THE EDUCATION OF A QUEEN
557
plate with its brown stains along the cracks than 1 would of
letting him ride my new bicycle.
"How do you do," says my mother's mellifluous, slightly
strained voice. She is neither tired nor haughty. Her voice is
simply stretching to make a place for him, too. "Will you eat
with us?"
(As
if he'd been dragged in here for any other reason! )
"Are you Greek perhaps?
If
you are, you'll like our lamb stew
I'm sure."
She is impossible, 1 am thinking. Our lamb stew! She's as
prissy as a New England preacher (1 have met no preachers
and only a few priests: Greek Orthodox), and 1
hate
those
clothes. Years before they become chic on women's campuses
she
is
wearing tight, worn Levis and one of my father's cast–
off shirts. She wears this costume to make her other clothes
last, and I know this, but its shabby unwomanliness and the
ludicrous contrast of the long, gray hair piled in loose coils and
old-fashioned silvery puffs on her stately head fill me with
distaste. She is a walking anachronism, and I have grown
sensitive to the artistic verities. Also, I consider her abused and
either too proud or too stupid to fight back-for pretty clothes
or fewer free guests.
But most of all I detest the Greek routine. She thinks
any–
thing Greek is peerless though among peers. At least I think
she thinks so.
"But I'm not Greek," Mr. X. says helplessly. Like Aladdin,
he sees it vanishing-whoosh! the cast-iron kettle of stew, the
dinner plates, the whole table fly out the window in a twinkling
and skim away, up, up, to take their place with Orion's Belt.
"I'm not either," says my mother comfortingly.
"Never mind!" shouts my father. "You're an artist. You
belong to the world!"
He always shouts, indoors or out in the back lot. Parlors
or. "bedrooms or kitchens. I hate it.
"Where will you seat our guest, Daphne?" my mother asks,
