.’ But the truth is he formed his ideas so long ago that nakedness wasn’t just uncommon, it was a sin. He thinks I’m a nice girl from so far back in the cornstalks that I’ve never been touched by changes. As long as I wear a minimum-gee—and paint and shoes—I’m dressed, not naked. By his ‘modem’ standards, I mean. A nice girl pretending to be naughty to amuse him. Which he likes.”
He shook his head. “No roz.”
“Oh, but you do, dear. Symbolism, as you have explained to me about art. But it has to be Boss’s symbols. Nudity doesn’t mean a thing to our generation. But it does to Boss. If I leave off that scrap of nylon, then by his symbols I’m not just a sweet girl, naughty-but-nice; I’m a whore.”
“Whores okay. Angela one.”
(A clumsy one, she said under her breath.) “Sure they are. But not to Boss. The hard part is to guess what his symbols are. I’m twenty-eight and he’s over ninety and I can’t possibly roz his mind. If I push it too far, he might be angry—even very angry; he might fire me. Then what would we do? We’d have to give up this lovely studio.”
Still in Lotus, she looked around. Yes, lovely. Aside from the Gadabout parked near the door and the bed in the corner all the rest was the colorul clutter of an artist’s studio, always changing and always the same. The steel grid over the high north windows made a pretty pattern—and was so strong that she never worried. She felt warm and safe and happy here.
“Eunice my darling—”
She was startled. Joe used short-talk so habitually that she was always surprised when he chose to shift idiom, even though he could use formal English as well as she could—well, almost, she corrected . . . but he was quite grammatical for a man who had had only a high school practical curriculum. “Yes, dearest?”
“I roz it perfectly. Wasn’t sure you did. Just testing, Beautiful. Not ninety myself but any artist understands figleaf symbol. Could happen you crowd Mr. Smith’s symbols too hard, don’ know. But we’ll do it. Figleaf so that his mind can lie to itself—‘No, no, mustn’t touch; Mama spank’—then I paint you like sex crime looking for spot marked ‘X.’ ”
“Oh, good!”
“But never worry about job. Sure, this pad is righteous, good north light, I like it. But we lose it, who cares? Broke don’t scare
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