LESLIE EPSTEIN
4S
"We're not. We're talking about children's lives!"
"No need to shout, Richard-boy. I'll pose for you, no matter what
Daddy says, even if you are a Communist."
"I told you, that's a canard. Lotte and Norman, they didn't even vote
for Henry Wallace. Don't you remember? How I rang all the doorbells
in the last election? Your father, he said he was voting for Dewey.
Dewey! That's practically treason."
"I don't know why I'm not angry with you when you say something
like that. I love my father just like you love yours. He is an outstanding
businessman and provides jobs for almost a hundred people, even if he's
not famous for his wit and hasn't won an Academy Award. I guess if I'm
not angry it must mean that a little bit anyhow I also love you."
She took my hand, the one with the little wet wand in it, and drew it
toward her mouth. First she blew on her nails, which now were the
color of eggplants, and then she kissed each one of my fingers. The voice
of the people was speechless; but she said, "How many times do I have
to say it, Richard-boy? I love your artist's hands."
"You've got a fever," I lamely replied.
"No, I'm almost better. I could have gone to school today. I'll go
tomorrow. But here's the thing. What I want to say. Besides your hands,
it's your mouth I love. Not the shape of it even though the shape is very
nice. It's the words that come out of it. All your angry words. About the
workers and the Rosenbergs and Senator McCarthy and even the
Republican Party. They're like songs. To me they're like love songs. Do
you know what I mean? You're the speaker, the orator, and I'm your
crowd."
Her breath, as she spoke, washed over my knuckles. That, or her
words, made me feel an excitement that I feared was all too visibly sex–
ual. I pulled away, twisting in my embarrassment toward the foot of the
bed.
"Oh," said Madeline brightly. "You can do my toes, too!"
I watched as her foot slid out from beneath the little cotton-tufts that
decorated her covers. I had painted it often enough. In fact, I was sure
Betty wanted one of those studies to go along with the countless char–
coals of Madeline's buttocks and Madeline's back. The toes, the arch,
the shadows of the hidden bones: none of that had meant any more to
me than a peasant's shoe had meant to Van Gogh. This time, however,
I wasn't painting a portrait of a foot but, with my tiny brush at the end
of the tiny wand, the foot itself.
"Hold still," I said, to stop her from playfully wiggling her toes. She
did. I leaned forward, pressing hard against the mattress edge; I moved
