hesitated for a time before I said anything. “Is that the only reason you want to marry me? To get back at them?”
“Well—let’s say to get clear of them.”
“To show your independence?”
“All right, put it that way.”
“It doesn’t interest me to be the Spirit of ’76 to your little revolution—whatever it’s about, as I haven’t found out yet.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There’s only one reason I’d marry you, or anybody. If you loved me, and I felt I loved you, that would be enough reason. But just to get back at them—well, that may be your idea of a reason, but it’s not mine.”
“There’s plenty I haven’t told you.”
“I doubt if I’d be interested.”
I went in, put my wet bathing things back into the bag, put on my hat and went out. He was sitting on the step. “Where are you going?”
“Well, there seems to be a town or something over there, so I thought I’d take the train back. I was supposed to be brought back long ago, but nothing seems to have been done about it.”
He threw my bag into a corner, took off my hat and sat me down in the canvas porch seat. Then we started arguing again, and were right back where we started.
We argued and argued, and it was dreary and didn’t make any sense, and he said of course he loved me, and I said he didn’t say it the right way. Then he said his vacation started the next day, and we could have a two-weeks’ honeymoon, and I said I didn’t see what that had to do with it. Then the frogs stopped croaking as though somebody had given them a signal, and it was so still you almost held your breath and everything we had been talking about seemed unreal, and all that mattered was that he was there and I was there, and peace came down upon us. And after awhile I said: “How much do you make?”
“...Hundred bucks a week.”
“All right, then, I make eighty-five. That’s enough.”
“Do you mean yes.”
“I might as well. I really want to. Do you?”
“You know I do.”
“Then yes.”
Next thing I knew, the sun was shining and I was lying there under a blanket, and he was shaking me. “Breakfast’s ready.”
I got up and went inside. He was all shaved and fresh-looking, but my sports dress was wrinkled, and my eyes were red and my face shiny, and my hair all rough and ratty. I took a bath, gave the dress a quick press with an electric iron that was there, and made myself look as decent as I could. Then we had the toast and coffee he had made, and when we got in the car the dew was still on the grass. We were before the big Monday rush, and made good time. We parked near Brooklyn Bridge and went over to the City Hall and got married. We were the first couple. We got in the car again and started uptown. I looked at him and realized I had never yet called him Grant, and yet he was my husband.
Part II KNIFE UNDER THE TONGUE
Five
W E DROVE UP TO the Hutton, and I went up and packed and then came down and checked out, and paid with a check. He put my things in the car, and we drove over to his apartment, which was on East 54th Street. It was in a regular apartment building and had a large living room with a view clear over to Queens, and dining room and kitchen, and seemed a great deal more expensive than anybody could afford who made only a hundred dollars a week. But that wasn’t what struck me about it. It was the strangest place I had ever been in, and yet I knew it was interesting and in very fine taste. Except for the furniture itself, which was comfortable and of good quality, everything in it, even the rugs, was Indian. There were Mexican serapes, all very beautiful, hanging on the walls, as well as pictures by Mexican artists, mainly, as I later found out, Rivera and Orozco, all of Indians. There were Navajo rugs scattered around, and Indian silver and gold work, and on the wall a framed collection of arrowheads, ranging in size from tiny little red ones, which had been used to shoot birds with, up to
“Well—let’s say to get clear of them.”
“To show your independence?”
“All right, put it that way.”
“It doesn’t interest me to be the Spirit of ’76 to your little revolution—whatever it’s about, as I haven’t found out yet.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There’s only one reason I’d marry you, or anybody. If you loved me, and I felt I loved you, that would be enough reason. But just to get back at them—well, that may be your idea of a reason, but it’s not mine.”
“There’s plenty I haven’t told you.”
“I doubt if I’d be interested.”
I went in, put my wet bathing things back into the bag, put on my hat and went out. He was sitting on the step. “Where are you going?”
“Well, there seems to be a town or something over there, so I thought I’d take the train back. I was supposed to be brought back long ago, but nothing seems to have been done about it.”
He threw my bag into a corner, took off my hat and sat me down in the canvas porch seat. Then we started arguing again, and were right back where we started.
We argued and argued, and it was dreary and didn’t make any sense, and he said of course he loved me, and I said he didn’t say it the right way. Then he said his vacation started the next day, and we could have a two-weeks’ honeymoon, and I said I didn’t see what that had to do with it. Then the frogs stopped croaking as though somebody had given them a signal, and it was so still you almost held your breath and everything we had been talking about seemed unreal, and all that mattered was that he was there and I was there, and peace came down upon us. And after awhile I said: “How much do you make?”
“...Hundred bucks a week.”
“All right, then, I make eighty-five. That’s enough.”
“Do you mean yes.”
“I might as well. I really want to. Do you?”
“You know I do.”
“Then yes.”
Next thing I knew, the sun was shining and I was lying there under a blanket, and he was shaking me. “Breakfast’s ready.”
I got up and went inside. He was all shaved and fresh-looking, but my sports dress was wrinkled, and my eyes were red and my face shiny, and my hair all rough and ratty. I took a bath, gave the dress a quick press with an electric iron that was there, and made myself look as decent as I could. Then we had the toast and coffee he had made, and when we got in the car the dew was still on the grass. We were before the big Monday rush, and made good time. We parked near Brooklyn Bridge and went over to the City Hall and got married. We were the first couple. We got in the car again and started uptown. I looked at him and realized I had never yet called him Grant, and yet he was my husband.
Part II KNIFE UNDER THE TONGUE
Five
W E DROVE UP TO the Hutton, and I went up and packed and then came down and checked out, and paid with a check. He put my things in the car, and we drove over to his apartment, which was on East 54th Street. It was in a regular apartment building and had a large living room with a view clear over to Queens, and dining room and kitchen, and seemed a great deal more expensive than anybody could afford who made only a hundred dollars a week. But that wasn’t what struck me about it. It was the strangest place I had ever been in, and yet I knew it was interesting and in very fine taste. Except for the furniture itself, which was comfortable and of good quality, everything in it, even the rugs, was Indian. There were Mexican serapes, all very beautiful, hanging on the walls, as well as pictures by Mexican artists, mainly, as I later found out, Rivera and Orozco, all of Indians. There were Navajo rugs scattered around, and Indian silver and gold work, and on the wall a framed collection of arrowheads, ranging in size from tiny little red ones, which had been used to shoot birds with, up to
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