took the page from his hand. âHer husband. Will they settle down and live happily ever after?â
âLord, no.â He looked over my shoulder at Rocket Bride, put a finger on the crown of her head. I saw by the careful signature in the corner that he was the one whoâd written my dinner invitation. He stretched his arm around me, set his hand on my shoulder. Then he frowned, and with his other hand carefully whisked away a few pink-and-gray eraser leavings from the edge of Rocket Brideâs veil. âNever. Rocket Brideâs not the forgiving kind. No,â he said. âI think that husband should just pray he never gets found.â
His hand was still on my shoulder.
I am not a person who likes to be touched casually, which means of course that I like it a great deal. Every little touch takes on great meaningâoh, I could catalog them all for you: the bus driver who offered his hand as I stepped down from his bus, his other hand hovering near but not touching the small of my back. My flirtatious college friend who could not keep her hands off of anyone, who flicked one restless finger on the back of my wrist, on my forearm. Handshakes. Because I am short, certain tall people cannot resist palming my head; one college boyfriend stroked my hair so often in the early days of our courtship that, crackling with static, I could have clung to the wall like a childâs balloon.
My list would go on forever, and still it would be shorter than other peopleâs, because those tentative friendly fingers make mestiffen, and by the time I realize Iâve done it and try to relax, the hands are gone. People get the idea. The better they know me, the less they touch me.
But Oscar did not know me at all. Did not notice the way I quietly jumped as his hand touched my shoulder blade. Did not take his hand away until he was ready to set Rocket Bride down again.
âI have lots of ideas,â he said. âSheâs just the first. Thereâs Fancy Boy, and the Mighty Midget, and, letâs see, Radio Dogââ
Caroline shook her head. âOscar dreams big.â
âWhy not?â said Oscar. âDoesnât cost anything. Hereâs another idea. Record players for cars. I canât get anybody to invest, but itâs what the American public wants.â
âIt is?â I said.
âWell,â said Caroline, âitâs what Oscar wants.â
I said, âBut is this a nation of Oscars?â
He got a happy, planning look in his eyes. âA nation of Oscars,â he said, as if he were wondering how to swing it.
â
Thereâs
an idea,â said Caroline.
âA nation of Oscars,â he repeated, smiling fondly.
He would have loved that, I think. Some people like to think they are unique; I saw immediately Oscar did not. What better than walking into a crowd of himself, brillantined, back-slapping men who would congratulate themselves on the good fortune of being who they were. âI commend you on your taste,â Oscar would say to Oscar. âYouâre my kind of man.â
When we went back upstairs, Mrs. Sweatt was simultaneously smoking a cigarette and trying to put on a duffel coat. She was apparently unwilling to put down the cigarette and kept switching it from one hand to her mouth to the other hand, trying to avoid the cloth.
âWhere you going, Missus?â Caroline asked.
She looked a little panicked, as if sheâd been caught doing something sheâd been warned against. âJust going for a walk.â
âMissus,â said Oscar. âYou think thatâs a good idea?â
âAround the block,â she said.
âWhy donât you have dessert with us,â said Caroline.
âA short walk,â said Mrs. Sweatt. She had the cigarette in her mouth now, buttoning her coat, her eyes shut to avoid the smoke. She slipped the last toggle through the loop by her neck.
âAlice,â
said
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