Alison Lurie - The Nowhere City

“And what’s your name?” he went on.

“I’m sorry. ... Kath-er-ine-Cat-tle-man.” Katherine felt it incongruous that these, or any similar series of nonsense noises, should belong to her.

“Katherine Cattleman.” He repeated the syllables as if, at least for the moment, they meant something to him. “And what’s that project? Perception and something. Perception and what?”

“Delinquency.”

“Mhhm. Well.” He glanced round the store, as if deciding what to look for next. The insignificant interruption to Katherine’s state of mind was over, and misery began to rise round her again. She stared at the display of travel literature in a fixed way.

“If you’ve finished your shopping,” Mr. McKay said, “how about having a cup of coffee with me? You look as if you need one.”

A cup of coffee? There was no reason why she should. On the other hand, there was no reason why she should not. There was no reason now why she should do, or not do, anything. “All right.” Even in her present state, that sounded ungracious. “Yes; that would be nice.”

They left the bookstore. “This way,” Mr. McKay said, and took her bare arm above the elbow, pressing it. At the same time he gave her a quick glance of sensual interest and pleasure which, as she turned her head, he altered into a friendly smile. He doesn’t know how miserable I am; he thinks I’m just an ordinary girl he’s succeeded in picking up, Katherine realized. He thinks I might like him. Well, if anyone saw her now, that was what they would think too. Katherine gave a slight jerk, or twitch, as if to get away.

“Come on.” Jim McKay took a better grip on Katherine’s arm; she felt through his fingers the firm intention to have at least a cup of coffee with her. And after all, what difference did it make if she went with him? Nobody she knew would see her, and it was a better idea than going home to her empty house with a book on meteorology, south-western humor, or intelligence testing—or the biography of some romantic, exciting, successful dead person.

“This way.” They had crossed Hollywood Boulevard; now they turned down a side street. Suddenly, between the low, shabby buildings and the stunted palms a great view opened out downhill in the distance—all of Los Angeles, or so it seemed: an immense white city sparkling in the smoggy sunlight.

“Awright awright, let’s take it again from ‘maybe it’ll rain.’”

The pianist broke off playing, and on the bare stage of the rehearsal studio the four other girls and Glory stopped their routine, dropping their arms awkwardly. One pulled up her blouse; another scratched her thigh.

“Roxy, baby, you’re crowding Glory too close; you gotta keep farther back on the turn. Okay, Eddie.” The pianist resumed.

Maybe it’ll rain tomorrow,

But it’s not tomorrow to day-ay-ay,

Let’s play!

“Okay, okay, that was better, but you still don’t all get the gesture. ‘Rain ... ’ Ginevra, you got to wiggle your fingers on that, when you bring them down, darling—like so. Let’s see it now. ... Terrific! No, not you, Roxy, you got to wiggle yours less, much less. Now this time let’s take it back to ‘If you wanna know the way’ Okay, Eddie.”

In the rear of the bare hall, Paul tilted his folding chair back and sighed deeply with boredom. For Christ’s sake, when were they going to “break for lunch”? At twelve, Glory had said, but it was already nearer to one. He had heard the fragmented lyrics of Let’s Play sung about a thousand times; these trivial, hedonistic lines, he felt, would be incised on his mind as long as he lived, scars of the trivial, hedonistic relationship he had got himself into.

Not that he held it against Glory. It wasn’t her fault; it was part of her nature and training to grab what you wanted when you wanted it. He was grateful for Glory’s sensuality, and deeply delighted with it; he was also pleased with himself because he had been able to respond to this in her, and to satisfy it. On the other hand, he definitely missed something in this affair (if it was an affair—he had only seen her twice), something that he had always taken for granted before.

That sudden embrace in the flooded house had deprived him, Paul thought, of almost as much as it had given. He had missed the intellectual pleasure of the chase—all the suspense and excitement from the first sighting of the quarry through dodge and feint and flight and pursuit, until that climactic moment when he held the warm body, and also its soul, down quivering in his arms.

In his worst moments, he said to himself that this was a relationship merely of two warm bodies, not of two people. He and Glory didn’t really know each other, and as far as he could tell they never would.

But Paul had another, more definite, reason for concern, and that was Glory’s proposed trip to New England and to Convers College, in the fall. (He had heard from Convers now, asking him to come East for an interview next month, and offering to pay his way—which looked like a good sign.) Was Glory serious? He didn’t know, but the more she described her plans, the more clearly he saw that she mustn’t come, at least not then. Driving from Mar Vista to Hollywood that morning he had spent much of his time trying to invent persuasive arguments to this effect.

She wasn’t going to be allowed to visit his life, though he was, at that moment, visiting hers. Did that seem unfair? But in Hollywood anyone passed; he wasn’t obvious and incongruous the way she would be in New England.

The piano stopped, then started again. Only four girls were on stage now, and Glory was walking towards him. She wore a scoop-necked leotard, shabby dance slippers, hair shrouded in a scarf, and dark glasses. He jumped up with relief.

“Hi! Can you come out to lunch now?”

“Aw, no.” Glory sighed. “I got to stay. Jackie’s just running the girls through the new introduction. Come on back with me while I put on my make-up: there’s some big shots coming.”

“All right, but I’m starving.”

“Why don’t you go get yourself something? There’s a couple places round the corner.”

“No, I’ll wait for you.”

The dressing-room at one side of the stage was bare boards too, not very clean, and glaringly lit. Glory sat down in front of a mirror and took off her sunglasses. Paul was surprised at how young, and how undistinguished, even nondescript, she looked without makeup. Her skin in the electric light was freckled and flawed. He felt compassion, and was glad that he had thought of the kindest way to make his point.

“Say. I’ve been thinking about your trip East,” he began, drawing a wooden chair towards him and sitting down on it backwards, the way the good guys do in “western films. “Seems to me the best time for you to come would be in the spring.” Always make positive suggestions, as a friend of Katherine’s, a nursery-school-teacher, had once said. He paused. Glory was not obviously listening to him, but opening her bag and beginning to lay out tubes, brushes, bottles, etc., on the dressing-table. “You said you’d never seen a real spring. You know, that’s pretty bad. The flowers. ... Why don’t you plan to come say about next April, maybe in spring vacation?” Paul ended awkwardly, but on an up note.

“Yeah,” Glory said, not in assent, rubbing brownish-pink paint over her face and neck. “Maybe.”

“You’d like it then. It’s really beautiful. All the leaves coming out on the trees, the spring flowers. ... He realized he had mentioned the flowers before. Glory said nothing; she was applying glue from a small bottle to something that looked like a dead, hairy centipede. She screwed the top back on the bottle, lifted the centipede carefully, and stuck it on to her left eyelid, where it turned into a strip of curly artificial lashes an inch long.