THE HIGH-HEELED SHOES
could make him repay? Telephones in working order abound, with
telephone books conveniently alongside them, containing any number
of women's names, addresses, and numbers.
And what did Tony do when the sound of my receiver crashed
painfully in his ear? Did he laugh and proceed to some other number?
His vanity bruised, did he curse? Or perhaps he felt shame, thinking,
"My God, what am I doing, what am I doing?" Whatever, whatever
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knew I had discovered yet another circle to put away with my
collection of circles. I was back to what I had started with, the help–
less, absolutely useless knowledge that the days and nights must
surely be bleak for a man who knew the compulsion to thumb through
the telephone directory for a woman's name, any woman's name;
that this bleakness, multiplied infinite times (see almost any daily
paper), was a great, dark sickness on the earth that no amount of
pansies, pinks, or amaryllis, thriving joyously in what garden, however
well-ordered and pointed to with pride, could ever begin to assuage.
The telephone rings. Startled, I go warily, wondering whether
it might not be Tony again, calling perhaps to avenge the blow to
pride by anonymous invective, to raise self-esteem by letting it be
known that he is a practical joker. I hold my breath after I say,
"Hello?"
It is the familiar voice, slightly querulous but altogether precious,
of my aunt Mine. She says I am not to plan anything for supper.
She has made something special, ricecakes with Indian bean frosting,
as well as pickled fish on vinegared rice. She has also been able to
get some yellow-tail, to slice and eat raw. All these things she and
Uncle are bringing over this evening. Is about five o'clock too early?
It is possible she wonders at my enthusiastic appreciation, which
is all right, but all out of proportion.
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