106
JANE MAYHAl l
while ago, was a hate-filled bunch of lies. He hadn't meant any
harm. You just take what you find. For all I'd blamed, he hadn't
caused
the world. He was no more responsible - than a child in the
market place. Who waS my Enemy? There are no enemies. Only
sloughs of puny wisdom, bad luck. Is it the sentimentality of women,
to credit deeds with a motive? I was my own enemy. Shift the
integers. "People aren't people, only symptoms." Any trite excuse
will do the trick. The fun house of conceit. "I have the cone-eit of
f
the maladjusted. He has the humility of preferred ideas." But, who
was I to think there was a choice? The Author sat across in a pose
of innocence. The light, smooth brows lifted in a faint arc.
Later, I walked out through the hall to the back porch. The
sky was nearly night. There was a nice moist smell from the grass. I
stopped to enjoy it, and to look across the fields. A figure came up
behind me. I hadn't expected another encounter; I saw the famous
profile clearly. It was, in the half-dark, a rather elongated face, that
fashion admires today. In a cigarette ad I've seen, there's a very
strong likeness; the fault isn't his. Shadows for eyes, and a longish,
oversized head, hair combed to the nape of the neck. The balances
make it seem handsome.
"By the way, a word." I heard the familiar voice. The Author
addressed me from the far side of the porch. The tone was tactful,
friendly. Just keeping the record straight. "It was you," he said,
"who mentioned it. Nobody else brought it up." He didn't repeat the
word, money.
"Yes," I said. "I was the one who did."
