380
SUSAN SONTA'
charge of Mr. Obscenity himself. Miss Flatface preferred not to
think
about that.
All houses by the ocean are damp. Added to the damp-I«
it was getting on to winter now-was the fact that the place was
being painted. Workmen were constantly trooping through her room;
buckets of paint, stiff abandoned brushes, rollers, cans of turpentine,
and huge rough paint-encrusted ladders lay about, adding to
the
confusion. The place was being renovated. Miss Flatface gave way
to a profound gloom.
Days went by without a glimpse of Mr. Obscenity. Miss Flat·
face tried to recall all she owed him. At first she supposed her tantrum
was desire. It wasn't that. Not being of a grateful disposition, what
Miss Flatface craved was revenge. She even had a plan. She would
persuade some of the other boarders, pupils, call them what you
will,
to leave with her. Then Mr. Obscenity would regret the whim which
had prompted him to decree her expulsion.
Who would she take? Only women, she decided. Dragging men
along would make it too complicated. Miss Flatface had never
thought of herself as a feminist before, certainly not when she had
been Jim's wife and the mother of three. But now she felt the tug
of sex loyalty. The spirits of Edith Wharton and Ethel Rosenberg
whispered hoarsely in her ears, beckoning and forbidding.
Or was it that?
That very night, looking a bit slovenly in her blue flowered
wraparound housecoat, she crept about the drafty corridors, listening
and whenever she could watching at keyholes. Scenes of aching de·
light assaulted her senses. Was this the Eden she was to
be
deprived
of? Then no one else should have it, either.
In the hall she accosted a dark-haired young lady wearing a
beige trench coat over nothing else.
"You look like you can be trusted," said Miss Flatface cheer·
fully. "And since I'm clearing out of here-I mean I've had enough–
how about coming with me? Wouldn't you like to bathe in the
ocean, or ride 'The Hurricane'? You know, do whatever you want
and not have to be taking down your bloomers all the time?"
Quick as a flash, the girl reached under her trench coat and
pulled out a dark metal object. A gun? Miss Flatface drew back
in
terror. No, a camera. The girl laid the cold instrument to her eye,
