Rock Island Line by David Rhodes (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

less time than it would take to fall five flights of stairs, the inside door swung open and there stood Mal wearing a bright red-and-white outfit, the collar and sleeves looking soft and immaculately clean. She smiled and her eyes flashed with a cool, brilliant blue. The warmth in her expression brought July his second thrill, and though he was twenty-six hours without sleep, he had never been more awake or more deeply involved with the present.

“You sure look good,” he said.

“Do you like it?” she sang out, twirling around to reveal every inch of her, with movements so light and unaffected that July nearly blushed. “My mother bought it for me. I’ve never worn it before. Actually I felt a little silly putting it on—it seemed so, well, loud—but then why not? I reasoned. A Sunday morning, after all. I don’t think I’ve ever been out on a Sunday morning. Have you?”

“What?”

“On a Sunday morning. Say, let’s go. This makes me nervous standing here in the entrance.” They went out onto the sidewalk. A brisk breeze caught the ends of Mal’s hair and she pulled a white scarf from some unseen pocket and tied it around her head in a businesslike flurry. “I mean,” she began again, taking in huge lungfuls of wet-flavored air, “have you ever had a date on Sunday morning before?”

“No . . . no, I haven’t. It’s the first one for me.”

“And me too. It seems sort of exciting, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“Being out on Sunday morning.”

“Yes, it sure does. Say, did you finally decide what we were going to be doing this morning? I guess you know everything’s closed now—unless you want to go down to the drugstore.”

“I thought you lived over on Sampson Street.”

“I do.”

“Then how did you know the drugstore was open?”

“I used to live around here, before.”

“Oh, where? This seems so exciting. I don’t know anything about you—just nothing. Why, for all I know, you might’ve lived almost anywhere. It seems hardly likely that you could’ve been living around here all these years and I never knew you. I mean, how can it be?”

“It does seem suspicious.”

“Where did you say you lived? We can walk by it, that’ll give us something to do.”

“I don’t remember. Somewhere around here. No, closer to City Hall. It was a long time ago.”

“Don’t you ever go back?”

“What for?”

“See your friends and stuff.”

“Not too often.”

“Let’s walk over there.”

“Why?”

“I just think it would be fun to see where you used to live. Also, it’s a good day for walking and what else are we going to do? Drugstores aren’t my favorite places. And smell the air—doesn’t it seem fresh?”

“It’s because of the rain.”

“Well, are we going or not?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Oh, good.” And they began walking slowly toward Spruce Street. Mal stopped to look in windows and inspect everything along the way. Each time she would turn away provided July with another chance to stare at her, and before they reached Broad Street he was feeling like some smart fellow walking on Sunday morning with his girl, living on the edge of his emotions, chattering lightly back and forth, Mal Rourke’s smile bright white and her short bursts of laughter as clean and rapid as running a stick tapping over a row of colored bottles. The churches were letting out, spewing their visitors back onto the street in their best clothes, the lull of the service falling away from them imperceptibly with each step. For a short distance she took hold of his arm as the sidewalk grew crowded, not wishing to be separated, and July (though he realized it was very much unlike himself) was nodding and smiling in recognition of the passing glances he received. They tried to judge from the way people looked what their names might be and what they’d done with most of their lives. At a convenient place July pointed to the top floor of an office building and claimed it was where he used to live.

“That’s an office,” she said.

“Now. It didn’t use to be.”

“Did you live here with your folks?”

“For a while . . . well, no, I guess I didn’t.”

They continued walking. July thought Mal was beginning to tire, but he didn’t know what else to do. It seemed sometimes that they had nothing in common, and many of the things she talked about were intoned in such a way that it appeared her whole self was held together with private prejudices and little attitudes about things that she had gained through relationships with other people—relationships that he viewed with hostility. Then they went to a $1.29 steak house.

“I just make more efficient use of my food,” he said, when he noticed Mal’s eyes watching him pick at his plate. Her appetite seemed enormous and she ate the whole baked potato, salad, steak and milk, and then ate a bowl of ice cream, which, though he had to force it on her, she finished in a matter of seconds. He could tell that the waiter was attracted to her—several times he had caught him looking at her breasts—but he also treated them as being together and his smile was friendly when July would say something. All this, he felt, was lent him by Mal—a generous loan from her abundant personality. She ate with such delicate relish that July was ashamed of his own clumsy use of the fork, which made him more clumsy, and once a slice of meat sprang off his plate and landed on the tablecloth. When they were both able to laugh at it, he wanted to thank her.

A stiff wind had come up while they were eating, and they went back to Mal’s apartment building. The closer they came, the more July filled with agitation.

“Come on up and see my apartment.”

“No, I don’t think I better.”

“Why not?—my roommate’s there.”

“I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem quite right. Besides, . . . well, I just don’t want to.” Clearly fixed in his mind was an image,