Why did she always manage to catch him just when he was trying to slip out of the house quietly?
“Where are you going?” said Mrs. Milford.
“I am meeting,” said Milford, “a friend.”
“Is it that Shirley De LaSalle person?”
“If you must know, no.”
“Tell me who it is.”
“It’s just a friend.”
“What is it with you and all these ‘friends’ lately?”
“Am I not allowed to have friends?”
“Of course you are allowed to have friends. It’s just that until recently you never had any.”
“Oh, God.”
“Will you be home for supper?”
“No. I am dining out.”
“Dining out? Where? Not the automat again?”
“No, not the automat.”
“Then where?”
“What do you care?”
“What if you are murdered, or hit by a garbage truck? I need to be able to trace your footsteps if you go missing.”
Milford sighed.
“I’m only going up the street to the San Remo Café. If you must know.”
“Oh. At least it’s not far.”
“No. Goodbye. I may be some time.”
“Who is it you’re meeting? If it’s that Shirley girl you can tell me.”
“It’s not her, so you can relax.”
“What do you mean, I can relax.”
“I mean you disapproved of Shirley, from the very beginning!”
“You only told me about her a few days ago.”
“You despised her because she wasn’t on your precious Social Register.”
“Why do you speak in the past tense?”
“I must go. I don’t want to be late.”
“Answer me, Marion. Has something happened between you and Miss De LaSalle?”
“I’m going now.”
“Stop. What has happened? Has she thrown you over?”
Again Milford sighed.
“Shirley and I have, we have mutually agreed, we have come to the conclusion, that our union could – could never satisfactorily be consummated.”
“You were unable to perform?”
“Mother!”
“Then what do you mean? Why did she throw you over?”
“She did not throw me over!”
“Did you tell her I disapproved?”
“I most certainly did not.”
“Because I have had second thoughts.”
“What?”
“If you want to see her, I shall not stand in the way. After all, it’s not her fault if she is a common nightclub singer.”
“Forget it, Mother. It is over between me and Shirley.”
“So she threw you over. Did she say why?”
“I fail to see why this is any of your –”
“So she simply wasn’t attracted to you.”
Again Milford sighed. All he did was sigh when talking to his mother.
“Yes,” said, Milford, “she was not attracted to me.”
“Oh, Marion. You poor boy. What you need to do is go to the club and exercise with dumbbells and medicine balls. Build yourself up.”
“Right, sure, I’ll start tomorrow.”
“No woman likes a narrow-shouldered, shallow-chested weakling.”
“My being a weakling had nothing to do with my rupture with Shirley!”
“Then what was it?”
“She’s a lesbian, God damn it, a lesbian! A sister of Sappho!”
“A lesbian? She certainly doesn’t look like a lesbian?”
“What would you know about it?”
“You forget I went to Bryn Mawr, and before that to Shipley.”
“Well, regardless, she’s a lesbian, so there!”
“And when did you find this out?”
“Today.”
“She told you she was a lesbian today.”
“Yes!”
“Why did she only tell you today?”
“Because, because –”
“Because why?”
“Because I asked her to marry me! There, have you humiliated me enough?”
“You asked her to marry you, and she told you she was a lesbian.”
“Yes!”
“How very, very curious. You must be heartbroken.”
“I’m going now. Don’t wait up.”
“Who are you meeting?”
“No one you know.”
“What is his name?”
“It’s not a he.”
“I wouldn’t mind, you know.”
“Wouldn’t mind what?”
“If it were a man. As long as he made you happy.”
“It’s not a man!”
Milford put his hand on the doorknob.
“Hold on, buster,” said Mrs. Milford. “You mean to say you’re going to meet another girl?”
“Yes.”
“Extraordinary.”
“What’s so extraordinary about it?”
“The nightclub singer just threw you over, and already you’re meeting another chippy?”
“Shirley didn’t throw me over, it was only because she is a lesbian, and, yes, I am meeting another girl already and she is not a chippy!”
“What’s her name?”
The obligatory sigh, but for some reason unknown to Milford, or for a host of reasons, he answered, “Polly. Polly Powell.”
“Polly Powell.”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least that doesn’t sound Jewish or Italian. She’s not by chance a Negress, is she?”
“No!”
“Irish?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
“And what if she is Irish?”
“It depends on what sort of Irish. Anglo-Irish would be all right.”
“Mother, you are driving me as insane as you are as well as keeping me from my appointment.”
“When are you supposed to meet her.”
“Seven-thirty.”
“It’s not even seven.”
“I don’t want to be late.”
“The San Remo is just up the block.”
“I want to get a good table.”
“The San Remo has good tables?”
“I’m going now.”
“Wait. Let me adjust your muffler.”
Milford stood there while his mother refolded his muffler.
“There,” she said. “But I do wish you would wear a proper suit and coat and hat instead of this stevedore’s costume.”
“Polly doesn’t care how I dress.”
“Women always care how you dress.”
“Not Polly. She – she is an intellectual.”
“My goodness. From a nightclub chanteuse to a bluestocking, and all in one day! You know, I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but you are almost beginning to impress me, Marion. Perhaps a real man has been hiding behind that unprepossessing exterior all along. Just waiting for the ripe moment to emerge.”
“Goodbye, Mother.”
“Do you need money?”
“No.”
Mrs. Milford made Milford wait while she got her purse, and she gave him a twenty-dollar bill.
At last he stepped out into the street. Evening had fallen, and the snowfall had relapsed to flurries swirling in the street lights.
What would this evening bring? Would Polly be the one who would finally pull him fully out of his cocoon? Would he fly up into the sky like a butterfly?
Mrs. Milford wandered back into the front sitting room, and Maria the maid came in.
“Will Mr. Marion not be dining at home, Mrs. Milford?”
“No, Maria,” said Mrs. Milford. “Mr. Marion is dining out tonight.”
Maria said nothing in response, but her face spoke volumes.
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