The Cat's Pajamas

Out of a face that was a roaring torch, the flesh sunburned by her blood, the bones aching with warmth, Lydia felt her puffed mouth say, “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Larsen.”

“Oh, call me John,” he replied, and propelled the swing with his shoes that now, with demon voices, squeaked at every motion.

“We’ve been hoping that someday you might drop by,” said Lydia, and then realized it was too much to say.

“Have you, have you really?” He turned and gazed at her with childish delight, so it was all right, what she had said.

“Yes, we’ve often said we’d like you to drop by.”

“I’m glad,” he said, on the edge of the swing. “You know, it’s a very important thing I’ve come to talk about tonight.”

“I realize.”

“Do you? Have you guessed?”

“I think I have.”

“I’ve known you sisters for a good many years, to speak to in passing,” he said. “I’ve seen you walking by together so many times. And I never got up the courage—”

“To ask to come to the house.”

“That’s right. Until tonight. And then today I got the courage. Do you know why? Today’s my thirty-fourth birthday. And I said to myself, John Larsen, you’re getting old. You’ve been a drummer too long, you’ve traveled too much. The gay life’s dead for you. Time to settle down. And what better place to settle than Green Town, your own hometown, and there’s a certain girl there, really beautiful, maybe she’s never looked at you—”

“But she has—” said Lydia, obliquely.

He looked stunned and happy. “I never dreamt!”

He leaned back in the swing, grinning. “Anyway, I said to myself, you ought to go call. Make yourself known. Spit it out. I never dared. You see, women can be so beautiful and far away, untouchable, the right kind of women. And I’m a coward. I really am, about women. The correct women. So what do you suggest I do? I had to come and see you first, to talk to you, to plan things, to see if you could help me.”

“First?” said Lydia. “Help you? Plan things.”

“Oh, your sister’s really lovely,” said John Larsen. “Tall and pale. I think of her like a white lily. The long-stemmed variety. So stately and grave and beautiful. I’ve watched her passing by for years and been in love with her, there I’ve said it, for ten years I’ve seen her walk by but I was afraid to say anything.”

“What?” The torch flickered in her face and went out.

“So you say she likes me too? To think all these years wasted. I should have come sooner. Will you help me? Will you tell her, will you break the ice? Will you arrange for me to come see her soon?”

“You’re in love with my sister.” It was a statement of fact.

“With all my heart.”

She felt like a stove on a winter’s morning, when all the ashes are dead and all the wood is cold and frosted over.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She sat and the world rocked and this time she was really ill. The world dipped.

“Say something,” he pleaded.

“You love my sister,” she said.

“The way you say that.”

“I love you,” she said.

“What?”

“I love you,” she said.