good.”
“Say nothing against the brandy,” and I shifted uneasily as she began again to thank me profusely.
It was cut short by the nurse’s arrival at the bedside. I made way for her and she asked, “Which of you has been boozing?” as she put light, tidying touches to the bedclothes.
“I’m afraid I have,” I answered.
“Maybe you both have,” there was far more a hint of challenge and even laughter behind the counter than any rebuke.
“It’s not allowed in here.”
“There are many things not allowed in here but they still go on.”
She lingered, but when nothing more was said she asked professionally, “Are you all right?”
“If I was all right I wouldn’t be in here,” my aunt said belligerently.
The nurse left quietly and authoritatively, without the slightest response to the attempt at a joke.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Nurse Brady,” my aunt was more than willing to tell. “She’s an awful ticket. Pure man-mad. Sings and dances in the ward.”
“Why didn’t you introduce us?”
“She’d like nothing better. The unfortunate that gets her will have his work cut out.”
I spent the next minutes trying to talk myself out of having to come in for the next few days. I pleaded work, saying I’d fallen days behind in the work.
“But you’ll come on the Tuesday,” she said.
“I’ll come on the Tuesday,” I said as we kissed.
The tall, black-haired nurse was waiting at the end of the ward as I passed out.
“I hope I’ll see you soon,” I said as much out of simple attraction as to counter what I’d thought of as my aunt’s rudeness.
“Why don’t you come in to see us the next time,” she laughed. “Auntie is well enough taken care of.”
“Auntie is well enough taken care of. Why don’t you come in to see us the next time?” echoed all the next morning as I tried to get to the typewriter.
I’d shaved, dressed, lit the fire, washed my hands several times, scraped fingernails, had cups of coffee … and each time I tried to move I’d hear, “Why don’t you come in to see us the next time? Why-don’t-you-come-in?”
I saw the ridiculous white cap pinned to the curly black hair growing thick and close to the skull, her strong legs planted apart, her laugh, its confident affirmation of itself against everything vulnerable and receding and dying.
To ring her. To go out with her into the evening, turning it into adventure, accepting whatever it brought; turning it into a great vital kick against all the usual evenings that seemed to fall like invisible dust.… But—there was still this work to do, this typewriter on the old marble of the washstand to get to.
If she came out with me and if the evening did not turn out well, and I was too old not to know its likely outcome, how would I be rid of her, having to risk running into her every time I went in with the brandy to the hospital. Caution and cowardice were getting me closer to the typewriter. It was the same caution that never allowed me to indulge in more than a passing nod or word with any of the other people who lived in this same house.
I sat and typed frivolously, like dabbing toes above steamingwater: “ There was a man and a woman. Their names were Mavis Carmichael and Colonel Grimshaw. They lived happily, if it could be said that they lived at all,” and I x-ed it out and put a fresh page in the typewriter, and then started to work, the worm at last spinning its silken tent.
Several hours and blackened pages later I got up from the typewriter for the day when the barely audible turning of a key sounded from one of the upstairs rooms after a loud banging of the front door. I thought it could be only two or three o’clock and yet it must have been close to six if one of the office girls had got home. It had just gone six. Seldom is it given, but when it is it is the greatest consolation of the spinning, time passing—sizeable portions of time—without being noticed. Is it a promise
“Say nothing against the brandy,” and I shifted uneasily as she began again to thank me profusely.
It was cut short by the nurse’s arrival at the bedside. I made way for her and she asked, “Which of you has been boozing?” as she put light, tidying touches to the bedclothes.
“I’m afraid I have,” I answered.
“Maybe you both have,” there was far more a hint of challenge and even laughter behind the counter than any rebuke.
“It’s not allowed in here.”
“There are many things not allowed in here but they still go on.”
She lingered, but when nothing more was said she asked professionally, “Are you all right?”
“If I was all right I wouldn’t be in here,” my aunt said belligerently.
The nurse left quietly and authoritatively, without the slightest response to the attempt at a joke.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Nurse Brady,” my aunt was more than willing to tell. “She’s an awful ticket. Pure man-mad. Sings and dances in the ward.”
“Why didn’t you introduce us?”
“She’d like nothing better. The unfortunate that gets her will have his work cut out.”
I spent the next minutes trying to talk myself out of having to come in for the next few days. I pleaded work, saying I’d fallen days behind in the work.
“But you’ll come on the Tuesday,” she said.
“I’ll come on the Tuesday,” I said as we kissed.
The tall, black-haired nurse was waiting at the end of the ward as I passed out.
“I hope I’ll see you soon,” I said as much out of simple attraction as to counter what I’d thought of as my aunt’s rudeness.
“Why don’t you come in to see us the next time,” she laughed. “Auntie is well enough taken care of.”
“Auntie is well enough taken care of. Why don’t you come in to see us the next time?” echoed all the next morning as I tried to get to the typewriter.
I’d shaved, dressed, lit the fire, washed my hands several times, scraped fingernails, had cups of coffee … and each time I tried to move I’d hear, “Why don’t you come in to see us the next time? Why-don’t-you-come-in?”
I saw the ridiculous white cap pinned to the curly black hair growing thick and close to the skull, her strong legs planted apart, her laugh, its confident affirmation of itself against everything vulnerable and receding and dying.
To ring her. To go out with her into the evening, turning it into adventure, accepting whatever it brought; turning it into a great vital kick against all the usual evenings that seemed to fall like invisible dust.… But—there was still this work to do, this typewriter on the old marble of the washstand to get to.
If she came out with me and if the evening did not turn out well, and I was too old not to know its likely outcome, how would I be rid of her, having to risk running into her every time I went in with the brandy to the hospital. Caution and cowardice were getting me closer to the typewriter. It was the same caution that never allowed me to indulge in more than a passing nod or word with any of the other people who lived in this same house.
I sat and typed frivolously, like dabbing toes above steamingwater: “ There was a man and a woman. Their names were Mavis Carmichael and Colonel Grimshaw. They lived happily, if it could be said that they lived at all,” and I x-ed it out and put a fresh page in the typewriter, and then started to work, the worm at last spinning its silken tent.
Several hours and blackened pages later I got up from the typewriter for the day when the barely audible turning of a key sounded from one of the upstairs rooms after a loud banging of the front door. I thought it could be only two or three o’clock and yet it must have been close to six if one of the office girls had got home. It had just gone six. Seldom is it given, but when it is it is the greatest consolation of the spinning, time passing—sizeable portions of time—without being noticed. Is it a promise
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