If you just had a scarf or something. To cover your hair.
My hair, she says despairingly. What next? What's wrong with my hair?
It's too blonde. It stands out. Blondes are like white mice, you only find them in cages. They wouldn't last long in nature. They're too conspicuous.
You're not being kind.
I detest kindness, he says. I detest people who pride themselves on being kind. Snot-nosed nickel-and-dime do-gooders, doling out the kindness. They're contemptible.
I'm kind, she says, trying to smile. I'm kind to you, at any rate.
If I thought that's all it was-lukewarm milk-and-water kindness-I'd be gone. Midnight train, bat out of hell. I'd take my chances. I'm no charity case, I'm not looking for nooky handouts.
He's in a savage mood. She wonders why. She hasn't seen him for a week. Or it might be the rain.
Perhaps it isn't kindness then, she says. Perhaps it's selfishness. Perhaps I'm ruthlessly selfish.
I'd like that better, he says. I prefer you greedy. He stubs out his cigarette, reaches for another, thinks better of it. He's still smoking readymades, a luxury for him. He must be rationing them. She wonders if he's got enough money, but she can't ask.
I don't want you sitting across from me like this, you're too far away.
I know, she says. But there's nowhere else. It's too wet.
I'll find us a place. Somewhere out of the snow.
It isn't snowing.
But it will, he says. The north wind will blow.
And we shall have snow. And what will the robbers do then, poor things? At least she's made him grin, though it's more like a wince. Where have you been sleeping? she says.
Never mind. You don't need to know. That way, if they ever get hold of you and ask you any questions, you won't have to lie.
I'm not such a bad liar, she says, trying to smile.
Maybe not for an amateur, he says. But the professionals, they'd find you out, all right. They'd open you up like a package.
They're still looking for you? Haven't they given up?
Not yet. That's what I hear.
It's awful, isn't it, she says. It's all so awful. Still, we're lucky, aren't we?
Why are we lucky? He's back to his gloomy mood.
At least we're both here, at least we have…
The waiter is standing beside the booth. He has his shirt sleeves rolled up, a full-length apron soft with old dirt, strands of hair arranged across his scalp like oily ribbon. His fingers are like toes.
Coffee?
Yes please, she says. Black. No sugar.
She waits until the waiter leaves. Is it safe?
The coffee? You mean does it have germs? It shouldn't, it's been boiled for hours. He's sneering at her but she chooses not to understand him.
No, I mean, is it safe here.
He's a friend of a friend. Anyway I'm keeping an eye on the door-I could make it out the back way. There's an alley.
You didn't do it, did you, she says.
I've told you. I could have though, I was there. Anyway it doesn't matter, because I fill their bill just fine. They'd love to see me nailed to the wall. Me and my bad ideas.
You've got to get away, she says hopelessly. She thinks of the wordclasp, how outworn it is. Yet this is what she wants-to clasp him in her arms.
Not yet, he says. I shouldn't go yet. I shouldn't take trains, I shouldn't cross borders. Word has it that's where they're watching.
I worry about you, she says. I dream about it. I worry all the time.
Don't worry, darling, he says. You'll get thin, and then your lovely tits and ass will waste away to nothing. You'll be no good to anybody then.
She puts her hand up to her cheek as if he's slapped her. I wish you wouldn't talk like that.
I know you do, he says. Girls with coats like yours do have those wishes.
Chase Supports Relief Effort
BY ELWOOD R. MURRAY, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
In a public-spirited gesture such as this town has come to expect, Captain Norval Chase, President of Chase Industries Ltd., announced yesterday that Chase Industries will donate three boxcars of factory "seconds" to the relief efforts on behalf of those parts of the country most hard-hit by the Depression. Included will be baby blankets, children's pullovers, and an assortment of practical undergarments for both men and women.
Captain Chase expressed to the Herald and Banner that in this time of national crisis, all must pitch in as was done in the War, especially those in Ontario which has been more fortunate than some. Attacked by his competitors most notably Mr. Richard Griffen of Royal Classic Knitwear in Toronto, who have accused him of dumping his overruns on the market as free giveaways and thus depriving the working man of wages, Captain Chase stated that as recipients of these items cannot afford to purchase them he is not doing anyone out of sales.
He added that all portions of the country have suffered their setbacks and Chase Industries currently faces a scale down of its operations due to reduced demand. He said he would make every attempt to keep factories running but may soon be under the necessity, of either layoffs or part hours and wages.
We can only applaud Captain Chase's efforts, a man who holds to his word, unlike the strikebreaking and lockout tactics in centres such as Winnipeg and Montreal, which has kept Port Ticonderoga a law-abiding town and clear of the scenes of Union riots, brutal violence and Communist-inspired bloodshed which have marred other cities with considerable destruction of property and injury as well as loss of life.
The chenille spread
Is this where you're living? she says. She twists the gloves in her hands, as if they're wet and she's wringing them out.
This is where I'm staying, he says. It's a different thing.
The house is one of a row, all red brick darkened by grime, narrow and tall, with steeply angled roofs. There's an oblong of dusty grass in front, a few parched weeds growing beside the walk. A brown paper bag torn open.
Four steps up to the porch. Lace curtains dangle in the front window. He takes out his key.
She glances back over her shoulder as she steps inside. Don't worry, he says, nobody's watching. This is my friend's place anyway. I'm here today and gone tomorrow.
You have a lot of friends, she says.
Not a lot, he says. You don't need many if there's no rotten apples.
There's a vestibule with a row of brass hooks for coats, a worn linoleum floor in a pattern of brown-and-yellow squares, an inner door with a frosted glass panel bearing a design of herons or cranes. Birds with long legs bending their graceful snake-necks among the reeds and lilies, left over from an earlier age: gaslight. He opens the door with a second key and they step into the dim inner hallway; he flicks on the light switch. Overhead, a fixture with three pink glass blossoms, two of the bulbs missing.
Don't look so dismayed, darling, he says. None of it will rub off oh you. Just don't touch anything.
Oh, it might, she says with a small breathless laugh. I have to touch you. You'll rub off.
He pulls the glass door shut behind them. Another door on the left, varnished and dark: she imagines a censorious ear pressed against it from the inside, a creaking, as if of weight shifting from foot to foot. Some malevolent grey-haired crone-wouldn't that match the lace curtains? A long battered flight of stairs goes up, with carpeting treads nailed on and a gap-toothed bannister. The wallpaper is a trellis design, with grapevines and roses entwined, pink once, now the light brown of milky tea. He puts his arms carefully around her, brushes his lips over the side of her neck, her throat; not the mouth. She shivers.
I'm easy to get rid of afterwards, he says, whispering. You can just go home and take a shower.
Don't say that, she says, whispering also. You're making fun. You never believe I mean it.
You mean it enough for this, he says. She slides her arm around his waist and they go up the stairs a little clumsily, a little heavily; their bodies slow them down. Halfway up there's a round window of coloured glass: through the cobalt blue of the sky, the grapes in dime-store purple, the headache red of the flowers, light falls, staining their faces. On the second-floor landing he kisses her again, this time harder, sliding her skirt up her silky legs as far as the tops of her stockings, fingering the little hard rubber nipples there, pressing her up against the wall. She always wears a girdle: getting her out of it is like peeling the skin off a seal.